A/N: This started as a fill for an art piece. I'm continuing this:). Thank you for any reviews and favorites.

A/N: Someone asked in a review if I was the same person posting due to some similarities/same lines in this story. The answer is no. :). It's a fill for a fanart and the art had a prompt. All of the fills included the specific lines from the prompt under the drawing. Others filled for the art as well-that is why you may see several stories with the same set up. Though of course we all add different perspectives :)

Long Dark Street

Rows of orange streetlights illuminated the dark streets. Midsized houses awash in different colors and unique architecture dominated the middle class neighborhood. A charming tri-level house with tasteful maroon paint and a beautifully landscaped front yard finally came into sight as Blaine Anderson slowly walked into a small cul-de-sac. Dark windows surrounded the house, indicating a peaceful and restful night for the family inside it.

A quiet sob escaped from Blaine's puffed lips. Of course everyone would be asleep this time of night. Two O'clock was an ungodly hour to disturb an entire household. His legs ached painfully as he reached the stone walkway. A water fountain trickled softly right beneath the wooden porch furniture. Its continuous cycle helped calm his nerves.

The long walk from the Greyhound bus stop proved taxing. Blaine had mechanically put one foot in front of the other for miles until he reached his destination. Blurred vision, a terrible headache, and a persistently swelling left eye created an arduous journey. The pain in his right wrist had morphed from slight to agonizing along the way. Adrenaline and fear had pushed Blaine for the first few miles. Once he left Lima city limits and headed for the more remote suburbs, every ache and pain made itself known.

A loud creak reverberated from a straw chair as Blaine gratefully sank down onto a plush striped cushion. Several tacky wind chimes swung musically in the wind. A simple sun and moon wall decoration added a nicer touch to the porch's look. The chimes belonged to Carole Hudson-Hummel.

"What can I say," Kurt had sighed, "the woman has no taste when it comes to home décor."

Blaine laughed humorlessly at the memory. Kurt had prolonged the house hunt for weeks: nothing seemed compatible for an active family of four. The younger boy steadfastly refused to live anywhere with shag carpet (Carole's preference), abhorrent duck wallpaper (Finn's favorite), or inside ugly log cabins (Burt's suggestion). Their new house had been a perfect fit for the newly blended family and suited everyone's need. He figured if Kurt didn't make it as a singer or a fashion designer, he had a very promising future as an interior decorator or possibly a wedding planner.

Rain fell in a steady, freezing cascade from the northeast. Blaine had trudged through it without really noticing the cold. March in Ohio yielded little warmth and dumped a constant mixture of rain and snow. Warmer temperatures would not arrive until April. He shivered against the night and huddled further into the soaked coat wrapped around his torso. The night ticked by. Blaine leaned away from the rain and cried.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him down into a fitful sleep. Deon Anderson's angry, drunken voice haunted his dreams. A fist slammed against Blaine's face and a steel toed boot connected with his ribs. The scene repeated on an endless loop. Words sometimes joined the bone jarring blows: fag, worthless, pathetic, and coward. He begged his mother to help him, but she merely pursed her perfect (Botox inflated) lips and slinked out of the room.

The petite Filipino woman never said a word about her husband's actions. Iris Anderson always looked the other way. Deon constantly cheated on her and criticized everything she did. I should have known better than to marry outside of my class. Looks like your Filipino genes aren't great: what good is an heir if he can't carry on our legacy? I wish he were never born. I'm giving everything to Alyssa. She's my star—Blaine's just no good. His father's voice conquered the vivid dreams. Blaine whimpered and rolled away from it. The hurtful words churned his stomach. They had been carelessly thrown around for the last two and a half years: ever since he came out.

Sunlight broke through the gray storm clouds. Blaine sat up and groaned as the humid morning air kissed his skin. The cold cement seeped through his wet clothing. A tall hibiscus plant fell on top of him when his foot accidentally connected with its tan pot. He fought the plant with tender, sore muscles and managed to shove it upright before tightly packed dirt fell all over the front porch.

The commotion did not go unnoticed; he cringed when the front door opened. Kurt Hummel blinked in surprise. The slender sophomore crouched down and frowned.

"Blaine?"

"Kurt," Blaine croaked as he rubbed his aching head, "shit. I'm sorry. I wanted to ask you if I could crash here last night, but I…didn't want you to see me like this."

"You look terrible," Kurt informed him and grabbed his elbow, "Did your father do this?"

Blaine winced at the loud, outraged question. All the noise hurt his head. The slight and strained nod took monumental effort. Kurt removed his hand and stared in shock at the precipitation dripping off it.

"Blaine," Kurt's handsome face twisted into horror, "did you sleep on my front porch?"

"He," Blaine choked, "he just snapped."

Another round of sobs wracked his slight frame. Blaine had no one to rely on except a sixteen year old boy and his (hopefully) generous father. Kurt hugged him as a familiar face peered at them from the doorway. Burt Hummel muttered something incoherently and pushed the door open. Blaine continued blubbering right there on the porch and clung to his friend like a lifeline.

"I don't know what's going on," Burt rumbled and stepped into the bright sunshine, "but I think you should come on inside, Blaine."

"You're freezing," Kurt worried, "how about some hot tea and breakfast?"

Burt hooked a muscular arm around his chest and hoisted Blaine onto his feet. The world titled to the left. His stomach rebelled against the sudden movement and lurched into his chest. Without warning, Blaine vomited all over the cute (and horribly tacky) dog welcome mat.

"Shit," Burt swore, "Blaine, did you get hit in the head?"

He grunted an affirmative answer. It hurt to think. The bright light messed with his vision.

"I think he needs a hospital Kurt," Burt said with concern, "why don't you round up Carole and Finn—and bring me some dry, loose fitting clothing. I think we should call an ambulance."

Kurt agreed and hurried away from the living room. A leather couch waited for Blaine. Burt eased him down gently and immediately started yanking off his wet clothes. He shivered uncontrollably as calloused hands attempted to rub some warmth back into his numb limbs.

"Shh," he soothed and covered him with a handmade afghan blanket, "you're safe now."

"He doesn't want me anymore," Blaine's hitched breathing filled the room, "he hates me."

Child of Islands

Spring break tended to be less of an affair in a small town like Lima, Ohio. If the weather cooperated, kids spent time outdoors and smoked a lot of weed in the park after dark. When the sky dumped snow they hunkered down indoors and played too many video games. The brief first taste of summer vacation should never include a trip to the emergency room.

A dozen after school specials about the dangers of drinking suddenly sprang into Kurt Hummel's mind as he sat in an uncomfortable chair besides his stepbrother. Those terrible made for television movies had always ended with terrible tragedy. The kids never heeded any warnings and usually ended up dying in car accidents. Some of the films dealt with issues like kidnapping, sexual assault, or drug addiction. He tried to remember if any of them touched on the subject of child abuse.

Flowers in the Attic suddenly sprang to mind. Kurt had rolled his eyes at the ridiculous plot, but read it anyways because he'd seen it on Lima Middle School's banned books list. It turned out to be more depressing and heartbreaking than anything else.

"We can go and get him flowers in the gift shop down the hall if you want," Finn offered, "I bet he'd like that."

"What?" Kurt peered at him. "What are you talking about?"

"You said something about flowers," Finn grimaced, "you don't have to bite my head off, dude."

"Sorry," Kurt sniffled, "I was thinking about Flowers in the Attic."

"Isn't that the movie where that brother and sister have sex?" Finn suddenly looked uncomfortable. "That blonde actress from the nineties is hot."

"Kristy Swanson," he corrected as new tears trickled down his cheeks, "I'm trying to remember everything I know about child abuse."

"Oh," Finn wrapped an arm around his shoulders, "what about The Color Purple?"

"That's spousal abuse," Kurt leaned against his stepbrother's chest, "Mommy Dearest."

"Sleepers," Finn shuddered, "Puck found it on Netflix and made me watch it. It gave me nightmares—and it made Puck cry. Puck. He just said it made him relay."

"I've never seen it," Kurt admitted and used his sleeve to wipe his nose, "but I've seen Bastard out of Carolina."

"People Under the Stairs," Finn hugged him tightly, "that one was pretty freaky."

"This Boy's Life," he supplied shakily, "I watched it because I heard that there was a gay kiss in it. I actually liked it-especially the part where he escaped from his stepdad and small town."

"I saw that one," Finn huffed, "it was good."

"Oh god," Kurt gasped, "they're not rich. The abusers-they're all these scary, mean stepdads or boyfriends."

"They were rich in Mommy Dearest," Finn defended, "oh geez—they never even really discussed that, did they?"

The color drained from Finn's face. Kurt let out a pained cry and buried his face into the other boy's shirt. A dozen people milled about the drab emergency room, waiting to be seen by a doctor. Some had been there for hours. The head nurse had taken one look at Blaine Anderson and ushered him away on a gurney before anyone else. "Sorry," she had apologized to the crowd, "serious head injuries have priority."

A week ago, Blaine had kissed him so passionately. Now his boyfriend rested somewhere behind the swinging emergency room doors. Burt had gone inside with him since he was a minor. Carole had been pulled away by some police officers. They had disappeared at least an hour before. Kurt wanted to be in that room with Blaine.

"Do you want some more coffee, dude?" Finn asked gently. "I can go to the cafeteria down the hall."

"Yes please," Kurt sat up and rubbed his eyes, "I'll go to the bathroom and clean up some."

"Blaine will be all right," Finn promised, "I've gotten like—two concussions. Puck has had a bunch—I think maybe several from fight club too."

"I'll be back in a bit," Finn squeezed his shoulder, "maybe I can find something healthy down there for you to eat."

Kurt watched his stepbrother lumber around the corner and climbed out of the chair. A few people turned to stare at him as he walked down the hall way. Signs pointing towards the restroom lead him down a long, winding corridor. Several men stepped into the men's bathroom and sent him a withering look. He glanced down the hall to ensure no one looked his way, and stealthily slid into the women's restroom.

Fortunately, the bathroom was empty. He headed straight for a stall and heaved into a toilet. The eggs and fruit he had consumed for breakfast came back up. Blaine had thrown up twice before they had arrived at the hospital. The gruesome sight made Kurt's stomach revolt and quiver for the last two hours. He flushed the toilet and swiped away spit from his chin as he sat down on the porcelain bowl.

Tears returned in full force: how was he supposed to deal with this? Blaine had been beaten by his own father. Abuse wasn't supposed to happen in good families. Kids from low income blocks like Puck and Mike had to face things like neglect and abuse. Kurt rocked back and forth. Blaine needed him to be strong right now. The older boy had been there for him through everything: Karofsky, Dalton, Sectionals, Pavarotti, and Regionals. Kurt had to be there for his boyfriend through this. They would survive it together.

The bathroom door creaked as it swung open. Black flats clicked loudly against the tiled floor. Kurt froze and slapped a hand over his mouth to keep quiet: no one could find him in here. It wasn't McKinley. The woman had on a nice pair of denim jeans and quickly went about her business. He forced the tears back and listened as she washed her hands in the sink. The door swung open again and he sighed.

"Hello, Candy," a deep male voice greeted, "it's been quite some time since we last saw each other."

"Don't call me that," Carole Hudson-Hummel replied coldly, "I haven't been Candy since my son was born."

Kurt released a shocked gasp when he heard his stepmother's voice. The shoes should have given her away: he had picked them out for her.

"You mean our son," the man corrected, "are you still trying to convince him that his dad died in the Gulf War? I'm surprised Finn hasn't figured it out yet—he's too young for that story to be believable."

"Finn is a sweet boy," Carole sneered, "he needed to have a father figure he could look up to."

"And he does," the stranger sighed, "I think it's time we tell him the truth."

"Do you honestly think I'd let Finn near you," she hissed, "After what you did to Blaine?"

"I got hit in the head a few years ago," the man explained, "I suffered a traumatic brain injury that affects my emotions. It's all documented-and I never hit the kid before. Even if Blaine is a fag!"

The slur echoed throughout the bathroom. Kurt clutched the ends of his blue scarf in desperate disbelief.

"I don't appreciate that kind of language," Carole spat, "my stepson is gay—and I adore him. Blaine seems like a wonderful, kind boy. He's your son, Deon!"

"I heard about your marriage," Deon sighed, "I can't quite believe that you would marry a man like Burt-I remember a time when you hated everything about men like him."

"Don't talk about my husband like that," she defended, "he's a wonderful man and good father-more than I can say about you."

"I've been a good father," Deon shot back, "I've taken care of Blaine despite all his flaws-and I have always provided for Finn. You're the one that chose to break things off with me ten years ago, but you and I both know who put a roof over your head and food on your table. Minimum wage wouldn't have covered it!"

"I shouldn't have let you do that," Carole admitted, "you were married. I'm with a wonderful man now, Deon—one that loves me. He loves Finn too. Please don't mess this up for me, Deon. Please."

"I have no intention to," Deon confessed softly, "I want you to be happy. I always did love you more than Iris. I think we can reach a reasonable agreement."

"What do you want?" Carole sounded defeated. "I already covered for you like you asked me to. I lied to the police for you."

"And I appreciate that," Deon answered, "there's only one thing I want from you: Finn."

"No!" Carole shouted. "No!"

"Did your wonderful husband tell you that he's over a hundred thousand dollars in debt?" Deon began icily. "He took out a second mortgage to pay for his son's tuition, your wedding, and all of his medical bills. It adds up quickly."

"He didn't," Carole cried, "he would have told me."

"Oh, he did," Deon deadpanned, "and I now own his debt. I could take everything Burt has. Everything. All I want is to spend some time with my son. I don't care what you tell Finn. You can say I'm some distant relative if you like. In return, I will quietly pay off Burt's debt."

"What about Blaine?" Carole whispered. "What are you going to do to him?"

"Oh," Deon paused, "right. I suppose we can figure something out. He can stay at Dalton. I'll get him an apartment."

They talked for a few more minutes and agreed to meet for lunch. Carole promised to bring Finn to their lunch. Kurt's horror grew with each passing minute. Finn would eventually be sent away to live with Mr. Anderson. Blaine no longer had a family to go home to: they were replacing him.

Carole left the restroom in a depressed hurry and Deon followed her out. Kurt slowly approached the sinks. The cool water felt remarkable against his dry, reddened skin. Cleaning up tears and remaining specks of drool was a difficult task since his hands shook the entire time. Everything in his life had been turned upside down in a manner of minutes. Nothing would ever be the same again.

A nurse in pink scrubs gave Kurt a questioning look as he stepped out of the bathroom, but he barely noticed it. The walk back to the waiting room suddenly seemed much shorter. Finn smiled at him and handed over a cup of coffee. Steam no longer escaped from the cup. Kurt must have been in the restroom for quite some time.

"The doctors are releasing Blaine," Carole announced as she approached, "he had some x-rays and a cat scan. Everything checked out. He has a cast around his wrist—it's cracked. We'll have to wake him up every few hours, but the doctors think he'll be fine."

Kurt tensed uncontrollably as she patted his knee. Finn smiled and whacked him encouragingly on the back. He stared at his stepbrother. Blaine had a picture in his dorm room of his parents back when they first got married. Finn had the same chestnut hair as Deon Anderson and his height reflected a striking similarity. Kurt studied the other boy's features. The truth stared him right in the face: Finn Hudson was Deon Anderson' son.

"Oh look," Carole smiled, "there they are!"

A tall, black orderly pushed Blaine Anderson in a wheelchair. Burt trailed behind them and carried a large tote bag that had a St. Rita's Hospital logo on the front. Blue scrubs and a white robe hung off Blaine's thin body. An ice pack rested in his lap.

"Blaine," Kurt greeted, "want me to push?"

"Sure," he grinned dopily, "they gave me some killer pain pills."

"Good to know," Kurt relieved the orderly from his duty and gripped the handles way too hard; "Did you see your father?"

"No," Blaine sighed, "but he came by and talked to the police. I don't want to go home!"

"You aren't," Burt grumbled, "you'll stay at our house for a few days until we figure out what's going on with this whole brain injury bullshit."

"I've got Halo," Finn chimed, "and Kurt has every musical ever made. We'll be just like brothers."

Carole gulped at her son's eager affection. Kurt saw it from the corner of his eye. Anger boiled inside him. She was going to take Finn away from them. Kurt wouldn't let her. At that moment, he hated her and all of her lies.

"It's bright out here," Blaine complained as they left the hospital, "I'm so tired. Kurt?"

"I'm right here," Kurt held his hand, "we'll take care of you, Blaine. I promise."

"Yeah," Finn agreed, "I know lots about concussions! I got a C + in first aid!"

"That's promising," Blaine groaned, "don't let him anywhere near me, Kurt."

"I won't," Kurt whispered, "I love you too much."

Finn grinned and waved at his mom as she went to get the truck. Burt sagged down onto a bench and watched the three boys from under his cap. Kurt bantered with Finn a little as Blaine started to drift back to sleep. Deon Anderson couldn't take his family away. Kurt would do everything in his power to stop it.