Fic -- I Left a Small Town for the Apple in Decay 1/2
Author:emoryems
Rating: R
Pairing/Character(s): Kurt, Blaine, Mr. Schuester, OCs, New Directions.
Spoilers: 2.22: NY
Warnings: possibly triggering for anxiety; talk of past non-con (flashback detail as well)
Word Count: part one (5,094)
Summary: a follow up to Your Sins Into Me and In The End based on THIS angst meme prompt. While it is not strictly necessary to read the previous stories, it is recommended (otherwise you may be quite confused about referenced events). Please note that the first in this little ‘verse contains explicit non-con.
Author’s Disclaimer: I sometimes write about controversial and/or triggering subjects such as rape and suicide. Please, if you will be triggered, read the warnings. The opinions/topics written about do not necessarily reflect the author’s own thoughts (please understand that this is fiction - my own opinions and/or mindset DO NOT translate to every single character I write - the characters depicted are not perfect and they are not me).
A/N: I feel like this is no good. I don't know -- I worked hard on this, but it hasn't come out the way I wanted it to. I decided to just post it anyway. I really hope that you like it in any case.
Thank you to all of those who take the time to let me know what they think - you guys are the reason I still post most of what I write. I send you all hugs and cookies :)
I Left a Small Town for the Apple in Decay
Kurt stares out the window of the plane, eyes transfixed on the surreal scenery all around, his lips lightly parted. There is something about looking out at a floor of clouds, all white and whipped mounds of fluff like the meringue on top of a pie or the stuffing from a pillow, that fills him with awe.
All above the white masses is a dome of dark blue, the sky clear and edged at its periphery with a lighter haze of colour. It is breath-taking, and he wishes he could paint a picture of its beauty in his mind that would never fade at the edges or smudge like footprints in sand.
The New Directions glee club fills a large section of the plane to New York, and the sound of excited talking and laughing is almost overwhelming. Kurt smiles, letting the buzz of conversation from the other members of New Directions wash over him, and leans back in his seat.
He’s happy to be back at McKinley, happy to be back with the tight-knit and dysfunctional version of a family that this glee club represents. No matter how much he will miss the Warblers and being able to spend almost every day with Blaine, he will never regret transferring back.
Now that Karofsky is gone, that is. Gone and in a place where he can’t touch Kurt, can’t hurt him.
Somewhere to his left, toward the middle of the airplane, Rachel squawks in protest over something and several voices burst into uncontrollable giggles. Kurt turns away from the window, away from the clouds and the sun, and smiles at his friends, joining in on the fun.
Soon they’ll be in New York, the city he dreams of. And he’s going to make the best of it.
~
They arrive at the hotel in a flurry of overly-excited antics, the members of New Directions awed and amazed by their adventure to New York City, and Kurt almost bounces his way out of the shuttle. There are taxicabs strewn across the entire area, a sea of shining yellow, and he realizes that maybe the tales and movies don’t lie; there really are that many of them.
Kurt takes in one deep breath and grins, joy brightening his eyes and filling his face with emotion. He’s really here, in New York, at Nationals. And it isn’t a dream or a fantasy he’s conjured in his imagination - it’s real.
The smile stays on Kurt’s face as he hefts his suitcase from the back of the shuttle and pulls the handle up so that he can drag it behind him on smoothly gliding wheels.
As New Directions, headed by Mr. Schuester, enter the hotel lobby Kurt is immediately impressed; the modern look and spacious entrance are good signs. He only hopes that his luck will continue when they get to see the rooms.
When Mr. Schuester has finally registered them at the reception and handed out keycards, not to mention wrangled Puck and Lauren from the bar, they make their way en-masse to the fifth floor where they are located. Kurt will never admit it out loud, but as he carries his hefty suitcase with a quickly tiring arm, he almost wishes he had packed a little lighter. Almost.
“522 - that’s you, girls,” Mr. Schuester announces about halfway down a hall, all of the members of glee clustered behind him with full arms and flushed faces. “And 524 - that’s the boys.”
Rachel is practically bouncing up and down, her eyes alight with excitement. If it wasn’t for the same emotion mirrored in Kurt’s own chest, he would roll his eyes at her. He decides to anyway.
“Take all of your stuff and get settled,” Mr. Schuester directs, eyeing them all. “We’ll meet in the girls’ room in thirty minutes.” His pointed glare, ruined by the hint of a smile tilting his lips, passes by every set of eyes.
With that, the teacher turns to room 523, right across the hall from them, and uses his own keycard to enter.
Finn, who is holding one of the two keycards to the boys’ room, shrugs and unlocks the door, pushing through without any hesitation. Puck and Sam go next, the blonde holding the door open for Artie to wheel through. Mike follows without a backward glance, his slight form quickly lost behind a closed door.
Kurt looks down the hall, watching as the last of the girls disappears into the other room, the heavy door swinging closed behind. The sound of it clicking shut sounds final, and Kurt shakes his head, telling himself that it won’t be so bad. That he can do this.
Bracing himself, Kurt breathes in deeply and releases the air from his lungs in a slow stream over his lips. And then he pushes open the door to his room.
The room is small - smaller then Kurt had hoped. He steps into the shared boys’ room with his suitcase in one hand and pauses, just taking in the sight before him. There would be very little spare room for three or four boys, much less six.
There are several beds and one couch, but they are all clustered closely together so that even if they all had individual beds they would be sharing personal space. He had hoped that there would be more room, more space that he could sleep separate from all of the others.
A little spark of worry gnaws at Kurt, and he knows that he should push it away, ignore it in favour of just getting on, but it holds fast.
Watching Puck, Sam and Finn sprawl out, relishing in the softness of the beds, Kurt doesn’t know if he can do this. He’s barely had a few seconds to examine the layout, to consider the situation, and already he knows he won’t be comfortable.
Tingles of apprehension shoot up and down his spine, catching in his chest and in his throat, but he squares his shoulders and walks further into the hotel room with his head held high.
As long as he keeps his wits about him and does his relaxation exercises he should be okay. A little bit of discomfort won’t be so bad and there is no way that Kurt will let the ghosts of his past beat him, not when he has wanted this for so long.
He has to try. After all, he can always talk to Mr. Schuester about it later.
~
Kurt doesn’t bother unpacking his suitcase, though he does pull out his various suits and hang them in the small closet, setting his matching shoes below. There is nothing worse than a wrinkled suit and clashing colours, and Kurt Hummel will never be seen in a travesty of the sort that the other boys’ suits will be, stuffed into their suit cases the way they are.
There is still a few minutes left until they have to go to the other room, and the other male members of New Directions are taking the opportunity to mill around, digging through bags and inspecting the quality of the mattresses. Kurt barely manages to restrain a sigh of weary disdain as Puck and Finn bicker over who gets to sleep on which side.
With nothing left to do, Kurt sits down, crossing his arms and his legs as though by adopting such a pose could block the world out, and lets his thoughts drift. He feels a pang of sadness at where they immediately go, knowing that a year ago he would never have spared such thoughts the time of day.
There are good days and there are bad days, sometimes triggered by something that happens and sometimes not. He will have a nightmare that will stay with him all day, or he will be surprised by someone walking up behind him and he will feel that edge of anxiety twisting up inside for hours afterwards.
Sighing, knowing that dwelling on it too much will just make him feel worse, Kurt stands, intent on making a stop in the bathroom before they have to leave, when it happens.
All it takes is one close brush of Puck’s shoulder against his to start the panic rising in his chest this time. It is nothing more than the two of them trying to step around the end of Finn’s bed at the same time, but the way Kurt feels has nothing to do with logic, and he certainly can’t stop it.
Puck passes by with a jerk of his head and a “’sup?” on his lips. Nothing outlandish or extraordinary; just Puck existing in close proximity.
Kurt can’t control what triggers his anxiety; sure, he can try and avoid certain situations, but he can’t just stop living his life. Or keep medicated with sedatives to the point of addiction. So although it doesn’t surprise him that the physical closeness with Puck would set his nerves on end, it does make him want to drive his fist into the nearest surface.
He wishes he could forget.
He is in New York, in the city of his dreams, and all of the excitement and the wonder are now being siphoned away by the intrusion of his thoughts. By the sizzle of electric unease, like a thousand butterflies in his chest and spreading throughout his body.
After a few minutes in which his heart continues to flutter and the sense that something is intensely wrong continues to grow, Kurt sits on his couch and tries to block out everything around him. He ignores the avid conversation happening just feet away and focuses inward, the intense feeling of something just being so wrong fluttering in his veins.
Between his early conversations with Wes and his more recent visits to first the Dalton councillor and now one at a local practice, Kurt has learned several techniques to deal with his anxiety. He starts going through them, progressing from the simple exercises that he has incorporated into everyday life, to those that take greater concentration.
Kurt almost wishes he had accepted the prescription for lorazepam that his physician had suggested when he finds himself getting caught before any of his exercises can work and having to start again.
He’s in the middle of trying to visualize his surroundings, starting with his peripheral vision and working outward until his memory is the only reserve of detail, when a voice interrupts him.
“Hey dude. You okay?” Finn asks quietly so that the other’s can’t hear, slowly sitting next to Kurt on the couch. He leaves enough space that Kurt doesn’t feel cornered or suffocated.
“Yeah,” Kurt says with a tight smile. “I’ll be fine.” He just hopes his words won’t come back to haunt him. He hopes that he will get the fear and the worry under control before it consumes him.
Finn, eyes still wary and concerned, nods. “Okay - if you’re sure.”
“I am.” Kurt is almost amazed by how much he sounded like his dad in those two words.
“We’re gonna head over to the girls’ room. You coming?” Finn points over his right shoulder with his thumb and raises his eyebrows.
Standing, Kurt says, “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” He then heads to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him without a single backward glance.
Looking into the mirror, but not seeing anything beyond the dark rings below his eyes and the mostly-faded bruise on his face, Kurt starts to quietly speak.
“You can do this,” he says to the reflective glass. “You have to do this.”
He knows he is safe here, that none of the glee guys would ever hurt him like Karofsky did. But somehow that knowledge doesn’t seem to matter.
~
The tide of apprehension threatens to engulf him, shadowing him throughout the entire meeting. He hides it behind smiles and sarcasm, hoping that no one will notice something is wrong.
His initial will to try and muddle through is eroding fast, and he knows that within the hour he will have lost the will completely. The way he is feeling now, how easily he has fallen into a place of panic and anxiety, leaves him worried that there might be other consequences.
Like full blown anxiety attacks. Or flashbacks.
He has had two really bad flashbacks - both which had been debilitating at the time - and he has no urge to have another, especially around so many people that don’t know the full story of what had happened before he had transferred to Dalton.
Sitting beside Rachel on the hotel bed isn’t so bad; he’s at the edge where he can easily get away and he is relatively at ease with his bed-mates. It doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable or make him want to get away, so Kurt relaxes into the headboard and tries to calm down and focus on anything but his inner thoughts.
He will have to talk to Mr. Schuester and move into the girls’ room. He honestly cannot see any other way - at least, none that are plausible.
With that thought in mind he also tries to put any thoughts about what the first night here might hale - how his impending conversation with Mr. Schuester will go, and whether or not he will have to stay with the boys.
“Hey - you with us?”
Kurt looks up at Mercedes and offers a tight smile, a little excitement bleeding through his want to curl up in a dark room somewhere and hide, and nods. “Of course,” he says. “Can you believe it?”
Mercedes sits on the edge of the bed, pushing Kurt’s legs over so that she has room. “What?”
“This,” Kurt says and raises his hands to indicate the room. “Being in New York, making it to Nationals.”
Mercedes smiles, her eyes crinkling a little in the corners. “Not really. I keep expecting to wake up.”
Kurt laughs gently and looks out the window into the city, watching pigeons flutter across the sky and seeing a sea of buildings. “Me too.”
~
Kurt waits until Mr. Schuester is alone after the meeting and heading back to his own room to talk to him. All of the other members of glee club have stayed in the girls’ room to write, leaving the hallways empty but for the two of them.
Kurt straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin, trying to look determined, and approaches Mr. Schuester. “Mr. Schue? May I speak with you?”
The teacher’s eyebrows lift in question and he says, “Of course you can, Kurt.”
“I need to talk to you about sleeping arrangements.”
Mr. Schuester’s brows pull together now and a little frown tugs at his lips. “I thought we had everything figured out - you get the couch alone and the other boys will share the beds. That’s what you all decided on, right?”
Kurt nods in agreement, but continues, “I don’t think it is in the best interests of all of our members if I sleep in the boys’ room. Now, as you know, I am close with almost all of the girls, and I would like to propose allowing me to spend the nights with them.”
Mr. Schuester’s head starts shaking almost before Kurt has finished speaking. “I’m sorry, Kurt, but no. I can’t let you do that.”
“But Mr. Schuester, it is more comfortable for everyone if I do; the girls won’t mind. I have sleepovers with them all of the time.” Well - with Mercedes, Tina, Rachel, and once or twice Santana and Brittany. But Mr. Schuester doesn’t need to know that.
“No. Kurt, you’re sleeping with the boys.”
Kurt’s tone is starting to change from sharp politeness to razor-like irritation. He knows he has to control himself, but this is more than just some childish whim. “The boys will be much more comfortable without me there.”
“What are you talking about, Kurt? You guys get along fine.”
Kurt wants to gape in disbelief at Mr. Schuester. The man’s heart is in the right place, there is no denying that, but he’s so oblivious to this situation that it is ridiculous. Even if Kurt didn’t have his own motives for wanting to sleep in the girls’ room, his argument is still solid.
“Mr. Schuester -”
“Kurt. No.” The teacher’s voice is startlingly strict. “You’re sleeping with the boys, and that’s final.”
And just like that any hope Kurt had is dashed. Mr. Schuester’s rejection rings in his ears like a gunshot, piercing him with its unthinking and unintentional cruelty. The Spanish teaches might not know all of what had happened, but he had been to see Kurt in the hospital after the second attack. He had seen Kurt’s bruises, his broken bones, and he had heard about what had caused them. The older man doesn’t know about the first attack, about the rape - Kurt hasn’t told him.
But he shouldn’t have to tell him, thinks Kurt, and he doesn’t understand why Mr. Schuester would so bluntly turn down his request. It feels like a betrayal.
~
He’s ashamed. There is so much more to life, so much more that he wants to do, and everything comes back to that bastard Karofsky. It’s like every single thing he does is drenched in memories of being hurt and violated - Kurt is getting tired of waiting for a day when he doesn’t think of it at all.
In the beginning, all of those months ago, he had had so much hope - hope that he would move on, learn to get on with his life - but on days like this, when it consumes him so fully, he feels like he’ll never have reprieve.
There is too much worry churning in Kurt’s mind and tightening his throat to eat that night at dinner. His bowl of ginger rice sits before him, barely touched, and he keeps silent through much of the meal.
“Hey boo,” Mercedes says eventually, leaning into him. “You feeling okay?”
Kurt smiles at her reassuringly, and the insincerity of the expression eats at him. “Fine. I’m just worried about the competition. I mean - Nationals.”
Mercedes nods in understanding. “Oh I know what you mean. But you should try to eat some.” She raises a brow at his almost full dish. “You need to keep your strength up.”
Swallowing hard, Kurt says, “You’re right, of course.” And tries to forces a few more bites passed his lips.
Mercedes smiles approvingly and goes back to talking with Tina on her other side.
The moment she looks away, Kurt sets his chopsticks down and sips at some water in hopes that it will calm his stomach. As he does, he looks out around the line of tables they have pushed together at the restaurant.
Everyone is engaged in conversations, laughing and joking and enjoying their time. He wants more than anything to be able to do that, but he can’t seem to pull himself away from the thoughts that plague him.
~
Kurt knows he should have brought the problem up with Mr. Schuester weeks ago, back when he first knew that he would have to share a room with the boys during Nationals. Instead he had put off the conversation, turned his mind away from the issue, and focused on other things.
He doesn’t want people to know. If he told Mr. Schuester what had happened, explained why he didn’t want to stay with the boys, he would probably end up in the girls’ room with no problem. But Kurt doesn’t want to have to say anything; it’s bad enough that it happened without needed to drag it out into the open all of the time.
But now, sitting on the edge of his couch in the shared hotel room, Kurt wishes he had done something sooner. Or made a stronger argument when he had confronted Mr. Schuester.
Because as it is the anxiety, that familiar panic that thrums through him, is simmering inside him, leaving his chest tight and head swimming. He can’t do this; he can’t stay here tonight and feel like this.
Kurt clenches his hands into loose fists, his flesh cold and fingers numb at the tips. Even in the warm spring weather he feels chilled.
Most of the New Directions club don’t know what happened before he transferred to Dalton, and he wants to keep it that way. He can’t risk having another sleepless night, not this close to Nationals, and he won’t risk waking up everyone with his screams.
There are so many things that could go wrong, so many things that he could be triggered by in the room to remember Karofsky’s assaults.
There are little things like the smell of sweat. It permeates the entire room as an undercurrent, catching in his nose every once in a while like a jolt of electricity.
Every time he smells it he starts to panic.
And then there are the actual boys themselves. In a normal situation, where they had the entire choir room to move around in, or when there were only a few of them, he could function alright. But with Puck, Sam and Finn, all who have large athletic statures, moving around he is constantly jumping and flinching away from them.
His entire body is thrumming with adrenaline and he can feel the deep pit of unease threatening to swallow him whole. It is tiring and it makes him want to find some empty room to lock himself in just to calm down.
Kurt waits until all of the boys are in their beds, cracking jokes and telling stories, for the chance to lock himself in the bathroom. He doesn’t know where else he can go to be alone, to feel safe.
“Yo Hummel,” Puck calls from his place next to Sam as Kurt stands and walks to the bathroom. “Your bro here is saying he scored 110,000 in Rock Band on expert. That true?”
From the doorway to the bathroom Kurt says, “Not even. Half that and it’s still an exaggeration.” Smirking a little, Kurt continues on his way. When he is facing away, features completely hidden from the others, Kurt’s expression falls. It’s getting harder to keep up an act of normalcy.
“Not cool, Kurt,” Finn whines as Kurt closes the door. “That’s got to be against the bro code or something.”
Kurt latches the lock on the bathroom door, shutting himself in, and turns to the sink with his toiletries in hand.
Only to discover that someone has left a wadded up pile of clothes across the entirety of the countertop.
Almost freezing up in horror, Kurt mouths “oh my God” to the empty bathroom and shakes his head. Boys.
It gets worse as he takes a step toward the mess to clear it away and lands his foot in a puddle of water on the floor. By the time he has the pile of discarded clothes in hand he is thoroughly disgusted by the habits of the other guys.
Don’t they know anything about picking up after themselves?
He is about to drop his burden into the corner of the bathroom, right behind the door where it won’t be in the way, when something slithers out of the pile to land at his feet. Lifting one foot to slide the offending article of clothing forward, he looks down and sees what it is.
A black tie, coiled and undone from its knot.
Suddenly he isn’t in a hotel bathroom in New York City; he is in the boys’ locker room at McKinley High, hands tied in front of him and crushed into the bricks of a shower stall.
He hurts all over, but the worst is the sickening slaps of flesh echoing in the room and the smell of Karofsky, who is pressed against him - into him.
Harsh breathes blow over his neck and hands touch him, fondling him as he is violated.
When his vision suddenly clears of the images and the smell, sound and feel of Karofsky slowly fade away, Kurt trembles. The pile of clothing slips from his fingers and crumples to the ground. He feels wrong and disgusting and like this personal horror he is stuck in will never end.
The immersion into that hell, into the worst moment of his life, was only seconds long, but it feels like it just happened all over again.
Tears build in his eyes and bile stings the back of his throat as he fights the urge to throw up what little dinner he had managed to get down. He hates feeling like this, and he hates how Karofsky continues to affect him all these months later.
He hates how he lets it affect him so strongly, how he is so close to sobbing and throwing up and screaming all at once that he is frozen by the intensity of so much feeling.
Standing with the cold tiles of the bathroom floor beneath his feet and tears catching in his lashes, Kurt hears Artie laugh loud from the room, and he knows that he can’t go back in there. Not while they are awake.
So Kurt sinks slowly down to sit on the thin mat in front of the sink, letting his back rest against the wooden cabinet. And waits.
Fifteen minutes later he can still hear the voices of the boys in the room. His heart is still beating in his chest, and he is getting angry and frustrated with every continued second of this. He shouldn’t be this way. He should be strong enough to control how badly this affects him.
But he can’t, and it makes him feel weak.
The knob to the drawer beneath the sink is digging into his back, providing a single point of distraction from the way he is feeling. He wishes there was something more, something better, that could draw his mind away. His eyes absently skitter over the tie laying on the floor, but this quick view has no effect. It’s just a tie.
He hears Puck say something, the words muffled by the thick wood of the bathroom door, and then all of the boys laugh, their voices loud and raucous.
Sighing, Kurt leans his head back against the sink base, almost revelling in the ‘thunk’ of connection, and closes his eyes. They don’t sound like they are going to be stopping any time soon.
~
It takes over an hour for the talking to stop, for the rest of the glee boys to finally fall asleep, and Kurt unlocks the bathroom door slowly. The door opens to reveal the boys sprawled across their beds, their light breaths filling the room and blocking out the silence of night.
Taking quick and careful steps, Kurt makes his way to the couch and sits down, keeping his eyes on all of the beds. The boys are nothing more than breathing lumps under the blankets, but it seems like they are watching him.
His heart is beating hard and fast in his chest still, increasing with every moment, his pulse pounding in his ears and drowning out the world. He is on the edge of an anxiety attack, the worry and fear prickling over his skin and squeezing the air from his lungs.
It is so ridiculous, so stupid, but Kurt feels like Karofsky is sitting in the room with him, just waiting to pounce. He knows intellectually that that isn’t true, but something about the presence of all of the boys around him makes it feels so.
He supposes there is nothing logical about the way his adrenaline spikes, filling him with anxious energy.
He has only been out of the bathroom for a minute, maybe even less, and he can’t take it anymore; he has to get out. There is no way that he can stay in this room.
He’ll sneak out. He’ll send Mercedes a text and ask her to open the door, and if she doesn’t answer he’ll knock. Because there is no way he can be here any longer.
Grabbing his carry-on bag from the flight, already filled with two changes of clothes, an emergency toiletry kit, and his wallet, Kurt walks to the door, the weight of his cell phone a reassurance in his pocket. He’ll just go out in the hall and send the text.
And then maybe he can relax a little, maybe even sleep.
Kurt pushes the door open slowly, easing his way out of the room with gentle footfalls and hands pressing the door steadily so that he can listen for creaks from the metal hinges. When there is a gap big enough for him to just barely fit through he goes, keeping close to the doorframe.
Just as he has fully exited the room, one hand guiding the door shut behind him, he looks up and right into a pair of stunned eyes.
“Kurt? Do you need something?” There is something in Mr. Schuester’s voice, a kind of undermining sarcasm, which digs its way under Kurt’s skin.
As subtly as possible he turns his body, hiding the bag he holds in his hand, keeping his eyes up so that Mr. Schuester won’t see the shifting.
“I was just,” Kurt begins with barely a skip to his speech, “going to ask when you wanted us up for tomorrow.” There is sweat prickling at his forehead and disappointment churning in his stomach. “I would hate to set my alarm wrong - looking great takes time, you know.”
Mr. Schuester stares at him for a moment, eyes intense, but he nods and seems to accept the answer. “Eight thirty should be fine, Kurt.”
Kurt forces a smile to appear on his face and uses one hand to pry the door of the hotel room open again. “Oh - that’s perfect. Thanks Mr. Schuester.”
The teacher nods and a little furrow deepens his brow as he says, “Of course. Goodnight, Kurt.”
Pulling himself back into the room and trying to look nonchalant, Kurt says, “Goodnight Mr. Schue.” He then shuts to door and the smile falls from his lips, the muscles of his cheeks aching with the force of holding so long.
Letting out a shuddering breath, Kurt stares into the darkness of the room, feeling like he is in a prison not a hotel, and then closes his eyes. He doesn’t react as a single tear presses its way from between his lids and trails down his cheeks to pool between his collar bones.
He’s too busy trying to hold off the barrage of crushing trepidation.
Part Two