Into His Arms

Will Schuester has no idea what time it is when he’s woken by the doorbell being rung repetitively. It’s still dark, he knows that, but there’s no point looking at the broken alarm clock, stuck forever on 19.54. But whatever it is at this time must be urgent, so he runs downstairs, stumbling slightly as he goes, and opens the door.

The first thought that comes into his mind is what on Earth…?

Blaine Anderson is standing in the doorway, framed against a background of heavy rain and an unforgiving, starless backdrop. Even the moon seems to be hiding from them right now.

Then, Will takes a closer look at his student, the newest boy entrusted to his Glee club, and gasps.

He’s dressed in a red jumper, placed on back-to-front, with nothing underneath – his shirt is clutched in a tangled, torn ball in his hands. There’s a rip in his jeans, and he’s not wearing any shoes. He’s trying to speak to Will too, but something keeps blocking his words; tears and chokes and strangled sobs that take all the effort in the world to force out of his throat.

Will stands there, shocked for a moment, then simply says, “Come inside, Blaine,” without the faintest trace of emotion in his voice.

But Blaine does so willingly, gladly, and follows his Mr Schue into the inviting warmth of his house and into the living room as the lights flicker and burst into glow. They both take a seat on the largest sofa, and it’s here where Blaine breaks, collapsing into his teacher’s lap and crying, every sob racking his body as if it will fall apart at any moment. Will places one hand reassuringly on Blaine’s back, and when this seems to help slightly, he takes Blaine fully in his arms, ignoring the little moans of pain, and cradles him to his chest.

“Shh, shh, Blaine, it’s okay. You’re here now. Shh.”

They sit there together, just the two of them, together in the solace of the house, Blaine calming down as a result of Will’s gentle comforting.

“Now, Blaine, I want you to tell me what happened. Was it your parents? Your dad?” Will asks once he’s satisfied that Blaine might be able to answer him fully, but Blaine shakes his head. “Who was it then?” he persists.

“I – I don’t know their names.” Even Blaine’s voice cracks. “Football g-guys, McKinley ones, but I don’t know w-who…”

Karofsky is the first thought that comes into Will’s mind, and he can’t help but voice his suspicions.

“No, no, not h-him. The others – I c-could hear their v-voices – but n-not him.”

“And what did they do to you, Blaine?” Will asks, a hand gripping firmly onto Blaine’s shoulder, the picture of concern.

Blaine doesn’t reply. Blaine can’t reply.

“Blaine, I need to know exactly what happened or I can’t help you.”

And the weight of the night’s events falls fully upon Blaine. He collapses into Mr Schue’s lap again under the sheer fact of everything and he shatters. His hands search helplessly for something to hold onto, to keep him from drowning and subconsciously, they find the crook of Will’s hip and cling there. Will’s mouth falls open slightly.

“Okay, Blaine, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to get you a blanket, and you’re going to go to sleep, and in the morning you tell me everything you can. Okay?”

Blaine gulps, then nods slightly.

“Good.”

Slowly, Mr Schue slides a free hand underneath Blaine’s knees and moves his arm slightly so it falls around his neck, over his shoulders. With ease, he lifts the boy up, turns him around and ever-so-gently places him back down onto the sofa, where he continues to cry silently.

A few minutes later, Will returns with a blanket from the airing cupboard, still slightly warm from the dry air. He wraps it around Blaine’s shoulders, providing him with much-needed protecting from the night.

“If you need anything, Blaine, anything at all, just call me.” Blaine nods again to show that he’s understood, despite the fact that he has now buried his head underneath the blanket. “You sleep now.”

Blaine closes his eyes, but he cannot sleep.

He withdraws into a ball, shielding himself from himself, and keeps still and quiet.

His mind is past the point of madness –the overdrive has finished and left only the faint flickers of thoughts, whispers that he cannot comprehend.

He rolls over onto his side before realising his shoulder and side are still tender and bruised, and lets out a whimper of pain.

“Blaine?”

Will hasn’t left the room, hasn’t stopped staring at the broken boy, lying on his sofa, a picture of beauty. Living, breathing beauty that has walked right into his arms.

“Blaine, are you okay? Are you hurt?” The answer is so obvious that there was really no point in asking it at all. He stands up and turns on the light in the hallway, allowing light to flood the house and give him a better view of the boy.

“Here.” Will offers his hand to Blaine, who takes it. “Stand up and come upstairs with me.”

Blaine obliges, trusting blindly.

Mr Schue’s bedroom is very white is the first coherent thought that forms in his head, a head that can only form simple statements at this moment.

He’s not really thinking properly right now. He feels drained and emotionless and empty.

“Sit down, here.” Mr Schue pats the side of the bed next to him and Blaine does so, wincing slightly. “Now, I know this might be hard, but I need to know everything. Why are you here? How did you –,” he traces Blaine’s exposed clavicle lightly with one fingertip, “- get these bruises? I can’t help you unless you tell me everything.”



Well, here, here is Mr Schuester’s house. Mr Schuester runs Glee club that he goes to. He sings in Glee club. He’s good at singing. No one likes him because he sings in Glee club. The football team don’t like him. The people in the football team bully them all. Sometimes it hurts. He doesn’t like it.

“Blaine, Blaine, what happened tonight?” Mr Schue interrupts his train of thought.

“What, sorry?”

“Tonight, Blaine.”

Right.

Bruises. Bruises hurt. They hurt him earlier. They punched him. They kicked. They shouted. What? No idea. They pushed him. Against a wall. Then it was cold. They laughed. He cried. He felt bad. He didn’t know what they were doing until…

“Until what, Blaine?”

Blaine’s throat is suddenly blocked. Mr Schue puts a hand on his shoulder and their eyes meet; Will notices that Blaine’s are blank. He’s not all there. He’s definitely not all there.

“Blaine, did they rape you?”

“Yes,” Blaine answers simply. “Yes, they did.”

Will is taken aback by how casually he seems to say these words. Denial? Most probably.

“Okay, Blaine, how badly are you hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine replies, still staring at the wall without really seeing it.

“Can I see? Let me see what I can do for you now. Then we’ll go to the hospital tomorrow and get you sorted, okay? But show me.”

Blaine’s head snaps round to face Will, whose hands are just edging on the hem of his jumper. “May I see, Blaine?”

“O-okay.”

Slowly, Mr Schue lifts up Blaine’s jumper, exposing the battered flesh beneath. Blaine’s pale skin is covered in cuts and his skin is bursting into blooms of red and purple and blue and there’s a bit of yellow in there as well. There’s something haunting about it, something maddeningly beautiful.

“Now, Blaine, I’m going to go and get some things that I’ll need. What I want you to do is to take everything else off, and get yourself underneath the duvet, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

Mr Schue leaves the room. Blaine’s by himself.

His clothes crumple in a heap on the floor by his feet, and he stands, exposed for a moment, before remembering his teacher’s instructions because Mr Schue knows what he’s doing and will be back in a minute.

He’s not really thinking right now.

He lies down, rolls the duvet over his body and lies in the silence and the emptiness.

When Mr Schue comes back in, he’s carrying a bowl of water and a towel with things wrapped up inside, which he lays down on the floor and unwraps. Blaine doesn’t dare move to see what’s there, not wanting to fall into pain again.

There’s a rustling sound, then the fluid drip of water. Blaine feels the top of the cover being rolled off him, until he’s exposed to his hips.

“I’m going to clean you up - just water and some cotton pads. You tell me if I hurt you.”

“Mhmm,” Blaine mumbles lazily, fluttering his eyes once before closing them.

Mr Schue stands there for a moment, watching as the boy inhales and exhales, seeing the slight jar in the movement, how it obviously causes him pain even if he doesn’t know it – or maybe he’s past the point of feeling anything right now. Then he takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, lift’s Blaine’s arm and begins to wipe away the blood that has dried there, uncovering the cuts, the hidden blemishes, the full extent of how damaged this boy is and just how perfectly, perfectly broken he’s become.

He moves further across, soft strokes along Blaine’s collarbone and then down the other arm. His skin is covered in the flowers of blooming bruises, marked by the stems of cuts and scrapes and grazes. Blaine moans slightly every time he brushes a particularly tender area, and Mr Schue mutters soft apologies and reassurance to him.

Will shuffles further up the bed, towards Blaine’s head, and replaces the pad again, soaking it in water, wringing it and unfolding it. He places one hand on Blaine’s forehead, toying a little with the curls, before pushing them back and cleaning away the last, iridescent traces of tears and rain and whatever else there is. He finishes, but his hand remains in Blaine’s hair just a little too long.

“Now, Blaine, what I’m going to do is put just a little antiseptic on these cuts. You tell me if it hurts at all. You okay?”

“Sure.” Will can tell that Blaine isn’t really paying attention to what he’s saying, but pushes on regardless, unscrewing the cap of the tube and running a line across his fingertips before beginning to apply it to each mark with light slicks of his fingers. He works up Blaine’s arms, across his face and shoulders and chest where he’s sure a rib or two is broken, then along the faint indentations of his abdomen, feeling the stretch and taut and tight and tear of the muscle underneath.

He could have lingered there longer, but didn’t want to lose all this trust Blaine had put in him for this moment.

So close now. He's fallen.

“Blaine, what I need you to do now is to turn over onto your back. Take your time – we’re not in a rush here. Just turn around.”

Tentatively, desperately trying not to cause himself any more pain, Blaine does so, despite the fact that he can barely support his own weight and hold himself up. But he manages to, and lies face down, exposed to his hips. He shuts his eyes, but that doesn’t stop him from hearing Will gasp as he sets eyes on his back.

“Blaine - Oh God, Blaine…”

“What? What’s wrong?” Blaine sounds slightly more alert, but still distant, still quiet.

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Blaine…” Mr Schue’s voice seems to have forgotten how to work. “You have no idea?”

Blaine shakes his head a little.

Will decides to distract himself by cleaning away everything else on Blaine’s back, just as badly blackened as his front, and one particularly large lesion across his shoulder blade has risen, standing out against the rest, raw and open and weeping like Blaine himself had been earlier. Blaine winces when he touches it, gasping slightly.

“I think you might need some stitches there, but first…”

Will hasn’t stopped staring at what has been scrawled on Blaine’s back, large letters in black permanent marker which has leaked slightly, staining the threads of his skin.

His fingers lightly trace each letter in disbelief.

F

A

G

“No, you’re not.”

“What?”

Will hadn’t intended for his thoughts to come out verbally, however quiet.

“Nothing, Blaine. Don’t worry. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Dunno.”

“Can I check? Blaine? Is it okay if I take this cover off?”

“Mhmm.” Sure, it’ll be weird, but Blaine trusts Mr Schue, right? That’s why he came here in the first place.

“Are you sure, Blaine?”

“Yeah.”

It’s not like he wants to check for himself.

And Mr Schue lifts the covers, exposing Blaine’s bare legs and ass, which are just as battered as the rest of him, covered in red and white and fingernail marks.

On second glance, actually, it’s not as bad – mainly bruising, less open skin. But he still looks a mess.

So Will begins to wipe along Blaine’s calves, around the thin bones of his ankles and then further up, over his knees and across his thighs. He notes how Blaine trembles slightly with his touches and smiles a little before he realises that he shouldn’t.

But Blaine’s so small, so imperfect, so vulnerable, broken, beautiful…

“Blaine, may I?” he asks, his fingers softly resting on the curve of Blaine’s ass. “I just want to check.”

Blaine doesn’t reply, for whatever reason, so Will continues regardless, pushing Blaine apart and dragging one fingertip along.

“You’ve torn a little, Blaine. Here - I’ve got something that’ll help.”

Will gets up from the bed and goes to his collection of items, grabbing something which Blaine doesn’t have time to see before he settles back onto the bed and pushing Blaine’s thighs apart “to make it easier”.

There is the sound of a cap popping.

“Okay, this will feel a little cold at first, Blaine, but it’ll numb you a bit and it won’t hurt as much, okay?”

Blaine murmurs his assent.

A sound resembling a gasp and a moan catches in his throat as he feels Mr Schue’s finger slick across him because oh! that is cold and wait a minute –

“Mr Schue, what - ?”

Because now Mr Schue is kneeling over him and one hand is on his shoulder and he’s leaning down to his neck and his other hand is teasing and prodding and –

“You see, Blaine –,” Will places a kiss on Blaine’s neck, “– you look so pretty when you’re broken, and I couldn’t not try to help you.”

Blaine’s words are on the tip of his tongue, but are then silence by a low moan that escapes him when Mr Schue licks a clean line from his collarbone to just behind his ear, followed by a cry when he bites down onto it, leaving a further bruise.

Mr Schue laughs slightly, the kindness of the sound horribly contrapuntal to the situation. His fingers start to rotate in light circles around Blaine’s ass, the muscles relaxing and contracting in time with Blaine’s rapid exhales.

“What - ?”

“Blaine, you trust me, don’t you?”

Mr Schue’s free hand dances along Blaine’s blackened spine, across the insult branded on his body…

“But –"

“But what, Blaine? Do you trust me or don’t you?”

Now his hand creeps further downwards to join his other which continues to circle, tickling him just a little.

But then he stops, and Blaine breathes a sigh of relief in what is inevitably just a brief period of respite for him.

Because now Mr Schue’s hand are edging up and down his inner thighs, sending unwelcomely pleasant shivers through his body.

And Will is bending over, leaning down towards Blaine and Blaine just cannot move away.

No, that can’t be -

Mr Schue’s tongue is oh-so-slowly sliding up Blaine’s crack and further, further up to his entrance and teasing it ever-so-gently and this should not feel good but it does and Blaine hates himself for it but somehow he just cannot find the words to tell him to stop and at least Mr Schue’s taking care of him, right?

He can feel himself hardening against the bed and whimpers.

“You see Blaine? I’m taking good care of you.” Mr Schue punctuates each word with a fresh swipe of his tongue.

Blaine doesn’t know how to reply.

He can’t see it, but Mr Schue is deftly undoing the zip of the jeans he had intended to sleep in, pulling them down, kicking them off…

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of cap being popped again, something being squeezed out and worked and then nothing but breathing until something blunt is being pressed against Blaine and he knows exactly what is going to happen and part of him wants to stop and another part wants to do nothing and let it happen but he can’t can’t stop it, can’t form the words and so he’s left open and vulnerable and just there for Mr Schue to take.

“Ready, Blaine?”

But he doesn’t allow for an answer before pushing in, feeling the stretch and burn around his cock and ignoring Blaine’s yells and shouts and cries and moans and whimpers and whispers as his cuts come open again and blood wells to the surface.

“Shh, shh, shh, Blaine,” Mr Schue murmurs in his ear, much like he had done earlier that night. How long ago had it been? Hours? Still no sign of the morning through the window but that didn’t matter when –

Blaine lets out a desperate wail as Mr Schue strikes against his prostate, sending the confusing signals of both pain and unadulterated pleasure rippling through his body which he loves and loathes.

“Do you like that, Blaine? Eh? I told you I’d help you, see?”

His fingers reach towards Blaine’s hair again and nestle themselves amongst the wild tangle of curls before manoeuvring carefully and hitting Blaine again, who yells out once more. A small drop of blood spills over the surface of his skin and begins to fall teasingly downwards but not fast enough. Mr Schue doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care, because he continues to rock his hips backward and forwards, pushing in and out and in and out again in a slow rhythm before another hard thrust and Blaine swears violently in response, completely forgetting who he’s with and not to curse in front of people with more authority than you.

Mr Schue untangles his hands from Blaine’s hair before pulling out, leaving Blaine breathing erratically on the bed. He bends down once more, and trails his tongue over the path of the blood, tentatively about to drip onto the bed. Blaine gasps, hips arching downwards into the bed, then relaxes again, willing the arousal flooding through his veins like quicksilver to fade and dissolve as Mr Schue’s sickeningly gentle laughter echoes around the room.

“Oh, Blaine,” he grins, before his face falls again. “Tomorrow, we’re going to go to hospital and sort you out. You are going to tell the people what those football guys did to you and you are not going to breathe one word of this to anyone. Not your parents, not to the doctors, not to Kurt, no one. Do you understand? Because if you don’t, next time your little boyfriend needs help, he might just -”

“Yes.”

Blaine understands, if only for Kurt, even if the impact hasn’t fully hit him just yet.