A/N: FINALLY PUBLISHING THIS. I am pumped tbh. It's going to be good guys, I promise. HOWEVER I am looking for a beta. If you're interested, PM me.
Disclaimers: I don't own Glee or Fight Club, and all the rules are copied verbetim from that scene in the movie where Tyler says them to the Club (except, of course, the addition of "blazers" onto number six ;)). Triggers may include violence, language, and (in the following chapters) self-harm and gay bashing. This chapter functions as sort of a prologue.
As always, enjoy.
The first rule of the Dalton Fight Club is that you do not talk about the Dalton Fight Club.
Blaine feels the tension in his arms ripple as he hurls his fist at the other boy across from him, his knuckles cutting sharply into his solar plexus. The boy goes stumbling back, taking a few extra steps so he can have some time to regain his strength in the midst of the crowd that surrounds him before he tosses himself back at Blaine, roaring like a lion. But Blaine is faster.
The second rule of the Dalton Fight Club is that you do not talk about the Dalton Fight Club.
He might be someone that Blaine has class with tomorrow. He might be a freshman that Blaine's never seen before and that he'll never see again. He might be on the fencing team with Nick, or the lacrosse team with Sebastian. He might be Nick or Sebastian. Blaine wouldn't know. He can't see past the blurred red of his eyes. He doesn't view the situation as he normally would—he senses it. Feels it. Hot and wet, like vomit, like blood.
The third rule of the Dalton Fight Club is: if someone yells stop, the fight is over.
There's something alluring about a boy who's as unhinged as Blaine is during a fight. Everyone wants to fight him. Everyone's frightened to. He's five foot seven and oozes aggression. It pours out of him. No, that implies control, like he could stop pouring whenever he wants to, cap it back up, and save it in his bag for later—but the truth is, he can't, not right now, not heated up to his temples with the raw, hot breath of adrenaline setting fire to his insides. He's spilled, tipped over, and now his aggression is more than oozing; it's flowing, overwhelming, thick and unstoppable. It'll dry up eventually. But right now, as he buries his elbow in the freshman's jaw, it is very, very much alive.
The fourth rule: only two guys to a fight. The fifth rule: one fight at a time.
The first time he fought wasn't the first night of Fight Club. It wasn't when he first punched Sebastian in the parking lot behind Scandals. It wasn't even when he first took up boxing. It was when he was alone, and cold, and just wanted to get home. It took place at around 9:30 in the alleyway that served as a short cut from his old school to his house. There were five of them on him and his date, surrounding him, calling him shit he'd never even heard before and kicking him in the gut, in the balls, in the nose, in the back. The other boy was hurt too, but when they were dragged by police to the hospital, they told him he got it the worst. He always got everything the worst. He threw no punches, but that was his first fight.
The sixth rule: no shirts, no shoes, no blazers.
Someone's shouting at him. He doesn't care who. Have they started to make bets now? No, Fight Club isn't like that. Sebastian wouldn't let that happen. Blaine sees the muscle ripple in the other boy's bare shoulder before the punch happens; he ducks and goes to elbow him in the middle but before he makes the move he feels the knee to his side. Something cracks. He howls in pain.
The seventh rule: fights will go on as long as they have to.
There's never been a moment in his life when he wasn't fighting. Before Fight Club is a blur. In a lot of ways Blaine thinks that's because there is no "before"; maybe there will be no "after." Fight Club isn't just fighting anymore; it's not just releasing aggression, not just exhausting himself so he can finally sleep, not just feeding his dead flame of a life so that it can keep on burning like the doctors tell him it should—Fight Club is everything. Fight Club is what keeps them going. Fight Club will go on as long as it has to, like his life will go on, like this fight will go on, like everything keeps going the fuck on.
And the eighth and final rule: If this is your first night at fight club—
Blaine can taste the sweat on his upper lip, can feel the pounding in his blood, and the roaring of the crowd that surrounds him has been turned down to a dull murmur as the only thing real, alive, or breathing is him, the other boy, and their fists.
—you have to fight.