Fic: A Dark World Aches
Media: Fic
Title: A Dark World Aches
Rating: R
Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel
WARNINGS: VIVID IMAGERY OF SELF-HARM, DISCUSSIONS OF SELF-HARM, SELF-HARMING BEHAVIOR
Spoilers: 3x14, "On My Way"
Words: ~800
Summary: "Cough Syrup" is Blaine's cry for help.
A/N: Spawned from that gif of Blaine covering his right wrist with his left hand in the auditorium scene. It's disjointed, and it's also a way for me to process my own emotions at the moment. So take that as you will.
PLEASE HEED THE TRIGGER WARNINGS.
It’s become a reflex.
The scars have faded enough that he’s okay wearing short sleeves, covers the worst ones with a watch.
He still knows they’re there.
When he’s nervous, anxious, worried-he runs his thumb over them.
Grounds himself by finding the little marks, feeling where the skin’s not quite normal.
He doesn’t really know what recovery is supposed to look like-for him, it’s going a few weeks without touching a blade, only slipping up every once in awhile.
He doesn’t cut on his arms anymore.
Can’t really cut on his legs, not if he and Kurt are going to keep having sex.
His hips seem logical, for some reason, so that’s his area of choice.
Sometimes his ankles. The bottoms of his feet.
Places Kurt won’t ever really see, won’t pay much attention to.
Kurt doesn’t know everything, but he knows enough. Blaine’s told him about the assault, the PTSD, the therapy.
The suicidal thoughts.
He’s never told Kurt this, because this isn’t in the past.
It’s still too hard to talk about.
So he keeps it to himself, shares his secret with his blades and the blog he won’t attach his name to.
If he scrolls back through his posts, he suspects he’d probably worry about himself.
I don’t know why I keep doing this.
It doesn’t help anymore.
I’ve done it again.
I can’t stop.
I don’t want to stop.
The week before David Karofsky attempts to take his own life, Blaine fucks up.
The pressure for Regionals is high, he’s only just recovered from serious surgery, his parents are still somewhere halfway across the world.
Sebastian’s not leaving anytime soon, Kurt’s getting distant the closer they get to graduation.
His thighs are suddenly littered with bloody marks he half-remembers putting there, and he’s curled in a ball on the floor of his room, sobbing, shaking, lost.
He ends up sitting in his boxers, bandaging his legs, scrolling through his iTunes. Trying to figure out how to ask for help.
He doesn’t ever ask for it directly.
He’s never been able to.
He finds his song, practices it, tenses up.
He brings Kurt to the auditorium, stands in front of him, loses control at the microphone.
I’m losing my mind, losing control.
Life’s too short to even care at all.
He waits, when the music fades, waits for Kurt to figure it out.
This is his plea, his cry for help, his only way to ask for it.
He doesn’t know how else to ask.
Kurt stands, regards Blaine carefully. Puts his arms around him.
Blaine breaks.
The story comes out, the entire story, for the first time.
Kurt cries as he holds Blaine, as Blaine confesses to the years of blades, the scissors hidden in his desk drawer, the safety pins and X-acto knives and box cutters. He’s started bringing his stuff to school, keeps it in his locker, considers locking himself in the bathroom between classes to use it.
Kurt asks to see it.
Blaine unzips the case with shaky hands, offers it to Kurt.
Kurt cries harder, running his fingers over the rows of blades, the rows of knives, the flecks of dried blood where Blaine hasn’t quite managed to clean them properly.
He surprises Blaine.
He hands it back.
He asks to see Blaine’s legs.
They leave school early, end up on Blaine’s bed. Kurt carefully undoes Blaine’s jeans, pulls them down his thighs, jams a hand against his mouth to stifle a gasp.
He pulls Blaine into his arms, and Blaine starts crying again.
Kurt traces the cuts, the scars, asks Blaine to explain.
To make him understand. To make it make sense.
Blaine tries, talks about the relief and the pain and the sense of being alive.
How sometimes it’s the only way he knows he’s still breathing.
How it’s the only way he can keep functioning.
The only way he knows how to process the world.
Sometimes, it’s a reflex.
Sometimes, it’s a reward for surviving another week.
It’s messed up, it sounds messed up, even to Blaine’s ears, but Kurt doesn’t judge, doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt.
He lets Blaine talk.
He asks Blaine what Blaine needs, what he needs Kurt to do.
Blaine can’t answer.
He’s drained, empty. Finished.
He’s asked for help, but that’s as far as he’s thought ahead.
His words fail him again. He doesn’t have another song.
Kurt laces their fingers together, runs a thumb over the faded marks he can now pick out on Blaine’s wrists.
He asks Blaine if it’s okay to bring Ms. Pillsbury into this. To ask her for help.
Blaine bites his lip, doesn’t know.
He remembers his old therapist, the months of sitting in an office, the medicated haze of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds.
He looks down at his thighs, up at Kurt.
He takes a deep breath.
And nods.
Title: A Dark World Aches
Rating: R
Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel
WARNINGS: VIVID IMAGERY OF SELF-HARM, DISCUSSIONS OF SELF-HARM, SELF-HARMING BEHAVIOR
Spoilers: 3x14, "On My Way"
Words: ~800
Summary: "Cough Syrup" is Blaine's cry for help.
A/N: Spawned from that gif of Blaine covering his right wrist with his left hand in the auditorium scene. It's disjointed, and it's also a way for me to process my own emotions at the moment. So take that as you will.
PLEASE HEED THE TRIGGER WARNINGS.
It’s become a reflex.
The scars have faded enough that he’s okay wearing short sleeves, covers the worst ones with a watch.
He still knows they’re there.
When he’s nervous, anxious, worried-he runs his thumb over them.
Grounds himself by finding the little marks, feeling where the skin’s not quite normal.
He doesn’t really know what recovery is supposed to look like-for him, it’s going a few weeks without touching a blade, only slipping up every once in awhile.
He doesn’t cut on his arms anymore.
Can’t really cut on his legs, not if he and Kurt are going to keep having sex.
His hips seem logical, for some reason, so that’s his area of choice.
Sometimes his ankles. The bottoms of his feet.
Places Kurt won’t ever really see, won’t pay much attention to.
Kurt doesn’t know everything, but he knows enough. Blaine’s told him about the assault, the PTSD, the therapy.
The suicidal thoughts.
He’s never told Kurt this, because this isn’t in the past.
It’s still too hard to talk about.
So he keeps it to himself, shares his secret with his blades and the blog he won’t attach his name to.
If he scrolls back through his posts, he suspects he’d probably worry about himself.
I don’t know why I keep doing this.
It doesn’t help anymore.
I’ve done it again.
I can’t stop.
I don’t want to stop.
The week before David Karofsky attempts to take his own life, Blaine fucks up.
The pressure for Regionals is high, he’s only just recovered from serious surgery, his parents are still somewhere halfway across the world.
Sebastian’s not leaving anytime soon, Kurt’s getting distant the closer they get to graduation.
His thighs are suddenly littered with bloody marks he half-remembers putting there, and he’s curled in a ball on the floor of his room, sobbing, shaking, lost.
He ends up sitting in his boxers, bandaging his legs, scrolling through his iTunes. Trying to figure out how to ask for help.
He doesn’t ever ask for it directly.
He’s never been able to.
He finds his song, practices it, tenses up.
He brings Kurt to the auditorium, stands in front of him, loses control at the microphone.
I’m losing my mind, losing control.
Life’s too short to even care at all.
He waits, when the music fades, waits for Kurt to figure it out.
This is his plea, his cry for help, his only way to ask for it.
He doesn’t know how else to ask.
Kurt stands, regards Blaine carefully. Puts his arms around him.
Blaine breaks.
The story comes out, the entire story, for the first time.
Kurt cries as he holds Blaine, as Blaine confesses to the years of blades, the scissors hidden in his desk drawer, the safety pins and X-acto knives and box cutters. He’s started bringing his stuff to school, keeps it in his locker, considers locking himself in the bathroom between classes to use it.
Kurt asks to see it.
Blaine unzips the case with shaky hands, offers it to Kurt.
Kurt cries harder, running his fingers over the rows of blades, the rows of knives, the flecks of dried blood where Blaine hasn’t quite managed to clean them properly.
He surprises Blaine.
He hands it back.
He asks to see Blaine’s legs.
They leave school early, end up on Blaine’s bed. Kurt carefully undoes Blaine’s jeans, pulls them down his thighs, jams a hand against his mouth to stifle a gasp.
He pulls Blaine into his arms, and Blaine starts crying again.
Kurt traces the cuts, the scars, asks Blaine to explain.
To make him understand. To make it make sense.
Blaine tries, talks about the relief and the pain and the sense of being alive.
How sometimes it’s the only way he knows he’s still breathing.
How it’s the only way he can keep functioning.
The only way he knows how to process the world.
Sometimes, it’s a reflex.
Sometimes, it’s a reward for surviving another week.
It’s messed up, it sounds messed up, even to Blaine’s ears, but Kurt doesn’t judge, doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt.
He lets Blaine talk.
He asks Blaine what Blaine needs, what he needs Kurt to do.
Blaine can’t answer.
He’s drained, empty. Finished.
He’s asked for help, but that’s as far as he’s thought ahead.
His words fail him again. He doesn’t have another song.
Kurt laces their fingers together, runs a thumb over the faded marks he can now pick out on Blaine’s wrists.
He asks Blaine if it’s okay to bring Ms. Pillsbury into this. To ask her for help.
Blaine bites his lip, doesn’t know.
He remembers his old therapist, the months of sitting in an office, the medicated haze of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds.
He looks down at his thighs, up at Kurt.
He takes a deep breath.
And nods.