A/N: For a prompt on the Glee Angst Meme. Written about a year ago and cross-posted to my Livejournal. The link's on my profile. Warnings for mild language, mild descriptions of violence, RPF, and dubious Moulin Rouge references.

It's not like he ever really feels uncomfortable. At least, not in any sort of way that really bothers him, or makes him worry, or anything like that. Chris likes his fans. They can be... a little intense, perhaps. Sometimes. There's been more than one occasion where he's been forced to accept the complete eradication of anything to do with the words "personal space." He's never really feared for his safety before though, except for perhaps a second when he was in an elevator with a bunch of fans and someone pressed the emergency stop button. If he wanted, he could maybe sort of draw a bit of a comparison. With, you know. High school. Not that he wants to. Not that he wants to even really think about it. But he could; the comparison's there. There's the same wariness, and the same acceptance of it. Not that he'd ever share these thoughts with anyone. It would make him sound ungrateful, which he isn't. He's honestly overjoyed to even be so lucky as to have a jobdoing what he loves, which is unusual this day and age. And the fact that everything's been so successful is beyond anything he could have wished for. There is also contrast, the main one being that all these people are on his side. In fact, they are so on his side that they are a bit overzealous. Not all, to be fair, but he's had to talk more than a few through the initial excitement of the meeting for fear that they'd spontaneously combust from hyperventilation. He's never quite gotten used to it, not really, (he's still tempted to look behind him for the real star whenever he's approached by photographers) but it's not like he can let any discomfort show or, god forbid, be even the tiniest bit impolite. He can't be upset with people for liking him. That would be ridiculous. And besides, there's no such thing as being liked too much. It's a huge relief actually, from being so disliked. Such a… difference, and yet…

Also, Chris thinks, it's his job as an entertainer to sign people's autographs, and go to publicity stunts and pose for cameras. It's his job to make them happy, them being, first and foremost, his fans. And if it makes them happy to hug him and take pictures with him and have his autograph, he's more than happy to oblige. So, he may not always be one hundred percent comfortable. He may have to lower his personal boundaries. And he may not particularly like going on tour, but it's worth it, and if it's anyone's fault that he's picky and highly strung it's his own.

Right now, it's a breezy, late summer evening in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; stop number seventeen on the Glee Live Tour. The show went well. Chris is exhausted, but pleased. The opening act with Harry was amazing, as usual, and the fan reaction to Darren has remained at a constant level of passionate enthusiasm. Dianna links arms with him as they're walking out the back door of the concert hall. Heather, Naya, and Mark are ahead of them with the rest of the cast behind. He can hear Darren, Harry, and Amber joking loudly and the sound of Cory laughing, along with the lilted, quieter tones of Kevin and Jenna in the background. Dianna nudges him with her elbow.

"Hey, you're quiet," she points out.

"I'm fine." Chris smiles. "Just tired."

He then makes a big show out of rubbing the side she elbowed and checking for broken ribs and Dianna's laughing and Chris smiles for real this time. He hears the roar of excited fans as Heather, Naya, and Mark step out into the parking lot behind the building. He and Dianna follow shortly after, with the rest of the cast a few steps behind. All the waiting fans have been sequestered onto a sidewalk by a string of burly security guards. These are the people who deigned it worthy to wait for an undetermined amount of time after the show – which had turned out to be about an hour – for the mere possibility of catching a glimpse of one of the performers. Mark, never the one to be social in public and having mentioned something about a killer headache earlier, waves a few times at the crowd and then disappears into the trailer that will take them all to a hotel some time tonight for a few hours of well-earned sleep.

The rest of them disperse, approaching the crowd of fans and paparazzi. Dianna unlinks her arm from his and throws him an exaggerated wink. Chris sticks out his tongue. He finds himself gravitating somewhere toward the far left side of the sidewalk. A security officer attaches to his side as he approaches the sea of hands and flashing lights. Chris signs autographs first, pacifying the people who seem to need to bowl over everyone else to get to him. The crowd spreads out onto the parking lot, which seems to be okay, and he integrates himself, stopping to exchange greetings and accept compliments and take photos or give hugs. Soon, a sort of a quasi-line develops. It's a nice, relaxed atmosphere, and Chris likes this best. When he can breathe easy, not be so composed; meet people who seem nice and interested. It's kind of like getting into the zone when you're working the red carpet – feeling good, feeling confident, like he's worth some of the bizarre, relentless attention he gets. He glances over to where Lea is laughing, surrounded by fans of her own, and further on, where Cory is good-naturedly going along with being the center of a hug train of sorts.

He soon turns his attention back to a group of three teens, two girls and a boy. They're all smiling shyly and one of the girls looks star struck.

"Hey," Chris says, smiles.

They all turn to glance at each other in awe and then turn back to him with wide eyes. Nobody says anything. "

So, what'd you think of the show?" he says finally, just to break the silence.

"It was great!" the first girl exclaims. "We were in the very back though because the tickets in the front cost, like, three hundred dollars, so we couldn't really see anything."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"You're a lot cooler close up," the boy says. "And a lot better looking," chimes the second girl.

"Um, thank you." Although he isn't all that sure if 'thank you' is the correct response.

"Is it true that you were in Destination Imagination?"

"Yeah." He was the team captain in high school, among other things. "Are you guys in it?" All three of them nod.

"We're doing theatre, lit, and fine arts this year," the boy says proudly.

"That's really cool. My team did improv most years. We weren't very versatile." The semi-organized line that has developed behind them seems to be getting impatient, so Chris wishes them good luck and they scurry off after a few waves.

He's signing autographs again for the next people in line, feeling about ready to wrap thing up, when someone calls his name. Or rather, Kurt's name. Chris looks up reflexively. It's a fairly common occurrence off set, believe it or not, him being called Kurt. Although usually it happens by young children who don't understand that he's an actor, or that any of them are, for that matter. The person approaching, however, appears to be around sixteen or seventeen. Chris smiles and nods and goes back to the people in front of him. Although the quasi-line has shortened, there are plenty of people still milling around, plenty of fans on the sidelines holding digital cameras and cell phones and chatting with each other. He assumes that the boy who mistook him for Kurt is one of these people, so he is a bit startled, but not altogether surprised, when the kid is suddenly standing next to him.

"Hello," greets Chris.

The teen's voice is quiet, calm. So much so that he must lean forward slightly to hear him.

"I hate the way you act. It… It just gives people more excuses to ridicule us."

The world stops for a second, blurs out and then refocuses to a microscopic level, as if he and the teen are the only two people left on the planet. And then… Well, Chris isn't entirely sure what happens next. All he knows is that one second he's standing there, shocked and confused and the next, something's impacting with the side of his face and his ears are ringing. The ringing stops and suddenly it's loud, very loud. Awareness of his body returns just in time for him to hit the pavement. This really can't be happening. It doesn't occur to him to stand up, so instead, someone hoists him up from the pavement like he's nothing more than a ragdoll. Chris recognizes the person. Ted… Tim? He's one of the security officers that've accompanied them on the tour so far. In case of instances like these, he realizes with a pang. Chris stumbles once Tim sets him down on his feet, and he feels a steadying hand latch onto his bicep.

"Easy there, Chris. You're alright."

He hardly hears the man. Instead, the worst of the shock seems to have leveled off enough that he is slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. He takes in Tim on his right, hand still on his bicep. He sees two other officers he doesn't recognize have formed a sort of human wall around him. The teen is nowhere to be seen. From what he can see where his view isn't blocked, the rest of the security guards seem to have gotten the remaining fans sequestered back onto the sidewalk. The crowd is loud, almost unbearably so. There are cries of anger, or what he assumes is exasperation. There are flashing lights. Chris feels like he's in the middle of a lighting storm. He feels exhausted. No. He can do this. He just needs to focus more on thinking than feeling. At least for now. He already observed his surroundings. That was good, keeping the focus off himself. He just needs to make lists, quantify things. He brings a hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes, which seems to have gotten disheveled in the fall, (not that he cares, he's not Kurt. It's just kind of hard to see,) and stops short. There's blood. Oh god. He can't think about that right now. He stuffs his hand into his sweatpants pocket.

"We're going to head back to the bus now, okay? Don't stop walking no matter what."

A few more officers have joined the ranks around Chris and he is now effectively inaccessible from the outside. He now understands what those maidens in Disney movies feel like who are trapped in towers and what not. He wonders if they're trampling anyone caught in their path like a rogue bulldozer. He then spares a moment to wonder about the kind of thoughts he's entertaining. So apparently, all it takes to push him off the deep end is a few confusing, mildly hurtful words and a bit of a scratch. It's kind of pathetic, really. It's not like he's not used to this. He wonders vaguely if becoming "famous" really has given him a swollen ego and a few complexes. He used to get this all the time. Hell, he used to get it worse than this. He may not remember every time he got called a three letter word or was forced to make contact with a floor or locker; those were too common of occurrences to be truly memorable. After a while, they all sort of blurred together anyway. What he does remember are his reactions, his feelings. Like cause and effect. The moment he'd lean over to turn off his alarm clock in the morning and be hit by the realization that he must suffer through an entire day of school. When he would shake with anger because he couldn't bear to shake with fear. That's what's really memorable. And now that he's thinking about it, he can finally recognize what it is he's feeling. Five years ago, it had been ever present, but since then he's buried the feeling well. It's anger, but directed at himself. Self-hatred, to be more exact. He doesn't really know why it was triggered by a bout of violence, except maybe for all the reasons he's just thought of. Like that he's selfish. And this shouldn't bother him so much. Really, he just shouldn't be thinking.

It's strange though, because at the same time, this just shouldn't happen. It doesn't happen, at least not anymore. He's not in denial. Sure, he did get pushed around and ridiculed, but that was years ago. This happens to the old Chris Colfer, who lived in Clovis, California and scooped cookie dough in the school cafeteria every morning. This happens to Kurt Hummel, a fictional character who only comes alive due to the concept of mutual escapism and the combined efforts of him, Ryan, Ian, and Brad. This doesn't happen to the Chris Colfer who has an awesome job and goes on tours and gets nominated for awards. It doesn't happen to the one with a perfect show face and an adjustable personality versatile enough to appear likeable across most demographics. He doesn't get a few steps onto the bus before he is swamped. Tim pats him on the back and goes to take a call now that he's in safe hands.

"Oh my god, Chris. Your face."

It's Lea talking, and she immediately rushes forward and pulls him into her arms. Chris tenses, he can't help it. He doesn't want to be held or touched or even around people right now. She feels smothering and too warm and he can feel her tears on his face. His body jerks oddly. She lets go and takes a step back, looking concerned. The whole cast is cramped together at the front of the bus, all wearing looks of varying degrees of horror and concern. Darren is half kneeling, half standing on a seat. He's pretty sure that Lea isn't the only one crying. Mark's raised voice floats down to them in fragments from where Tim had been talking on the phone as Amber elbows her way over to him.

"…think medical attention would be a good idea? Did you even bother looking at his face? …bruised like he was…"

Chris tunes Mark out, but not before he becomes aware of just how much his face actually hurts. How did he not notice that before? He sucks in a deep breath. Okay, okay. He's starting to feel unsteady. Amber grasps him gently and guides him to the seat nearest to them. After she has him seated, she sits down too.

"Oh baby," she says, reaching her hand out towards his face and then seeming to think better of it. "It breaks my heart to see you cry."

"I'm not crying," he says. Amber throws him a disbelieving look.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, boo."

Except he really is crying. He can feel the tears now. They're a steady stream that he seems to have no control over whatsoever. He must look a mess. He wonders how long he's been crying. Hopefully not very. The only thing worse than being publicly hit in the face would be breaking down afterwards. A sob jerks free from his lips. Amber looks startled. Oh god, oh god. Publicly. Distantly, he realizes he must still be in shock. There's no other reason for him to have such delayed reactions.

"Hey, Chris -" He jerks around. It's Cory. He looks guilty. "We would've had your back out there. Trust me, we all wanted to be there the moment you were in trouble, but it was like there was some sort of celebrity terrorist. You should've heard Lea when security forced us back on the bus without you –"

And suddenly it's like he's completely lost it. Chris lets out a low wail and Cory looks absolutely horrified beyond words, as if however he was expecting Chris to react, it wasn't like this. He dissolves into messy sobs. He thinks he might be over-reacting, but his body doesn't seem to care.

"Oh god, Chris, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Cory chants. Chris shakes his head and cries harder. It's not Cory's fault and he feels like an ass for making him think that. He's doesn't even know why he's crying like this and it makes him hate himself. Cory was just being nice, and it made him totally lose it? That doesn't even make sense. Amber makes soothing noises and reaches out to take his hand.

"Oh my god, Chris," she whispers. He has no idea what she's talking about. She turns his hand over, shows it to him. It's all dried blood and little specks of dirt from the pavement like someone's grizzly impressionist painting. For some reason, he wails again. The cast all glance at each other, equally horrified and at a loss for what to do.

"You guys…" Amber says, as if she's asking for help. Chris wants desperately to calm down. He's not sure he's ever felt so out of control before and it's terrifying. At the least, he wants to apologize, but he can't seem to get in a deep enough breath between his sobs. He's working himself into a panic, he knows this much, so he tries breathing through his nose, but it's filled with snot. Okay, okay. That's alright. He tries to pull in another breath through his mouth but his throat is unnaturally tight. He sputters and then starts gulping at the air. His chest is heaving. His sobs are louder and more exaggerated now, like he's pulling in air along with them. He closes his eyes. Vaguely, he hears sobs that aren't his own. They sound like Dianna's, or Jenna's. He hears murmured conversation in the background, and then feels the seat next to him shift as Amber leaves and someone else slide in next to him.

"Chris?"

Oh, it's Kevin. He pulls in another gasping breath. His face feels tingly.

"You're having a panic attack. I need you to put your head between your knees, okay? Can you do that?"

He tries to swallow and then nods jerkily. He can do this. He feels dizzy no longer leaning against the seat, but he leans forward anyway until his head is dangling between his knees. His hands are wrapped around his stomach.

"Good," Kevin says soothingly. "Try to take deep, even breaths now. You're doing really good, Chris."

He inhales deeply, pretending he's doing breathing exercises for singing. Most people don't breathe properly; they pull air into their chest instead of their stomach. He's doing that now, he realizes. His chest is heaving and it's all wrong and he would never be able to hit anything above a high C. A hand comes to rest on his back. Kevin's, obviously. It's tentative, just grazing him at first, as if the tiniest bit of extra weight might shatter him into pieces. Chris doesn't particularly feel like being touched. It's not like he's touch-avoidant or anything; he's as hug-addicted as the rest of them on set. In fact, he could probably rival Dianna for Most Hugs Given on A Daily Basis. He's not shy with his family. Normally, if Kevin wanted to pat him on the back, all the better. Right now though, he kind of needs his breathing space. Despite being so calm and clear-headed earlier, Kevin seems oblivious to this. He's rubbing circles in Chris' back now and whispering soothing things and god, Chris is going to die of embarrassment as soon as he returns from this momentary lapse of sanity. It is working though. He warms up to the touch; it feels like a one handed back massage and Kevin's voice is quiet and low and makes him want to forget about breathing and embarrassment and the quiet teenager and waking up tomorrow morning to face the day. Instead, he just feels exhausted and completely drained of everything, from energy to emotion. He salvages the very last bit of his strength and uses it to maneuver positions so he is lying down across the two seats, his head in Kevin's lap. There is quiet murmuring above him, people conversing with one another. He closes his eyes. Someone puts an ice pack on his face at the same time someone else takes his arm and begins to clean and bandage his hand. It's cold, and his hand stings, but he's too tired to care. Soon after, he slips away.

When Chris awakens, it's to a soft, pre-dawn darkness and the sound of an alarm clock. He's all twisted up in the white sheets and dubiously sanitized comforter typical of hotel rooms. For a moment, there's that half-second flash of morning amnesia. Where is he? How did he get here? Where is here?His face feels sore. He brings a hand up. With a few light touches, last night comes rushing back. Chris groans and lets his head fall back on his pillow. This crazy life he lives. He doesn't remember anything after falling asleep on Kevin's lap (oh god) after his (oh god, oh god) panic attack. Did someone carry him into the hotel? He doesn't even want to think about that, especially because a photo of that would be like paparazzi gold. Ugh. At least he's feeling reasonably calmer. His thoughts are interrupted by an arm sneaking out from under the blankets to fumble with the alarm clock. His blankets. Amber's arm. He sits up.

"Why are you in my bed?"

"Who says it's your bed? Maybe I should be asking why you're in my bed." She smirks.

"Amber, seriously."

"Oh, relax." Her tone turns somber. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't sleepwalk or anything, you know. You usually do it when you're stressed and after last night – "

Chris nods, sighs. Gets out of bed. The red digits on the clock read 4:30. Makes sense, they have to be in DC by late afternoon. They'll sleep on the bus, they always do.

"Okay. Thank you, Amber."

He hopes she knows he means it, because he really, really does. Yesterday was bad, that much is a fact, but it could've been a lot worse if it hadn't been for his friends. His real friends, the ones who love him. It shouldn't be that much of a realization that he has people like that. He knows, of course, that he has great friends in the cast, has known since those relationships developed, but for some reason he needed a reminder. The people that really matter aren't going to be in the audience tonight in DC, or back in Philadelphia. They're somewhere in this hotel, dragging themselves out of bed at 4:30 in the morning to ride a bus all day to perform on stage and then do it again tomorrow. They're the ones who sleep next to him and talk him down from panic attacks and let him fall asleep on their laps. They're the ones who carry him when he's asleep and yell at security officers and get him icepacks and medical attention. He knows he's the baby of the cast, even though he's not that much younger than anyone, excluding Mark and Cory of course. It's an interesting position, especially because he's used to being the protective older brother. He loves the cast. He loves them so much it hurts, actually, and he's both grateful to them and for them. But at the same time, there's a fine line between simply being there in a time of need and being overprotective. And no, he doesn't really think they're overprotective. He would've done the same things for them they did for him, after all. It's just… they already think of him as the youngest (and even if he is the youngest, it's not like it should actually make a difference. They're all equals, right?) What if they also see him as weak, or unable to take care of himself? Even if they don't, incidents like this will only reinforce those ideas. Which brings up the question – is he weak? Was he right to be so upset, or did he overreact? Why couldn't he pull himself together? He sighs and pulls some clothes out of his bag.

"Do you mind if I use the shower first?"

"Nope, go right ahead." He shoots her an appreciative smile.

"Chris?" she asks tentatively once his back is turned.

"Mhm?"

Her voice is hesitant. "It's not your fault, but… you really scared me last night."

Amber looks like she's on the verge of tears. Her face is all scrunched up and her eyes are shining and Chris can't stand seeing her upset or in pain, especially if it's because of him. He closes the distance between them and pulls her into a hug. She snuggles into his chest, he rests his chin on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he says. It comes out as a whisper.

Amber isn't the only one he owes an apology, he thinks, ten minutes later, as he's rinsing the soap bubbles out of his hair. He didn't exactly act grateful after Lea tried to hug him yesterday on the bus, and Cory looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack of his own. He probably ought to just apologize to everyone for the whole shock and distress of it all; that would probably be best. He definitely owes some special thank you's though, to Mark and Kevin, for the extra help. Not to mention Tim, too.

He sees his face for the first time that morning when he catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It looks a lot worse than it feels at least, but it doesn't feel great. He's somewhat shocked at the magnitude of it all, and for perhaps the first time he really lets himself wonder what exactly went down in that parking lot before chasing those thoughts away. The bruise is on the left side of his face. It starts under his eye and stretches up to his temple, all blue and purple and dark green, but at least there's no swelling. Add in his wide eyes and dripping hair and too pale skin and he looks like the poster boy for battered women everywhere.

It's a verifiable whirlwind of a morning. Chris manages to talk to everyone more or less separately, mostly thanks to a lot of seat switching and awkward cornering when they stop for restroom breaks and breakfast at Starbucks. There's a whole lot of teary-eyed sniffling and heartfelt hugs and wobbly smiles. All and all, he's feeling considerably better by the time afternoon rolls around.

Most of them are dozing by now. They were rowdier earlier that morning, singing and goofing off. Heather and Darren had even led a rambunctious, slightly punch drunk version of Teenage Dream, complete with some rather intimate choreography. Right now though, there's a hazy sort of quietness interrupted only by the occasional whispers and fit of uncontrollable giggles. Figures that most of them are already exhausted before they've even reached their destination.

Chris shuffles quietly through his overnight bag and takes out his phone. He's been busy; he hasn't checked it in a really long time. Actually, since before the incident last night, but it still feels like a really long time. Guess that's what happens when you have a technology addiction, he thinks cynically. His Twitter seems to have gone insane overnight. He has over one thousand new notifications, which is unsurprising really, considering the nature of last night. The news must have spread fairly quickly.

The news…?

For the first time since his initial bout of panic he allows himself to think back, to not quite replay the occurrence, but skim it over in his mind. That's right. There were all those people. And it was so loud and there was… lightning? No, lightning, flashing. Flashing lights, like lots of cameras. Video cameras?

Chris pales. He can't believe he hadn't thought of this earlier. Of course someone would've caught footage of it. It's probably all over the internet by now.

It's strange, he thinks, watching himself. Like an out of body experience. Kind of like how his panic attack had felt. Except then, he'd just wanted to jump out of his own flesh; he hadn't actually been able to. After the pilot aired, he'd made the unfortunate mistake of googling himself, and had resolved never to do it again. Because even if the entire world was speculating about whether or not he's a hermaphrodite, or the supposed nonexistence of his balls, it's not like he wants to know. So he doesn't really know what it is this time that makes him think it's a good idea. If it's some sort of morbid curiosity or just the need to get a clear picture, to rid himself of the gaps in his memory, or to see it how they saw it. Whatever it is, it doesn't take him long to come across a YouTube video of the event. A news article links him straight to it. The article is headlined, "Glee's Chris Colfer Attacked by Teen." He skims the article first. It's predictable, pinning Philadelphia as conservative and the "attack" as a hate crime. He feels eerily calm as he clicks the link to the video. No trepidation, no anxiety, just calm, as if there is nothing new he can feel about this situation.

A shaky feed starts up. There he is. The camera angle has him in profile, accentuating his too long nose and too big smile. There's a young couple standing across from him. His mouth is moving. "Kurt," someone calls, like a disembodied voice, loud enough to be recorded and heard throughout the crowds, presumably. The feed shakes. Someone giggles. The Chris on screen glances in the direction of the voice and, incidentally, looks into the screen. Chris from before shrugs and turns back. Chris from now feels his heart drop a little. It's oddly frustrating, watching the teen approach with no way to warn his oblivious past self. Unlike before however, he does manage to get a good look at the boy. He's shorter than Chris by a few inches, thin and pale blond and lightly tanned. If it weren't for summer though, he could probably rival Chris in paleness. His face is narrow and angled. It's too far away to catch the color of his eyes.

He's definitely young. Sixteen, he'd thought at first, but he looks younger now. The boy approaches. On-screen Chris turns to face him. He now has a view of himself from the front and the teen from the back. They stand like that for a few seconds. Something is happening here. They… no, he, must be talking. This is ridiculous. He knows what happened; he's not some objective viewer watching this like it's not him, like he doesn't have a personal connection. Maybe if he melds these together, his own memory of the experience and what he is watching here and now… Chris thinks back, really thinks and doesn't shy away from the memories. He pauses the video. What had been going on here? What had he been feeling, thinking?

He'd been shocked when the teen approached him. No, no… he hadn't thought much of it. He'd been startled. Okay, then he'd said hello. And then what? The kid had said something and he'd felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, or a bucket of ice water had been tipped over his head.

The words come back and Chris is chilled. The voice replays in his head. I hate the way you act. It… It just gives people more excuses to ridicule us. It's not so much the words that bother him, at least not right now. He's heard those words before, and while they may not have been said to his face, they were phrased a lot less politely. It's something about the tone. It's reserved, somber, a statement that should be said with passion so entirely devoid of emotion. And it bothers him for some reason. It's like there's no fire behind the words. If there's one thing Chris can recognize, it's self-hatred, even if it's focused outward. Maybe he shouldn't, but he can't help but sympathize. And how can he possibly be hurt by that? How can he feel sorry for himself when he's clearly not the one who's being hurt?

Chris sighs and fists a hand through his hair. It's not like he thinks he's done anything wrong; he was just there, an obvious target. But it's not like he thinks the teen did anything wrong either, unless being gay, confused, and self-loathing is wrong. As far as Chris can tell though, that's pretty normal.

He wonders whether he ought to be laughing or crying, or if he should just keep pulling his hair out. He presses play on the video instead.

It's one hell of a punch and it seems to come out of nowhere. It's in direct contrast to the boy's prior emotional detachment, and Chris is shocked by the passion and energy behind it, by the brutality of it. He hits the pavement hard. There's a moment of shocked silence and then chaos erupts. There are screams from the crowd. The camera pans to the teen, who's being tackled by a security officer… Chris rips the headphones from his ears and throws his phone across the seat, with perhaps a little more vigor than absolutely necessary.

Well, if this isn't all a completely new brand of upsetting. And if he's feeling a bit less sympathetic and a bit more useless, well, it's probably because, as much as he hates to sound like Christian Bale with a bruised ego, there's something downright humiliating about getting knocked to the ground by someone younger and smaller than you. It's not that he's overly concerned with appearances, it's just… he knows the media likes to portray him as an emotionally fragile, delicate flower, but dear god, he's not literally made of porcelain.

Just as he's trying to remember the breathing exercises Kevin taught him his phone starts vibrating. Chris glares at it, sighs in defeat, and checks the caller ID. It's Tim.

"Yes, hello?"

"How's that face feeling?"

"It's fine," Chris answers dismissively. "It doesn't hurt anymore, it's just a little bruised."

"Mhm," Tim hums. Chris waits, wonders what's going on.

"Look, the Philly Police need to know if you're going to press charges."

"If I'm going to press charges?" Chris echoes back dumbly.

"You can't hold somebody for more than twenty-four hours without a charge. If you don't press charges, they'll be forced to let him go by this evening."

Chris pauses, inhales deeply, and then, "What's his name?"

"His name?" Tim repeats across the phone line. He sounds passively exasperated, as if he were expecting this.

"Yes," Chris says. "What is the name of the person who I'm supposed to be pressing charges against?"

There's a pause and then, "Elliott Reese." Tim sighs; the sound comes across as scratchy white noise. "Chris, it would probably be better if you don't… if you didn't… if you tried not to take this too personal, you know?"

"You don't want me to take this personally?" He really does try to keep his voice level. He knows Tim is right after all, but somehow the comment stings. His voice hitches embarrassingly on the last syllable and tears burn behind his eyes. He feels utterly humiliated.

"Have you talked to anyone about this?"

Tim's voice is soft, concerned. Chris wipes furiously at his eyes, determined to be as bitchy as possible so he won't get emotional and make a fool of himself, even if he will feel bad about it later.

"I'm not," Chris says, before taking a deep, shaky breath and composing himself. "I'm not pressing charges."

"Right," Tim says, "I'll call Officer Davis and let her know."

They're in DC; he's standing next to Kevin, backstage, waiting for his turn to go out. It's all flashing silver and blue lighting and the sound of Lea and Cory's voices awash with an ocean of others, blurred movement and purple and green and red lights oscillating and evanescing.

"Hey Chris," Kevin whispers, covering his microphone with his hand. "Are you okay to go out there?"

He gestures toward the audience, and Chris can't help but think Kevin couldn't have picked a worse time to talk about this. All of them knew where they were headed in that bus, and maybe throughout the course of the day it had stopped feeling like a public execution, but it still doesn't seem like a breezy walk along the ocean at sunrise either. He may not want to, but he can't help it if he holds a little… resentment.

"You're asking now?" Chris whispers back dryly, trying not to let himself sound too affected. These are his friends.

Kevin looks honestly surprised. "You didn't talk to any of us all day!" he exclaims, before glancing around guiltily and lowering his voice. "After this morning, you just clammed up and we figured you wanted to be alone and we should give you space." He looks regretful. "I'm sorry, Chris."

"It's okay," Chris responds, his resentment fading away into guilt. "I…They covered my bruise with makeup," he remarks casually, as if it matters. Kevin nods.

And maybe it's because it's so noisy that he isn't afraid of being overheard, or because he trusts Kevin, or that he's finally ready, because for some reason, Chris is more honest than he's been with anyone else when he speaks next, or at least, honest in his own way. Chris has never been particularly good with the emotion stuff. Sure, he's good at feeling them, that's never been a problem. He actually feels a bit too much, in his humble opinion. But when it comes to voicing them, to putting emotions into words, it's like there's some disconnect, some split vessel between his voice and his heart. And maybe it's because, really, he's a strictly private person, or he's grown used to protecting his heart.

"I… you know in Moulin Rouge?" he hedges

"Yeah, I've seen it," Kevin prompts.

"Well, I feel like Christian when he comes to the end of the movie and realizes the whole point or theme or whatever, and it's not bad, not a bad realization, it's just…" he trails off. He wants Kevin to understand. He needs him to.

"The theme?" Kevin's eyes are twinkling. "You mean 'The greatest thing you'll ever learn is to love and be loved in return?'"

Chris' initial response is a scrunched nose and confused look. "Well, that's one of -" he starts, but then Kevin 's laughing at him. Chris feels his face heat. "What?" but Kevin just shakes his head.

It's their cue and Kevin takes his hand and pulls him out onto stage. All other feelings dissipate with the pulse of adrenaline except for the blessed feeling of realization, and Chris can see it, and how was he possibly so stupid this whole time?

A few hours later has them working the after-show crowd, all together this time, because Lea wouldn't leave his side. Chris wouldn't really have it any other way. His hand is still in Kevin's, it's like they haven't let go since Kevin pulled him onto stage, although logically, that's impossible.

Chris gets it, but he's not sure if he really, truly believes it, not yet. So he turns, asserts an apparent non sequitur. "That's the optimists' theme."

Kevin's lips quirk.