Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing about Lima, Ohio, is that it's small enough that unless someone moves in, everyone pretty much grows up together - for better or for worse. A lot of people have the same friends in high school that they had in kindergarten. That's just how it goes in small towns where elementary social groups become middle school social hierarchies become bitter high school rivalries.

The thing about Brittany S. Pierce is that she was born and raised in Lima. It's all she knows, aside from her encyclopedic knowledge of cat diseases. And yet she hasn't let any one circle swallow her up. When she was six, her parents bought her her first camcorder for her birthday - a Sony DCR VX-2000. She has hundreds of hours of footage all organized by her grade in cat years on tiny tapes in shoeboxes. A lot of it is her video diaries, but there's tons of footage of short movies she filmed at school. She's probably gotten some kind of material with every clique at least once. Everyone loved her and wanted to help.

And her favorite material? Scary stories. Nothing made pre-stoner Brett pee his shorts faster than one of Brittany's scary stories. She has, dare she say it, a gift - well, another gift. Her first gift is being hot. Well, her first gift is being a trendsetter, but she has to be hot for that, so...

"So, it's kind of like a tie," she tells her webcam, tossing long blonde hair over her shoulder. "Glad you could join me as I interview the best and first super senior at McKinley High, yours truly, Brittany S. Pierce. I hope you'll join us again next week on Fondue for Two. Thank you for stopping by, Brittany. You're welcome, Brittany. Goodnight."

She clicks to stop recording. Reminiscing about growing up in Lima for her first big interview break has her curious to pull out some of those old tapes. Her last actual camcorder that she retired a few years ago before getting a flip cam with a USB connection is in the final shoebox on top of all her other shoeboxes full of tapes stacked neatly in her closet.

Once she has the camcorder out, fresh batteries shoved into it, and the little connector cable plugged in to her computer, she fishes out year seventeen - sixth grade.

"This is a good one, Lord Tubbington," she says, looking over her shoulder where Lord Tubbington is rolling around perilously close to the corner of the bed as he meows with catnip satisfaction. "That was the year Dr. Sweetnuts put you in Feline Diabetes Remission." She touches a small picture of Dr. Sweetnuts taped up on the inside of her closet door reverently. "Thank you, Sweetnuts, and thank you FDR," she says, going back to her task and wiggling until sixth grade eases out from the Jenga pile of shoeboxes.

With box in hand, she sits back in her chair, crossing her legs and balancing the box in her lap. She swivels around to face her computer and tugs off the lid to the box, running her fingers over all the little plastic cases holding each tape. There's at least forty seven-hour tapes in here, and each box is similar. She picks one at random labeled "orange" and places it in the camcorder, closing the flap and opening the program on her laptop.

She listens to the tape whir as her laptop processes the conversion, the green loading bar slowly moving forward. She swivels back and forth in her chair, tipping her head back and balancing her jounalistic gel pen on her nose perfectly. Finally, the folder pulls up with all the video files inside it. She clicks on the first one.

"Orange!"

"Orange who?"

"Orange you glad I didn't say banana?" Sixth grade Brittany asks, falling back on her bed - in the same room she's in now but a smaller bed with a tie-dye comforter - with her best friend Santana propped up on her elbows and laughing. It's the big, embarrassing laugh that she reserves for when she's alone with Brittany, when she can throw her head back and just let go. It's in Brittany's top five favorite sounds. Wow she misses Santana.

They're in their first Cheerios uniforms, laying side-by-side on younger Brittany's bed. Present day Brittany can feel all over again how her brand new high pony dug into the back of her head when she laid down like that. But she and Santana were so proud of those uniforms and those high ponies that they never wanted to take them off. They were Junior Varsity Cheerios.

"Tell me a story, Britt-Britt," Santana says, looking over at Brittany with this sweet, metallic smile. She hated those braces so much, but Brittany thought - and still thinks - that they were super cute.

"Hmmmmm... okay, but you asked for it." There's blurry movement for a moment where Brittany gets up, momentarily blocking the camera as she shifts it a bit to fix the angle. It's on her dresser pointed at the bed, the little red recording light blinking. The start of sixth grade was right after she got her last camcorder, and she was so excited about the upgrade that she recorded everything for the first two weeks.

Sixth grade Brittany turns the lights off. There's a creak as the closet door opens and the shuffles of boxes being pushed around as she fishes around on the top shelf for her - "Found it!" Yellow light appears with a click and Brittany holds her flashlight under her face, turning to look the camera dead-on and holding her free hand up with curved, claw-like fingers.

"Santaaaaanaaaa," she drags out, lowering her voice so it sounds even spookier.

"Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitt..." Santana says from the bed, mocking Brittany's attempts at spookiness. "Come on. Give me your worst, scary girl."

A challenge then. Brittany smirks at the camera, shadows playing off her face as she wiggles the dim beam of light a bit for maximum effect. She turns to the bed. "Have I ever told you the story of... The Cat Who Cried Wolf?"

"Not another cat story..." Santana says, shaking her head as she's caught in the beam of the flashlight. Her eyes sparkle, though, and her lips turn up into a fond smile. To Brittany's knowledge, there's never been a story of Brittany's that Santana hasn't liked.

"Yes another cat story," Brittany says. "In loving memory of Lord Tubbington, rest in peace."

"But he's not dead," Santana says. "He's in your basement chilling out."

"Living cats should rest in peace too. They need sixteen hours of peace and relaxation to function properly with the demands of today's society," Brittany says, taking a breath once she's done.

Present day Brittany skips forward some on the file. Seeing too much of Santana - even like this, twelve-years-old with a mouthful of braces - hurts in a weird way. They're doing wonderfully. In fact, Santana is supposed to come over tonight once she makes it back to Lima for her weekly laundry trip. But Brittany misses her, viciously. She wants to brush Santana's glossy black hair, kiss her armpits, and wrap herself around Santana and never let her go. She just wants to melt into her a little bit so that Santana can sneak some of Brittany back up to the University of Kentucky with her. So they won't have to be apart so much again.

The next scene she's paused on is outside at recess. There's the brick exterior of their generic-looking William McKinley middle school. The bust of ol' William McKinley out front is wearing a red lacy bra and a Halloween monster mask. It's cold. All the leaves are missing from the trees. Brittany pushes play.

"St. Hendrick von Snuffles screeches into the night. His fur twists and knots, his skin overlaps in this nasty way, making way for his bones to grow. His little kitten body turns and twitches, crick, crick...... crick as his bones break and fuse together again. He cries and cries but no one will help him. No one believes he saw the wolfman. None of his cat neighbors would dare look out their little cat flaps because there's no way a werewolfcat can exist.

"With one final yowl, Henrick stretches out his new wolf legs, his yellowed teeth dripping sticky, slimy, poisoned drool. He takes one step forward, then another -"

Sixth grade Brittany is slowly inching forward. The view shakes as Santana, Brittany's favorite camerawoman, tries to hold in her laughter. Pre-Stoner Brett is staring at Brittany in horror, his red hair spiked up with gel, and that paired with his wide eyes makes him look extra terrified. He clutches his skateboard in his hands, his front teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"Do you wanna know who his first victim was?"

"N-no..." Brett says, swallowing.

"Oh, but you do. You have to know, because you're in danger, Brett."

"I-I am....?"

"You're not," Kurt mutters from where he's standing against the brick wall, his legs trembling from the cold under his fashionable all-black kilt. His wet hair is plastered down to his head, and his look of disdain at all of them is rounded out by baby fat. "Why do you let her scare you every time?"

Brett completely ignores Kurt. Most kids did back then, except for the JV football team. Brittany ignores him too because she's super close to making Brett scream with the power of her imagination.

"Yes because Hendrick saw the wolfman once he transformed. Cats are not colorblind - which is why they're so superior - and what he remembers more than anything is that once the wolfman was human again, he looked like a little boy... in sixth grade............."

She pauses for dramatic effect.

"With red hair.

"And Hendrick promised himself as a newly born werewolfcat that he would chase down the wolfman who bit him and ruined his life, and... he... would..."

Brett whimpers. He's backed up so much that his back is to the same wall Kurt was leaning on, just a few yards further down. Brittany motions for Santana to zoom in on his look of terror.

She leans in, her high pony bouncing excitedly, and she whispers, "He... would... KILL HIM!"

Brett gasps before screwing his face up and letting out a loud scream, quickly running away at breakneck speeds as Santana pans over to follow him until he's all the way across the playground.

"That's what I'm talking about," Santana says, crowing behind the camera. "I told you he'd freak over that story."

"Well, what can I say, I have a gift," Brittany says, grinning into the camera and waving, just as, a few yards behind her, a gaggle of jocks strolls in frame towards Kurt right before the camera clicks off.

Brittany settles more comfortably in her computer chair. It's covered in soft pink fuzz that's so pale it's almost white, and it has a wide, tall back. She rests her head back against it, dropping the box of the the tapes to the floor after selecting the next one. Once she pops it in, something closer to the last of the tapes, she draws her legs up to her chest and hits play.

The Brittany staring back at her is not wearing her high pony. She is not decked out in the red and white Cheerios finest. She's sitting in a different desk chair - just desk, no personal computer yet. She's slid the chair so far back that she has to stretch and lean forward to hold onto the camera, perched on the desk. Her blue eyes are wide and scared.

Brittany is tempted to skip past this. She doesn't like remembering this. It's too... bizarre, no matter how it ended. It still scared the socks off of her, and she and Lord Tubbington both had nightmares about it for weeks after cheer camp ended that summer.

The younger Brittany in front of the camera is wearing cut-off white denim shorts over her rainbow gradient swimsuit. Her hair falls down around her shoulders.

"Today is June 18th, Y2K-plus-6, and I am..." She swallows, looking away from the camera. Brittany's room layout has largely remained unchanged, so she knows her younger self is looking at the door, making sure it's closed. Normally she didn't mind if her parents came and watched her video diary. There wasn't anything she kept from them except for Lord Tubbington's gang affiliations, which she never diaried to her camera about anyway. But this time... this time she had to be alone.

The younger Brittany takes a deep breath and clears her throat. "I am your official journalist for the S. Pierce Times, Brittany S. Pierce, and I... have seen a monster."

Brittany pauses the camera on her face, younger, a little rounder, but overall the same - except for the truly terrified expression. She hasn't been that scared since. Maybe she should pick another tape. But... no. If there's one thing she learned from all those algebra classes Mr. Schue personally escorted her to was that history repeats itself if you don't pay attention to it. She'll push on, and this will make the time pass by faster until Santana arrives, and then Santana can use her fierceness to untwist the knots growing in Brittany's stomach.

"No one believes me," sixth grade Brittany says. "Not even Santana. I... I thought she'd believe me. This new girl at camp, Quinn, told me I needed to pray about it, but I saw this picture of Jesus in my soup made out of the little green bean bits, and I tried praying to Him, but I still saw... it or him? I don't know. I saw the monster again. I'll have to bring Quinn in for an interview to discuss her methods.

"At least cheer camp is over in a week." Brittany leans forward, cutting the camera off. The file is black for a moment before it starts up again.

"Today is June 22nd, the year of our Lord Tubbington 2006, and I am Brittany S. Pierce, the official journalist of S. Pierce Times. And today... I have proof that there's a monster."

In the video, Brittany's hands are shaking as she holds up a photograph, the white back of it to the camera. She waves it a bit before setting it back in her lap. "My mom says I need to stop talking about monsters. She says I'm going to be a young woman soon and I need to save my stories for story time at least. I'm not supposed to talk about monsters whenever I want, and I need to stop making up stories." Brittany looks right into the camera. "But I'm not."

She holds up the picture, slowly bringing it in closer to the camera's lens. "I know it's kind of dark, but this is mine and Santana's tent at cheer camp. You can see her toes in her sleeping bag over here." She points to the corner of the picture. "She was asleep, but I stayed awake, and I had my camera, and now I have proof."

Brittany looks down at the picture. In it, there's a sliver of moonlight exposed where the tent is partially unzipped, a telling wrinkle that looks like the flap is being pulled open. Brittany clears her throat. "I know what you're thinking, viewers. I know there's not a monster you can see with the eyes on your face, but there is a monster in this picture. I mean, the fact that you can't see it makes it more obvious that it's a monster. Everyone knows monsters can't be photographed excepting for monster-human hybrids or the Monster Beauty Pageant of '98, which required a three million dollar budget and special lasers embedded in the camera lenses."

Brittany drops the picture down into her backpack, resting against her thigh. She's in her tent now, but Santana is off with the squad, or maybe she's flirting with that Puck guy again. The junior varsity football team is having their camp at the high school during the day, but they camp on the middle school practice field at night on one side while the cheerleading tents take the other.

It's weird seeing Santana flirt with boys. She acts the same way she acts around Brittany, and she laughs almost as loudly with the boys as she does when they're hanging out. Brittany's not sure how to feel about it. She looks up at the camera again. "Anyway. He comes into my tent almost every night. And he... he's so scary. I know it's a he. He wears one of our football jerseys every time, and he smells like sweat and hamburgers. But his eyes poke out of his head, and they're huge, and there's this brown gross drool stuff dripping from his mouth, and his teeth are so black..." Brittany shudders, squeezing her eyes shut and silently counting to ten. The last time she visited Lord Tubbington's therapist, he said that was a good coping mechanism, so. She copes.

"Anyway. This update was just to show my proof. I have to go find Santana," she says before shutting the camera off.

Brittany pauses the video again, swiveling out to face the open door of her closet, gaping black and shadowed at her, and she swivels again, putting it to her back. She reaches out, and Lord Tubbington raises his head to boop his pink nose against her fingertips before resting his head back down on his paws.

Brittany doesn't want to press play. She knows what happens next, and it's... messy. But, she is a journalist, and Santana hasn't texted her for awhile anyway, so hopefully she's close, but she's not here yet. She turns back around and hits play with a sigh.

"Just... please stay up with me tonight, Santana? Please?" Brittany asks. The camera is recording, but it's on the floor of the tent, mostly filming Brittany's bare knee, covered in soft blonde hairs that catch in the red recording light.

"Britt-Britt, you need to sleep. Tomorrow Coach Sylvester from the high school is coming down to watch us, and I hear she's really mean. Like, super mean, and she can look right at you and tell if you're going to make her squad or not in high school. And... I'm worried about you, Britt. You gotta sleep."

Brittany squirms a little, reaching out and shifting the camera, resting it on her lumpy bookbag so she can tilt it up and catch their faces. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and her lips are pale and trembling. Santana's tanned brown arms wrap around her.

"I love you, Britt, you know that, right?" she says softly. Hairs that have escaped Santana's high pony tickle Brittany's cheek. She nods into Santana's neck, taking a shuddering breath.

"I know. I just wish you'd believe me," she says, voice muffled.

Santana pulls away, but she takes Brittany's hands in her own as they sit facing each other, legs crossed, in their small tent. "I know what you think you saw, Brittany, but there's no way Chad's a monster." Brittany had figured out it had to be Chad. The monster's jersey number was 18, and before the guys walked to the high school field one morning, she used her journalistically-trained eyes to spy that Chad Donovan was wearing jersey number 18.

The screen goes dark and flickers back to life a few seconds later to a dark tent. Slowly, moonlight shines in as the zipper quietly zips undone. Brittany is obviously laying on her back in her sleeping bag because the camera is angled weirdly, tipped up on her stomach and aimed at the flap opening to the tent as a sickly beige-colored hand unzips the tent open.

"Santana," Brittany hisses. The camera shakes as Brittany reaches over and shoves at Santana until she's grumbling and waking up just off camera.

"Whatsit, Britt?" she murmurs, and Brittany dares to turn the camera away just for a second to show Santana, pushing herself up in her sleeping bag and shoving her sleep-messy hair back from her face. She licks over her braces and grimaces at her sleep breath. "Ugh. You okay?"

"Santana, look," Brittany whispers, pointing the camera back to the tent opening. There's a red jersey-covered shoulder easing into the tent.

"Oh my God, Chad, what the crap?" Santana calls out, kicking out of her sleeping bag and standing up on her knees. "Get out!"

"Briiiiittanyyyyyyyy," Chad calls, his voice low and sinister, clicking like insects right before a meal.

The camera view shakes and points at the tent floor for a second as Brittany shuffles backwards, as far back as she can go, back pressed against the tent wall and arms clutching her legs to her chest. She raises the camera back up just as Santana shoves at Chad. "I'm telling Coach tomorrow! You can't just come in here, get out!"

"You're not who I want," Chad mutters darkly, and Santana strikes again, clawing at his face. It splits in the middle, down his scalp and right between his eyes, pulling away like rubber.

There's nothing on camera, just the skin suit falling away to nothingness, one half of it caught on Santana's nails and the other falling to the tent as there's a dark, monsterous laugh. Of course, Brittany doesn't need to see the monster on camera to remember viscerally what it looked like. The second Santana had torn the skin suit off, bulging black eyes as round as tennis balls sprung out on grey-ish green stalks. His teeth elongated, ending in sharp points and blackening, his bruised-purple lips unable to hold back the brown slimy slobber dripping from his mouth.

"Oh, hell no," Santana says, too calmly. "This is totally above my limited calorie range."

Brittany is whimpering, too scared to talk or move, but then Santana shuffles into frame, her hair glistening in a thick black curtain down her back as she hisses like a cat at the monster formerly known as Chad. She throws her head back as four fangs sprout from her gums, curving over her braces, two on top and two on bottom. They meet in pointy tips in the center, and she opens her mouth wide as the four eyeballs on either side of her neck shudder to life like gills. Brittany's still sure one of them looked at her and then winked into the camera just as Santana sunk her fangs into Chad's meaty, monster-spotted shoulder.

There's a roar, and then Santana takes him down, tearing off bits and pieces of him at a time and chewing and swallowing. Her jaw unhinges to take in more, dropping down dangerously open and swallowing up one arm all at once. The tent shakes and shudders as they scuffle. On camera, it looks silly with Santana perched on top of nothing, her left knee hovering over the ground but in actuality resting on Chad's (camera-invisible) stomach.

It takes awhile for Santana to eat all of him, but then they're left with nothing but scraps of shredded red jersey and baggy boy jeans, Santana using the metal hook of Chad's belt to pick her fangs clean. She looks at Brittany and smiles brightly at her, her fangs glimmering pearly white.

"Heyyyy, Britt!" Santana calls, pushing the door open. Brittany pauses the camera just as Santana tips her head back to cackle, her fangs in plain view.

"Your mom let me in and told me to come on up. What are you up to?" Santana steps up behind Brittany and wraps her arms around her, computer chair and all, leaning in to press a kiss to Brittany's neck. She glances at the screen and scoffs. "Ugh, why are you watching that? I can't believe you'd air my shame like that." She wrinkles her nose. "You know I hated those braces."

Brittany laughs, the knots tied up inside of her already working themselves free, just by Santana being here again. She hasn't even changed out of her black and red cheer uniform, rushing back to Lima after practice. Brittany loves her so much.

"I know, but you were my hero," Brittany says. "You defeated my monster."

Santana smiles at her, dragging up a second chair folded up in the corner and reserved just for her. "Of course I did. You're my girl."

She looks back at the screen. "Awwww. My training fangs were so little. I'd forgotten about that. I'm so glad I have my real ones now." Brittany reaches up, tracing her thumb over Santana's bottom lip. Her fangs aren't visible now, neither are her extra eyes or any of her other monster tells, safely tucked away since she's in her hybrid human form. That's the face she wears most often, reserving her monster for rare, special occasions.

They're quiet until Santana says, "You know how sorry I am that I didn't believe you at first, right?"

Brittany nods. "I know. But you believed me in the end. Lord Tubbington hops up into her lap. He always gets jealous when Santana comes over; that's why they used to shut him up in the basement until he calmed down. He curls up in her lap, and she pets him behind the ears, careful of his earring. He's having a mid-life crisis.

"I just couldn't believe there was another monster here in Lima," Santana says. "My parents said we were the only ones in, like, the last twenty years. It took awhile for me to believe that someone like Chad, the most idiotic of all the idiotic football guys, could actually be a monster.

"He wasn't worthy," Brittany says. "But you are." She reaches out and Santana takes her hand. "I'm glad you're here."

Santana grins at her, face shining with love, and Brittany feels so wrapped up in it that she forgets ever being scared or sad at all. "So," she begins. "Tell me about college life, Ms. Lopez."

Chapter Text

Kurt absolutely hates the rough, vaguely lemon-scented, heavy duty soap that he has to scrub his hands with after he's done helping his dad in the shop. His dad lets him wiggle under the cars now, though, so it's worth the rawness he scrubs into his skin. And afterward, he faintly smells like his dad's hugs for a little while.

He's scrubbing over the wide round sink all the guys in the shop use when they're working, but it's Saturday and they're all at home, leaving Kurt and his dad to fix Mrs. Wurtherford's poor abused Jalopy. His dad rounds the corner from the small office that serves as the only separation between the shop and their home, one door leading out to the garage, and the other, nicer door behind Burt's broken-down swivel chair leads to their kitchen.

"Hey, Bud, you almost done?" Burt calls. Kurt pumps the foot pedal under the basin so more water gurgles out, and he rinses his hands, slinging most of the water off before drying them on the roll of plain white paper towels perched delicately on top of the basin.

"Yeah, Dad, coming," Kurt calls over his shoulder. He wriggles out of his coveralls and shakes them out, patting the wrinkles out before zipping them back up and hanging them next to his dad's on the coat rack beside the office door. They're standard navy blue coveralls with various oil stains in different places, but they still look much newer than they should, especially when side-by-side with Burt's. Kurt fingers over the stitching of his name on his patch right above the breastpocket. He's had to get new pairs of coveralls in the last four years since his mom died because he's growing so much lately, but he's kept the patch she made and re-sewn it onto each new pair.

With a sigh, Kurt walks through the office, closing the two doors behind him. He smiles when his dad is standing at the table, blue and yellow streamers hastily put up and in danger of falling, taped to the wall right above the table. One lone balloon is tied to his usual chair, the one right in the middle between the two end seats - his parents' spots. It sways in the air, covered in rainbow stars with "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" in red letters on both sides.

There's a cake, a small round one, with two big candles stuck into the middle - a 1 and a 2 - and lit up, the candlelight flickering and dancing on the balloon's surface, making the letters shine. It's one of the store-bought cakes with the nice icing, white covering it with blue piping around the edges. Happy birthday, Kurt is written around the two candles in very neat cursive.

"Dad, you didn't have to do all this," Kurt says.

"'Course I did," Burt says. "Not every day a guy turns twelve. You know, a few hundred years ago, you'd be gettin' your own place and marryin' a wife." He pauses, then waves his hand. "Or... you know. A someone." Kurt flushes and looks away. He's not entirely sure what his dad is talking about - well, he knows what his dad is talking about, but he's still not sure about himself yet, or how true that what is. Though, he has his own suspicions. As much as he hates High School Musical (who would ruin a musical by casting it in the complete hell that is public school?), every time the commercials for it come on TV, he catches himself staring at Zac Efron. He can't even help it.

"Well, thank God it's 2006 and not... 6 B.C. or something," Kurt says. "I like the balloon."

Burt smiles, one of those rare times when his face really lights up. He claps Kurt on the shoulder. "I'm glad you do, Bud. I know it's not... I know it's not nothin' special. Your mom was always so good at throwing the whole shebang, party, friends over -"

"I don't really have anyone to invite," Kurt says, shrugging. He's not particularly upset about it. It means more cake for him and his dad to eat while his dad watches Deadliest Catch and Kurt completely ignores it.

He hasn't really invited anyone over for his birthday since his mom died. First he was the weird kid with a dead mom, and that first year, he didn't really feel like celebrating anyway. His mom passed away in March, and his ninth birthday was two months later. Everything was still too fresh, and the other kids were weird enough around him at school; why would he want them in his home? The year after that, when they were finally starting to adjust into a two-man rhythm and the air felt a little less empty, they tried - his dad baked a cake, and it was kind of lumpy, but Kurt had pre-measured everything for him. Burt had wanted to have the cake ready when Kurt got off the bus from school. Kurt had handed out exactly five invitations.

No one showed up.

The year after that, Kurt got dumpster tossed for his first time, after fifth grade P.E. right after he came out of the shower. The guys had stolen his clothes, so with a shudder, he'd put on his dirty gym uniform again and wandered down the hall to try and find them. He'd found a Dolce & Gabbana knock-off scarf at the local thrift store, and he didn't want some meatheads tearing it up. Before he knew it, he was being grabbed from behind in the middle of the deserted hallway and carted like a hammock out behind the school. No matter how many times he washed that stupid gym uniform, he still smelled garbage stench reeking from it, every time he even laid eyes on it.

Needless to say, he hadn't been in the mood to throw any kind of birthday party.

He's been keeping a low profile at school this year, and now that sixth grade is almost over, his first year at godawful middle school, he can safely say that all he wants is a quiet birthday with his dad. That would be the best present he could ever ask for (short of having his mom back, of course).

"I can't believe you're twelve," Burt says, hamming up the squeaky proud parent voice. "I remember when you were thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis big." He pinches his fingers together.

"Dad," Kurt says flatly, rolling his eyes. "Oh my God."

Burt starts laughing, and even though he knows it makes Kurt scowl, he reaches in and rubs his hand over Kurt's hair, messing it all completely up. Kurt huffs and pats his hair down. He may not be able to control his disaster of an education, but he can control his look because his look will take him places. Eventually.

"You'll never guess what Donnie is paying me with this time. Figured I'd give it to you as a birthday present."

"Just because you let me convert the basement into my bedroom doesn't mean you can stick Donnie's weird old payment presents down there anymore," Kurt says, twisting in his chair to try and peek into the living room. He doesn't see anything out of place.

"Uh-uh, not yet, you gotta wait for the big reveal, Kid," Burt says, scooping a second slice of cake up and dumping it unceremoniously into his plate.

"Why don't you make Donnie pay in, you know, money?" Kurt asks, not for the first time. The shop does well enough, but Kurt's peeked into his dad's books in the office when he thought Burt wasn't looking. He doesn't understand all of it yet, but he's seen enough to know that running a car garage costs a lot of money.

Burt waves his hand, making a dismissive sound around his mouthful of cake. "Eh, Donnie's eighty-two years old, Kurt. You gotta respect a man when they get that age. He's ran that old antique store longer than I've been alive, you know? For all I know, the stuff he hands me could be worth way more than his regular oil change. We could be sitting on a gold mine."

"You don't know that, though, Dad," Kurt says. He scoops up some of his half-melted ice cream and pours it on top of his cake, drizzling it into the soft yellow center as the cake soaks it up. "He's probably just trying to clear out his store before he kicks the bucket."

"Kurt," Burt says with a frown. "Even if that's the case, I ain't arguing with a guy his age. If he wants to pay me with a cu - nope. You almost got me to say it."

Kurt hadn't really been angling for Burt to reveal his birthday surprise. His appreciation for vintage pretty much starts and stops at his wardrobe, and the occasional vintage brooch. But, he smirks anyway. "Oh come on, Dad, you were so close. Might as well go ahead and tell me."

"No way," Burt says, wolfing down his last bite of cake. He cuffs Kurt on the back of the head, gently, as he passes, headed toward the living room. "But I guess I can show ya now, if you want."

Kurt is hesitant. He has no idea what Donnie's idea for a payment could be this time. They've gotten some... weird things in the past. The tiny closet under the stairway leading down into Kurt's basement is full of their storage boxes and Donnie's payments.

He follows his dad anyway, crossing through the open doorway into the living room. Everything is in place unil his eyes roam over to the couch and right behind it where Burt is standing next to a tall... thing covered in an old flowery sheet. It's tall - taller than his dad - and Kurt has no idea what it could be.

"You ready?" Burt asks with a grin.

Kurt narrows his eyes, trying to prepare himself. Whatever it is looks vaguely... spiky on top. "Sure..." he says, trailing off, unsure.

Burt yanks the sheet off in one dramatic flourish, revealing a...

"A clock," Kurt says. "A really... big clock."

"A cuckoo clock actually," Burt says. "Donnie said there was something wrong with it, but I figured we could poke at it together one day. I dunno what it could be, though. Damn thing's still tickin'."

He knocks on the wooden side of the clock just as the archaic metal minute hand clicks forward one more minute on the clockface.

"Ooooookay," Kurt says. "I mean, thanks, Dad." He tries to twist his face into what he thinks is a happy expression.

Burt looks at him and cracks up laughing, shaking his head. "Aw, kid, you don't gotta like it. I got you a real present downstairs. It's sitting on your bed. I wrapped it myself, though, so... go easy on me. We'll keep this thing in here. It's too loud to be in your bedroom anyway." His sentence is punctuated by another steady tick from the clock.

Kurt makes a face. He can't help it. The clock throws off the entire room, and he'd just talked his dad into rearranging some of the furniture and repainting the coffee table over the past Christmas break. Now it's all wrong with the giant clock stationed square behind the couch.

Burt taps the clock face. "Just don't touch it, all right?" Kurt folds his arms, cocking one hip. As if he'd touch that thing, short of burning it. Burt snorts. "Well, look, I just don't want you messing with it and having it fall on you. You're still so little."

"And here I thought I was growing too fast since you were just talking about how I was thiiiiiiiiiiiiis big," Kurt mocks teasingly.

Burt rolls his eyes and abandons the clock in favor of heading downstairs. "You'd think you'd say the word 'present' to a kid and they'd go running to it like a bat outta hell, but not my son......" His voice fades as he rounds the turn of the stairs, and Kurt grins to himself before following him down.

-*-

"Oh. My God," Kurt says at exactly midnight that night. That's the first time they're greeted to the melodious chirping of the cuckoo clock as it strikes midnight. It's a blaringly loud sound of death, the bird croaking out a warped, out of tune sound that might've been a bird chirp several hundred - no, thousand - years ago. Kurt stares at the ceiling as the bird chirps for the fifth time. He has limited experience with cuckoo clocks - well, none really - but he's pretty sure they have to chime twelve times.

By the seventh, he's pretty much done for.

Kurt throws his blankets off with a flourish and marches upstairs. He's not sure what he's going to do, but something has to be done. The bird shoots out and chirps again twice more as Kurt stomps up the stairs in pitch blackness. Cuckooooo, cuckoooo

Kurt rounds the corner, footsteps muffled on worn blue carpet, and he turns to face the... thing. The bird shoots out again, number ten, and Kurt recoils, partially startled since it practically smacked him in the face with its chipped little beak and partially because it's just so... so ugly.

It's a little balding creature, one buggy eye missing, paint chipped on its faded yellow beak. What once was a covering of glossy red and black feathers now have spots missing all over, feathers sticking up crooked and half-plucked out.

Cuckoooo. Eleven.

Kurt frowns in distaste, but this next chirp is his last shot until noon tomorrow, and his dad will be awake then. He hesitates half a second - his dad did say not to touch the clock. Granted, the bird wasn't the clock... technically.

The bird shoots out for the twelfth and final time and Kurt doesn't think, just acts, jutting his arm out and grabbing for the bird, holding tight so its birch can't pull it back into its little dusty hovel in the clock face. He squeezes the bird, muffling its chirp, and then twists the head clear around so the bird's looking backwards with a strangled, suffering accordion sound. Maybe that'll stop the godawful sounds that are keeping him awake.

Some errant feathers are stuck to his palm and he grimaces, wiping them off on his pajama pants, then picking up the evidence as they glide to the carpet. His dad's going to kill him, but his dad isn't in as close proximity to this thing as Kurt is. It was a mercy killing.

"That takes care of that," Kurt says, dusting his hands off and leaving the scene of the crime in blissful silence.

-*-

"Rise and shine, birthday boy," Burt calls from up the stairs and outside Kurt's bedroom door. Kurt wakes up, groggy, and rubs at his eyes, stretching so hard in bed that his arms hurt after. It takes him a second to process what his dad had said, and then - what?

Kurt's curiosity outweighs his morning skincare regimen. Though, he does notice that he's wearing yesterday's pajamas somehow. He definitely showered before bed, and he plucks at the buttons of the pjs like the clothes contain the plague now. Wearing pajamas two nights in a row? How uncivilized.

Wrinkling his nose, he climbs upstairs because surely, his dad will have some answers. Maybe Kurt slept walked or... something.

"'Bout time, kid, I was about to start in on breakfast without ya," Burt says as Kurt winds into the kitchen. He doesn't answer, too preoccupied looking at the empty space behind the couch in the living room where a ginormous clock is supposed to be. What is going on?

"Dad, where's the clock?" he asks.

Burt chokes on his sip of coffee and looks up at Kurt, eyes shifting. "Uh, on the wall, same as always," he says, nodding toward the pink octagonal clock hanging on the wall across from the table.

"You know what I mean," Kurt says with an eyeroll. It is way too early in the morning for his dad's jokes. "The gigantic monstrosity in the living room." He waves his arms around the corner, gesturing blindly at where the cuckoo clock is supposed to be. He doesn't understand why his dad would haul it out that fast. He's usually much more stubborn about displaying Donnie's payments for at least a week, out of respect.

"How do you know about...." Burt clears his throat. "Don't know what you're talking about," he says without looking at Kurt. "Your eggs are getting cold, kiddo, come eat."

Kurt slides into his chair and tucks himself up to the middle of the table, picking up his fork and letting it clack against his plate. His dad's gotten passable at breakfast, the basics at least. He can cook some mean toast, and his eggs haven't been burnt in a year. Kurt's teaching him well, and he always tries especially hard on the traditional birthday breakfast.

Kurt finds himself not hungry, though, obsessed with the clock, and with the weird way his dad's eating.

After awhile of quiet eating, Burt says, "So, I know it's not exactly a fun time, but before the birthday celebrations, would ya mind helping out with Mrs. Wutherford's car? She brought it in before you woke up, and I really don't want that thing's bad luck in the garage any longer than it has to be."

Kurt nods, even if it comes with a good eyeroll and an emphatic, "Ugh." He doesn't mind helping, but Mrs. Wutherford's excuse for a car is never any fun.

Kurt pauses. But hasn't he done this before?

Didn't they do this yesterday?

It's so easy to get caught up in the moment that he didn't even realize he'd had this conversation already. "Wait, wait a second, what did you say? We finished Mrs. Wutherford's car yesterday." And then celebrated my birthday, even though you apparently have amnesia.

Burt laughs. "Look, I know she's dragging it in every other week these days, but the old clunker's her treasured possession, I guess, and she always gives you a great tip."

"No, I mean, we literally did this yesterday. You said that yesterday. My birthday was yesterday," Kurt insists. His chest feels tight, and he's not sure why. Something is going on, but there's no need to panic - not yet. He hopes.

Burt frowns. "Kid, are you feeling okay?" he asks, reaching out and brushing his dry, warm palm against Kurt's forehead, touching around Kurt's face until he seems vaguely satisfied with whatever results he got. "You're not warm..."

"I'm not sick! Something's going on. We already did all this, I'm telling you the truth."

"Okay, Kurt," Burt says. He gets up and takes their plates, scraping them off into the garbage disposal and dumping them in the sink. "Better be glad it's your birthday," he grumbles good naturedly then heads to the garage, ruffling Kurt's hair as he goes.

Ugh.

Later, when Kurt was washed up and staring at his second dose of birthday cake and solitary balloon, he found it hard to muster up the same pleased contentment he'd felt the day before when he'd lived through this day the first time. He'd thought about it, though, and it had to be that something really fishy was going on with Donnie's creepy old cuckoo clock. Kurt had broken it, and... broken the fabric of time or something. He wasn't sure, but nothing had went wrong until that cuckoo clock came into their lives.

"You ready?" Burt asks as Kurt shuffles cake around the middle of his bowl. Kurt looks up at him, and Burt nods to the living room. "For your present."

"Oh. Oh, right," Kurt says, and Burt gets up with a tired smile and claps Kurt on the shoulder as he walks into the living room. Kurt follows, prepared to fake enthusiasm for the clock that has possibly ruined his life, but... it isn't there. In fact, his dad doesn't stop, just walks on through to Kurt's bedroom door.

"Wait! Wait, Dad, aren't you forgetting something?"

Burt raises an eyebrow and scratches the top of his head. "Kid, you've been acting funny all day. Your present's on your bed where I put it. I wrapped it myself, though, so go easy on me."

Kurt groaned. "No, dad, the clock. Where is Donnie's clock? It's giant and a demonic bird shoots out of it." He crosses his arms, fed up with the whole day. Turning twelve sucked. He cocks his hip. "It's not hard to misplace," he adds, voice cutting.

Burt's eyebrows get higher. "Kurt, I know I treat you older than you are, but if you think you're too old for me to ground you from... whatever it is you like, then you got -" Burt pauses, frowning. "How do you know about Donnie's clock?"

Kurt rolls his eyes again. How many times does he have to say this? "Because we've done this day already. I woke up and it was my birthday yesterday, and then I woke up today, and it was my birthday today. I know I'm not great at math, Dad, but that seems a little impossible. You gave me Donnie's clock for a present. It was standing right here," Kurt says, gesturing.

Burt's frown grows deeper, if that's possible. "Okay, kid. I don't know how you found out about Donnie's clock. I was gonna give it to you, but I changed my mind after you let it slip you knew about it. What's the fun in that?"

A cold wave of panic shoots down Kurt's spine. "No!" he says. "I need it! You have to go get it." If there's no clock, is he going to be stuck repeating his twelfth birthday again and again?

He has to get his hands on that clock.

"Donnie gave me this antique silverware set your mom woulda flipped over after I went by his shop today and told him. It's really nice," Burt says. "Wish he woulda offered that in the first place. You like that vintage... stuff just like Lizzie did." Burt smiles softly.

Kurt steels himself, taking a deep breath in through his nose and holding it until his vision starts swimming so that he doesn't lose his patience. He can't deny that he does want to get a peek at that silverware, but...

"I have to see that clock, Dad."

Burt sighs and shakes his head. "Come on, let's open your present and get you to bed so you can sleep off whatever's... gotten into you."

-*-

"Good morning, Kurt! Time to wake up!" Kurt frowns and blearily opens his eyes, staring at the window on his far wall where sunlight is streaming in.

That can't be right...

When Kurt sits up, his breath is quite literally knocked out of him. He's not sure his heart is beating or that he still has a brain or anything because his mom is standing in the doorway to his room. His mom. She's smiling at him, and Kurt sniffs the air, and he can smell her...

"Mom?" he whispers. He hates that his voice quivers, but this is all he's ever wanted.

His mom comes further in the room and sits on the bed. The bed dips with her weight, helping to convince Kurt that this is real. Maybe he's not dreaming. Maybe somehow... she came back.

"Hey, my sweet boy," his mom says, reaching up to brush his hair back and scritch at the back of his head. Every time she moves, he smells lilacs, and he wants to close his eyes and breathe her in, but he doesn't want to stop looking at her either.

"Mom," Kurt says again, his voice breaking this time as he scrambles forward and wraps his arms around his mom's shoulders, tucking his face into her neck. Her hair tickles the tip of his nose and his earlobe, and he squeezes tighter, breathing in. "Mom, you're here."

His mom laughs as her arms wrap around him and squeeze. "Of course I'm here, Kurt," she says. "I wouldn't miss your sixth birthday."

Kurt freezes, and he swears, his heart falls into his stomach. No, it can't be... please...

He pulls back just enough to look at her, his bottom lip trembling. "What?"

His mom frowns and touches his bottom lip. "What's with the pout, baby? Did you have a bad dream? No one should be sad on their birthday! Just wait until you see what a good breakfast is downstairs with your dad."

Kurt looks down at himself, sits back on his bed and stretches out his arms and legs. They're much shorter, and he's in these hideously gauche cotton pajamas that have weird little spacemen on them. He remembers these pajamas, but he hasn't seen them in years, not since they moved.

How can he be six? He glances up at his mom again and reaches forward to take her hand, tracing over her wedding rings with his chubbier fingers. He swallows around the lump in his throat and quickly wipes away the tear that falls with his shoulder.

His mom cups his cheek. "Kurt, I'm serious, tell me what's wrong. Mommy can fix it," he says. Kurt laughs wetly because when he was six the first time, he hadn't called her mommy in years, but now that seems so fitting. He wants to curl up with his mommy and never let go.

Maybe this is why the clock did this to him. Maybe part of his present is to have his mom back. Maybe... maybe he can do it all over again, relive six years. What's six years when he could have his mom? Maybe he could help change something, anything. Maybe she wouldn't get so sick....

Kurt sniffles. "I just... really missed you," he croaks. He looks up at her, and her eyes are wet too. She always was a sympathy crier. She bats her chestnut hair out of her face and wipes her eyes.

"Oh, we're being silly," she says, forcing a laugh. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. Come on, let's go see Dad and eat your birthday breakfast." She gets up and holds her hand out.

Kurt shivers. He doesn't know what this will cause, what staying like this will do to him. But right now, he doesn't care.

-*-

When Kurt wakes up the next morning to the overwhelming smell of fresh powder and his mother's lilacs again, he rolls over and presses his face into his pillow to hide his smile. She's still here.

Then he tries to get his arms under himself and push himself up, ready to climb out of bed and rush down to see his mom. He's going to do everything he can at six to make her life easier so she doesn't get sick, so that he doesn't only have two more years with her. That means he needs an early start.

But his arms wobble, and when he rolls onto his back again, he shifts because something feels... funny. There's a crinkle of plastic right under his butt, and as his vision focuses and looks around, there's white wooden bars on either side of him and above him, a mobile of shiny silvery music notes. He takes a breath and musters the strength to sit up and look down at himself. All he sees are powder blue pajamas over a round belly and short legs sticking out in front of him.

Is he... is he a baby?

He opens his mouth and calls out, "Mom! Dad!" but the only sound that comes out is a loud wail. He tests his limited strength by wrapping his hands around two of the bars of his bed - no, crib, oh God - and pulls himself to his feet. He can just peek over the edge of the rail, and he shouts for his parents again and makes another of those terrible crying sounds. He's not even crying for real, but the sound is awful.

He's never really liked babies.

His mom rushes in a second later, followed by his dad, who has a sprinkling more hair than he does now. Kurt reaches out and points to the top of his head because it's unreal to see his dad with hair, and what looks like a little bit of a mustache. God, someone please tell Kurt that his dad did not have an unfortunate mustache phase.

But he has more pressing matters. He reaches for his mom, who pulls him up and holds him in her arms. "Oh, my big, sweet boy. What are you so fussy about today?" she asks gently, patting at his face.

"I'm not sick! I'm a baby!" Kurt babbles. It's all incoherent nonsense when it escapes his lips, though.

"He's so fussy today," his mom says. "He's not warm, though." She presses a kiss to the top of his head, and Kurt feels his dad's big hand rub his back. "Maybe we shouldn't go anywhere today."

Burt makes a grumbly noise. "Donnie said that rocker has some stiff competition on it, and if I want to get it, we gotta come by today while he's at the shop for inventory. He won't unlock the door for anyone else, Lizzie."

"I know, but... oh!"

Kurt perks up at the mention of Donnie's and plasters on the biggest, most cherubic smile he can muster, bouncing in his mom's arms and giving his baby glee all he can. Look! He feels fantastic! Let's go to Donnie's!

Because, horror has struck Kurt. Waking up six is one thing, but waking up a baby is another. And who knows what he'll wake up as tomorrow? Will he wake up? He's getting younger and younger, and tomorrow, he might not exist at all.

It's hard to keep up a pleasant baby expression when Kurt's sinking on the inside. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he has two choices... He can either ignore the clock and probably blink out of existence and never see his mom again or do any of the things he wants to do, or he can go to Donnie's and fix whatever he's done, or break the clock for good, which is a very appealing option. If he does that, and if it does work, he'll be twelve again, life will be normal again...

His mom will be gone again.

But at least he'll have known her, Kurt thinks later once they're out. Kurt's eyes sting at the corners, and he's glad his stroller has one of those huge shades over it as they make their way down the block to Donnie's because he doesn't want his parents to see him crying and turn around. But he doesn't want all this to be over. He didn't think he'd have to say goodbye to her again, not so soon. He just got her back.

They get to Donnie's, who hobbles over and unlocks the door for them, ushering them inside with a finger to his lips. He points to the house next door. "Old lady Franklinton has been eyeing this rocker for the last two weeks. We might have to sneak you out the back," he says in a thick, dusty accent. His parents laugh above his stroller, and Kurt strains to catch the tinkling, pretty sound of his mom's laugh one more time.

She kneels down in front of him then, morning sun basking her face, and Kurt can't breathe, this hurts so much. He doesn't believe in any sort of afterlife, but right now, his mom looks like an angel.

She frowns, though, and reaches out to stroke his cheek. "Have you been crying, Kurt?" she asks, and Kurt wants to kick himself for his blotchy, red face giving himself away. His mom looks over her shoulder. "Burt? Maybe we should go. Kurt really looks upset."

Thank God for his dad and his dad's love of a good bargain. Kurt remembers this rocking chair. They left it with the old house when they moved after his mom died, but he remembers spending so much time there curled up in his mom's lap while she read to him or sang or just talked. It was so nice.

Burt waves her off, and his mom makes an annoyed growling sound that surprises Kurt as she stomps across the store over to Burt, avoiding bumping into knick-knacks at every turn. Now's his chance. He hefts himself over the rail of his stroller and teeters down, looking around the store until - there! Way in the back and half-covered by piles of boxes and books stacked up in what makes a haphazard staircase is the clock, looming over the store. As Kurt gets closer, he can hear the tick, tick, tick of the clock growing louder.

He wills his tiny baby legs to carry him faster. He doesn't have much time, and he can't wait and think about this and talk himself out of it. He has to act now, or he'll never get to again. Slowly, he climbs on top of the first book stack and hauls himself up to the taller box, inching his way up step by step until he's eye level with the little door that shoots out the time-worn cuckoo.

He pats at the clock, examining as much of it as he can from this height and closeness. Does he just have to fix what he did? What if it was something else? What if the clock is... is possessed or something? He pats the wood for a secret hole or knot or anything and finds nothing, so he thumps on the little door and waits.

It's too early in the morning for the bird to pop out on its own, so Kurt looks around, spots his parents talking to Donnie in the back still, and reaches up, pushing the dusty clock hands around and around the crusty, yellowed clock face paper until there's one minute until twelve o'clock.

The minute hand clicks forward, and the clock chimes, vibrating so loudly that Kurt stumbles, slapping his tiny hands against the clock to try and regain his balance on top of the slippery books he's perched on.

"Catch that baby!" Donnie calls from the back as Burt calls out, "Kurt, no!" and his mom gasps and runs forward, jetting around the antique shop like it's nothing. Kurt turns back to the clock and watches the cuckoo jut out again, grabbing its backwards head in a tight fist. He hesitates, and the bird's birch fights him, trying to yank the cuckoo back inside for the next toll, but Kurt doesn't let go, holding it stiff. His mom is gaining on him, arms stretched out and eyes wide, panic written all over her face.

Kurt tries so, so hard to remember the look, and he breathes in, smelling moldy dust instead of lilacs, then turns the cuckoo's head back around.

-*-

There's a flash and a bang, and Kurt feels like the wind's been knocked out of him. His heart beats against his ribcage so loudly he's going to wake up the whole neighborhood. He's covered in sweat, and he doesn't exactly remember being flung over the back of the couch and landing upside down on it with his head hanging off the edge of the seat, legs sprawled out over the couch's back, but here he is.

He pushes himself up on long, bonier elbows, and looks himself over. There he is again, same pale, pudginess spread out in a weird tall growth spurt way, looking normal as ever. Righting himself, he walks around the couch and stares at the clock.

It looks the same, old and musty, but it feels kind of... dead. Like whatever energy it had that made him... made whatever happen, happen is gone for good, and it's just a dumb, old clock.

Kurt runs his fingers down the seam and watches the minute hand tick over once, then twice. He bites his lip and tries not to cry, pushing himself away from the clock and inching past his room and down the hall, to his parents' - his dad's - bedroom.

With a sigh, he pulls open the one dresser drawer his dad hasn't touched, with his mom's comfiest pajamas folded neatly in it, and Kurt sits down in front of it, closes his eyes, and breathes in the fading smell of lilacs.

Chapter Text

The bus rumbles down a dirt path that's only big enough for one car at a time. There's woods on either side, and Blaine's sights has just been a blur of green and brown for the past two hours since they left the highway. He had no idea this Camp Nightmoon would be this far away.

He rests his cheek against the cool window. There's no electronics allowed at the camp, so both his cell phone and his iPod are sitting safely at home on his dresser, miles and miles out of reach. The bus is noisy enough with the other campers talking, and normally Blaine would join in, but it seemed like all the other campers already knew each other, and Blaine was kind of tired anyway.

His parents moved him around all the time, shipped him off to his brother Cooper whenever they had a conference or an expedition. He's used to traveling, but usually it's in the city, not to a weird, hokey summer camp. The brochure made Camp Nightmoon sound kind of fun, though, and Blaine had a whole summer to shake off this odd jag of new kid blues.

He dozes for a bit, the chattering settling into the background of his brain and the steady drive lulling him to sleep. He wakes with a jolt when the bus lurches to a stop.

"Everybody out!" the bus driver shouts, cutting the ignition off and slamming the ancient bus doors open. Metal screams as they're forced open to their max, and the driver, a huge, muscular woman with curly brown hair, bright red lipstick, and a formiddable scowl that everyone had called the beast when the bus pulled up starts stomping down the aisle and yanking them up by the shoulders of their shirts. "Come on! Out! Off the bus! Get out!"

What is her problem?

Blaine tumbles off the bus along with everyone else, a small group of about twenty-five kids. They stare in silence as Beiste hauls open the back door of the bus and tosses their bags over her shoulders two at a time. They land with a thud in the dirt, little sand puffs popping up with each new addition.

"Hey! We've got valuable stuff in there!" a girl to Blaine's right squeaks up.

"Honey, if she broke even one color in my Sephora metallic eyeshadow collection from the new spring release, some asses are getting kicked," another girl, with rainbow leopard print leggings, says. There's a mumbling of agreement.

Once all their bags are off the bus, Beiste slams the back door closed, throws herself up the stairs in one step, and forces the ungreased hinges of the front door to close faster than they should be capable to. The bus lights blink as she cranks it back to life, and then the back lights are blaring red in their faces as she starts to back up.

"Get the stuff! Get the stuff!" some of the kids call, lunging forward and grabbing bags, arguing over handles.

Blaine slings his duffel bag over his shoulder and checks on the bus, which is barreling backwards toward them. "Run!" he shouts, reaching out and dragging the shorter girl he'd stood beside earlier out of the way, her pink rolling case in tow. "Everyone get out of the way, she's gonna run us over!"

He pulls a rounder, young-faced, oblivious boy out of the way too, his toes just dodging them all to safety as the bus careens backwards, slams on brakes, and Beiste hauls it forward, turning and heading back where they'd came from.

They stare at the retreating hulking yellow mass in silence, save for the swish of leaves in the wind and way too many bug sounds for Blaine to be comfortable. Maybe he should have stayed with Coop after all.

Then, there's a roar.

Several of the campers scream, and they all turn on point, almost rehearsed, to the woods behind them. There's another low grumbling growl, and Blaine swallows around the lump of fear in his throat as he sees two beady red eyes peering at them out of the darkness created by hundreds of trees jammed closely together.

"Oh God, there's something in there!" the round boy says. "I never should've came here!"

"It's okay, it's fine," Blaine says. "Probably just a raccoon." He pats the boy on the back and steps up to the front of the group. He's always been a leader, prone to having good ideas and sharing them, and this only gets him in trouble less than half of the time. He licks his drying lips and wipes the sweat off his brow, patting his hair back down into place.

"I'm gonna go check it out," he says, glancing around on the ground for any huge branches. There aren't any, but there's a polished wooden cane with a silver eagle's head handle lying on one of the bags next to a boy's long legs. Blaine reaches over and grabs it up.

"Hey!" the guy says, stepping into action. "Hands off, compadre. That's my new pimpin' cane," he says with a grin and a sneer, sharing a fist bump with the guys beside him and shoving his sunglasses up on top of his head to frame his mohawk. "Look here, pipsqueak, if anyone's gonna use my badass cane to be a badass, it's me, all right. I'm the badass."

"Fine," Blaine says, rolling his eyes. He holds the cane out to the guy. It's a shame he's such an asshole because he's wearing all black, and Blaine would be lying if he said the bad boy image didn't work for him at least a little bit. "Be my guest," he says instead, bristling a bit. He hasn't let a hulking mass of boy mess with him in a long time, and he's not going to start now.

The guy yanks his cane back and twirls it, sticking it into the ground with a fumbled flourish. "Fine," he says. "I will."

There's another roar then, louder and closer, and the boy takes two giant steps back. "Nevermind! You can do it!" he says, panic tinging his voice. He shoves his shades back down over his eyes and shoves his way to the back of the group, his abandoned cane swaying where it stands until it starts to fall just before Blaine catches it. He sighs. What a jerk off.

Nobody laughs, though, because the bushes right at the edge of the forest line are starting to rustle. Everyone gasps instead, and Blaine steels himself, about to reach for the cane again, when BANG!

A gun fires beside them, and the small crowd jumps, some whimpering, including the animal in the woods, trees bending and twigs snapping as it goes bounding off.

"Don't worry, kids!" the guy holding the tiny silver pistol says. He tucks it back in the holster secured around his waist, belting in his obnoxiously sunny yellow Camp Nightmoon polo. "All right, campers, let's get your stuff together and get a move on! It's a mile hike to the lodgings, and we don't want to be in these woods at night!"

He gives an almost menacing grin, too-white teeth flashing and gelled curly hair gleaming in the sunlight. The campers remain frozen where they are.

"Um, I'm sorry, but... what was that thing?" Blaine asks, speaking up for everyone else to a chorus of "Yeah!"s behind him.

"Oh, that? That's just Sabre. Don't worry, if you don't mess with Sabre, Sabre won't mess with you. Now, follow me!"

No one moves still, looking at each other with raised eyebrows. With a sigh, Blaine asks, "I'm really sorry, sir, but I'm new here, and..." He looks at the gun resting on the guy's hip. "Who are you?"

"Oh! Wow, totally forgot to introduce myself. You guys can call me Uncle Will. I'm the head counselor around these parts. Stick with me and you'll be perfectly safe. Now, hustle up, kids! We've got our hike cut out for us."

Awhile later, the short girl from before sidles up next to Blaine, her pink case rolling along on the rocky dirt path behind her. "Hey again," she says with a smile. "Thanks for back there. You're really brave."

Blaine smiles, ducks his head. "It was nothing," he says. He hadn't actually done anything after all. "I'm Blaine, by the way."

"Rachel," the girl says, holding her hand out. They shake while they walk, which causes them both to stumble when Will stops suddenly, eyeing the rest of the path.

"Not much further now to the divide, campers! Let's keep going," he shouts over his shoulder at them. As much as Blaine feels vaguely weird about him, a bit of him is jealous because Uncle Will's voice is evenly toned and carries over in the air like a dream, despite his general demeanor.

"Have you ever been to Camp Nightmoon before?" Rachel asks, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. It's long, longer than Blaine had realized, sweeping down to the small of her back. Dark brown fringe bangs cut a straight line right above her eyes. Blaine feels his brain kind of mentally shrug at the details, but she's really pretty.

"No, this is my first time. My first time at any summer camp really," Blaine says.

"Really? I've been to Nightmoon before. It's not as bad as it seems, I promise. I mean, the bus doesn't usually leave us, and Uncle Will was never here before, but... new management can't be all bad, don't you think? I always say it's best to remain on the positive and cautiously optimistic, no matter what path life takes you on."

"Stop!" Uncle Will shouts. There's a rustle of leaves, and Blaine's heartbeat kicks up. What if Sabre is back and looking for more trouble? He really hopes Uncle Will carries more than one bullet in that pistol of his.

"All right, campers, this is where some of you will leave us. Girls, you'll take the fork to follow... ah, there she is." Uncle Will clicks his tongue. "You're late, Sue."

Sue, as it turns out, is a woman who's miles long, towering over them. She's clad in a bright yellow tracksuit with Camp Nightmoon emblazoned across the right breast. There's a garish purple water bottle clutched in her hand and a sweatband around her forehead. The most curious of all is the distinct, threatening quiver of her upper lip as she settles their gaze on them all.

"William," she says to Uncle Will without glancing his way, "Sue Sylvester is never late. The world is merely early to Sue Sylvester's schedule. All right, you ladies! And I mean, you actual ladies, not these excuses for men that Will's going to drag along. Ladies, follow me to the camp and don't make me wait on you."

With that, she spins on her heel, not waiting as the girls scramble to push through the crowd, banging the boys and each other in their backs and heads with their bags. Rachel hesitates, and Blaine leans over, bumping his shoulder against hers.

"So, about that positive path...," he says, smiling, and Rachel shoots him a half-amused look before squaring her shoulders.

"Remaining optimistic!" she says before soldiering off with the rest of the girls.

"Okay! Now, campfire is at 1900, so we have to keep - what are you still doing here? Didn't you hear Sue? Get goin'!" Uncle Will says to the girl in the rainbow leopard print leggings.

She looks at him, then at the disappearing clump of girls, then back. "I, um... she said real ladies... I don't..."

Uncle Will sighs and rubs at his temple, pulling a clipboard out from God knows where and flipping some papers in it. "What's your name, camper?"

"Um. Unique. Or... or maybe Wade, I don't know what my parents put."

"Last name?" Uncle Will says, bordering on impatience.

"Oh! Adams," she says.

Uncle Will flips back a few papers and thumps one at the top of it. "Adams, right here. Unique Adams in bunk 3 at the girl's camp. I don't know what you're waiting on, Adams, but get going before you lose anymore light! Sue is not a slow walker, and..." He pauses and looks down. "Pumps were not your best choice."

Blaine catches Unique's eyes for a second as she looks down, a weirdly heartbreaking smile on her face. Like Rachel, she takes a moment to stiffen up and put her bravest face on before stomping off after the girls, running faster in pumps than anyone should have enough talent to do.

There's a low whistle behind Blaine, and he looks around to see the mohawk's gaze glued to Unique's backside, his tongue dragging over his bottom lip as he smirks, watching her go. Ugh.

"As I was saying," Uncle Will says, "Camp fire starts at 1900, and Camp Nightmoon does not tolerate lateness. We've still got a half-mile trek this way to get to the boys' camp, so let's go over the rules once and get a move on."

Uncle Will holds up one finger. "Rule number one, absolutely no cell phones. This is time to commune with nature and each other, not Facebook. Lights out is at 9:00 p.m. and morning call is at 6:00. Absolutely no one is to leave their bunks after lights out." The Mohawk, as Blaine is calling him in his head, snickers behind him. "For any reason," Uncle Will continues. "The girls' camp is off-limits no matter the time of day."

"Even better," The Mohawk mutters, tittering under his breath. Some of the other boys giggle too. Blaine has been sent to a jock camp with idiot jocks, and he can't believe his parents did this to him.

"Lastly," Uncle Will says, resting his hand on his pistol, "No one is to go into the forbidden bunk."

-*-

Bunk assignments are read, and Blaine is horrified to discover that he got The Mohawk as a bunkmate. He also got the round, brown-haired boy who looks permanently a little scared to be here, and two other boys Blaine hadn't really noticed yet, aside from that they have a tendency to laugh at The Mohawk's... "jokes."

Blaine sighs. It's going to be a long summer.

"All right, ladies and germs, name's Puck, and I figure I'm gonna run this town like I run back home," The Mohawk says.

"Like you ran from Sabre before?" Blaine blurts out before thinking. The other guys Oooooooh, which makes Blaine puff up a bit. He's stronger than he was the last time he stood up to some too-macho bully jocks. He might could even take this Puck guy with some of the moves the guys in Fight Club have shown him.

Puck squares off and looks Blaine up and down. "And what did you just say to me, gelhead?" he asks.

"I said, like when you ran from Sabre? You seem to be really good at running... away."

Puck pauses and strokes his chin before nodding. "All right, okay. You're all right, shrimp. But don't try anything else, got it? I'm a summer camp pro in between my stints at the clink."

Blaine sighs and holds up his hands. "Fine by me," he says. The tension in the room dies down after that as they pick out their bunks.

"You are really cool," the round-faced boy says. "I'm Trent, by the way. I never thanked you for pulling me out of the way of certain death." His eyes are wide and shining with earnest, and Blaine pats him on the back. He knows guys like Trent, performs with them, studies with them. Granted, the glow of adoration usually takes longer than this to build up in most of the other guys back home with the Warblers, but hey, everything happens faster at summer camp, so he's heard.

"Hey, it's no problem," Blaine says. "Mind if I bunk on top?"

"You can be top, bottom, whatever you want," Trent says with the same blind allegiance. One of the other guys, a tall and lanky guy with perfect hair and a pointy chin cracks up laughing. He'd been leaning against the wall, casually listening to the two of them, but Blaine hadn't even noticed.

"That is too easy," he drawls, coming around the bunk and holding out his hand. "Name's Sebastian Smythe. My father owns the neighboring camp, but we're not opening until July while the southside boathouse gets renovated, so I was put here. Pleasure to finally meet you." Blaine smiles reflexively and shakes Sebastian's hand.

"Um...nice to meet you," he says. "This is Trent." He practically redirects Sebastian's outstretched hand with his own, and Sebastian looks pained when Trent shakes it.

"Pleasure," he bites out. He immediately turns back to face Blaine. "Anyway. I've heard all about you, you know."

"You... have?" Blaine asks. He hasn't heard anything about any Sebastians, so that's... odd.

"Oh yes. You're the talk of the show choir world. A Dalton Academy darling and a Warbler crooner, youngest lead vocalist since, well... me," Sebastian says. Wait a second.

"You're that Sebastian? You transferred just before I got there," Blaine says, immediately warming up. Finally! Someone he has something in common with.

"To Paris, I know," Sebastian says. "Listen, Blaine, I would love to catch up more. So, maybe if you wanted to bunk -"

"Agh! Ow! Snake!" Trent screams out, backing up and immediately running backwards into Sebastian, who grunts in annoyance.

"What is going on?" he hisses, glaring at the back of Trent's head.

Blaine rushes forward, looking Trent over. He's cradling his hand to his chest and pointing at his bunk with the other. The other two guys run over, peering over Trent's shoulders.

"Snake!" Trent shouts again, staring in horror at his mattress.

On top of the faded yellow sheets is a writhing brown and black snake, tongue flickering as it ducks in and over and under itself, twisting itself up into a threatened pretzel. Blaine inches closer, and the snake hisses at him, head raising up and fangs bared and glistening.

"Oh my God! Dudes, there's a snake!" Puck calls out. "Shit, I gotta get a pic of this." He pulls a nondescript little phone out of his pocket and swipes the screen for a second, holding the camera up and snapping a picture.

"Are you done?" Blaine snaps. Puck, go grab one end of that sheet, come on!"

Puck backs up. "Dude, the only snake I mess with is my own. I ain't going near that thing," he says.

The other guy steps forward. "Will you help?" Blaine asks.

The guy nods. "Blaine, right? I'm Sam," he says. "Helluva way to get to know someone. You take that end, I'll take the other," he adds, pointing.

Blaine moves, grabbing the top sheet up and carrying the sheet, snake and all, away from the bunk to the middle of the room. With a shared nod, Blaine and Sam twirl the sheet in the air, enclosing it around the hissing, spitting snake before rushing it over to the back of the cabin.

"The window! The window!" Sam shouts, and Sebastian miraculously runs forward unlatches the window, shoving the shutter panes open just as Sam and Blaine get there to toss the snake and sheet outside.

"Thank God," Sam says, leaning against the wall. "You'd think they'd inspect these things before letting us in."

There's a murmur of agreement that's broken by Trent saying, "Guys, I think I'm really hurt. The snake bit me."

The guys are circled around Trent, staring at the two puncture marks on the back of his right hand and the red veiny lines that are skating across his skin from them and the thick liquid they're oozing as the front door to the cabin slams open.

"Who exactly threw a perfectly clean sheet out the window?" the guy asks, hands on his hips, a full camp uniform stretching across his broad chest. Like Trent, he's got a round face, but it's thick, tanned and beefy, like the rest of him, with thin lips set into an even thinner line.

"Who are you?" Puck demands.

"Karofsky. Camp Counselor Karofsky to you wimps," Karofsky says. He stalks over. "Now someone start talking and tell me what's going on."

"There was a snake in Trent's bunk, and I think it was poisonous. It bit him, and we trapped it in the sheet and threw it out," Blaine says. "We have to get Trent to the nurse."

Trent pushes his hand into Karofsky's face, and Karofsky grimaces, disgusted. "Get that out of my face. God, what nurse?"

"There's no nurse?" Blaine asks. He's never been to summer camp, but way out here in the woods, there has to be a nurse. It just makes sense.

"Of course there's no nurse. Uncle Will doesn't put up with whiny little babies. I think I've got some bandages or something to wrap that up with so no one else has to see it." He sits down on what was designated as the counselor's bunk and reaches down under the bed to pull out a rusty old first aid kit out on the floor. It creaks open, and Karofsky pulls out a roll of bandages.

He starts to place them in Blaine's outstretched hand but takes them back. "How do I know you're not all trying to mess with me? I'm not someone you mess with, you got it? That's probably fake. There probably wasn't a snake at all."

"Oh, hold on to your cargo shorts, I can show you the snake," Puck says, whipping his phone back out.

Before he can pull the picture up, Karofsky snatches the phone out of his hand, drops it to the floor, and stomps it, crunching it under the thick heel of his boot. "No. Phones," he says slowly, smirking at Puck as he grinds the broken phone into the floorboards.

Puck glowers at him, and Blaine takes the opportunity to pluck the bandages out of Karofsky's hand. "Whatever you think, Trent was really bitten. If he's poisoned, he should be in the hospital right now, not just getting..." He stares at the bandages, boggled. "Wrapped up or something. This isn't a cut. It's a snakebite."

"So wash it out first and then bandage it up," Karofsky says. "What do you want me to do, call for his mommy? Camp Nightmoon is not a place for wimps or babies. If you can't handle a little snake bite, then why are you even here?"

-*-

As dusk settles, the campers from the boys' cabins gather around the campfire. Uncle Will is perched on the biggest trunk, guitar on his knee as he strums and sings the Camp Nightmoon song. For the first time in his life, Blaine hasn't felt much like singing, though. He picks at his hotdog, eating enough so that his stomach will stop growling, and tosses the rest in the crackling fire.

Everyone else is singing along, except for Trent, who's off away from the campfire and leaning against a thick, gnarled tree. Blaine waits until Uncle Will's eyes are closed and he's really into the song before he gets up and shuffles over the grass quietly, grabbing another hotdog on his way.

"Here you go," he says as he kneels down in front of Trent. "I couldn't put anything on it, but I figured this was better than nothing."

Trent is sweating, even in the cool evening breeze. "Thanks," he says. "I'm not really hungry, though." There's a pause, and then he adds, "Blaine? I'm... really scared."

"I know," Blaine says. "But maybe it wasn't poisonous. I don't know anything about snakes."

"Me neither," Trent says. "I don't want to die at Camp Nightmoon." His voice is edged with panic.

"Don't worry," Blaine says. "Nothing is going to happen to you."

-*-

The blare of Taps by a bad trumpet player at 6:00AM sends Blaine crashing awake. He blinks at the ceiling, having to remember where he is. But then, everything that happened the day before - the bus, how everyone who works for Camp Nightmoon is so weird - Trent's snakebite - all catches up with him in one fell swoop.

He ducks over the edge of the bed to check on Trent, but... Trent isn't there. Blaine rights himself and swings down while the rest of his bunkmates wake up, groaning about the early hour.

"Guys..." Blaine starts, clearing his throat as he stares at Trent's bunk. It hasn't been slept in at all, but Blaine remembers helping Trent into his bunk last night. The mattress is stripped, and the sheets and blanket are folded. The pillows are missing their cases. It looks like no one has ever slept there before at all.

"Guys, Trent's gone," Blaine says, staggering back from the bunk. Something's not right. Why would Trent just leave during the middle of the night? Where would he go?

"Whazzat? Who's gone?" Puck asks groggily, dragging his hand over his mohawk.

"Trent," Blaine says again, sighing in agitation when Puck shrugs and starts to roll back over, wrapping his arms around his pillow and making obnoxious kissing noises into it. "The guy with the snakebite? Come on, guys, wake up. There's something wrong."

The guys are useless, trying to remember what morning is, and Blaine can't wait. "Forget this, I'm going to find Karofsky and see if he knows where Trent has gone."

"Have fun," Puck says, and Sam gives him a lazy salute. Sebastian hasn't even woken up yet.

Without waiting to get dressed or re-gel his hair, Blaine ventures out into the misty early morning. The fog rolls in and sends a breeze over his bare legs and up under his boxers and thin undershirt, giving him a chill.

"Karofsky?" Blaine calls, looking around. It's hard to see in all the fog, and he has no idea how to really find his way around yet. He's about to turn around and head back to his bunk to wait for the other guys to wake up when he runs headlong into a stranger.

The stranger's piercing eyes bore into him, thin dark lips frowning at him. Even his receding hairline seems angry. "Children are not allowed to wander the premises when they should be at breakfast," he says, clutching the handle of a rake. He's wearing yellow coveralls with the same Camp Nightmoon logo that seems to be on all the uniforms.

"Who are you?" Blaine asks, taking a few steps back.

"Mr. Figgins," the man says. His voice is a flat and even keel that spooks the hairs on the back of Blaine's neck.

"O... kay. Look, there's a missing camper, and I really need to find Counselor Karofsky so he can help. Do you know where he is?"

"He's at breakfast," Mr. Figgins intones, "where all campers should be. So get there."

-*-

Karofsky proves to be no help, no matter how many times Blaine asks him where Trent's gone. Finally, at the first camp baseball game, Blaine gives up and resolves to go straight to Uncle Will instead. It's almost impossible to get Uncle Will by himself, though, as he's playing coach and umpire in the game.

Blaine waits until he's up to bat and turns to Uncle Will instead.

"Well, come on, Blaine, you gotta play ball," Uncle Will says. Blaine tightens his grasp on his bat and frowns.

"Uncle Will, I really want to know what happened to Trent," Blaine says. "Karofksy refuses to tell any of us, and he just went missing overnight. Did he go home? Is he okay?"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Blaine. Who's Trent?"

Blaine blinks. How could Uncle Will forget? "Trent, the guy in our bunk with the snakebite."

Uncle Will nods and purses his lips. "Ah," he says. "Don't worry about Trent. He's perfectly fine, I promise. Now! Time to play some ball!"

Sam is on the pitcher's mound, and he crows at Blaine, "Take this, Anderson! You're gonna get struck out by Trouty Mouth!"

Blaine isn't even focusing when the first ball flies right by him and straight into Uncle Will's mitt.

"Oh come on," Karofsky shouts from the outfield. "Get someone who's gonna swing at least!"

Blaine has never wanted to sock someone in the face so much as he does Karofsky. He's usually not a violent person, but he really wants to sock Karofsky in his smug, beefy face.

Puck claps from where he's resting on second base, crouching with his elbows on his knees. "Come on, Blaine, send me home!" He cups his hands around his mouth, which muffles his words more than amplifies them, but Blaine focuses now right on Sam and the leathery white ball in his hand.

The ball flies towards him, and Blaine winds back and swings. The bat cracks solidly against the ball, sending it zooming off as the counselors run to catch it. Puck flings himself forward, headed toward Karofsky at third base, and he slides in just as Blaine lands on first, and Karofsky catches the ball, touching it to Puck a second too late.

"Safe!" Uncle Will calls, and Karofsky scowls and throws his mitt on the ground with a sulk.

Puck grabs his crotch and hoots, hollering, "Suck it, Karofsky!" right in their counselor's face. "Bunk 4's gonna smoke your ass with me and my boy Blaine, hell yeah!"

Blaine laughs for the first time since he's gotten to Camp Nightmoon, but it doesn't last long. Some scrawny guy from bunk 1 is at the bat, and he nails it, sending Blaine and Puck both running, Puck aimed toward home. Blaine's not watching when it happens, but he hears the thunk and the pained grunt, and he skids to a stop, toes touching second base, not that it matters.

Puck is down, hovering just a couple feet from homeplate. His shades are strewn on the grass a few more feet away from him, and his dinged-up old baseball helmet Uncle Will pulled out of storage has a rounded cave-in knocked into it that's perfectly baseball-shaped.

The boys are gathering around Puck's body, and Blaine pushes through, kneeling down beside him and pushing him over so he's facing up. "What happened?" he asks.

"I didn't mean to hit him," Karofsky says. "He ducked way too far down while running. My ball would so not have hit him if he didn't run so weird." He scoffs, and Uncle Will waves a hand at him.

"It's fine, David, don't worry about it. I'm sure it was an accident," he says.

"An accident?" Blaine asks, leaning over Puck and tapping his cheeks. He's out cold, though, and doesn't respond, no matter what Blaine tries to get him to wake up. "He probably has a concussion!"

"He'll be fine," Uncle Will says. "Everyone, back to your bunks. Leave this to the staff to handle." Most of the boys disperse, but Sam and even Sebastian remain behind, dawdling behind Blaine. "Boys, you heard me."

"What are you going to do? Can you call his parents? He says he's been to prison or... or juvie or something, does he have parents?"

"Everyone has parents, Blaine," Uncle Will says. "You're a very compassionate camper, and that's the Camp Nightmoon spirit everyone should have, but really, leave this to the professionals. If the boy's hurt, we're going to take care of it. He'll be up and at it before you know it."

Sam puts a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "Come on, man. This is kinda their job," he says, tugging until Blaine stands up and walks away, eyes never leaving Puck's silent body.

-*-

"Told you babies that he'd be fine," Karofsky says later as he deposits a wincing Puck back into the cabin. Puck's holding an icepack to the back of his head, and one of the lenses is busted out the eye of his shades, but they're still stubbornly jammed onto his face anyway.

"My head hurts," he grumbles, and Karofsky jarringly slaps his shoulder, making the rest of the boys wince right along with Puck.

"Get over it!" Karofsky bellows. Now, this bunk has tent night tonight, so I'm going to go get your tents from the shed. Try not to lose a limb and cry before I get back." With that, Karofsky is out the door, and Puck slinks over to his bunk and climbs inside, hissing as his head hits the pillow.

-*-

Later, Blaine offers to share his tent with Puck, which makes Sebastian pout, but he'll get over it. And Puck is still quiet and gently massaging the back of his head until he catches someone looking, so Blaine wants to keep an eye on him before something else crazy happens. Puck's wrapped up tight in his sleeping bag, and Blaine stares at the flicker of fake fire inside his (officially camp sanctioned) electric lantern since he can't sleep.

Too much weird stuff has happened. Trent just disappeared, and everyone acted like it was no big deal. Maybe he really did go home, but then... Karofsky threw a baseball at Puck's head, and Uncle Will acted like it was no big deal. But maybe Puck has no one to call, so he really has to tough it out like the Camp Nightmoon song says to do. It's not fair, and it's not right, and Blaine feels so helpless not being able to do anything about it. He can't help but wonder what's gonna happen next.

"Hey! Open up!" Sam calls from outside Blaine's tent. He reaches forward and unzips it enough for Sam and Sebastian to peek their heads in, their features shadowy and sort of creepy in the dim lantern light. "Yo, dude, we're totally going to check out the forbidden bunk tonight. Are you in?"

Blaine's bunkmates are crazy. Sam he's not really surprised about. Not that he knows Sam, but he seems a little reckless. Sebastian, though... How can someone who used to perform with the Warblers be that stupid?

"Sorry, guys. I gotta stay with Puck. Someone needs to look after him," Blaine says. Someone really does need to stay with him, but Blaine is thankful for the ready-made excuse too.

"Oh, come on, Blaine," Sebastian drawls, "it's our one night to break Uncle Will's precious rules and go see what this forbidden bunk is all about. Aren't you... curious?" It sounds so suggestive when he asks it.

"Don't make it weird," Sam says, swinging the lantern in front of Sebastian's face.

"Don't make it homophobic," Sebastian counters with a sneer, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Dude, so not, but I can't, like, get my ghost on if you're trying to get your Blaine crush on."

"His what?" Blaine splutters. They've been at Camp Nightmoon all of two days. What on earth is Sam talking about?

"Don't worry, I can be a... good boy," Sebastian says, smirking as he turns back to Blaine. "But really, Blaine, you should come with us, get a little messy, from one prep school boy to another. While we have the chance."

"I..." Blaine shakes his head. "Sorry, but you two go on without me. I'm going to stay with Puck in case he wakes up and needs anything."

"Ugh, fine," Sam says. "Don't say we didn't ask you!" He pushes himself up and jerks Sebastian up with him as they go running loudly off into the night. Blaine zips his tent back up with a sigh and lays down on his sleeping bag, turning the lantern down until everything goes dark.

-*-

"Blaine! Blaine wake up!" There's rustling and slapping on his tent walls as Blaine awakes with a start, hurrying to right his fallen lantern and turn it back on, its yellowy ball of light fillin the tent. He unzips it as he tries to wipe the sleep out of his eyes, and Sebastian ducks halfway inside.

"The Sabre! The Sabre got Sam!" Sebastian screeches. "We have to get back in our bunk, it's coming!"

"What? What?" Blaine blinks at Sebastian, vision still blurry with exhaustion, but he can see how pale Sebastian is and the terror in his eyes. "What happened? Where's Sam?"

"Ripped to shreds!" Sebastian cries. It's the most undignified he's ever sounded. "The Sabre cornered us in the forbidden bunk and tore Sam to pieces. We gotta go! Now!"

"We have to get Puck!" Blaine says.

"Leave him!" Sebastian says. "There's no time!"

"We can't just leave him behind," Blaine snaps. "Help me get him up!"

"Oh my God, fine," Sebastian says, reaching for Puck's feet while Blaine tries to wrap his arms around Puck's shoulders and get them both up at the same time. It's a difficult process, fingers slipping over Puck's sleeping bag.

Then, his eyes snap open. "Sabre's coming," Puck whispers, staring off into nothingness, pupils dilated and huge. He looks possessed. "Sabre's hungry."

"What the crap." Sebastian shivers, almost dropping Puck's legs right as Blaine's gotten him up and is working them both out of the tent at a crouch, his lantern held on by his pinky and swinging wildly underneath Puck.

"I don't know I don't know, come on!" Blaine hisses. It's awkward running with Puck's hulking mass between. Puck is long and unsurprisingly heavy, and their bunk is not the closest bunk to get to, but the growling and snapping of jaws not far behind them spurs them on.

"Run! Run, go!" Sebastian cries. Blaine hopes it's his imagination, figures it must be, but he swears he can feel Sabre's warm breath on the back of his neck, the growling surrounding him and boxing him in.

But then they finally make it to their bunk, the door flinging open. They stumble inside, dropping Puck on the floor. He groans and then whispers, "He's coming, he's coming, he's hungry," even as he scurries under the closest bunk with a wriggle.

Blaine slams the front door closed, and he and Sebastian run to the back of the cabin and crouch behind the furthest bunk, which happens to be Puck's. Blaine spies Puck's cane sticking out from under Puck's bed, and he slides it out, holding it in his shaking, sweaty grip. Oh God, oh God....

There's silence, and then there's a pounding THUD against the door, making it shake. Claws dig at the wood, pawing and tearing at the door from the outside. Beside Blaine, Sebastian is trembling.

"Oh God, oh God, it's going to kill us," Sebastian whimpers.

Blaine feels frozen, his heart pounding, every nerve on wide alert. There's another THUD, THUD, THUD at the door, a body slamming against it, and the scratching of nails. The wood starts to buckle and splinter.

Then, all at once, it flies open.

TO BE CONTINUED................

Chapter Text

Blaine's breath comes out in shaky, invisible puffs. Sebastian is rattling beside him, clutching onto the blanket he's yanked off the bunk next to them for dear life. Blaine tightens his hold on the cane and peers out into the aisle, looking at the open doorway.

There's a silhouette of a... human, standing there.

"What the hell are you guys doing out of your tents?" Karofsky asks, stepping forward into the lantern light. In the dark, his scowl is more pronounced than usual. "Tent night means sleeping in tents, or were you guys too stupid to figure that one out?"

"Shut up!" Blaine hisses. "And close the door!"

"What are you whiners whining about now?" Karofsky asks, rolling his eyes. He leaves the door wide open, and Blaine clenches his teeth, rushing past Karofsky at a crouch and slamming the door closed. He runs his hand over the wood, but there's no fragmented splinters or the slightest crack. Weird.

"Karofsky, Sabre got Sam!" Sebastian blurts out, and Puck punctuates it with a whimper from under the bunk. Karofsky squints at all of them, then shines his lantern in Blaine's face.

"What were you guys doing out of your tents?"

"Does it matter? Sebastian says Sam's been eaten or mauled or... or seriously injured or something, and you have to do something about it. We have to tell Uncle Will, we have to..."

He starts to rush past Karofsky again, but Karofsky grabs onto Blaine's shoulder with his thick, meaty grip. He's stronger than he has any right to be, and it makes Blaine so angry. Blaine tries to shrug out of the grip, but it's pretty impossible.

"I don't care what he said. I wanna know why you guys were out of your tents. And I'm not going to ask again, pipsqueaks."

"We were at the forbidden bunk!" Sebastian pipes up, peering over the bed, his hair falling into his face.

Karofsky rears back, letting Blaine go as he puts his hands on his hips. "At the forbidden bunk? Are you crazy or just stupid? God, why did I have to get your bunk. No one goes to the forbidden bunk! Period. End of story."

He pauses and then smirks, shaking his head. "You guys are so dead. Just wait until I tell Uncle Will. He is going to kill you."

Karofsky turns and flings the door back open, stomping out of it. He's quickly swallowed up into the night, and Blaine hurries forward to slam the door closed behind him again. Who cares if they get in trouble for Sam and Sebastian going to the forbidden bunk? That doesn't matter. All that matters is that Sam is in trouble or maybe even dead.

Blaine lets his head fall back against the door with a thunk and closes his eyes, but all he can picture is flashes of images of Sam disfigured and mangled, clawed and shredded to pieces and not even looking human. He shudders.

"I don't care what Karofsky says," Blaine starts. "Something is out there, and as soon as it's morning, we're going to find Uncle Will and tell him all about it. For now, we're safe in here, so we just have to sit and wait and watch. Who wants to take the first shift?"

Puck whimpers. "My head is killing me," he groans, just barely poking his head out from under the bunk. Sebastian shakes his head quickly and ducks back down, and Blaine sighs.

"I guess that leaves me," he says, clutching Puck's cane in both hands against his chest as he leans back against the door and waits. It's not like he could've slept anyway.

-*-

"Wake up," Blaine groans as the trumpet sounds. He doesn't remember dropping off into sleep, but he must have because he's slumped down on the floor in front of the door, Puck's cane laying on the floor beside him, totally useless in his sleep-slow hands. Ugh.

"Did you fall asleep?" Sebastian asks. "You were supposed to be keeping watch."

Blaine glares up at Sebastian. "No one volunteered to take a second shift. Sue me," he grumbles. "Come on, get dressed. We gotta find Uncle Will and see if we can... find what's left of Sam after that."

There's no search party organized, they realize. Blaine looks around, and there's... nothing out of the ordinary. It's a sunny morning, and the birds are chirping. The grounds are empty, save for a couple of boys from another bunk trickling into the mess hall for breakfast. Uncle Will's nowhere to be found.

"Where's Uncle Will?" Blaine calls out across the mess hall once he, Sebastian, and Puck push inside. Karofsky is sitting at the head table with the other counselors, an he groans, tipping his head back and muttering curse words under his breath while the other counselors laugh.

"Man, you got yourself a bunch of whiners this year, Karofsky," another stocky counselor says. "How'd you wind up with this bunch?"

"Bad luck," Karofsky says, wiping his hands over his face. "What do you shit babies want now?"

"We need Uncle Will," Blaine says. "Tell me where he is."

Karofsky narrows his eyes. "Uncle Will isn't here. Uncle Will is too busy for little baby boys like you. If you got something to say, say it to me. I'm in charge."

"You won't help us!" Blaine says, slamming his fist down on the table. It makes the counselors' plates and cups clatter, and the guy next to Karofsky shrieks as his orange juice spills into his lap.

"Aw, come on, man, I grew out of all my other uniforms! This is the only one I got! Maaaaaan," he shouts, patting at his crotch with useless paper napkins.

"That's it," Karofsky says, shooting up and leaning over into Blaine's space. "Everyone, swimtrunks on, now. We're going to the lake!"

While the rest of the campers roar with celebration, Karofsky lowers his voice and glares at Blaine. "Stay out of my way and do what I tell you to do. Stop whining at me every time I turn around. Got it?"

Blaine can feel his jaw tightening, and he opens his mouth to say something just as Puck and Sebastian grab his shoulders and haul him back. "We got it, you major ass," Puck spits.

"Good," Karofsky sneers. "Now get to the lake."

-*-

"Did you guys figure out what is in the forbidden bunk?" Blaine asks as they pass it on the trail to the lake. The signs are all pretty faded and sun-warped, so Blaine hopes this is the trail to the lake anyway.

The forbidden bunk sits back from the path, shrouded by overgrown shrubbery and darkness. The woods are so thick once you're off the trail that hardly any light gets through. It's still early morning, but the forbidden bunk seems stuck in twilight.

"No," Sebastian says. All three of them are stuck staring at the cabin, listening as the creaking boards whisper at them in the breeze. The windows busted out long ago, either naturally or from errant baseballs, and now they just look like two vacant, staring eyes framing either side of the door-less doorframe.

"Let's go," Puck says. "I am not hanging around this popsicle stand another minute."

Blaine licks his lips, eyeing the forbidden bunk one last time as Sebastian and Puck start heading away. What if Sam's in there? What if, somehow or another, he's alive? Someone has to know what's going on at Camp Nightmoon.

"You guys go on ahead. I'll meet you at the lake," he says, waving off Sebastian and Puck's protests. "I'll be right there! I'll meet you at the lake."

It takes Blaine awhile to retrace his steps and make his way back up to the main camp, passing the bunks and the mess hall to head up to the main headquarters. The place seems deserted, no counselors, no Uncle Will, nobody. Blaine tries the doors, but they're locked shut, so he walks around the building.

Finally. Finally he sees a phone hanging on the outside wall with a little rusted mini-awning shading it from the sun. It's an old phone, practically ancient, but anything will work. Blaine picks up the earpiece and is about to start dialing his mom's cell, when someone reaches over his left shoulder and presses the dial tone.

"Wha- Uncle Will?" Blaine asks as he whirls around to face the chief camp counselor.

"What are you doing, Blaine, trying to call home?"

Blaine wants to feel relaxed. He can tell Uncle Will everything, and it'll all be fine. But something is still setting him on edge, and the glint in Uncle Will's eye isn't helping.

"Yes...," he says. "I just. I'm really homesick, so I..."

"Camp's hard," Uncle Will says, resting his hand on Blaine's shoulder. He reaches down and takes the earpiece out of Blaine's hand, hanging the phone up. "Can't let you call home, though. Can't let anyone call home. Heck, I can't call home!" Uncle Will says. His smile grows from ear to ear, plastered acros his face in a plastic, practiced way.

"What do you mean?" Blaine asks, looking back at the phone.

"Oh, this old thing?" Uncle Will reaches past him and pulls the phone down, the board it's attached to coming away from the side of the building with ease. "It's a fake! Just a practical gag I put up years ago to trick people. Worked on you! There's no way the phone company would hook up a line all the way out here, and we banned cell phones after they didn't get reception anyway. One too many letters of lost cell phones from parents after camp ended, so we eliminated the problem." Uncle Will winks at Blaine, then throws his head back and laughs. "You should've seen your face, though!"

Blaine manages a weak half-laugh and tries to remember how to smile. "So there's... no way to reach the outside world? At all?" he asks.

"Not for eight weeks! Gotta commune with nature, learn how to face whatever the real earth throws you, not what some screen tells ya about. Now! Where are you supposed to be right now, Blaine?"

Blaine swallows, feeling utterly hopeless. "The lake," he says dully, his shoulders slumping. What is he supposed to do? Karofsky is no help, and he can't call his parents, or Coop. Or, hell, 911.

"Then let's get going!" Uncle Will says, clapping Blaine on the shoulder again. "You're going to love the lake. It's absolutely beautiful in the summer. You don't wanna miss it!"

Uncle Will starts to head off with a grin when Blaine calls, "Uncle Will? What happened to Sam? Did Karofsky tell you about him?"

Uncle Will freezes mid-step, his shoulders hiking up and the line of his back tensing. Blaine can't see his face, but he's pretty sure Uncle Will is scowling.

"Did Karofsky tell me what about Sam?" Uncle Will asks, voice low and tremorous.

Blaine shivers. "About Sam, about how he went missing last night, and no one's doing anything about it."

Uncle Will still won't look at Blaine, and it's starting to freak Blaine out. He tilts his head a bit, talking over his shoulder, and says, "No one has went missing, Blaine. There is no camper named Sam. You can check the registery, first name, middle name, no Sams, Samuels, or even Samanthas. There's not a single Sam registered at Camp Nightmoon this year. Now go to the lake, Blaine, and have fun." The last words are bitten out, a menacing threat.

Uncle Will leaves Blaine where he's standing and disappears into the building without stopping to unlock it. Blaine had been sure that door was locked before...

-*-

At the lake, Blaine stands on the pier, watching as Sebastian and Puck try to get over their own ginormous egos for two seconds and work a canoe together. "Paddle on the left!" Sebastian calls. "You idiot, that's your right! I'm paddling on the right!"

"I'll screw the right's mom and let you paddle both, how about that?" Puck shouts back, thrusting his padde up and splashing Sebastian's side with lake water. Blaine would laugh if he wasn't so wigged out.

"Oh my God, what are you idiots doing out in the water without life jackets?" Karofsky calls. He walks up to the edge of the pier, arms loaded down with life vests and other floating devices. "Paddle up here and put these on!"

"We're fine," Puck says. "I ain't putting one of those over my head."

"Get here now," Karofsky growls. "What did I say about doing what I say and not talking back?"

Sebastian rolls his eyes, even as he's trying to splash Puck in retaliation. "What are you going to do, tell Uncle Will? Oooooh, we're trembling in our swim trunks now. Please."

"Screw my life," Karofsky mutters. "I can't believe I got stuck with you pissy babies." He picks up one of the round tire floats and tosses it out toward the canoe. "Here, put this on right now!"

It falls short, though. Landing in the water with a stuttered splash. Sebastian sighs and reaches over, leaning over the brim of the canoe to reach for it. "Yes sir, as you wish, sir," he mutters, stretching his hand out and straining to reach the tire. "Next time, can Counselor Karofsky learn how to decently throw?"

Karofsky's sputtering next to Blaine in anger, but before he can say anything, the canoe is wobbling and then flipping, turning over bottom up and dumping Sebastian and Puck in the water.

"Oh shit, I can't swim! Karofsky, get me outta here, I don't know how to swim!" Puck shouts, flailing his arms and kicking his legs.

Blaine throws himself to his knees on the edge of the pier. "Stop panicking!" he calls out. "That's only going to make it worse! Kick with your legs, and you'll be okay!"

Puck's not listening, though, and he dunks under water for a second, reappearing again with another flail before sinking once more, nothing but air bubbles left as his mohawk disappears from view. Sebastian, who'd grabbed hold of the tire float the second he'd landed in, sighs.

"I'll get him, hold on," he says with a put-upon air. He sucks in a breath and dives under, and Blaine waits.

And waits.

Soon, the air bubbles disappear, popping out of existence. Then, the ripples grow calm. Blaine's knuckles turn white as he clings to the edge of the pier. He looks over at Karofsky, who's staring at the calm water's surface in panic.

"No. No no no no," he mutters, walking backwards.

"Go after them!" Blaine says. "Don't be useless. They're drowning. Don't you have some sort of lifeguard training or something?"

"This can't be happening," Karofsky says, as if he can't hear Blaine at all. "I wasn't here." He looks at Blaine and then back at the water. "I was at the mess hall. I didn't go to the lake today. I told you guys to stay away, but you don't listen. You don't listen."

He keeps mumbling as he steadily backs up, disappearing around the edge of the lakehouse. "I wasn't here," he says, panicked mumbling fading as he disappears.

Blaine doesn't think, kicks off his shoes and pulls his t-shirt off over his head before diving into the water. From the surface, it had a sparkling green-ish blue tint to it that looked pretty much beautiful, if Blaine is being honest, but the second he plunges underwater, he realizes one terrible thing.

He can't see anything.

Beneath the surface, the water is as dull brown as mud, inky and blinding, and painfully briney in his eyes. He waves his hands in front of his face and can barely see the ripples in the water from them. He definitely can't see his hands, not until he just about has them pressed against his face.

He kicks to the surface and shakes his hair out of his face, gasping for air. Sucking in another lungful he dives back in, swimming for the canoe. He keeps one hand stretched straight out in front of him and slightly breaking the water's surface until it slaps against the wooden side of the canoe. He waves his hand in the water and can't feel anything. Where could they have gone?

He swims up and takes another breath, his heart beating painfully and his lungs aching. He took swimming lessons long ago, but he hasn't went swimming in anything as thick and muddy and demanding as this, and no matter what he told Puck, panicking is almost unavoidable. He dives back down and tries to blindly swim deeper, until he feels his air running out, a little further... He strains his eyes against the water, willing himself to see anything, to swim a little deeper...

There's nothing, though. It's hopeless.

-*-

As soon as Blaine throws himself up onto the pier again, he makes a run for it, dashing up the trail and past the forbidden bunk without a second glance. He makes his way back to the main office and bangs on the doors and windows, trying to peer in. They're dusty, the dinginess hiding what's going on inside, if anything.

Blaine gives up and heads to the mess hall. He doesn't have his watch, but maybe someone is there, either eating or maybe even Mr. Figgins will be there cleaning up. Blaine's desperate enough to even talk to him.

"Hello?!" he calls as he crashes inside. "Uncle Will? Karofsky? Anybody? Hello?" He runs to the center of the room between all the tables and looks around.

There's no one there. Not only that, but there's no dishes on the tables, no smell of freshly cooked food. It looks formerly scrubbed clean and then abandoned, left to gather dust and wear down on its own, to be taken over by nature.

"This is crazy...," Blaine mutters to himself. "What is happening to me?"

He races out and heads to bunk 4, skidding to a halt in the doorway.

There's only one bed bunk still made, the one on top of Trent's long-abandoned bunk. His ow.

Every other bunk is a mirror of Trent's now. The mattresses are stripped bare, sheets folded, pillows clean. Not a single sign of any of his bunkmates' belongings are there. Blaine falls to his knees and checks under every single bed. There's nothing, not a scratch, all except for his bunk. His duffel bag is still next to the dresser he shared with the other guys, propped up and looking as abandoned as the rest of the camp feels.

Blaine can't catch his breath. He scrambles up the ladder and sits in his bed, the mattress squeaking and startling him with the sudden noise when he's otherwise surrounded by

complete

silence.

He's shaking and still wet from the lake, hair dripping into his face and curls spilling out from his head. All he can hear is his own heart, his erratic breathing.

"Think. Think, think, think," he mutters to himself. "Something is going on. There's a logical answer to this." He may not have ever taken the scientific path that his parents had, with all their experiments and investigations, but he's the child of scientists, and everything has a logical explanation.

Everything.

Nothing feels logical, though. The wind picks up, howling in through the doorway and back out, passing over him and chilling him to the bone. He shivers.

He has to move. He has to... he has to do something.

He hops down and jams his feet into his only other pair of shoes, some brown Oxfords he'd packed for any special occasions, pulls on some jeans and a polo, straps his watch to his wrist, and then, out of the corner of his eye - he spies it.

Puck's cane.

He's never been so glad to see something to hideous in all his life. He's not hallucinating, he thinks as he picks it up. This is real. All of this is real and something is happening, and he's going to figure out what it is.

-*-

Once out the door, Blaine has no idea where to go. Which direction do you take when your whole summer camp packed up and left while you were trying to save your bunkmates from drowning?

Then, there's a rustle of white, something thin and wispy twisting and twirling in the wind on the ground. Blaine jogs over to it and picks it up. It's the bandages they'd wound around Trent's arm after he'd gotten bitten.

I don't want to die here. Trent's voice echoes in Blaine's mind. He tosses the bandages down and heads off in the direction they were pointing him in. He shouldn't trust used bandages, but what else is he going to go on? His heart says he's going the right way, even if his brain is still clueless.

A short while later, his shoes crunch on something that doesn't sound like leaves, and he pauses, looking down. He should've brought a lantern, he realizes now, but after his eyesight adjusts, he realizes he's stepped on the remains of Puck's glasses.

"Oh my God," he gasps, picking them up and squinting at them. He wants to pocket them, wants to keep them safe, even if they're broken to hell and back, but he doesn't have time to collect souvenirs. Instead, he tosses them and changes his path slightly left, finding the trail leading down to the lake.

In a tree, hanging by their laces, is a fancy pair of shoes much too big for Blaine but similar in fashion to something he'd wear. They have to be Sebastian's. Blaine's sure of it. Right around the tree they're in, the trail divides, heading down to the lake or curving deeper in the forest.

Blaine takes a breath and follows the curve.

It's not long before he practically runs right into the forbidden bunk, having gone around it from the back. He was so busy looking around himself that he didn't bother to look straight ahead until a gigantic, wispy spiderweb envelopes him in its trap. He swats at it and looks around. The waterlogged wood is rotten and flaking away, and Blaine heads around to the front of the bunk, wincing every time the steps creak as he slowly walks up onto the porch.

"Hello?" he tries. "Is anyone here?"

"Blaine? Oh, thank goodness you're here. You're the first person I've seen in... in days." Blaine squints into the darkness until Rachel steps forward, her hair matted and stuffed with twigs and leaves. Her face is smudged with ashy dirt, and there's spiderwebs clinging to her cardigan. She doesn't hesitate to run right to him and fling her arms around his neck. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"I'm glad to see you too," Blaine says. "Do you know what's going on? I can't find anyone," he asks.

Rachel shakes her head. "No clue. Everything's gone crazy. The counselor for the girls, Sue, she's just... she has no compassion. The first night we were here, we went on a bonding hike, and... do you remember Unique? She got mauled by a bear in the woods. We couldn't get to her in time before she got hurt, and she was just. It was awful, Blaine.

"And then Sue said to just not worry about it! That she'd be fine! We stayed up with her and tried to put some bandages on her, but it was so bad. She couldn't stop crying, and..." Rachel sniffs dramatically and wipes at her eyes. "She was gone the next morning. I don't know what happened to her."

"Stuff like that happened with us too," Blaine says, telling her about Trent, then Puck, then Sam, and finally the canoeing accident. Rachel gasps.

"Blaine, I'm so scared," she says. "I've been hiding in here because I'm terrified I'm going to be next, but I don't know what to do. We can't stay here forever." She clutches at his arm, and Blaine takes her hand in his and squeezes it.

They here a whistle, then, and they both jump. Rachel puts her finger over her lips and then points at the window on the far side of the forbidden bunk, leading out to the westward side of the woods, the one area Blaine hasn't trumped through yet.

They go over to the window and look through it, and Blaine sucks in a breath. "Uncle Will? What's... what's going on? What are they doing?"

All the other campers are there from the other bunks, and Uncle Will, the other counselors, they're all out there. The Camp Nightmoon employees have traded in their bright yellow polos for green and black army fatigues. There's a shrill whistle resting between Uncle Will's lips that he blows two more times before shouting something at the three straight rows of campers that Blaine can't quite make out.

"I have to check it out," Blaine says. "We have to have answers. Something is going on. I'll come back for you," he says to Rachel, squeezing her hand one more time and then heading for the door.

He crouches down, sliding along the mildewed boards holding the forbidden bunk up by sheer willpower until he reaches the corner. There's a slope to the ground, and he edges down it carefully, holding onto whatever trees he can to quietly avoid being seen. When he reaches the clearing edge, he tucks himself behind a thick tree and peers around it.

None of this makes any sense. Before he can hear anything else that's going on, two strong arms wrap around him, trapping his arms to his sides.

"Hey, Uncle Will! Look what I found creeping around the woods!" Karofsky shouts gleefully as he tightens his grip around Blaine, picking him up and hoisting him into the clearing.

"Blaine! Where have you been? The meeting started half an hour ago," Uncle Will chastises. "Here, fall in line right here, Blaine, let's continue from the top."

"Uncle Will, I have to know what's going on. What is all this? What's going on? Where did everyone go? Sebastian and Puck just probably drowned, and Karofsky ran away acting like he was never there. Now the whole camp is cleared out, I don't understand, but I -"

"Slow down there, Blaine," Uncle Will says, holding up a hand. "What's all this fuss about a Sebastian or a... did you say Puck? There's no campers here by those names. You seem upset, though, so. Take a deep breath. Sometimes in situations of high stress, the brain can hallucinate events or people..."

"No!" Blaine shouts, smacking Uncle Will's hand off his shoulder. "This is real, and my bunkmates have gone missing, and you don't care. I want answers, I want to know what's going on!" His voice is shrill even to his own ears, his eyes wide. He keeps his death grip on Puck's cane like it's his last line of defense, and honestly, it probably is.

Uncle Will's face falls and he snarls at Blaine. "Get in line, camper. We have someone missing, and you are impeding the retrieval process. Figgins!"

Mr. Figgins wheezes into view, lugging a huge, bulging burlap sack behind him. Uncle Will reaches out, and Figgins opens the bag, handing a sleek, black weapon of some kind over to Uncle Will. He checks it out, loading it and nodding. It's a hand-held bow, a small one. He points it and checks the view and grunts in approval.

"All right, we've got a camper from the girl's side missing. Brunette, extremely petite, and loud. Not considered dangerous but is considered a threat to Camp Nightmoon's security. We suspect she has kept close to the camp and is hiding somewhere near. Figgins, hand every camper a weapon. Boys, now's the time to suit up. We have a job to do," Uncle Will barks.

Blaine steps in front of him. "No way! Do you mean Rachel? What are you going to do, are you gonna... ae you going to kill her? he sputters, eyeing the weapons. Sharp-pointed darts rest in the loading pin, and the bow is pulled back, ready to go as soon as Uncle Will pulls the trigger.

"Kill her?" Uncle Will says, throwing his head back to laugh. "What do you think we are, monsters? These are tranq guns. We're going to bring her in, make sure she's safe and accounted for. This is just to take her down so she won't fight us. We don't know why she fled, but she's probably spooked. This'll calm her down for a little while is all. Here you go, this one's for you, Blaine. Just point, aim, and shoot when you see the target."

"I'm not going to shoot Rachel!" Blaine shouts. He takes a step back and raises the weapon up, pointing it at Uncle Will. Everyone freezes, the campers gathering behind Uncle Will, and the other counselors easing in on either side until Uncle Will holds up a hand and subtley shakes his head.

"It's fine," he says, eyes on the tip of Blaine's dart. "What are you going to do with that, Blaine? Are you going to shoot Uncle Will? I'm just trying to look out for you kids."

"I want answers," Blaine says. "And I'm not letting anyone hunt Rachel like some... like some animal. This is insane. Campers have died here, and you don't care, but Rachel of all people is a threat?"

"Now, Blaine, just lower the -" Uncle Will starts to advance, hands up in peace, but Blaine jabs the weapon in the air at him and places his hand on the trigger.

"Put the weapon down, Blaine," Uncle Will demands.

"No, I'm not going to," Blaine says, voice level, steady. He narrows his eyes, aims the dart right for Uncle Will's chest.

"Put it down!" Uncle Will snarls. Desperation is pumping through Blaine now, beads of sweat running down his face, his clothes sticking to him. Even with he press of a crowd of people in front of him, the woods are as quiet as they were when he was all alone.

"I can't," he says and then squeezes the trigger with no hesitation.

The dart flies out and hits Uncle Will in the heart. His hands fly up to it, and he staggers back with a groan. His eyes go wide and roll back in his head, and the campers stumble out of his way as he continues backwards.

Then, he freezes.

His look of pained anguish turns into a bright smile, and he plucks the dart out of his shirt like it's nothing, tossing it on the ground and dusting his fatigues off. "Congratulations, Blaine!" he says, following it with a laugh. "You passed!"

The other campers look him over for a second then nod in approval and slowly begin to applaud. A sea of faces clap for him, some whistling and hollering, others beginning to chant his name.

Karofsky comes up behind him and Blaine flinches, but all Karofsky does is hold out a fist for a bump that Blaine's too confused to return. "Relax, Blaine, you did great!" he says, clapping Blaine on the back before joining the others.

"All right, all right, everyone! You can come out now!" Uncle Will crows. Blaine whips around, and out of the underbrush comes his parents, wearing their khaki expedition clothes and beaming at him.

Blaine staggers backwards. Is he imagining this? "Mom? Dad?"

"Oh, sweetheart, we knew you'd pass," his mom says to him, wrapping him in a hug. She smells the same and feels real, and when she pulls away, his dad reaches out to grab his hand and shake it. Blaine watches it all happen like he's detached from real life. He doesn't even know what he's feeling, can't process the steady applause and the way everything's turned around.

He drops the weapon when Rachel exits the woods, slipping down the slope from the forbidden bunk gracefully and skipping over to him. She throws herself into another hug, squeezing him tight. "I knew you could do it! You were so brave," she says, kissing his cheek.

Blaine swallows. His throat feels raw, tongue heavy in his mouth and dry like sandpaper. "What... what's going on...?" he asks, disoriented.

"Blaine, Camp Nightmoon isn't real," Uncle Will says. "It's a government facility used for experiments and survey, but it's not a summer camp."

"Your father and I have been requested to go on an expedition that's... pretty far away. Cooper was even invited to come along with us and finish his research. We didn't want to imagine leaving you here behind by yourself, but... The government requires that anyone who's to make long voyages, especially those who are underage, undergo a series of rigorous tests to prove that they're ready for such a trip. We hated not to tell you, but we were sure you'd pass, and you did," his mother says with a grin.

"But what about..." Blaine looks into the woods where his parents first stepped out right as there's a crunch and snap of twigs and then Sam emerges.

"Miss me?" he says with a wide-mouthed smile. He rubs his hand through Blaine's hair and then makes a face, wiping his palm off on his jeans. "Dude, you and the gel need a serious divorce."

"But you were ripped to shreds by Sabre," Blaine says, still stunned numb. Sam looks whole. He looks good if Blaine's being honest, all muscular and lean, sunkissed tan. He's not wearing a shirt, and his chest is scratch free and... perfect. Blaine blinks and tears his gaze away.

"Good as new!" Sam says. "Probably shouldn't believe everything Sebastian tells you, though."

"I heard that," Sebastian says as he and Puck stomp through to the clearing next. Their clothes are still a little damp, but they look fine. Puck smirks at Blaine and then reaches forward, taking his cane out of Blaine's limp grasp.

"I'll take that back now, thank you," Puck says. "Can't say goodbye to my lucky pimpin' cane." He kisses the eagle handle right on the beak.

Blaine tries to remember how to close his mouth from how it's gaping open in shock. "But how did you two escape? I couldn't find you and you were under for so long..."

"Yeah, we actually got worried you were going to find us," Sebastian drawls. "We were under the canoe the whole time, tucked in a little air pocket. But you got super close. You made me touch him to keep away from you." Sebastian shudders as he glares over at Puck, who puckers his lips.

"You only wish you were so lucky and I was so gay," he says.

Blaine whips around, searching the faces in the crowd, then back to the woods. "But what about... what about Trent? He got bit by a snake, I saw it. We treated it. He disappeared..."

"Or did I?" Trent says from behind Blaine, stepping out of some woods and holding up a rubber snake. It looks less convincing outside in the sunlight. "Remote controlled," he says. "Really had you going."

"But your arm... your hand looked awful..." Blaine can't get over it. Everything he saw, it was all a lie. So far the explanations make sense, but there's no way with Trent... There's just... no way...

"Remote controlled pus," Trent says. "It was so cool. Sam had a little control in his pocket that he'd push to make it gush more. It was awesome," he continues, fingers fanned out and voice rising in excitement.

"I don't understand what's going on. Why... all of this... and how did you all..."

"We're actors, Blaine," Sam says. "Hey, this summer gig basically paid for my car, so. Thank you government funding," he says, kissing two fingers and reaching them toward the sky. "We were hired to make this seem real for you."

"But what was the test? To see how scared I could be?" Blaine asks. Now that he knows the truth, he's starting to get angry. How could they do this to him?

"Oh, honey," his mother begins. "We never wanted you to be scared, but fear is a common response to stress. The tests were used to evaluate your strengths."

"Like how smart you were to take care of the snake," Trent says with a proud smile.

"And how you didn't leave me stranded in the tent when Sabre was chasing us," Puck says. "Thanks for that, bro."

"And your bravery in trying to keep us from drowning when no one else would help," Sebastian adds.

"And," Rachel begins, "Your persistence that you were right, no matter how crazy everything got. You were literally left alone, and you still didn't give up. You're very brave, Blaine."

Blaine looks around at them all and furrows his brow, rubbing hard at the pucker on his forehead as he tries to parse everything he's been told.

"Okay... okay, fine, let's say I believe you because nothing else makes sense, but... what about Sabre? We heard him in the woods." He looks at Uncle Will. "And you shot him!"

"Figgins, bring out Sabre," Uncle Will says. Mr. Figgins appears, strapped to a monstrous, growling head with pointing, yellowed fangs dripping saliva over its big, meaty jowls. Blaine stumbles back, falling into the wall of campers behind him.

It takes him a second to process what he's seeing. Mr. Figgins has suspenders resting on his shoulders and strapped to the back of the head of a large puppet... thing that he's controlling with a series of buttons in his hands. His feet are enveloped in high, furry boots that look convincingly like the front legs of the monster known as Sabre.

"Cool," Trent says reverently.

"Government funding!" Sam says. "Best thing ever, right?"

"Show him how it roars!" Uncle Will calls, and Mr. Figgins presses a big red button. The Sabre head lets out a mighty growling roar that nearly splits Blaine's eardrums this close.

"William, you started without me," Counselor Sue says as she marches her troop of campers from the girls' side of the woods on through to join the masses.

"I told you what time it was starting, Sue," Uncle Will says. "Once again, you were la -"

"Bite your tongue, sweet William, or I'll have Sabre bite it for you," Counselor Sue says, drippingly sweet.

Blaine stalks up to Sue and wishes he still had his weapon in his hands, or at least Puck's cane. "Tell me that Unique's okay," he says. That's his last hold out, the last injury unaccounted for, and Blaine can feel his panic starting to rise again.

Sue rolls her eye and steps to the right, revealing Unique standing there in all her sequined glory.

She grins at Blaine and waves then gives him a little sashay. "Honey, please, I am so fine," she says. Then, batting her lashes, she adds, "When am I not?"

Blaine runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, swaying on his feet. He's exhausted, and all the worry draining so quickly out of him has left him tired and in need of a nap and a week away from reality. But... not like this.

"I don't understand," he says, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes until he sees spots to try and keep himself focused. "I mean, I understand that none of this is real. I understand all of that, but I don't understand why. Where could we possibly be going that is so dangerous that I have to prove how brave I am or whatever?"

He turns to his parents and waits for an answer, crossing his arms over his chest. He's being petulant now, he knows it, and he doesn't care. His mom steps up and rubs between his shoulder blades, guiding his gaze up into the sky.

"We're going off-planet," she says. "That's why there's so much red tape. We're investigating a new world. And it's supposedly very dangerous."

Blaine blinks up in the sky, squinting against the sun at the other orb that's always hung in the sky for as long as he can remember.

"You mean...." Blaine licks his dry lips and looks at his mom. "You mean, we're going to..."

His mom nods. "That's right, Blaine. We're going to... Earth."

Chapter Text

For Blaine, the worst thing about moving to Westerville, Ohio, was leaving behind everything he'd ever known. The best thing about moving to Westerville, Ohio, was leaving behind everything he'd ever known.

Besides, they'd gotten a steal on this huge, two-story house with a lane of bent-over trees on either side leading up to it. Blaine had heard that no less than ten times in the last day from his dad. This house was a real steal! Which, given how expensive the private school Blaine would be attending once summer was over was, he supposes a real steal of a house is a pretty good thing, even if they've never really worried about that stuff before.

For now, though, Blaine still has two glorious months of freedom ahead of himself, and in the immediate future, two weeks of hell of unpacking to do for them to really put the finishing touches on this thing. Thus why Blaine has, after shifting a sheet-covered, dusty couch three feet to the left and finding a tiny door cut into the wall, been hiding in the surprise basement they weren't aware existed.

"Blaignorak the Orcan Warrior from Andersonia stomps down the stairs," Blaine whispers to himself, immersing himself in his favorite magical world. "His King has sent him on a solo expedition to stake out the new territory and assess its treasures."

The basement isn't empty. Surely whoever lived here last knew about the basement because it's not as full or as... lived in - settled - as it could be, but there's the occasional boxes strewn about, a few piled as tall as he is. He crouches behind one stack and cradles his makeshift mace close, letting it swing on its chain against his leg. It would never pierce thick Orc hide.

Blaine stays still. There's a shuffle, and his human brain panics about the potential of basement-dwelling rats while his Orc persona sniffs the air for the stench of enemy flesh. The music swells in his head, arcing toward a chase sequence just as soon as he can get his victim in his sights. He shuffles over to another stack of boxes and leans gingerly against them, peering around the corner.

The music crashes thunderously and sweeps downward, taking a somber turn, and Blaine blinks at the corner of the basement across from him. Underneath another white sheet looks like...

He inches closer.

"A piano?" he says out loud. The sheet puckers and flattens in little rising and lowering patterns as the maddeningly sad music booms from the instrument. The seat is tucked under the piano, but, upon further inspection, the pedals are lifting and lowering all by themselves.

Blaine feels a chill dash down his spine. He reaches one shaking hand out and grips the sheet, yanking it off in a cloud of dust and revealing...

A piano, just as he'd thought. And of course, there's no one there. The playing had stopped as soon as the sheet was removed.

"What the..." Blaine coughs as the dust swirls in the stagnant, musty air. This is insane. Pianos can't just play by themselves. He closes the lid with a solid thunk and perches himself up on it, looking into the lid for any hidden wires. He rolls the piano out on its squeaky wheels and peers behind the piano into the darkened crevices. There's no plugs, no buttons that might have gotten switched on by... something. It looks like... a piano, just a regular, old piano.

Blaine hasn't touched a piano in years, opting to train his voice instead. He'd always loved it, though, how something so big and kind of clunky could make such beautiful music, entirely dependent on the intricate guts hidden away in a polished, wooden package. He pulls the seat out, feeling almost entranced, pulled in by the instrument.

Fixing his posture and rolling his head back on his shoulders then rolling them back as well, he stretches his fingers a couple times before shoving the lid back up, revealing pristine ivory and black keys. He strokes one E key, bringing his fingertip down the length of it. It makes the smallest of sound, pressed so gently. Blaine taps it again and almost jumps at the loud plunk of a round, in-tune E filling the basement with momentary sound.

He doesn't remember much more than the names of the keys and which directions flat and sharp are, but that doesn't stop him from resting his hands on the piano keys and going through some rote memory scales his hands remember more than he does.

He's so enthused with the instrument that he doesn't notice the smoke, white and misty and fogging up around him, encasing him in it. He doesn't notice the figure, gray and white, transparent in the dimly lit basement that stands behind him.

And watches.

-*-

Blaine opts to spend the following day sitting outside of his new house on the wrap-around porch, squinting in the sunlight as he tries to write the next part of his script. Instead of the Orc, today he's writing for the ancient, wizened wizard, setting out for the war of the ages.

"Potion Master," he croaks out loud in what vaguely sounds like an aging, English accent, "I am going to battle, and I need your strongest potions."

"Yo, nice hat," another voice calls out, and Blaine is quick to sweep the tall, pointed wizard hat off his head and throw it behind his back, crushing it between his shoulders and the outside wall of his new house.

"Excuse me?" he asks, peering out into the yard. When did this guy get here? Oh God, how long had this guy been here?

"I said nice hat. Did I, like, scare you or something? I dinged my bell like five times," the guy says, tapping the bell on his bike handlebars again just to prove his point. It dings out shrilly, and Blaine curses his imagination for not letting him pick up on it.

"Well, um. Thanks," he says. He slips his notebook closed and lays it on the porch, pushing himself up and patting his sunflower yellow bowtie down, pulling at it to make sure it's straight. "I'm... Blaine?" He probably shouldn't sound so questioning on that.

"Sam. Evans," the guy says, holding his hand out as he walks up to the edge of the porch. His hair is magnificent, brightly blond and shimmering in the sunlight, tied back at his neck and curved under in an almost bun. Blaine wants to know how long it is. He also wants to know if this guy looks like a slightly paler Fabio with his hair down. And his shirt off.

"Nice to meet you," Blaine says, shaking Sam's hand and forcing himself to let it go. "I'm sorry, I'm acting so weird. You just startled me is all."

"Oh, uh. Sorry. So, I saw you moved into the old Hummel House," Sam says, pointing up right past Blaine to his front door. His neck is craned all the way back to talk to Blaine, and Blaine shakes his head at his own idiocy again, hopping off the porch to the ground. Now he's the one looking up. Sam is... impressively tall.

"The Hummel House?" Blaine asks, looking back at his own home. It was just a house. Just somewhere for them to move with his mom's law firm shift and Blaine's need to... relocate. To be safe. He swallows reflexively and tries to focus on anything but that.

"Yeah, man, that's what everyone around here calls it. It's been empty for, like, years, though. Until... you know, today."

"Well... yesterday," Blaine says. "We moved here yesterday."

Sam shrugs and then a wide grin spreads across his face. He raises his hand up. "Then hey! Up top for surviving the night! Yeah!" he crows as Blaine slaps his hand, even as he's confused.

"Survived? Are you trying to say the house is... haunted or something?" Blaine asks, scoffing in disbelief even as he thinks about the piano. The piano that played... all by itself.

"Oh yeah, dude, totally. Well... probably. Like, a dude died there, so I wouldn't put it past him to haunt the place. I mean, I would."

"You'd haunt the house you died in?"

"Hell yeah. Could you imagine being a rad ghost? I'd, like, mess with everyone. But in a nice way."

Blaine laughs, ducking his head. He can feel himself already getting a little enamored with this guy. He seems... nice, normal. He's big in the way that most jocks are, but he doesn't seem like one of those kind of guys. Maybe he even goes to Blaine's new school. Blaine's about to ask when Sam blurts out,

"So, has anything weird happened yet?"

"You are oddly fascinated with this whole ghost inquisition thing," Blaine says. "I mean, you should at least buy me dinner first."

"Huh?"

Blaine feels himself flush. "Nevermind. Anyway, there hasn't been anything weird... well..." He probably shouldn't tell about the haunted piano. This is the first guy his own age he's met in this quiet neighborhood. Not that he's pushed himself to go forth and make friends yet. It's only day two, and his counselor told him to give himself a break, and that's what he's doing. Giving himself a break.

That doesn't mean he wants to scare this guy off.

"Not really," he says, and Sam visibly deflates, shoulders slouching as he sighs. "The basement was blocked off, though, but that was probably just a movers thing. The coolest thing that's happened was when I found this old piano down there."

"Whoa," Sam says. "Dude, the guy who lived there, the Hummel guy, he was this piano teacher. Dude, did you touch it? You probably totally touched some dead guy's piano.

"Well, it's not like he died on the piano," Blaine says, even as he rubs his hands over his thighs, wiping off his palms, just in case.

"... no, probably not. Hey, do you play? We could jam sometime," Sam says. Blaine feels whiplash coming on from the subject change.

"You play?" he asks.

"My bro Finn's trying to teach me how to beat some drums, and my other bro Puck is, like, mad skilled at the ax. We have this band together. It kind of started as this solo Bieber thing..."

Solo Bieber thing? Blaine raises one skeptical eyebrow.

"Nah, nah, man, back when he, like, mattered. We were trying to get the chicks, you know?"

Blaine clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. Totally," he says, licking his suddenly dry lips.

"Anyway, that died, but we're all in glee club together, so sometimes we jam after practice. We're trying to think of a name for ourselves, but we could seriously be helped out by some piano skills, you know? It'd be, like... classy. Puck says we need it for the cougar crowd."

Blaine is going to choke on his own spit. He probably has next to nothing in common with these guys, but Sam did mention glee club. If these guys go to Dalton, then maybe they're part of the Warblers. That was the main selling point for the school for Blaine. The glee club was their showcase. It'd be good to make friends with these guys and have an in when school started."

"Oh," he says. "Well, um... well, yeah, sure. But I mean, I'm pretty rusty. I'm starting up lessons again this week, though." It's a lie. It's such a lie. He doesn't even know if anyone around here gives piano lessons.

Apparently someone does. "Oh, dude, you should go to Clarington's Keys," Sam says. "I heard Mr. Schue talk about it once. It sounded super good." Blaine isn't sure what to say. He has no idea what that place is, so he shrugs. Sam adds, "Besides, since the Hummel guy died, Clarington's the only piano place we've got."

Well, that does narrow things down a bit.

-*-

Blaine wakes up in a cold sweat, sitting up in his mostly empty bedroom. The blue walls cast an eerie midnight glow over his room in the moonlight shining through his bedroom window. He wipes his hands over his face and pulls his nightshirt over his head, frustrated. He's hot and now he's awake when he has piano lessons scheduled for first thing in the morning. What had woken him up anyway?

Then he hears it, the faint strains of piano playing the same, sad song. It lulls him into movement, and before he knows it, he's sliding out of bed, sweat trickling down his neck. It almost tickles in a cooling way, making him shiver.

He turns down the spiral staircase, stepping quietly to avoid waking his parents. Though, how they're sleeping through this, he has no idea. The further down the stairs he steps, the louder the music gets. Blaine feels his heart leaping into his throat, a thick lump that almost cuts off his air. The couch is still shifted over, piled with boxes, but the alcove door is thankfully unblocked. It creaks open with Blaine's tug, and Blaine winces, looking upstairs to see if his parents are awake.

They're not, at least not up, and really, the squeaking is probably drowned out by the piano anyway. Blaine's breath shudders as he ducks his head and enters the alcove, heading down five short, wooden steps to the basement.

The chain for the light bulb grazes his shoulder, and Blaine slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle his shriek. It's a good thing, too, because as soon as he's in the basement, facing the mysterious piano properly, he wants to scream.

There's more than keys that move by themselves this time. In the dark, he can make out the straight-backed ghostly figure of a thin... possibly young man playing at the piano? Blaine had it in his head that whatever ghost lurked in his new home was some old, codgy guy who taught piano into his nineties before kicking the bucket, not... not someone young.

Blaine's made suddenly aware of how loudly his heart is beating, and that seems... off. The piano music filled the room, sweeping right through him and wrapping around his very core, but now he feels... empty, and chilled. Shaken.

The music has stopped. Blaine lowers his hand from his mouth, curls it into a fist just to keep his fingers from shaking.

"H-hello...?" he asks, voice trembling. He doesn't dare move, standing between two stacks of boxes that don't protect him very well at all.

There's an unmistakable sound of a throat clearing, and then the lid of the piano slams shut, making Blaine jump and stagger back, his bare feet leaving prints on the dusty floor. The floorboards squeak underneath him.

Blaine's not sure how the ghost possibly stretches himself straighter, sitting ramrod perfect. The temperature drops in the basement, and Blaine feels goosebumps travel down his arms, and his hair stands on edge.

He has no idea what to do.

The ghost does, however, placing one hand on either side of himself on the bench, his composure so calm that it's eerie, as he slowly turns around.

Just his head, mind you. His torso stays put, chest facing the piano, hands resting on the bench, feet still poised at the pedals. His head, however, turns all the way around until empty, transparent eyes are looking back at Blaine.

"Stay away!" the ghost screeches, voice shaking the walls and knocking the dust fresh into the air again. "Stay away, Blaine Anderson, stay away!"

His jaw drops an unreal amount, teeth turning jagged and cheekbones sinking in, gaunt. While he had started out normal-looking, he turns truly monstrous, and Blaine screams again, ducking as the ghost summons wind into the windowless room, sending papers flying. The piano book that had rested open on the piano soars towards Blaine, smacking him in the chest, and he grabs it, latching onto it. He's not sure why. Maybe as protection... somehow.

A few more papers wind up in his grasp - sheet music, he has enough brains left to figure out, but he has no time to look at it any more because his legs are carrying him back upstairs, heart racing, even as his brain is still downstairs, trying to figure everything out.

He doesn't drop the book until he's back upstairs in his bedroom, door closed, his back resting against it, the book and papers at his feet. He's panting like he's ran a marathon, sweat pouring down his face, and his hair stuck to his forehead and the back of his neck. He can't get the image of the horrifying ghost out of his head; every time he closes his eyes, the head turns backwards, the jaw unhinges, and the ghost is coming... coming...

For him.

-*-

"This, uh... this looks deserted," Blaine says the next day. He nudges his kickstand down and props his bike up, eyeing the gray metal building in front of him. It glimmers in the morning sun.

Sam squints beside him, lowering his bike in the gravel. There's no kickstand to be found on it. Or a seat. He always rides standing up.

"It's not. It's kind of cool in that creepy scientist's lair kind of way, though," Sam says. "Not that I've ever been inside."

"Why not? Don't you want to play?"

Sam scratches the back of his neck, messing up his ponytail. "Nah," he says. "Too pricey. You should go on up to the door, though. From what I've heard about Clarington, him or his keys do not like to be kept waiting."

Sam claps Blaine on the back, sending him stumbling forward, and Blaine goes with a resigned sigh. Sam is already pedaling off, the gravel crunching under his wheels and trailing off as Sam pedals away. It was a little... weird. Like, he could've stuck around if Clarington's Keys was closed. But oh well. Blaine adjusts his leather satchel slung across his chest. He'd dug up his ancient box of practice books and sheet music, along with the book and pieces the ghost had all-but hurled at him, and figured he might as well bring it so he and Clarington could poke at it maybe.

Maybe if he learns the piece the ghost plays, the ghost will leave him alone. He's a piano teacher, right? Maybe that's his unfinished business. All ghosts have unfinished business. And the sooner Blaine gets rid of his own personal nightmare, the better.

"Who are you?"

Blaine jump back from the building like it scalded him when he hears the voice. The glass doors are empty on the other side, revealing a wood paneled wall on the other side that's completely deserted. He looks around, left and right, and then whirls behind himself.

"You, young man, who are you?"

There's a beep, and Blaine squints up at a camera, pointed directly at him and faintly whirring. He's not sure why, given it's a camera, but he thinks it's running out of patience.

"Uh... Blaine. Anderson, I'm here for a piano lesson with Mr. Clarington?"

"Ah, yes. You may enter." The camera retracts into the building at that, pointing straight out again, and the door clicks open, invisibly gliding open until Blaine can walk in.

He does so, even if everything inside him is screaming out that he shouldn't. He already has a ghost in his house. He doesn't need a haunted piano studio too.

"Hello...?" He tries, not that a timid greeting went well for him last time. He wraps his hands around his satchel harness tightly and ventures down the hallway to his right ever so slightly. The lights pop on as he travels, seemingly lighting his way.

As soon as he rounds the first corner, he almost runs straight into another boy - or maybe man? He's young at any rate, taller than Blaine but not by much. He's got the generic look of practiced conceit on his face, frosted blond hair styled just so and an even frostier smile in place.

"Blaine Anderson?" the guy asks, holding out his hand. Blaine nods, shaking it and quickly letting go. "I'm Clarington. Hunter Clarington," the guy... well, almost purrs. He flashes Blaine another smile. "Welcome to Clarington Keys."

"Um, thanks. What's with all the...?" He looks back behind him, at the now well-lit hallway and the door slowly easing closed.

"Oh, security of course. Our janitor, Mr. Smythe, is a technological genius. He's designed imitations of the top security tech available for the studio. With as many valuable instruments as we store here, one can't be too careful, don't you agree?"

"Sure...," Blaine says. Hunter turns and begins to walk, and Blaine follows him, even if he's a little wary still about this place.

Later, once they've entered the practice room, a too-big room with a grand piano situated in the center and empty benches all around, the same outdated wood paneling covering the walls in a vague circle, Blaine begins to reach into the satchel to pull out something to practice.

"Oh, tut tut, every good pianist must begin with the basics. We'll first practice a C Major scale."

"Well, I've played some before," Blaine says. He's rusty, but he doesn't think he's Old MacDonald rusty.

"Ah, but we must train our hands to become the perfect instruments so that we will be able to play our truest desires," Hunter says with a hum. His words always seem dripped together, like syrup, one rolling smoothly into the other. "Now, Blaine, the scale. After me."

Hunter places his right hand on the piano. His hands are gloved, Blaine notices. He's not sure how he missed it before, unless he was just that freaked out. But Hunter moves his fingers up the keys and back down, repeating the simple scale a few times, each time with more concentration. His brow furrows, and finally he slips and presses two keys at once in an ugly, unharmonic twang.

"I'm sorry," he says, his fingers gnarled and seizing up underneath his gloves. He cradles his hand to his chest and slowly stretches each finger out. There's a faint whir, and Blaine looks around for another camera but can't find one.

"What's... what's wrong with your hands?" Blaine asks. He winces because that's a vastly impolite way to ask that question, but really, what other way could he ask?

"They are just not what they used to be," Hunter says with a sigh. Blaine raises his eyebrows because Hunter Clarington can't be older than twenty. He's really not much older than Blaine, and he owns his own piano studio. If his hands are giving out now...

"Sorry," Blaine says, shifting awkwardly next to Hunter on the creaky wooden bench.

"No need," Hunter says, uncurling his fingers slowly but surely. "There, all better. Your turn, Blaine Anderson. C Major scale, begin."

Blaine places his fingers gingerly on the keys, stroking from the tops of the white down to the finger rests. It's a gorgeous piano, seemingly out of place in such a dingy room. Beside him, Hunter watches and lets out a little sigh. It almost sounds... longing.

Blaine begins to play the scale, up and then back down. He does so two more times before Hunter clears his throat, making Blaine pause mid-scale.

"You have... beautiful hands, Blaine," Hunter says reverently. He's hushed, in awe. Blaine's fingers twitch on the keys.

"Um... thank you," he says. It's not like he's ever looked at his hands and hated them or something, but he's never really thought they looked beautiful. Does anyone really look at hands and think that?

"Beautiful hands," Hunter murmurs again before shaking his head. "Pardon me, continue. We must master the scales in order to be the best, and Clarington Keys trains only the best."

-*-

Once his lesson is over, and, Blaine thinks in frustration, they didn't get to touch the mysterious ghost's preferred tune at all, he heads down the hallway once more and hopes Sam hasn't forgotten him. He's not terrible with directions, but they took a few winding back roads to get to Clarington Keys, and Blaine really doesn't want to get lost in a new town.

Before getting to the door, Blaine pauses as a very familiar tune begins playing from one of the practice rooms. He turns, expecting to see his ghost, hovering behind him, like the tune is his theme song for when he appears, but the hallway is empty. Blaine backtracks, chasing the sound of the morose music.

He turns the corner and heads down another hallway. The music swells, but he still can't place its source. All the doors are closed up tight, but there's no other piano music coming from them. Just the one same sad, haunting song. He takes the rest of the hallway at a run, ending up at a staircase that only goes down. A rusted old sign on the wall reads RECITALS/BASEMENT with an arrow pointing down.

Seems like an odd combination.

Blaine heads down, and the music fills his brain. He can almost see it, notes dancing in front of his eyes, and there's a weird tang on his tongue, like he can taste the music, it's pushing into him that much. He hops down the last few stairs, satchel banging against his thigh, and looks down the darkened corridor.

It's spooky down here, undeniably so, but Blaine doesn't care. He has to find that music, has to see if maybe... maybe the ghost...

He doesn't know. He just has to see who's playing the song that keeps him awake at night.

Two darkly painted doors stand at the end of the hallway, and the music swells louder than ever before, like it's coming from multiple pianos at once. The windows are high up on the door. Surely no one could see out of them, no matter their height, but Blaine tries to jump and catch onto the ledge of them anyway. He's just pulling himself up when a tap on his shoulder makes him scream and lose his grip.

He falls back down to his feet, and the piano music seems to fade a bit, shaking out of his head and letting him think again.

He whirls around and gasps when he sees another guy standing behind him. He isn't Clarington, but he's probably Clarington's age, chestnut hair swept to one side and a bright blue polo on that is at odds with their grimy surroundings. His shirt is tucked into creased khaki trousers, and he looks overall prep fashionable. He's also... very tall.

Blaine licks his lips. He's about to introduce himself when the guy says, "Now now, this is the recital room. I don't think new students have any business down here yet. Are you lost?"

Blaine can feel himself blush because he was supposed to finish his lesson and leave, not poke around, but he hikes his thumb at the door. "That song... I've... I've heard it before."

"It's a classic," the guy says dryly, a wry smile at the corner of his lips. "My name is Sebastian Smythe."

"Blaine -"

"Anderson, I know. Oh, I've heard all about you. Mr. Clarington has told me you're very talented, and that you've got... lovely hands. Shall I escort you back upstairs, Blaine Anderson? I'm sure your friend outside is very worried about you." His voice, like Hunter's, is honey smooth and luring, and Blaine finds himself agreeing with a nod before he can even focus on what Sebastian had said.

"Wait," he says finally once they're at the top of the stairs. "My friend? How did you -"

Sebastian pulls what looks like a phone but slightly larger out of his back pocket and taps the screen, scrolling until he turns to show it to Blaine. There's a black and white picture just outside of the music shop, and there Sam is, perched against his gravel and looking around, tossing something from one hand to the other.

"Oh. Oh, right, Mr. Smythe. Mr. Clarington said you made the security equipment, that you're a um... technological genius."

Sebastian's lips curl into a smirk. "Well, I did program him to say that," he says, laughing when Blaine merely looks confused. "I'm kidding, of course."

"Right," Blaine says. "Well, I... I suppose I need to be going..."

"Of course," Sebastian says. "We'll see you next week, Blaine. Take care of those hands."

Blaine shoves his hands in his pockets because, frankly, he's tired of hearing about them or even seeing them now, but he nods and tries his best to smile politely. Great, he'll have to wait another week to try and weasel learning that song out of Clarington and maybe getting rid of his ghost once and for all.

-*-

It takes three days of Blaine staying awake most of the night listening to the piano play before he cracks and finds himself heading downstairs again. He'd tried so hard to resist, only going to the basement during the daytime to practice the various scales Clarington had given him because the daylight seemed safe. Nobody paranormal messed with him then. But at night, he practically strapped himself down to his bed to resist the luring tug of the song.

By the time he opens the basement door, though, and heads down the stairs, the music has stopped. Completely. The basement is eerily silent, and Blaine swallows, looking around. He's expecting a grotesque figure to pop out of him like a jack in the box at any moment, but nothing happens. He shuffles forward, daring to turn the light on this time. It doesn't provide much illumination, the bulb dusty and ancient, flickering enough that it threatens to go out with every use. But at least it's something.

Blaine searches every corner, but there's nothing there aside from boxes and the lone piano sitting in the corner. He licks his lips and tastes dust, sliding onto the piano bench silently and resting his fingers on the keys. He looks around one more time, and there's still no one there, no unnatural chill, nothing. Just a dimly lit basement behind him.

While he's here, he supposes he should practice. He rests his thumb on Middle C and slowly begins practicing his scale.

It feels like a heavy sack slams into his back, and then he's sitting straighter than ever, fingers curved elegantly over the keys. His eyes stare straight ahead, but he sees nothing. What's his name? What's he playing?

His hands dance over the keys, banging out the somber sound, demanding to be played. He's not even sure he's still breathing. His feet press and lift on the pedals without him telling them to. Beads of sweat form at his temples and drip down the sides of his face, and he sits there, unfeeling, unknowing, and plays.

It's hours later that Blaine wakes up, head resting against the front of the piano, his fingers still on the keys that form the final chord of the song. His back aches, pain shooting between his shoulders, and his fingers feel tired in a weird way he's never felt before. His head is pounding. It feels like his skull is going to split open, and he groans, blinking and rubbing his temples.

Finally, it registers. He's in the basement. How did he get here? Why did he fall asleep down here?

"Ugh, what happened?" he asks out loud. Nobody answers.

-*-

The night before his next piano lesson, Blaine awakes around midnight to the sound of piano. Again. Fortunately, his mind is clear of the foggy haze the song sometimes puts over him, so it's his own decision to head down to the basement this time.

He yawns, stretching his arms over his head as he makes his way downstairs. He's almost gotten used to this, used to visiting a ghost in his basement, waking up to creepy piano music that his parents apparently never hear (he's asked. repeatedly). He doesn't know what it says about him that, in this sleepy state, he's barely scared anymore. Nervous, wary, sure. But the bone-deep terror is mostly gone.

Every night he's been wandering downstairs, chasing the piano music, in a mindless thrall. Every night, the ghost... possesses him or... or does something to him that leaves him playing that song for who knows how many hours before he passes out, waking up to a sore neck and a backache the next morning.

He rubs his eyes, digging into them until he sees stars, in order to keep himself lucid, focused.

As soon as he's inside the basement, he can tell tonight's going to be different. The piano is occupied by the man who'd scared him so much a week before, fingers dancing over the keys as he plays with a new kind of desperation.

"I'm not going to play tonight," Blaine says, even as the tell-tale chill creeps up his back and makes him stand on the edge, looking into the gaping maw of fear that he thought he'd gotten over. But maybe not entirely.

The piano playing stops. It always stops once he speaks, abruptly, mid-song, the basement falling into complete silence.

Instead of just his head, this time the man ghosts through the bench, standing up and turning to face Blaine. He's wearing a waistcoat, but it all blends in with his body, so Blaine can't tell the color. His sleeves are rolled partway up his arms, and yes, he definitely dresses like a piano teacher. Blaine doesn't look at his face, too scared of what he'll see. As long as he doesn't see the gaping mouth, the vacant eyes...

"I told you to stay away," the ghost whispers, his voice nevertheless filling the room. It's high-pitched, not shrill but soft, firm. Blaine looks over the ghost's shoulder, refusing to make eye contact.

"It's my house. I can't just... I moved here with my parents. I'm sorry we live in your old home now, but I can't just get them to move out. This house was a steal!"

The ghost scoffs, hands resting on his hips. "From Clarington Keys!" he says, exasperated. "Look at me!"

Blaine is not going to be paralyzed in fear again, no thank you. He doesn't look at the piano teacher... ghost... man, staring at the wall behind him, just to the right of the piano.

There's another sigh. Blaine thinks he hears the ghost grumble, "Fine, I wasn't going to do this again, but fine," but maybe he's imagining it.

He doesn't have time to process it because the ghost throws himself forwards, flying towards Blaine and forcing Blaine to look at it. The face is contorted again, eyes disappeared completely, leaving black, empty sockets, a sunk-in nose with tiny, snake-like slits in the middle of the face, and a forked tongue slithering out of his dropped, gaping mouth.

"Sssstay away from Clarington Keysssss!" the ghost hisses. "Stay away! You'll suffer! You will be harmed! Stay awaaaaay!" Wind swirls in the basement, disturbing flapping box lids, and Blaine runs backwards, banging into the wall.

The ghost chases him, and Blaine braces himself for the impact, but there is none, the ghost disappearing in a puff of smoke before he can slam into Blaine.

Blaine dares to open his eyes where he'd squeezed them shut, and he blinks in the dark and shadows of the basement. He pushes himself off the wall. His shirt has become drenched in sweat. He staggers up to bed, shaking the whole way.

-*-

Hunter paces behind the piano as Blaine sits and plays his scales for the millionth time. His left hand rests limply in his lap as he starts over yet again. The tick tick tick of the metronome seems to be boring a hole into his brain. He can't focus after the night before, terror still seizing him up if he pictures the ghost, that face, that tongue...

"Again," Hunter says when Blaine is finished. Hunter steps behind him and grabs his shoulders, tugging him back. "Better posture," he says lightly, even if his grip is tight enough to hurt. He reaches over Blaine's shoulder and grasps his left hand, wrapping his long, gloved fingers around Blaine's palm and digging his fingertips into the back of Blaine's hand.

"Both hands on the piano at all times," he says, and Blaine tugs his hand away, shivering. This entire lesson has been... really weird. He places his left hand on the piano as well, fingers flat in disuse.

"Curve your fingers," Hunter says. "Perfect. Such beautiful hands," he murmurs. Blaine cannot wait for his alarm to go off and his hour to be up. If Sam had stuck around, he'd bolt right now, but he still doesn't trust himself not to get lost.

He plays the simple scale ten more times before his fingers start to ache, the rote movement making his muscles want to cramp. He stops playing and cracks his knuckles, stretching his right hand out and then popping each finger in turn.

"Stop that!" Hunter snaps, smacking Blaine's hands apart with a stinging slap. "You must not harm your hands!" There's fire in his eyes, and he scowls at Blaine. "How dare you hurt those beautiful hands! I will not put up with that in my studio!"

He explodes in a rage, knocking Blaine's satchel down and the book he'd put up on the stand with a futile hope of practicing it today goes clattering to the floor, random pages spilling out of it. Hunter's hands curl into fists and he bangs them on top of the piano. "You must not hurt your hands!" he shrieks, following it with another bang on the piano top.

Blaine slides off the bench and stumbles backwards. Hunter begins to stalk after him and falters, stumbling as well, then dropping to one knee with a weirdly metallic clank against the floor.

There's silence, then Hunter clears his throat. "My apologies," he says, looking up at Blaine. He slowly stands up, pats his jacket down, and tugs his gloves up and straight. "Come, sit. Let's continue."

Blaine looks longingly at the door, but against his better judgment, he sits. There's only twenty minutes left. What could happen in twenty minutes?

He's about to begin his scales again when Hunter places his hand on top of Blaine's. It takes every bit of manners Blaine has spent his life cultivating to not pull his hands immediately away. He takes a breath and looks up at Hunter. "Mr. Clarington?"

"Let me see your hands," Hunter says, voice still eerily calm now after the storm a few seconds ago. "I want to make sure they haven't been harmed."

"I... I think they're okay," Blaine says, holding his hands up and showing Hunter the backs and palms of them both. Hunter grasps them, gently, thumbs reverently skating over the backs of Blaine's hands.

"Such beautiful hands," he whispers. "Beautiful hands."

"Th-thank yo-"

"I must have them," Hunter hisses then, fiercely, his gaze jerking up to look at Blaine, determination written across his features. "I need beautiful hands like yours. I must have them!"

"No!" Blaine shouts, yanking at Hunter's tightening grip. It's almost inhuman how tightly he's holding onto Blaine's hands. Blaine feels trapped, yanking desperately to free himself from Hunter's hold. "Let me go!"

"Give me your hands, Blaine! Your beautiful hands!" Hunter shrieks, tugging at Blaine's hands like he wants to pop them off at the wrist right now. "Beautiful hands!"

"Stop it!" Finally, finally Blaine breaks loose, shaking Hunter off. He scrambles to his feet and picks up the piano book and his satchel on his way as he bolts out the door.

Hunter is right behind him. "Beautiful hands!" he calls out, like he's hypnotized, so keenly focused on the one goal. "I need your beautiful hands!"

Blaine hurries around the corner, not paying attention to where he's running until he realizes he's went the wrong way. He should have turned left, but he turned right instead, and now he's heading down the corridor to the staircase. It's too late to turn around now. Hunter is fast on his heels, so Blaine bolts for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time and jumping to the floor when he reaches the end.

"Mr. Smythe!" he calls out. "Help!" He doesn't know anyone else there. Is anyone else there? A posh janitor would provide more help against his maniac of a piano teacher than no one at all, at least. "Help me!"

"Beautiful hands!" Hunter bellows, his voice echoing down the hallway. Blaine didn't know how close he was until Hunter's vice-like grip grasps his biceps and whips him around. "I must have your hands!"

"Let me go!" Blaine sobs, wriggling in Hunter's grip. It's so tight. He's not weak, but he feels pretty helpless, fighting with everything he has to dig his heels in and push against Hunter to try and free himself. Tears spring to his eyes as he beats against Hunter's chest while Hunter's eerie grin grows wider and wider.

"Hold on, I've got him," Sebastian calls out, and Blaine has never been more grateful to hear another voice than he is right now. After a click and a buzz, Hunter's eyes grow blank, losing their life and fading dimly, and Blaine pops free, taking one of Hunter's hands with him.

He begins to shriek again until Sebastian rests his hand on Blaine's shoulder. "Calm down," he says lazily. "Here." He plucks the hand off of Blaine's arm and turns it so Blaine can see the stump. Wires shoot out of it, still sparking.

"What..."

"He's a robot," Sebastian says. "A little experiment of mine. He's harmless, just needs a... tune up, if you will," he says, with a sly smile. "Pardon the pun."

"He's a robot?" Blaine exclaims. If his heart wasn't still hammering in his chest, he'd probably think this is pretty cool, but right now, he doesn't care if Hunter is a robot or a space alien or a creepy piano teacher... or whatever. He just wants to leave, now.

"Pretty life-like, don't you think?" Sebastian asks, nudging Hunter's shoe with his own. He drops the robotic hand and then pushes Hunter's forehead, watching him clatter to the ground, frozen, and then still and silent. "See? Harmless. As long as you have this." He holds up a slim remote control before pocketing it.

"Now," Sebastian continues, turning to face Blaine. "Are you all right? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Aside from vast mental scarring and probably a few fingerprint-shaped bruises on his biceps, Blaine thinks he might be okay. His heartbeat is already slowing, his breath coming more naturally.

"I'll... I'll be okay," he says, rubbing over his aching biceps. He can still feel Hunter's phantom grip, and it makes him shiver anew.

"Good. Now, let's see those hands," Sebastian says.

Blaine blinks. "What?"

"Your beautiful hands, Blaine. We need to make sure they're all right."

Blaine swallows and holds out his hands. They're trembling, slightly, but otherwise unscathed. Sebastian holds them, flexing them and humming, stroking his fingertips up the length of each of Blaine's fingers.

Blaine's breath stutters as he exhales, and he curls his fingers, yanking his hand free. "So... so they're fine, as you can see," he says.

Sebastian smirks at him. "Oh, they're more than fine, Blaine. They're perfect."

He lunges, then, reaching for Blaine's hands, and Blaine yanks his arms away, pushing past Sebastian and running down the hallway. "No!" he screams. "Help!"

There's no one else there to help him, though.

The double doors leading to the recital room throw themselves open then, no less than ten pianos spread across the floor, each one doling out the same, melancholic, banging tune, drowning Blaine in noise.

He stumbles, frozen in his tracks, at the sight in front of him. The pianos aren't playing by themselves, but there's no ghosts playing them. No regular students.

In front of each piano is a set of gloved hands cut clean at the wrists, bloodied stumps moving up and down, dripping onto the benches, white bones chopped and sticking up in the air, as the hands bang on the keys of each piano.

Sebastian catches up with him, then, spinning Blaine around and grasping Blaine's wrists, holding them up between them.

"It was you! It was all you!" Blaine shouts, yanking against Sebastian's effortlessly tight grip. "It was you that made Hunter try to take my hands! You... you did this to people!" He's almost grateful Sebastian has him because otherwise he never would have been able to tear his gaze from the horrifying sight playing behind him.

"Yes, Blaine," Sebastian crows. "Hands are impossible to make, you see. There's so many parts, so intricate. They break down so much more quickly than real hands do. With enough real hands, I could have a whole band of musically talented robots at my disposal. I'd be a true musical genius, more than just some janitor at a piano studio. My dream, Blaine, is to make beautiful music."

He ducks down, leaning in until he's scant inches from Blaine's face. "Whatever. Means. Necessary," he growls, squeezing Blaine's wrists so hard he's afraid that his hands are going to pop off right then.

"No!" he screams, but it's lost over the rising piano music, soaring around them both, echoing off the rounded walls and back, drilling into Blaine's head.

Something pulls him back then, throws him backwards. He lands on his ass and slides further back along the ground, resting between the two closest pianos. He looks to his right to see one pair of hands mindlessly playing, crashing the fingers against the keys, jaggedly cut flesh waving in the air from where the wrists are sliced. Blaine's going to be sick.

Somehow, he manages to tear his gaze from the enchanted hands playing next to him and looks up to see what saved him.

It's the ghost. He'd know that straight back and proudly held shoulders anywhere. Blaine eases himself up, gets closer to try and hear.

"Oh, my dear, ferret-faced boy," the ghost hisses, his face twisted in glee. Sebastian's eyes are wide, terrified, and he staggers back. "Now now, don't run away. You're late for your piano lesson."

"No!" Sebastian cries out. "I won't play for you! Never again!"

"Is it my fault you were too lazy to practice? You could have been great all by yourself, but no, you refused to practice."

Sebastian backs away until his back crashes into the wall behind him, and his throat bobs as he swallows. The ghost advances slowly, shimmering in the sunlight.

It's the first time Blaine's really seen him during the day. He's... he's so young. It's weird to imagine that he was ever Sebastian's teacher, when they look almost the same age. The ghost has bright, fiery eyes, narrowed in determination, and a twisted, pleased smile. It's like he's been waiting for this for a long time.

"I did!" Sebastian whimpers. "I did practice!"

"Liar!" the ghost spits.

"I did! But I was never good enough for you! Faster, Smythe. Curve your fingers, Smythe. Play it better, Smythe. Again, again."

"You were blinded by your own jealousy that I was better than you. You couldn't handle being inferior as a boy, and you grew up into a petty, jealous, inferior man who still can't play," the ghost hurtles back.

"Oh, but Sebastian, you're going to play now," the ghost purrs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. The wind in the room picks up, and all the magical hands drop lifeless onto their benches, little miniature piles of gore as far as Blaine can see. The music doesn't stop, though, each piano playing all on their own as Sebastian claws at the wall to try and stay away. But the wind is summoning him. Spinning around and around, grabbing at Sebastian and pulling him closer.

Weirdly enough, it doesn't even touch Blaine. He can't even feel it.

"No! Please!" Sebastian cries as he's flung forward, crashing into one of the pianos with a clang of keys. With that, the song stops, and Sebastian's arms are forced up, hands forced to the keys. "Stop!" he shouts.

"But you're late for your lesson," the ghost says, snickering. "Your false business with your fake teachers could never compete with me. I bet you were so glad the day I died. But," he leans in, staring into Sebastian's eyes, "You never got my hands."

Sebastian lets out a broken sob, and then his hands begin moving without him appearing to have any control over them, tinkling the keys and spinning out the same crashing song that has haunted Blaine ever since he arrived in Westerville.

The ghost finally looks up at Blaine and frowns. It's almost comical, the change in his face, from gleeful vengeance to put upon, vague annoyance. "Now is when you run," he says flatly, jerking his gaze to the door.

It takes Blaine a second, but finally he remembers how to work his legs, fleeing out of the recital room. Just as the double doors are crashing back closed, he hears, "Faster, Smythe! For all eternity!" before the doors close, and the music dies away.

-*-

"You know, I told you to stay away," the ghost says before Blaine's even fully closed the tiny, hidden basement door behind himself. The ghost sounds... normal, almost like a regular person hanging out in the forgotten basement.

"I know...," Blaine says, inching down the stairs. He's not even sure why he's down here. There's no piano music. He just had the unrelenting urge to come down here and see if... if the ghost was gone.

He's not entirely sure now that he wants the ghost to be gone.

The ghost sits at the piano, calm and poised, his fingers resting on the keys but not playing them. Blaine watches the shoulders raise and lower as the ghost sighs.

"I went back to Clarington Keys," Blaine says. Sam hadn't been happy about that, two long bike trips in one day, but he'd went along with it to get out of babysitting his brother and sister again. Blaine had crept around the building as Sam waited, asking question after question. Dude, why are we here? and Blaine, this is seriously weird. and Hey, why's that sign say permanently closed?

"I convinced Sebastian Smythe," the ghost begins, curling his lips around Sebastian's name in disgust, "that going out of business would be... beneficial. For his livelihood."

"So you threatened to kill him," Blaine says. He stays a good six feet from the piano, and therefore from the ghost, but six feet is nothing when he's faced with a freaking ghost.

The ghost shrugs, lifting his hand and dropping it down through the piano. "I'm so sure I could do something like that," he says.

"But you can play. I've seen you play."

The ghost rolls his eyes and looks upward, sighing again. "Do you know how much energy it takes? Why do you think I possessed you? It's so much easier to borrow some human's energy and play for awhile, to feel human again, than it is to save up my own like some recharging battery, all to play the piano night after night." He flattens his lips into a thin line. "Sorry about the possession by the way."

Blaine waves his hands. "You saved my life, so. I guess we're even. But um... maybe ask next time?"

"That's doable," the ghost says. He crosses one transparent, pearly white leg over the other and clasps his hands together over his knee. It looks so... normal. Blaine risks sitting down, dropping to the floor and crossing his legs close in front of him.

"So, if Clarington Keys is closed down, what's going to happen to Sebastian?" Blaine asks. He'd tried to get into the building, but it was locked up tight. Pushing his way through the undergrowth along the right side, though, and heading to the back of the building, close, he imagines, to the staircase leading down to the basement, he could faintly hear piano music playing.

"Sebastian has a lot of skipped practice to make up," the ghost says with a bit of smirk. "He'll be at it for awhile."

Blaine shivers a bit, remembering what power this ghost can possess, what damage it could probably cause. He doesn't want to get on the ghost's wrong side.

"Okay," he says. He can't say he feels that bad about Sebastian Smythe trapped in the recital room with his class of haunted hands playing piano all by himself for awhile. Maybe not for eternity, but...

"Does this mean you're going to, um... move on? Or...? I'm not sure what happens when ghosts finish their unfinished business." He feels babbly, and more than a little bit stupid, asking all these questions.

The ghost clucks his tongue. "Where would I go? There's no... up there or down there," the ghost says, pointing to the ceiling and then the floor. "And I really liked this house. My mom grew up in it too."

Blaine's mind is buzzing. No Heaven or Hell? And his mom? He doesn't know what to ask first, but he looks around, waiting for another ghost to pop out of the shadows.

"Is she...?"

"No," the ghost says with a sigh. "Though, apparently dying young does run in the family, I suppose." He gestures to himself. "No, she's... up there." He points again, a little sheepishly. "At least, she's in whatever form of up there she believed in."

Blaine nods, thinking it over. "So you... move on if you believe you'll move on?"

"Something like that," the ghost says. "That's my working theory anyway. I haven't met any other ghosts to ask them."

Blaine's quiet for a minute, contemplative, and the ghost merely watches him with a slightly curious, but patient, expression.

Finally, Blaine asks, "Um... what... what's your name?" Before the ghost can answer, he blurts out, "I mean, I figure your last name must be Hummel because Sam said this was the Hummel House after all, but he didn't know your first name, and internet's taking forever to set up, so I haven't Googled you yet, and it's really awkward to just call you 'the ghost' in my head, you know, so I was just wondering -"

"Kurt," the ghost says simply, one eyebrow raised and an amused smile on his face. "Out of the two of us, you're the only one who still needs to breathe, so you might want to remember to do that."

"Oh. Right," Blaine says, exhaling as his cheeks burn red. "Wait. Kurt?"

"That's me," Kurt says, glancing down at his nails. "Kurt Hummel, at your service. Well, not at your service, just because I saved your life -"

"Oh, no, no, of course not," Blaine says, holding his hands up. "I never assumed..."

"Good," Kurt says, settling on the bench again.

Blaine pushes himself up as the ghost - Kurt - watches him and makes his way to the bench, sitting down beside it. There's no chill when his arm brushes against - well, through - Kurt's, not the kind of thing you read about in ghost stories anyway. There's just a slight... missed presence, like something should be there but isn't. His mind supplies the feeling of brushing against Kurt's arm, even if he doesn't really do it. It's weird.

Kurt seems to disappear for a moment, fading out of sight and rearranging himself so he's sitting facing the piano again, next to Blaine. Blaine rests his hands on the keys. They look so normal to have caused such a fuss.

"I hope you don't think this is rude," Blaine starts, looking at the keys instead of at Kurt. "But... you... you scared the crap out of me, more than once, but you don't seem like... like a bad guy or anything, not now."

Kurt shifts beside him, and Blaine looks up to see Kurt preening, just a little bit. "That's not something to be proud of!" he says, exasperated.

Kurt chuckles. "I'm sorry. I know it's not funny," he says, smiling at Blaine. "It's not like I wanted to scare you, but I knew what a creep Sebastian was. Some of the neighbor kids here go there for lessons and then oops! Mysteriously the family moves away, word gets around about reconstructive surgery... you know how it goes." He holds up one hand and chops it clean off with the other. It disappears then reappears before Blaine's eyes while he fights down the shout building inside of him.

"So, Sebastian has been taking hands for years."

"Yes, suspending them in... whatever technological thing he cooked up. I hate to admit that he has two brain cells to rub together, much less that he's..." Kurt wrinkles his nose. "Smart. But he is, in that department at least. So, yes, he's tried this before. It takes up a lot of energy to leave this house. I have to prepare for days, and usually I got to them too late to warn them. But you... well, you moved right in."

"So, you thought you'd, what, scare me away?"

"Well, I had to do something," Kurt says. "I was tired of Sebastian getting away with his sick, weird... thing," he spits out, frustrated.

Blaine nods, tapping the C key too lightly to make a sound and quietly miming the dreaded scale he'd played so much recently. "Is that... also why you played through me so much? Like, were you borrowing my... energy?"

"Sort of. Part of it really was that I like that song and it's easier to play through you, but I knew that Sebastian likes to move fast, and you just kept going, so I had to do something to make myself more... powerful."

"I'm not mad you did it. You saved me," Blaine says. "I mean, you were really terrifying, but... That's not a compliment!"

Kurt ducks his head, sheepish but still a bit smug, and if he was in color, there'd probably be a pale pink blush to his cheeks with the way they grow dark and smokey. "Sorry," he says again. "Bad ghost habits die hard."

Blaine shrugs. "It's fine." He tilts his head, trying to put himself in Kurt's shoes. "I guess it would be kind of funny," he admits.

"And the look on your face!" Kurt says with a grin, and Blaine has to remember that Kurt's not solid in order to not try and shove him and embarrass himself even more.

"Hey! Not that funny," he says.

Kurt coughs, pale tongue ghosting out to lick over his lips. "Sorry. Again," he says, thoroughly chastised. He sweeps his fingers over the piano keys. "Well, now that we've taken care of our pesky little ferret friend, would you... like to play?"

Blaine bites his lip. "Um... how would you..." he gestures from Kurt to himself, and Kurt shakes his head.

"No, no, I think I've got enough of a buzz left that we might could perform a little duet, if you'd like. Perhaps something more suited for a beginner. Um... no offense."

"None taken, Teach," Blaine says with a smile. Kurt summons another wind that stirs Blaine's hair out of his gel's hold and soon the piano book has traveled all the way downstairs to the basement and rests on the piano's stand once more.

"Ah-ha, here we go, a classic. Do you know Heart and Soul?"

Blaine grins and rests his fingers on the piano next to Kurt's. "Yeah," he says. "I do."