A/N: I wrote blangst! So, this idea has been in my head for a while and I'm really excited to post! So, here we have the monster that has been the last week of my life.

Hope you enjoy!

"Hello and welcome—my name is Dr. Rochester. You are all here, as you know, because your physician or your parents have deemed it necessary." The man—middle-aged with thick black hair on his head and making up a beard, as well as dorky glasses perched on his nose—clears his throat. "We have a few new people with us today. Why don't we all go around and introduce ourselves?"

The room is drab and simple. Beige walls, a pale blue door, a few paintings that might as well be inkblots—Blaine has no interest in them.

It's a Wednesday. He knows because he always has group on Wednesdays. Group on Wednesdays, private sessions Mondays and Fridays, and monthly checkups. Three different doctors. Dr. Rochester is, understandably, his favorite by far. He's calm, kind, and encouraging. Blaine is aware, like all of the other experienced patients are, that Dr. Rochester knows what they're all going through. He'd grown up in an abusive household, gone through therapy for years to stop feeling worthless. He's a survivor.

"Blaine?" Dr. Rochester says, turning to his left. "Why don't you start?"

There are eight other people in the room. Three girls. One, Blaine knows as Quinn, blonde, pretty, and in a wheelchair. Another, unfamiliar, Latina, with long, black hair and perfect curves. Then another blonde, too skinny and pale with thick, dark circles under her eyes, but still incredibly beautiful and innocent-looking. Blaine assumes she's like his friend Rory—eating disorder.

There are boys too, of course. Puck, with his brown-skinned muscles, Mohawk, and permanent sneer. Mike, quiet and shy, ashamed of his depression and pressured by his father's expectations. Rory, small and withdrawn. Then two new ones, boys he doesn't know. A blonde in an A-shirt, revealing defined muscles and overwhelming strength. He fidgets, folds his upper body over as if trying to hide his stomach. Sad-looking. Blaine guesses bulimic. And then there's a brunet with porcelain skin and shining eyes that are a color Blaine can't quite place. They're blue, green, grey, and yellow, all swirling and mixing, and even from across the circle Blaine can tell how stunning they are. His arms are crossed over his chest as if he's trying to close in on himself. There's an ugly bruise on his upper left cheek, barely hidden by shakily-applied concealer. Abuse.

Dr. Rochester nudges him and Blaine snaps his attention away from the boy.

"I'm Blaine," he says calmly. "I'm sixteen."

That's how the meeting starts. Name, age—nothing else until the doc asks you to share. It's a mixed group. Most of the kids are depressed, others are recovering from abuse, self-harm, disorders, other mental problems, and, of course, there are the serious cases. The suicide watch cases—the 48-hour-watch like he'd gone through when he's arrived—and kids that need to be fed via IV. They're the ones at serious risk. It's not fun to see, not fun to know about, but after three months, Blaine feels like he's become a little more immune to the emotions that accompany the arrival of a new patient.

Quinn, on the opposite end of Dr. Rochester, introduces herself before saying, "I'm seventeen."

"Santana," the Latina offers. "Seventeen."

Her blonde friends says, bright and clear, "I'm Brittany."

"We're both seventeen."

Rory, in his thick Irish accent, says his name and his age—15, the only one younger than Blaine—before Puck introduces himself and grunts, "Seventeen." Mike goes next—"Seventeen"—before the other new kids are up.

Sam is the blonde one; he's Blaine's age. Kurt is the final boy, the brunet, and his voice when he says, "Seventeen," is smooth and high, beautiful, and Blaine is suddenly very nervous sitting across from him. He's stunning.

"Nice to meet you all—do our newcomers have anything they want to share to begin today's session with?"

Silence. Fidgeting. And finally Sam says, "I don't eat—well, I do, I just don't…keep it down," and proves Blaine correct.

"Me neither!" Brittany says excitedly.

"I like to cut," Santana offers.

All attention turns to Kurt. After a moment of hesitation, he says, in an eerily calm voice, "I want to die."

Dalton is not an asylum. It's a hospital. Patients on the first six floors are ER, ICU, pre- and post-surgery, are recovering, or are being treated. On the seventh, eighth, and ninths floors… Well that's where there are dormitories and counseling rooms, recreation rooms, etc. There's a garden on the roof and an entertainment room. There's a cafeteria, a gym, and a small classroom. The psychiatrists keep a few privates offices as well.

It's Blaine's home.

The girls are in the west wing, the boys in the east, and they all have roommates. Blaine's with Rory, Puck with Mike, and now, Kurt with Sam.

Patients come and go. Sometimes they're there for a week, sometimes five or six months, but there are always more. You'd think the teen psych hospital was a country club with all of the visitors.

It's been a while since anyone was put on watch. But there are guards outside Kurt's room, monitoring, waiting, and when the 48 hours are over, when Kurt's been given medication and has spoken to at least five different doctors, the guards are gone. For now.

Blaine thinks back a few months. He was a patient downstairs then, treated for a minor concussion and a broken rib, when he asked a nurse to give him more morphine—enough to put him to sleep permanently.

They sent down a different type of doctor to talk to him.

"Hi, Blaine. I'm Dr. Green. I'm just gonna talk to you for a bit, okay?"

"Okay."

The man is young, thin, with big, green eyes and sandy blonde hair. He's sitting in the chair meant for visitors—the chair that has only inhabited his mother once during his stay, just to tell him to stop being silly, stop lying, like she doesn't know who's actually responsible for his injuries—with one leg crossed and a pad of paper balancing on his thigh.

"The nurse told me that you asked her to kill you."

Well. That's straightforward. But Blaine kind of appreciates it. No point in beating around the bush. "Yes," he says, unwavering.

"Why?"

He would shrug if he could. "I want to die."

"Can you tell me anything about your injuries, Blaine?"

"Like what? You have my chart, don't you?"

Dr. Green nods. "Yes. Third rib on the left side broken, others bruised. Random bruises on other parts of your body, minor concussion. That bruise there on your cheek is at least three days old."

"So you know everything then."

There's a pause as Dr. Green licks his lips. He scribbles something on the notepad. "How'd you get the injuries, Blaine?"

Blaine wants to tell him, really, really does. But what if he doesn't believe him? No one ever does. His dad is so…nice. He's a gentleman, charming, kind, witty—and then, when he finds out that Blaine told, it'll all just get worse. So he presses his lips together.

"Are you trying to protect someone?"

"No."

"Blaine."

He swallows tightly and before he even knows that he's going to say it, the words are escaping. "My dad," he says softly. "My dad hits me."

Dr. Green doesn't look surprised. "Do you know why?"

"Because I'm a fag."

There's a frown on the man's face then, deep and troubled. "He said that?"

"Yes."

He shifts in his chair and scribbles something on the notepad again. After a moment, he looks up again. "Are you gay, Blaine?"

"Yes."

"And he doesn't approve."

"According to him I'm not supposed to like boys. He tried sending me to a doctor but she said I was fine. He called her a fag enabler."

Dr. Green nods, scribbles again, and the frown is still firmly in place. "You are fine, Blaine. It's okay to like boys."

"I'm not an idiot. I'm sixteen. I know what I like."

"Do you ever fight back?"

"No."

"Because he's your dad?"

"Because I keep hoping that he'll kill me."

It's weird, Blaine thinks as he pops out of the memory. It feels like so long ago that he came to Dalton. But now there isn't anywhere he'd rather be. He has friends, he gets to talk to people, to gets to make plans and think about his future—he's getting better. He's not there yet but… He's working on it.

"Blaine," Mike calls as he peaks into the room, "group starts in five—let's go."

One of Dr. Rochester's favorite things is the emphasis of sharing.

It helps us all learn, he says. We teach each other how to get better.

He repeats the sentiment that week in group and Blaine notices, recalls the same line on three other occasions, and is about to crack a knowing smile when he sees Santana rolling her eyes. Apparently Dr. Rochester sees it too.

"Do you have something to share, Santana?" he asks her.

"Doc, no offense,"—he nods here, a slight smile playing on his lips as if he's already forgiven her for an unspoken insult—"but do you really think I'm gonna learn anything from Porcelain besides how to make myself feel even shittier than I do? Or that Britt with get anything out of a conversation with Trouty Mouth besides the best way to position your fingers before you hurl? Or that putting Fred Astaire, The Hobbit, and Puckerman together will get them to sort out their daddy issues?"

Blaine frowns. Since when did Santana know that Mike could dance? And "The Hobbit"? Really?

But Dr. Rochester's only reaction is to turn to Kurt. His eyes are on his hands in his lap. He looks utterly unwilling to participate.

"Do you have anything to say to that, Kurt? Or do you maybe wanna talk about that shiner you were sporting last week?"

Kurt swallows. Blaine watches his throat.

"No?" Dr. Rochester asks.

"We're in Ohio," is his answer. Blaine is stunned to hear him give it.

"Yes."

"And as long as we're in Ohio, I will be bullied and I will want to die."

"And why's that?"

"Because I'm gay."

Blaine's heart flies into his throat. Sure, the kid kind of looks a bit, um, soft, but he'd been wrong before and he wasn't about to pass judgment. Besides, it wasn't like having another gay guy around would matter anyway.

"No kidding," Santana laughs. "Maybe we do have something in common."

To his credit, Dr. Rochester doesn't say anything to Blaine.

"So you get bullied because you're gay?"

Kurt nods once. "I have more bruises. On my arms and back. They shove me into lockers, pin me against lockers, toss me into Dumpsters, throw slushies at me." He shrugs. "I have two friends at school and both of them are girls. My stepbrother tries to help sometimes but he's one of the popular kids. Can't risk his reputation."

"Did you ever report the bullies?" Dr. Rochester continues.

Another shrug, smaller than the last. His attention doesn't shift. He plays with his fingers. "Nobody cares. I tried but…no one notices. And if they won't stop, I'd rather not be around to deal with it. No one'll miss a fag anyway."

Blaine winces. Dr. Rochester clears his throat. "That's a pretty hurtful word, Kurt."

"No worse than the other things I've heard."

"Santana—what do you think?"

Surprised, she blinks at Dr. Rochester and then looks over at Kurt. It's easier to address him, Blaine figures. "Someone found out about me and told the whole school. I had guys coming up to me in the hall and offering to make me normal, there were girls that called me a dyke and didn't wanna be around me. I got kicked off of the cheerleading squad. My grandmother said horrible things to me." She takes a shuddering breath and her eyes slip closed. When they open again, they're on her lap. "But no one ever laid a hand on me. So I couldn't do anything about it."

"I guess chivalry isn't completely dead," Puck grunts with a scowl.

"For the record," Dr. Rochester says, "this is a safe place. No one here cares about sexuality. Bigotry is out of date and I'm here to make sure it stays that way. Kurt, Santana, you may feel helpless right now but you're gonna feel better. I promise."

"What if I don't wanna feel better?" Every eye goes to Kurt. He's looking up now and Blaine kind of expects to see tears swimming in his eyes but there aren't any. He's serious.

So before Blaine knows what he's doing, his mouth is open. "I didn't want to get better either," he says. He can feel the gazes of everyone else in the group—the warm, lingering, supportive eyes of Dr. Rochester and his friends, and the curious ones belonging to those he doesn't know well enough yet. They've never heard his story. "But I saw what my fear and my depression were doing to my dreams and I… Well, I'm trying now. So that I can have a life one day that I'm proud of."

Dr. Rochester claps him on the back, says, "Beautifully put, Blaine," and then beings to answer a question Brittany poses but Blaine can't even pretend to care because Kurt is looking at him. Staring at him. And he's breathtaking. Blaine's never wanted to kiss anyone more than he wants to kiss Kurt right then—even though they're feet away, even though they know next to nothing about each other, even though it's weird, the feeling in his gut, Blaine really, really wants to kiss him. Not only that, Blaine wants to hold him, protect him, and make him feel loved. But Blaine doesn't even know him.

So he resolves to change that.

It's dinner time on Thursday of Kurt's second week and the boy is sitting by the window in the cafeteria, writing something down on a piece of notebook paper when Puck and Sam sit down beside and opposite him, respectively.

Blaine's walking towards the table he normally sits at with Mike, Rory, and another boy from a different therapy group, Wes. Quinn, who sometimes joins them, is laughing a few tables away with Brittany, Santana, and Sugar, a schizophrenic from the floor above.

"Hey," Mike says in greeting when he approaches. "Wanna play videogames in the TV room with us tonight?"

Blaine shrugs. "We'll see. Let's go sit with Puck."

He receives no argument.

Kurt's eyes flash to his the second he sits down next to Puck and it's immediately clear that he doesn't like Blaine very much—something he understands completely. He hadn't been too keen on making friends three months ago. But that just means he can't go anywhere in Kurt's eyes but up.

"Hi," he says after a moment. "I'm Blaine."

"I know."

"We're gonna go play videogames in the TV room after dinner. Do you wanna go with us?"

"You totally should, man," Sam says with a smile. "It'll be awesome."

Kurt doesn't look away from Blaine.

They do go to play videogames later that evening but Kurt doesn't participate. Instead, he curls up on the couch behind the boys seated on the floor and continues to write on that paper, using his knee as a backing so his pencil doesn't poke through. He's quiet the entire evening, brushing off offers to take a turn. He doesn't even look up when Puck shouts his victory to the ceiling and a nurse comes running in with worry.

Mike and Puck go to bed, Sam leaves a moment later with Rory to sneak to the kitchen, and then it's just Blaine and Kurt, sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

"You're staring at me," Kurt accuses dryly as he folds up his piece of paper.

Blaine swallows tightly. "You're very distant. And I'd like to be your friend."

Kurt's eyes are on him immediately, hard, narrow, suspicious. "Why?"

"'cause I like you."

"No, you don't. Only girls like me."

"Puck and the other guys like you. Sam likes you."

He seems to consider the statement. "Do you think Sam is, uh… Y'know? Like me?"

Blaine forces himself not to smile. "He's into Quinn, I think."

"Hm."

"But we all wanna be your friends. We could help each other. Talk. You and Santana seem to get along too."

Kurt looks at his knees and pulls his lower lip between his teeth.

"We should hang out. Get to know each other."

"You don't care that I'm…?"

"Gay? Or depressed?"

"Both."

He figures there's no good way to say that that's exactly what he is too, so he doesn't. Instead, he just says, "If I cared about stupid stuff that like, why would I be here?"

For the very first time, Kurt cracks a little smile. "That's a very good question."

There is a direct relationship between the difficulty of not kissing Kurt and the time they spend together. For the next week, they hang out together, talk, play checkers, chess, or air hockey in the rec room during breaks, and when the next group session rolls around, he's become extremely accustomed to Kurt's biting wit and solemn commentary. He's also discovered a new feeling: gnawing curiosity. Every once in a while he'll see Kurt scribble something on that piece of paper of his but Blaine still doesn't know what it is. Kurt's not exactly forthcoming with the information either.

Rory and Puck are talking in group when Blaine sees Kurt slip the paper out again.

"What is it?" he asks when they're leaving. "The paper."

Kurt arches an eyebrow. "Why do you care?"

"Kurt."

"You'll think it's stupid."

"Try me."

With a sigh, he shoves the paper—still folded—into Blaine's hands. "It was Dr. Lavender's idea. Don't read it until I'm gone and then give it back to me at dinner."

Blaine nods his agreement.

"And don't laugh."

Blaine's "I promise" falls on deaf ears as Kurt storms away.

He's not sure why he doesn't immediately unfold the wrinkled paper and devour the secrets written but he knows—feel instinctually—that he needs to be alone when the time comes. He can feel it, the paper, still perfectly folded, sitting right there in his pocket, and it's like it's calling for him. It's a hot point of distraction, a blaring alarm—and he wants to read it. Now. He wants to run into a bathroom, lock himself in a stall, and absorb it, learn what's going through Kurt's head, what his private therapist has asked him to write, what it is that Kurt's trusting him with as soon as he can but that's just the thing. Kurt's trusting him. And even though he hadn't known it, that's what he wants. It's what he's wanted since he laid eyes on him three weeks ago. He wants to be there for him and wants the same from Kurt. More than anything Blaine wants to know the boy inside and out.

It kills him—the waiting. But he does it. He joins the guys in the rec room over the pool table and tries not to think about it: the mystery in his pocket. He watches a movie with Mike, plays basketball with Puck outside, and then—with half an hour before dinner—he races upstairs to his dormitory and locks the door so that he can sit down and finally—finally—sate his curiosity.

Kurt's handwriting is perfect. The page is filled with two columns, fragmented sentences numbered 1 to 67. Blaine feels sick when he sees the title.

Bucket List.

Certain things are crossed out already. A simple, thin line, leaving the goal legible, probably so that Kurt can keep track of his accomplishments. There are two, however, that are viciously, violently crossed out with thick, angry lines. Blaine can't read them.

Kurt wanted them to happen and then changed his mind. Or…gave up on them?

But this is good. He has goals. Dreams. If Blaine can get him to want them badly enough, maybe he won't…maybe Blaine can save him. That's what he wants. To save him. He thinks that maybe, in the process, Kurt could save him too.

He doesn't want to die so much anymore. There's a lingering sensation of failure, he's still depressed, still doesn't want to face his husband-less mother, listen to her yell at him for making up stories that got the elder Anderson led away in handcuffs. He'd rather die than face that. He'd rather die than go back to school. He'd rather die than spend another minute of his life being told that he's worthless. He tells himself that often enough.

But he wants someone—someone who matters—to tell him the opposite. He wants someone to kiss, someone to whisper beautiful things into his skin and love him. More than anything, he wants to be loved.

There's one there, a goal on Kurt's paper, that's scribbled hastily, messier than all of the other ones.

Kiss someone.

That's what it says. Except that the last word is crossed out and two new ones follow it so that it reads,

Kiss a boy.

Kurt's never been kissed.

The thought stays with him as he heads to dinner. When he sits down, he and Kurt are the only ones there. He's kind of early.

"Number 11," Blaine says as he slides the paper across the table.

Kurt nods. "A big 'fuck you' to people, y'know?"

"Wouldn't the bigger 'fuck you' be staying alive? Like…being happy in spite of everything?" Kurt stares at him. "You'll see, Kurt. One day, those guys'll work for you."

"I'd need to be around for that to happen."

"Yes," Blaine agrees. "You would."

Kurt cocks his head, pushes his untouched salad to the side and set his hands on top of one another, forearms flat on the tables, before leaning towards Blaine with an analytical gaze. "Why do you care?" he asks. "You don't know me."

"Oh, but don't I? Who else do you talk to here? Who else have you had any real interaction with over the last few weeks? Santana, Britt, Quinn, me. I know your favorite color, song, show, singer, musical—I know that you sew and design and that you made your own prom outfit even though you don't plan on actually going. I know you have dreams, Kurt. I know more about you than you think."

Kurt doesn't look even remotely impressed.

"Kurt…" Blaine sighs heavily. "Look, I just care, okay? I—I've never met anyone—"

"Who's gay?"

Blaine starts, frowns, and leans back in his chair. "No, it's not about that."

"Then what? What makes me different?"

And that's a very good question. What is it that makes Kurt different from the other ones? Why has Blaine never wanted to know them all so…intimately? It's not that he's gay—not really. If that were the case, he would be attracted to every gay guy ever. And he's not. So it has to be more. But, he thinks, it's something like that.

Kurt had announced it during his second session. No more than a week into his stay at Dalton and he was already coming clean about it—about his sexuality. He wasn't ashamed of it. He was… Well, he was as close to out and proud as Blaine had ever seen in real life. Blaine wants to know how. Blaine wants to learn how.

"I admire you," is what he eventually says. "You're very…honest."

"And you aren't?"

Blaine shrugs. "Not always."

"Have you ever lied to me?"

"No."

"What about to Dr. Rochester?"

Blaine shakes his head, smiling softly. "Nope."

"Who then?"

"Just…people."

Kurt seems content to leave it at that. He leans back in his chair and drums his fingers over the table. "Quinn was telling the girls and me today that she thought you were the cutest boy in the group. All three of them were rating the guys."

"Even Santana?"

"Especially Santana."

"Huh."

"Do you think Quinn's pretty?"

Blaine chuckles. "She's my friend. I knew her before her car accident, before she…lost hope. Ended up in a bathtub with slit wrists."

"Didn't answer my question."

"Yeah. She's pretty. But we're friends. Nothing more." Blaine grabs Kurt's water bottle and tosses it in the air a few times, staring at it as he asks, "And what about you? Who do you think is the cutest boy in the group?"

He's answered with silence. The water bottle falls into his hand at the same time he looks back across the table to find Kurt's eyes again. The other boy looks confused. "You're actually okay with me telling you about how I find guys attractive?"

"Yeah."

"…okay. Um. Puck."

Blaine laughs. "No."

"What?"

"No, you don't think Puck's the cutest guy."

Kurt goes bright pink. It's a new look on him, something Blaine's never seen before, and he likes it. A lot. "What makes you say that?"

"You like the way Sam looks at you." Blaine doesn't blame him, even though he feels a little needle of jealousy pinprick at his chest when he says it. Sam's cute. But he's not gay. "I'd just advise you against trying for anything more."

"He's straight. That's my curse—doomed to like straight guys. It doesn't help that we're in Nowhere, Ohio, home of the conservative."

Blaine brushes off the last part. "What about me? How do I rate against Sam?" He pulls an exaggerated model face, staring off into the distance and making dull thumping noises of a random beat with his mouth. Kurt giggles. It's the most precious thing he's ever heard in his life.

"Not bad," Kurt tells him. "Not bad."

That, Blaine supposes, is good enough for now.

The next Wednesday rolls around too fast. But there they are, in their little circle of plastic chairs, listening to Dr. Rochester say, "Good afternoon—how are we all today?"

There are a few mumbled responses but when Blaine takes his usual seat next to Dr. Rochester and across from Kurt, it's the very first time that Blaine doesn't immediately engage the man in conversation. Instead, he's staring—unabashedly—at the beautiful boy across from him. Because he can.

Puck, to his left, mutters, "Dude, you got a thing for Kurt?"

"Shut up."

Mercifully, he does, but that's not the end of it. They're about halfway through their hour and Santana is waxing poetic about her experiences in school after being forced out of the closet—"Nobody took me seriously anymore; they thought it was a choice and they all hated me. God, all guys are the same."—when Mike says, "Hey, that's not fair. We're totally supportive."

"Yeah," Sam adds. "We totally feel where you're coming from."

Santana rolls her eyes. "The only feelings you guys get when lesbians are involved are in your pants."

"Except for Kurt," Brittany says, making doe eyes at the boy. "That's why he's my favorite. 'cause he's a dolphin."

And then Rory, well-meaning, lovable Rory, asks, "What about Blaine?"

Quinn looks over at him immediately, gauging his reaction, trying to communicate, I'll cover for you if you want. But Blaine can't think.

"What?" Santana asks. "What about him?"

"He doesn't like girls," is Rory's explanation.

"Rory," Dr. Rochester tries.

"No, it's fine," says Blaine weakly. Dr. Rochester's the only one who can hear him.

He's waiting, tense, avoiding eye contact from across the circle—he needs to hear Kurt's voice, needs to hear something from him. Anything.

Eventually, his patience is rewarded.

"You're gay?" Kurt asks in a small voice.

He can't really move, can't speak, and so simply lifts his gaze and stares back at him with wide, apologetic eyes while Santana speaks.

"Well, who knew all the gay kids hung out in the mental hospital?"

"Santana," Dr. Rochester says evenly. "Enough. Kurt, you look like there's something on your mind."

His face is a mixture of confusion and anger and Blaine feels like the worst person in the world.

"You lied to me," he spits.

"No," Blaine argues, "I never said I was straight."

"You never told me the truth either. We could've been helping each other—you could have told me that you understood what I going through, what I was feeling. I thought I could trust you."

"You can! Kurt—I—"

"We could have been helping each other for the past four weeks! You could've told me—"

"Kurt—"

"You're a jerk."

"I never got down on you for being proud of who you are!" Blaine shouts. The rest of the room is quiet, watching. "I am so—I'm proud of you, Kurt! You're not ashamed of who you are! And I'm horrified with myself because I'm not like that! I can't bring a boy home to meet my parents or go to prom with the guy I like—I can't even check a guy out without someone shoving me over and calling me a fag. I am so fucking jealous of you, Kurt. You're strong and brave and beautiful and I would kill you know you and be your friend but you're keeping me at an arm's length!"

Kurt doesn't even hesitate, doesn't think through the entirety of Blaine's monologue, before snapping back with, "And why do you think that is?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

He ignores the question. "Every straight guy who wants to be my friend ends up making my life worse. They play me so that they can impress their friends by picking on me. So excuse me for—"

"I want to help you! I want to be your friend!"

"And you thought the best way to go about that was to make me think you were straight?"

"I never said anything about being straight!"

"You never said anything about being gay either. Didn't you think that maybe I might be more open to a guy who understands?"

"Obviously not," Santana laughs.

They both turn and shout "Shut up!" at her before turning to one another again.

"I'm sorry," Blaine offers, but his voice is still strong. He's still angry and confused but he doesn't want to hurt Kurt, never wanted that, so he needs to apologize. It's the only thing that'll help them sort it out. "I should've told you."

Kurt nods stiffly. "Yes. You should've."

"I promise, Kurt—no more secrets."

They're okay after that. If anything they're closer. Kurt tells him about his bullies and his dad, how good he is, how hard he tries. Blaine's jealous, wants to know what a loving family is like, but he doesn't say anything. Until Kurt asks him.

"What about your parents? What do they think about it?" He looks up from his list—it's up to 80 things—to watch Blaine as he speaks.

"Y'know," is the only answer Blaine gives though. That and a shrug.

"Not unless you tell me, I don't. But you don't have to."

He wants to. Really wants to. But the wounds—emotionally—are just barely healed and he doesn't know what will happen if he opens them all over again.

"Blaine?"

"My mom never really cared. It was…hard, I think, for her to stomach but she didn't think I was the devil or anything. My dad tried to beat it out of me." Kurt gasps softly, a quick inhale like he just can't help it. "And I just felt kind of, um"—he laughs weakly and looks down to the tabletop where he's playing with his hands—"kind of shitty."

"Blaine."

"He was sentenced to eight months in jail. My mom doesn't like to think about what he did so she tells herself that I made it up. She accused me of getting beat up by a secret lover and not wanting to give him up to the police. Her opinion of me isn't very high."

"I… Blaine…" There's another hand in his field of vision then and when he looks up, they're holding hands across the table. "I'm so sorry," Kurt whispers.

"It's not like it's your fault."

"Still."

He nods, smiles. "Thanks, Kurt."

It's a moment. A moment that makes Blaine's heart beat faster, makes him want to look away so that Kurt can't see how he's blushing but he also never wants to stop looking at Kurt. Kurt… Kurt is saving him, giving him something to live for, and it sounds stupid since it's been hardly more than a month but it's the truth. He wants to live so that he can spend as much time with Kurt as possible.

Then Puck knocks on the table and the moment is shattered, both of them pulling their hands back and looking over.

He's grinning. "Movie, boys?"

"Sure," Blaine says weakly. "We'll, uh, meet you there."

But Kurt stands up and says, "Let's go now," and Blaine's plans—which included a meaningful chat during which he would lean in and finally just give in to the urge to kiss Kurt so that everything would be perfect—are ruined.

They walk with Puck to the TV room and Kurt immediately goes to his knees to pick out a DVD with Sam and Mike while Blaine is led to the couch by Rory and Puck. The girls are there as well and once they're all seated with Iron Man playing, the only thing Blaine can really focus on is the fact that Kurt is all the way on the other side of the couch and they have Brittany and Santana in between them.

That isn't really how Blaine wants it.

So, yeah, he's kind of obsessing over the handholding but it was a moment. He felt something. And doesn't that mean that Kurt must have felt something too? Or was his hurry to join Puck and the others a thinly veiled escape because he really isn't into Blaine at all?

Probably the latter.

Through the whole film he can't stop thinking about Kurt. He's never, not really, been interested in a guy that has had the potential—meaning the sexual orientation—to like him back. He's liked straight guys and he's been friends with one gay guy, who he got his first kiss from, but he never liked him. The kiss felt obligatory but they agreed it didn't mean anything and then went on with their lives.

That's not what it is with Kurt. For one, they haven't even kissed. Which Blaine considers a tragedy of epic proportions. But honestly, he just wants all of the things he's always wanted. Someone to hold him and someone to hold, someone to tell him they love him, someone for him to love—it's all standard stuff, things that everyone should have. Blaine never thought he could have them. But now he does. He thinks about it—about Kurt and about their situation—and it's totally reasonable! They could totally fall in love with each other! Blaine's pretty sure he's on his way there already.

The problem, however, is that they're… They're at Dalton. They're in Westerville, Ohio, and they're in a mental hospital because, without beating around the bush, they don't want to be around for much longer. At least that had been true. Before Kurt.

He can't explain what changed, not really. But something about Kurt is magical. He's not always very nice, not even very polite most of the time, but he's honest and brave and just fucking stunning. When he's happy—like when he's been taking his meds or he and the girls have been up to something—he's ecstatic. But when he's sad, he's devastating. He's both of the extremes, the highest of the high and lowest of the low. He's communicative and clear and he's quickly become Blaine's best friend. Blaine doesn't want that to end.

He's getting better though. Every second he spends with Kurt helps him heal. He's happier, he's healthier, he experiences fewer bouts of sadness, fewer crying spells, and the only things that continue are the nightmares. The nightmares have never stopped, not in his four months there—not one night has he gone without awaking in a cold sweat, shaking, biting onto his pillow so that he doesn't scream for help.

He did scream the first few nights. He screamed and thrashed and actually hit a doctor that rushed in to help him. The nightmares were so…lifelike. Vivid, real, horrifying. They made it seem like it was happening all over again—his dad was there, looming over him, and—

Waking up was relief. An escape. He always thought was funny, calling reality an escape. Usually, with dreams, it's the other way around.

They're halfway through the movie when Puck and Mike decide they want snacks. They pause, jump up, and ask what Kurt, Blaine, and the girls want before bringing Rory and Sam along with them. Brittany and Santana decide they've had enough of the movie and want to go to bed, and Quinn excuses herself, claiming need of the bathroom.

And then they're alone.

The room is dark, the picture frozen on the screen is dim, barely illuminating anything. Kurt is curled up, knees up, feet tucked under himself, and is staring fixedly on the screen. Blaine muses that it would be the perfect time to kiss him. It's kind of cliché and pretty strange—they've known each other for seven weeks—but it's just…it's what he wants. And Blaine's not used to that sensation. He doesn't want things very often. He's a pretty quiet kid, pretty introverted at home and at school, so he doesn't get the opportunity to feel desire. But that's what it is.

He desires Kurt.

So he scoots closer.

"Which is hotter—Robert Downey Jr. as Sherlock Holmes, or as Iron Man?"

Kurt's response is a thoughtful "Hmm…"

Blaine is patient.

"Iron Man. Definitely. Better without the fake accent."

He nods his agreement even though Kurt isn't looking at him.

And then he scoots even closer.

"What do you think?" Kurt asks.

"Iron Man."

"Hm."

Another scoot. They're an inch away from being pressed thigh-to-thigh, Blaine's heart is racing, his palms are sweaty, and he suddenly has no idea why he decided this was a good idea.

But then Kurt looks at him with those eyes and his lips are right there and…it's the best idea Blaine's ever had in his life.

Kurt lets his feet hang off the couch and settle on the floor. His eyes, which are meeting Blaine's unwaveringly, suddenly drop for barely a second before flashing back up. Blaine's lips tingle. His tongue darts out to lick at his bottom lip nervously, and then, before he can stop himself, his own eyes are falling to Kurt's mouth. His lips. Pink and plush and Blaine wonders if they're as soft as they look, wonders how good they'd feel against his. He wonders what it would be like to have Kurt's tongue in his mouth, to have his own in Kurt's, what really making out is like. He wants to see how Kurt's eyes flutter closed right before impact, wants to hear a little breathy sigh escape him, wants to know what Kurt's hands in his hair or on his back or shoulders would feel like.

He wants.

It's kind of a physical stutter, the way he cranes his neck to lean in. He starts, looks down at Kurt's lips and stops. Starts, looks down, stops. Sucks in a deep breath and then leans in fully, and he's so close, right there, just about to really kiss Kurt—

When the other boy moves away.

"Were you going to kiss me?" he asks, stunned.

Blaine jerks away. "I—oh—well—not—not if you didn't want me to—"

"Did you ask them all to leave so you could try that?"

"No!" he almost shouts, his eyes wide and excited. "No—I—Kurt—"

"Do you make it a habit to kiss every gay boy you know or something?"

"What? Of course not—"

"Then why were you going to kiss me?"

The question stuns him momentarily. Kurt thinks he wants a kiss just because they're both gay? But he understands, knows where Kurt's coming from. He's insecure, nervous, feels worthless and empty almost all of the time, so it kind of makes sense that that's what he would assume but no. No, that's not the reason why at all.

"Because I like you."

"…you mean as a friend?"

Lord, it's like trying to explain something to a child.

Blaine shakes his head. "No. Well, yes, I like you as my friend; I love you actually as my friend but I… I like you, Kurt."

"For how long?"

"Since the first day I saw you." He slaps a hand over his mouth as his cheeks flush. "Fuck," he groans and thumps his fists into the cushion below him. "That wasn't supposed to come out."

"You…have a crush on me?"

With bright red cheeks and a nervous smile, Blaine nods. "Yes. I—I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable or something but I thought—I guess I just hoped that maybe… You'd like me back?"

Kurt's still confused and his face is an easy question. Why? it asks.

"I thought I told you," Blaine says softly. "You remember. You're…strong. And brave. And beautiful. But not only beautiful—handsome. Gorgeous. You're a fighter. You're funny and you don't take bullshit from any of us here. You're getting better, Kurt. You're learning how to live and be happy and it's taken you practically no time at all. All you needed was to see that not all people are horrible, that you can make it through this—that you can survive."

Kurt blinks.

"Do you… Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

Blaine swallows. "They won't stay away forever."

"They did this. On purpose, I think. I—I told Sam—last week, when you were singing that Katy Perry song in the rec room with Santana and we were all watching you—that's when I—when I…"

"Kurt?"

"Did you tell anyone that you were, um, interested? In me?"

"Puck figured it out."

With a smile, Kurt leans forward and drops his face into his hands. He starts to shake and Blaine thinks he's crying but—no. Laughing. He's laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"They set us up!" he says joyously as he sits up again. "I told Sam and you told Puck and so they set this all up so that we'd tell each other!"

"Tell each other?"

Kurt's right next to him then, a hand on his cheek, still taller than him even though they're seated so he has to tilt his head up to look him in the eye, and when Kurt says, "How we feel," it takes him a second to realize what it means.

Kurt's lips are even better than he'd imagined.

"I kissed Kurt yesterday," is the first thing out of his mouth when he sits down for his private session with Dr. Lavender. His eyes on are the coffee table between them, his head cocked, and he has a goofy grin on his face.

"Oh?"

Dr. Lavender is a man of 47 with graying brown hair. It's half past twelve in the afternoon and he has a bit of stubble on his jaw, chin, and cheeks. He's a bit round in the middle, has warm hazel eyes, and he's rather personable. His wife is a pediatrician, his daughter a lawyer, and he's one of the staff members at Dalton that Blaine feels is kind of his friend.

"And why'd you do that?"

He looks up immediately. "Because I wanted to. Well, actually, we kind of kissed each other. I don't really remember who moved first."

"Blaine."

"Hm?"

"I wanted to talk to you today about quitting your treatment."

Blaine frowns. "What, you mean stopping the therapy?"

"Well, no. You'd still have weekly private sessions here but you wouldn't live here anymore. Dr. Green, Dr. Rochester, and I—we all agree. You've shown vast improvement. Shall we go over the checklist?"

He's numb. Stunned, shocked, completely and utterly mind-blown.

"Blaine?"

The checklist—the depression checklist. The twenty-five things that he's gotten asked dozens of times. It always begins the same way.

Over the past week.

Over the past week, how often have you felt sad? Felt unhappy? Had a crying spell? Felt discouraged? Hopeless? Experienced low self-esteem? Felt worthless? Guilty? Criticized yourself? Had difficulty making decisions?

Over the past week, have you felt a loss of interest in family or friends? Have you experienced loneliness? Do you find yourself spending less time with family and friends? Do you feel a loss of motivation or interest in certain activities? Do you avoid activities? Have you lost pleasure in life?

Over the past week, how often have you felt tired during the day? Do you have trouble sleeping or do you sleep too much? Do you have a decreased or increased appetite? Is there a loss of interest in sex or sexual activities—not that that matters so much to you, Blaine, of course. Have you been worrying about your health?

Over the past week, have you had any suicidal thoughts? Would you like to end your life? Do you have a plan for harming yourself?

"Blaine?"

"No," he says softly. "I… I still feel…bad. I still…"

"Hey, it's okay." Dr. Lavender writes something down and the scratch of the pen against the pad of paper hits Blaine like a freight train.

If he leaves, if they decide he's okay, he'll go back to school. His mom won't have him homeschooled, won't spend money to have him sent away to a private school. But even worse, he'll leave Dalton. He'll leave his friends, the people who have become his family. Dr. Rochester, Dr. Green—that nurse, Sandy, with the pretty blue eyes who brings him chocolate. He'll never see them again.

Kurt. He'll leave Kurt.

He can't leave Kurt.

"Blaine, let's go through the list."

"When my dad gets out of jail, he won't stop hitting me."

Dr. Lavender is silent.

"Eight months is all he got. When he's out, when he's back home, he'll take out the pent up anger from the months of his incarceration on me."

"We aren't going to let that happen to you, Blaine."

"Eight months. For a man who put his son in the hospital. For a man strong enough to kill his son and angry enough to do it."

He writes something else. "Okay. Let's not go through the list today. Why don't we talk about Kurt?"

"You can't send me home. Not yet."

"It's okay, Blaine. We won't. Not yet. We're gonna talk about Kurt now, okay?"

Blaine wakes up screaming that night.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Blaine looks up from his notebook. Standing in the doorway of his bedroom is Kurt, hands clasped behind his back, lips parted and eyes searching. He looks nervous.

"What?" Blaine asks.

"You've barely said a word to me for two days. Well, you've barely said a word to anyone for two days but we… We kissed, Blaine." He looks pensive. "And we've been friends. I don't want to stop being your friend just because of a kiss."

"We're still friends. Promise. And the kiss—the kiss was awesome. I'm not ignoring you. I—I've been distant though. Sorry."

Kurt nods. "It's okay. Do you wanna talk?"

If Blaine can't tell him, who can he tell?

"C'mon in." He stands off his bed, shoves his notebook and pen into the drawer of his bedside table and then crosses to the door as soon as Kurt steps inside. "We're not really supposed to be alone in rooms with the door closed but…"

Kurt grabs his hand and ducks to kiss him softly. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you more."

The door slides closed.

And then Blaine tells him everything. By the end of it, they're lying on Blaine's bed together, curled as close as they can get, and they've both been crying. Kurt kisses him again and again, all over his face and then on his lips. They kiss for what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes and it's not enough. Kurt's there, holding him, finally, whispering things—you're beautiful, so brave, so strong, I'm so proud, I'm so glad you're here, I'm so glad I have you, so strong, so brave, so beautiful—into his skin, and he has all he's ever wanted except he doesn't get to keep it.

They fall asleep eventually. And when Blaine wakes up because the nurse doing bed checks has finally stopped by to make sure they're properly sleeping, at one in the morning he might add, he hasn't had a nightmare. In fact, it's the most peaceful few hours of sleep he's ever gotten.

He sleeps dreamlessly for the rest of the night, Kurt's scent still on his pillows and his heat still a phantom presence under the blankets.

In the morning, at breakfast, Brittany isn't there. Santana's gloomy and upset and when she finally speaks, the only thing she has to say is that the blonde got signed out by her mother the night before and wouldn't let her say goodbye.

They all mourn the loss of a friend.

Sam leaves the next week, Rory the one after that, and then Quinn—who's suddenly all smiles and health and recovery—is gone too.

"We're dropping like flies," Puck comments.

Mike shrugs. "Maybe it's a good thing. We're getting better."

There are new people. New faces. A girl named Lauren with anger issues, a boy called Joe who, as far as anyone can tell, is just extremely mentally unstable. A nice boy called Wade—or, the other way you look at it, a girl called Unique—who was checked in by his mother. She claims he has multiple personality disorder.

There's another boy—Sebastian. He's angry and hateful and constantly rude. Even Puck hates him.

But then Puck's gone too so it doesn't matter anymore.

It's been six months since he arrived at Dalton. A little over two months since he and Kurt became more. But it feels like a lifetime. It feels like it was years ago that he was checked in. It feels like years since he's seen his parents, years since his life was all rearranged. He has a new life. And he wouldn't trade it for the world.

He plops down next to Kurt on the couch in the rec room one afternoon and leans his head on the older boy's shoulder. "What did that say?" he asks, pointing to one of the blackened goals on the list Kurt is reading.

Kurt sighs. "Well."

"C'mon." He kisses Kurt's collarbone. "I wanna know."

"It said… Fall in love."

"Hm."

"Yeah."

"Why'd you cross it out?"

"Because I didn't think it was ever gonna happen. Not in the time I allotted for myself."

"And now?"

Kurt's response is to write it again at the bottom—number 139—and then, with a steady hand, draw a thin line through it. "Now," is his response. Blaine hears the smile in his voice.

"And what about that one?" He points to the other illegible point on the paper. "Is that something else I can help you with?"

Kurt chuckles and turns his head to kiss the top of Blaine's curls. Blaine laughs.

"Well," Kurt says, "maybe one day."

"There are a lot of these now. Live in New York, go to Paris, graduate from college… I guess that means you're planning on sticking around, huh?"

"Damn straight."

"Good." He wraps his arms around Kurt's middle and presses his face into the clean skin of his neck before inhaling deeply. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Blaine gets out before Kurt. It's a difference of a week but what a difference it is. Kurt, as he learns, lives in Lima, two hours away from Blaine's place in Westerville. At least, that had been the case when Blaine was planning on going back to his mom.

His foster parents are great. They're already the parents of three others, two of them younger and one of them his age, and Blaine is stunned to learn that he belongs to them. He's sixteen—hardly prime choice on the market for adoptive parents—but they don't seem to care. They take care of him and love him and he has little foster siblings that he gets to take care of and love and really, all in all, he has no complaints.

After all, he's in Lima.

They've been dating for 8 months, two weeks, and four days when Blaine walks into his boyfriend's bedroom after school to find him sitting at the end of his bed, staring at a familiar, old, wrinkled piece of paper.

"Why are you looking at that thing again? Adding something new?"

Kurt shakes his head. "Not exactly."

Blaine sits down next to him and points. "Okay, time to fess up. What's the big secret goal?"

"You're kidding. You've waited until now to ask me that?"

"How was I supposed to ask? 'Hey, babe, remember that old bucket list—what was that one you crossed off before you could complete it? Let's have a deep, meaningful discussion about it and then make out before we have to do our homework.'"

Kurt rolls his eyes but smiles, leaning in to reward Blaine with a kiss. "I said that maybe one day you could help me cross it off."

"That you did." He brushes their noses together. Kurt's eyes cross. It's kind of the most adorable thing he's ever seen. "Is that day today?"

"It could be."

"You'd have to tell me what it says first."

"I guess I would."

They kiss for a moment longer and then Kurt laughs and pulls away. "Wait," Blaine whines. "Not done kissing."

"Relax, we have time. My dad's in DC with Carole and Finn's going camping with some of the football guys."

Blaine's eyes practically pop out of their sockets. "Oh?"

"Yeah. We have all weekend."

Mouth dry, fingers twitchy and nervous, body suddenly too high strung on excitement and nervousness, he croaks, "Kurt. Is it… Is the goal…?" He takes a deep breath. Kurt's staring back at him encouragingly. "Is it to lose your virginity?

Kurt taps his pointer finger against his nose. "Ding, ding, ding."

"…so we're going to have sex."

"Only if you want to," Kurt rushes to say, cheeks coloring. "I don't—I mean, if you'd rather just make out or go watch a movie or something, that's fine. You don't even have to stay all weekend! I just thought maybe—"

Blaine kisses him to shut him up. "I love you, Kurt."

"I love you too, Blaine."

Kurt gets held back because of the school he missed while at Dalton. But he doesn't seem to mind. It just means he gets to spend another year with Blaine.

There are more years after that too. There are the years of college, the years of internships and shitty jobs and then the years of good jobs and brand new apartments. Blaine's a teacher, Kurt's a designer, they live on the 31st floor of an apartment building in New York, and they have their honeymoon in Paris.

Kurt's bucket list hangs in their bedroom, framed, and the very last thing on it—added when he was barely 18—is probably his favorite one.

Grow old with Blaine.

He does exactly that.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

Love,

E. M. Zeray

wishingonalightningbolt DOT tumblr DOT com