Glee!fic: Fix part II
Because apparently people are impatient for it? ^^;
Fix part II of IV V yeah screw my OCD this has all got a bit beyond my control. Multiple kinds of augh, anyway. Part I is here.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, nor the world, nor the concept.
Rating: I'm still sticking with R. Kids, read *nice* things instead.
Summary: I should have taken a knife to this stupid leather so-not-me bracelet-thing so he would have felt it gone this morning and known that I don't need a bodyguard and I am not his wolf pissing-pole and I do not need his trouble.
He's hardly out of his car - Finn's already off, jogging like a Labrador after its distant master to take care of his latest girlfriend troubles - before Mercedes has his arm. "Seven texts, Kurt! Seven! Tell me you were doing something really worth blowing off seven of my texts for or we're not talking, boy."
He bips the alarm on, rolls his eyes as Mercedes drags him towards the school. "I lost my phone. The social situation of McKinley will already be light years ahead of me after a night of missed texting, clearly, who's going out with whom now?"
Mercedes sighs, and starts, "Okay, so Santana says-"
Someone has Kurt's other arm now. "Hey Kurt. Did you miss this?"
Kurt stares at Blaine, stares down at his phone, opens his mouth. "Where did. Why-"
Mercedes has stopped walking, and is holding his arm carefully, like she'd like to pull him back. Blaine says, "I wanted your number. This is the pretty girl in all your photos, right? You looked fierce in that feather boa."
"You wa- you could have asked me for my number!" Kurt snatches the phone back, flicks the screen alight; eighteen texts, thank you Blaine Anderson. "You pickpocketed me? When?"
"After the first time we made out, before the second." He grins up at Kurt's face. "You looked fierce in the feather boa too."
Mercedes' fingers have gone tight on his arm and Kurt just cannot even right now. "This," he snarls, waving the phone in Blaine's face. "This is why you keep getting in trouble. You could have asked me. You didn't have to steal my phone. And look through all my photos, god-"
"Sometimes I get shy asking cute guys for their numbers."
"You're as shy as a hooker, Blaine! Why do you have to make things more difficult for yourself, why can't you just-"
"Gonna be late for homeroom," Mercedes murmurs, pulling at his arm.
Blaine runs his hand down Kurt's arm and for one second, his finger tugs the leather braid around his wrist. "See you later," he says, and he's gone, the heat and weight of him off Kurt's body in a fraction of a second, and Kurt's hungry skin whines a little in disbelief before Mercedes is tugging him fast in the opposite direction.
"The hell, Kurt. That is why you couldn't text me? Because you were off humping him-"
"Who said humping? No-one humped!"
"Who do you think we were texting about last night? He's like, Puck concentrated! Guy is trouble an' it was like funny trouble until he's - is he gay?"
Kurt stumbles after Mercedes' quick stride. "No, Mercedes, he made out with me because it was dark. Of course he's-"
"Are you two going out?"
"What? No! I don't know. No."
She stops then, bumping him sideways, and he is already tired of being jiggled about like a rag doll and it's not even nine o' clock yet. "It was funny gossipy trouble until he's sucking your face, okay, because the guy is-"
"Oh my god have you seen the Muckraker this morning." Tina is almost bouncing her way up to them, tripping on the sheer volume of gossip. "They gave him a double page spread. He's been to five schools in the last two years. Five. Three of them this year! And-"
"This school is such a bell jar," Kurt mumbles, but Mercedes has let go of his arm to shake Tina by the shoulders.
"He's making out with Kurt! He stole his phone and made out with him! He's-"
"Oh my god-"
"Oh my god," Kurt snaps back. "Enough. We were in detention together, he's - pushy. Nothing really happened. And we are going to be late for homeroom."
"Screw homeroom. He's pushy? How is he pushy?"
"Kurt, he got thrown out of his last school for assaulting a teacher, you need to be careful around him."
Why do you care about him being around me when you never even seem to see Karofsky? Kurt bites his tongue, turns for the doorway. "I'm not talking about this. I have texts to reply to. My schedule is too busy to talk about nothing."
"It's glee club tonight, remember! You won't escape!"
"Be careful!" Tina calls. "Avoid eye contact!"
Kurt fumes his way up the steps into the building until he catches the eye of - of a glaring footballer with two black eyes and tape over his nose, and all the blood reels back from Kurt's face. He turns his head away, hurries past, prays to just be ignored -
Through the noisy crowds of the morning the only part of the mumble he hears is, "- dead." He wishes Mercedes still had his arm.
He crosses his arms around himself, slips his fingers up his sleeve, touches warm leather. He keeps his head up, and keeps walking.
*
The school is a bell jar, and by mid-morning the gossip spirals around whatever crazy fight the football team got into with itself last night judging by the bruises, the mid-semester transfer and how much trouble he is, and how he's totally gay for Kurt Hummel. Doesn't even blush about it when asked point blank by Santana and Brittany, just says, "I'm gay, not 'gay for'. But if I was straight? I still would. Have you actually looked at him?"
And people look at Kurt, who cringes back a little, and wishes he'd worn something less outrageously blue today, maybe something locker-yellow so he could blend in like a chameleon . . .
It's all Mercedes' fault, Mercedes and her giant mouth, Mercedes telling the entire rest of the glee club - and since the glee club contains every last one of the school's biggest gossips, therefore telling the entire school - Mercedes badgering him all damn morning about Blaine. And Kurt doesn't know what he thinks about Blaine. What Kurt thinks that morning is -
I'm not dead yet. It's a good start. It's just not necessarily indicative of the day as a whole.
I should have taken a knife to this stupid leather so-not-me bracelet-thing so he would have felt it gone this morning and known that I don't need a bodyguard and I am not his wolf pissing-pole and I do not need his trouble.
God he smelt really good it's like he washes himself in icemelt mountain waterfalls and comes back to us fresh and clean and boy-scented and oh god stop thinking about how he smells.
Why am I not dead yet?
What is Rachel wearing, I cannot conceive, where does she get those clothes, who sits down and designs that as an item of clothing, I need to spill something on her so she has to change for her own damn good.
He'll come when I least expect it. He always does.
God he smelt so, so nice.
Why am I still wearing his stupid bracelet.
Why am I not dead yet.
Where is he?
Where is he?
At lunch Kurt sits opposite Mercedes and plays with his salad, while Rachel recounts like she's so damn wise (she is wearing a sweater with a kitten on it) that she knows what it's like to fall for a bad boy but it's never worth the grief and it's so much healthier to just say no (it is playing with a ball of yarn, Kurt would take advice from a recently concussed Brittany before he'd listen to someone wearing that sweater) and however cute Blaine might be he has a seriously shady past and Kurt is essentially innocent (oh fuck you Rachel Berry like you know anything about anything your sweater has a kitten on it) and if Kurt cares about his career and his grades-
Blaine scrapes onto the chair next to Kurt's. Everyone else goes silent. Kurt, head propped lazily on a hand, flicks his eyes up to Blaine and says, "What now? I'm pretty certain I still have my wallet on me."
"Don't say that, I don't only hang around you to steal your stuff. And I only borrowed it. And I gave it right back."
"After going through my photos."
Blaine eats a fry. "And some of your texts."
Kurt's jaw tightens. "Blaine."
"So these must be your friends!" Blaine grins around the table like Kurt isn't wishing him dead from half a foot away. "I'm Blaine, I just transferred. I have selective kleptomania, it only kicks in around cute boys."
Kurt glares at the ceiling and counts to ten, and then twenty to be sure.
"I'm - Mercedes and this is Rachel, and we know who you are." Mercedes says, and, pouting and unsure, pushes a much-folded copy of the Muckraker across the table to him. "So, what, you asked Kurt out?"
Blaine opens the flimsy paper, scans it, eats fries. "Not exactly. We're still in the unresolved sexual tension stage." Kurt smacks him, sudden and appalled, in the shoulder. Blaine wriggles it a little, but doesn't stop reading. "Your school newspaper appears to contain no actual news."
Mercedes says, "So, is it true?"
Blaine shrugs. "Someone did their Googling. I'm not going to deny any of it."
Kurt hasn't read it, makes a point of not reading that damn rag, and now he looks at the table, shifts his salad with his fork, wonders what it says. He doesn't know if he wants to know too much about Blaine. He can't work out - the boy next to him is bright and quick and a little dangerous, and he knows it, but it is to Kurt a very particular kind of danger and not one he's been in before. He can test it, or back off, or at least try to back off, but he doesn't know if he does want to know more. And since Blaine has apparently started following him around, since Blaine got Kurt into a fight with most of the football team last night, since Blaine tagged Kurt he does know that he doesn't have much choice in this now anyway . . .
Rachel folds her hands on the table, leans forward. "Blaine, it's nice to meet you and I'm sure you are a very interesting person underneath all the casual delinquency, but as Kurt's friends we need to know what your intentions towards him are. We want him to be safe."
Blaine eats a fry, watching her with his head a little tilted, then says, "Yeah, it's a - little bit hard to swallow that you want him to be safe, since none of you seem to be aware of how entirely not safe he is here."
Mostly, they look surprised. But Kurt has tipped over the edge into fury now, and sets his fork down with a hard click. "You got here five minutes ago and why exactly do you think you know my life better than-"
"They haven't even noticed. Excuse me but I noticed within half an hour. Plus," Blaine picks up Kurt's fork and spears a tomato segment on Kurt's plate, "there was this guy on unofficial hunger strike in juvie who was like, the grand master of the 'shifting food around until it looks like you actually ate some of it' thing. Not that you're not good at it." He puts the tomato into his mouth, looking up at Kurt with very calm eyes, very relaxed eyebrows, while the girls very obviously don't know what to say. "I guess he found it a really slow suicide method though, because he took a broken pen to his wrists one night instead."
Kurt draws his breath in through his nose, says, "You don't know me." and stands up, picking his bag up, leaving his tray.
Mercedes says, "Kurt-"
Rachel says, "Of course we - notice, of course we care about-"
Kurt just walks away. Because he can't bear feeling bitter towards his friends, they're all he has here, he can't bear feeling this, he can't blame them for what other people do -
Blaine doesn't follow him. Small mercies. Kurt heads for his locker, to get the books for his next class, to check how pink the rage has turned his face. He's still breathing too hard as he opens the door; he hates having his vulnerabilities pointed out, hates anyone drawing attention to the ways that he isn't perfectly contained and perfectly capable. Blaine doesn't know anything, doesn't know how hard Kurt works to keep holding onto his friends, everything that must be forgiven and ignored, everything he has to swallow down and not mind. And god knows they probably put up with enough from him, this is how human relationships work, you ignore how hard your throat fills, you compromise a thousand times a day because need is stronger than pride . . .
He closes his locker door and he's there. He feels what it does; his face opens, he can't control the expression, the blood drains, his stomach cavity is empty, his arms are rigid around his bag. Karofsky's got a cut in his forehead, just above one eyebrow, and odd purpling bruises around his eyes, and Kurt did that, and Kurt can't breathe.
"We're not supposed to," he starts, but his tongue loses the strength. They are under instruction not to interact in the corridors. Who's there to enforce it, though?
"You never get it." He's shuffled his body to cup Kurt's desperately needed personal space, there's no exit through him, Kurt can only blindly back away but he can't, he can't move when Karofsky looks at him like that. "How many times until you get it, Hummel?"
He could respond, and should respond, because it's so much worse when he can see the triumph in Karofsky's eyes, can see how glad he is that he's got Kurt's voice closed tight in his own fist. Kurt tries to draw some breath to say something; it comes in stuttered, and there aren't any words. Karofsky glances to the side as the bell goes, at the students ignoring them completely, passing them by like running water. He looks back at Kurt, and says low and blunt, "Is he fucking you?"
If there was any blood left in Kurt's face, it's gone now, and Kurt's mouth opens but nothing comes out. Karofsky's mouth curves, contempt and rage, and he spits again, low and rough, "You let him fuck you?"
Kurt understands what he's being asked and needs to cry but he can't, he can't do anything, even crying is an active verb and with Karofsky over him like this Kurt is passive tense, things can only be done to him. He manages to shake his head, just such a very little, eyes fixed by Karofsky's. Karofsky's face tightens, his bruised eyes full of hate, and god why doesn't anyone notice, why doesn't anyone do -
A door bangs, and Kurt's eyes flick to the side, and the corridor is empty. They're the last ones in it. And -
The shock is worse than the pain, when that does hit, the shock of being touched. The hand in his hair yanks his head back, his neck strains, opened out under Karofsky, and a little noise jumps in his bared throat but he can't even scream and he needs to. "Nothing's changed. Nothing changes. He won't help you. You understand?"
Kurt doesn't want to understand. Karofsky's hand tightens, twists, in his hair.
"You understand?"
Kurt hears it first, the smallest click. And then - oh synthetic fabrics, best and worst leap forward fashion ever made - the back of Karofsky's jacket goes so cheerfully up in flames, leaping ceilingwards so quick and bright, an orange indoor bonfire. Karofsky seems to smell it before he feels it, yelps and lets go of Kurt to sag into the lockers while he spins, beating desperately at his back, and behind him Blaine takes a step backwards and flicks a silver lighter closed, watching him with cool dark eyes.
Karofsky manages to jerk the jacket off, beating it against the lockers, kicking it off his wrist. "Jesus! Jesus Chr-"
"The next time you touch him," Blaine says, while Kurt's breath comes back in shaking staggered gulps in his chest, "I'm pouring gasoline on your crotch. Do you understand?"
Karofsky's still kicking at his jacket with a heel, trying to put it out. A door is opening down the corridor; Blaine grabs Kurt's wrist. "Come on. We don't want to be here when the sprinklers kick in."
Kurt's jerked off after him, too numb to fight back. Apparently being dragged around like a rag doll is his theme, today. Blaine pulls him around the corner and down the corridor, his head swinging left and right checking doors, and Kurt swallows, croaks, "Here," tugging at his wrist. They're outside the choir room, and it'll be empty at this time of day.
Inside it's so quiet, and Blaine closes the door, looks down, touches the little twist-lock in the handle but leaves it. He follows Kurt's lurching walk to the chairs but doesn't touch him, just lets him collapse into one and drop his bag, wrapping his arms around his stomach, hanging his head. Oh god. Oh, god -
Blaine says, "He won't bother you again."
"What the hell would you know about it," Kurt snaps up at him. "He said he'd kill me if I - he said -"
Blaine shrugs. "People who are going to kill you try to kill you. People who say they're going to kill you are bullshitters."
"He said -"
"If he looks at you again I'll make him regret so, so much. Just-"
"When the hell did this become your problem? I'm not your pity-project, I don't need-"
"Clearly you're dealing with it swell and all, but I think I'll keep stepping in when he's got you by the hair, Kurt."
"You're making things worse!"
"Fuck, worse? You want to talk about worse? How about the time he's got such a hard-on from torturing you he starts wanting to do something about it, you think that won't be worse-?"
The sob comes out barked, and bends him in half around it, great shaking sobs coming from his stomach and rocking him with the force of them. He never makes a sound when he cries, he's so good at keeping it silent, but this is beyond any control, this is like being physically shaken by some outside force, the noise keeps punching out of him, gulped on each breath. And Blaine whispers, "Hey," and sits next to him, hesitates, puts an arm over his back. "Hey. Okay. Okay."
Nothing is okay. Kurt tries to shrug him off but he's crying too hard to co-ordinate himself to do it, and Blaine puts his other hand on his shoulder now, and sings softly, "Hey hey hey," his hands just enough on him, pulling him sideways until the side of Kurt's head is pressed to his chest, where his breath comes slow and steady and huge against Kurt's ear, and his heart runs, steady and strong, behind it. "Okay," Blaine says, hand running down Kurt's back. "Okay."
Kurt wipes a cheek off, sniff-shudders, wipes the other cheek. He lifts his head a little, blinking worn eyes, sniffs in hard again and mumbles, "Sorry."
"It's okay." Blaine's thumb, warm and a little rough, rubs over Kurt's cheek. "Sorry. I shouldn't have - said that. Not like that. Sorry."
Kurt closes his eyes, and begins digging in his bag for a tissue. Blaine watches him, silent, until Kurt can blow his nose, when Blaine says, "When he attacked you in here. It was - that. Wasn't it?"
Kurt squeezes the tissue in his hand, doesn't look at him, doesn't look at that corner behind the piano. "I don't know."
Blaine's just silent. Terror and revulsion squeeze in Kurt's stomach, and he wipes his eyes again. "I - felt it. When he pushed me down. Against my - stomach." He shudders, all the way through. "I don't know what he was going to do. I don't."
Blaine says, quietly, "I do."
Kurt shakes his head. "You don't understand. He's so - so scared of himself, of being - I don't know if he's even capable of-"
"I don't think I'd wonder what someone might be capable of if they shoved me down and stuck their dick into my stomach."
Kurt hunches his arms around himself, blows his nose again. He hadn't questioned it at the time, either. Screamed until there was a hand over his mouth and he couldn't, until his scrabbling hand felt something, anything he could get him the hell off himself with -
Blaine says, "You didn't tell anyone. You let them think he's some kind of wounded party when he could have-"
"What would I tell them?" Kurt whispers. "Who do you think would even believe me? It's my word against his and he'll say I'm making it up and I don't even want to have to say it. I don't want to - I don't want my dad to know - I don't want it all over the school, I just want it to stop."
Blaine rubs Kurt's back a little, and works his jaw. "It won't. Not if you don't stop it."
"Don't say anything. Blaine, don't. Don't. I've thought about it, believe me, I have thought and thought and the only possible good that might come out of it is him leaving me alone. But it could ruin his life, you have no idea how they'll turn on him if-"
"You give a fuck about his-?"
"- and it'll destroy my dad," Kurt says, voice wavering, swallowing hard. "I can't tell him, I can't bear for him to know, and - and he had a really serious heart attack this year and he's not supposed to get stressed and he'll just go insane and -" The breath hiccups in him again, and he puts a hand over his mouth. "And everyone will look at me differently and they'll know and it just - I can't bear it. I can't. Don't tell anyone, please."
Blaine's jaw is still tight, and his eyes are fierce with too much light. He takes a long hissed breath, then says, "So long as he never touches you again, I won't say anything. Shit, with my history, it's not like they'd believe me either."
"You can't. You can't, you can't-"
"He'd just really better keep his fucking distance, hadn't he?"
Kurt puts his hands over his eyes, works on not crying again. Blaine's hand rubs at his shoulder blade, warm and hard, and Kurt relaxes with a slow shudder against it. He wipes his nose again, and presses the tissue back into its packet because there's nowhere else to put it, and combs his fingers through his hair a little to check it's alright. Blaine just watches him while he composes himself, before he lifts his head, looks at Blaine's face - relaxed, only so slightly wary - and says, "How did you end up in juvie?"
Blaine's mouth goes tight, and he shrugs. "For something I'm actually ashamed of." Kurt just keeps watching him, and Blaine scratches the back of his head, throws up a whatever shrug. "I hid a gun for someone. Don't - tell me how entirely stupid and shitty a thing to do it was. I know it was. I wasn't thinking clearly at the time."
Kurt sits, composed, and is more appalled than he thought he would be, until he makes himself stop being appalled and start thinking. "Why did you do it?"
Blaine's shrug is more awkward this time, more of a genuine sixteen year old boy not trying to be something else. "I knew this guy. He wasn't the sort of person you say no to. I." He scratches at his hair again, and Kurt notes how messy it's getting, and how easy it would be to lean across and neaten it. "I had a stupid crush, on a stupid straight guy, who knew it. So - he got me in trouble, mostly because he could. Or I let him get me into trouble, because I'm an idiot like that." He folds his arms around himself, looks to the side. "He's in jail now anyway, he won't get out until I hope to hell I am out of this entire dustbowl state. Stupidest thing I ever did, you don't need to tell me."
The combination of Kurt's slightly OCD approach to hair styling and Kurt's ever-present low-level desire to touch Blaine is making keeping his hands on his lap difficult. "You know," he says, quietly, "you can stop doing stupid things whenever you like."
"Maybe you can. Maybe other people can." Blaine shrugs. "I fuck my life up. I know I'm doing it, I just can't seem to stop. I do try, sometimes. Or I used to. But I know I'll only fuck it up again so there's no real point even trying anymore."
Kurt draws his breath in, slowly, and gives up. He reaches up and strokes his fingers through Blaine's scuffed hair, smoothing it again, and he murmurs, "You can stop. Don't you have people to help you? Your parents-?"
Blaine laughs, catches Kurt's wrist - around that leather band Kurt is still wearing like a collar - and lolls back in his seat. "You clearly haven't met my parents."
"But they must love you."
"Must they?" Blaine says vaguely, turning Kurt's wrist, opening his curled fingers out. "Hey, look at your love line. It's got me written all over it."
Kurt closes his hand again, says, "Blaine."
"I'm a walking disaster," Blaine tells him, very matter of factly. "I will fuck things up for you if you give me access to things that can get fucked up. Just so you can't say I didn't warn you."
"You didn't need to warn me. You just enjoy patronising me. Like I can't decide for myself -"
"Have you decided?"
He's still got Kurt's wrist. "What - do you want from me?" He's afraid, suddenly, with his eyes on Blaine's. He ducks his head a little but doesn't break the stare. "I've never had a boyfriend."
"Neither have I. Friends I occasionally get off with. I don't do boyfriends."
Kurt's face is hot, now, and he knows it must show. He says roughly, "Why not?"
"Too much opportunity to fuck up. And get fucked up. So! Are you in detention again tonight? Do I need to concoct something to get myself banged up with you again this afternoon?"
He's dropped Kurt's wrist, stood up and walked to the piano. Kurt folds his arms quickly, confused by how cold he suddenly is. "No. They let me off Tuesdays and Thursdays for glee practise. It's supposed to be a good influence on me." He smirks at Blaine's stare, Blaine frozen with one hand on the keys. "What? It is a good influence on me."
"You're in your school's glee club. Seriously."
"It's fun. You should come."
"Yes, yes, I should. I should come sing happy songs with the mouth breathers and choreography-dyslexics. What the hell are you doing in glee club? You don't get enough hassle at this school anyway?"
"We're good." Kurt says bluntly. "I'm good. I enjoy it. It's the best part of my week. Come for practise, it'd be good for you too."
"You seriously." Blaine stares at him, then puts the lid down on the piano keys like it's dangerous having them bared. "You are actually inviting me to join show choir."
Kurt says, "Scared?"
Blaine takes his face in for a long time. "They never stop abusing and physically threatening you, and you don't even keep your head down, stay away from show choir and make yourself invisible. I told you. You're not the type that breaks."
Kurt just holds his head steady, feeling something like pride prickle under the skin of his cheeks. "Are you coming or not?"
Blaine shrugs. "Hell. What have I got to lose?"
*
Kurt's late for French, but Karofsky doesn't seem to have pointed the finger over his jacket's spontaneous combustion and he excuses himself by saying he was showing the new kid to his class. He doesn't get a choice of partner for their speaking exercise though, being late sucks - Azimio glares right at him, eyes narrowed and arms folded, while Kurt settles himself straight-backed and composed. It's strange how five minutes of conversation with Blaine makes him feel stronger, though, bold enough to meet Azimio's eyes and say stiffly, "I'm going to assume that of course you didn't do the homework assignment and you don't actually know any of the vocabulary, so it's better if I save my breath than actually try to have a conversation with you."
"We got a game next week." Azimio says. "My arm's still screwed? Your little boyfriend is a dead man, Hummel."
Kurt's shoulder blades prickle with wanting to snap something irreparable, but he controls his tongue, bites out, "I don't know why you can't all understand that it's better for everyone if you leave him and me alone."
"'cause then you think you can get away with it. This is Lima, man, not San Francisco or Oz or where the hell ever, this is Lima an' you gotta go around being all-" He waves a hand at him. "Too gay, Hummel. There are rules. We got standards to maintain here."
He folds his arms, says icily, "Your 'standards' clearly don't reach as high as basic conversational French." He switches languages because he can. "We are better than you. You wouldn't understand. It's about who you are, not what you are, and who you are is -" He snorts. "Poor, poor."
Azimio bangs a little blue book on the desk. "I got my dictionary. You just said something bad? It is fucking on." He begins flicking the pages. "What'd you say about newsomes, what?"
"When I leave this town and tell people about you they will think I am making it up."
"Talk slower, man, Jesus-"
"Have you smelt him?" Kurt says distractedly, and rubs his arms a little. "He makes me feel hungry. It cannot be normal. Is it normal? I want to bite him."
"Fuckin' faggot language," Azimio mutters, and Kurt lets his eyes look through the classroom wall, lets his fingers slip under his cuff to warm plaited leather.
*
Of course the entire glee club knows by practise that afternoon. The only thing that saves Kurt from a metaphorical dogpile as soon as he's through the door is that Blaine slips in after him as close on his heels as if he's trying to dance with him; Kurt murmurs, "Did you behave yourself?"
"I had the most boring afternoon ever, thanks for asking."
He's close enough that Kurt can feel the warmth of him, though that may just be the paranoia that requiring a seven foot diameter of personal space instils in you. He walks quickly, diving into the seat beside Mercedes for safety; Blaine slips into the one behind his, and presses his foot up against Kurt's ankle so he gives a little jump as he drops his bag. Mercedes gives him the long slow look of so not impressed with you today and then looks up at Blaine, arms folded, mouth pouting, apparently even less impressed by Blaine. "You like, actually realise where you are, right?"
"Show choir." Blaine does jazz hands, eyebrows raised. "Kurt invited me. Apparently juvie and five different school discipline systems didn't do it, but show tunes will totally show me the error of my ways."
"We don't only do show tunes," Kurt says. "In fact we don't do nearly enough show tunes."
"Okay, guys!" Mr Schuester's walking in, arms full of music, grinning. "It's been a good week and it's about to get better because we're working up to the big group number of this assignment and - hi." He's seen Blaine and stops, while Blaine sits there stroking at the back of Kurt's heel with the tip of his shoe, and Kurt lifts his foot and grinds it back down onto Blaine's; he will scratch the leather. "You're . . . our new transfer student."
"Blaine Anderson. Hi. Kurt brought me."
Mr Schuester looks at Kurt. Kurt says, "He needs focus."
"He needs watching," Rachel says darkly.
He needs a restraining order, Kurt thinks, as Blaine's foot slips in alongside his again. If it's actually possible for feet to nuzzle, that's what he's doing, and it's a goddamn foot and it shouldn't be making all the nerves down Kurt's leg wobble so helplessly.
"Well that's - great, Blaine, can you sing?"
"I'm here to observe," Blaine says calmly. "I am not sticking my neck out on this until I know exactly which level of lame we're working at."
"I will stamp on your foot again." Kurt says. "I'll kick you. I have steel toecaps. I can make you regret things."
"Okay, we always need new members, so you can audition if you enjoy the show we put on. Guys, let's show Blaine what we've been working on."
The assignment this week was Motown, the influence on and invention of modern pop music, and Kurt and Mercedes scissor-paper-stoned over Ain't No Mountain High Enough for who got which part, and it turns out that Kurt is lucky only in small and delightful ways. They almost stopped speaking over the 'best version' discussion though, because Kurt will not hear a word against Diana Ross and Mercedes is for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell all the way and when they argue they can really go for it. They pulled themselves together for their performance, though. They're professional like that.
The group number this week is Dancing In The Streets. Rachel's sulking because Quinn and Mercedes have the solos, so Kurt is ignoring her, and Finn who's giving him the confused frown Kurt's already weary of - it means he'll have to explain things to Finn, using very small words, and he so does not have the energy - and Blaine, because if he looks at Blaine then he knows he'll lose all concentration on anything else. It is very strange knowing what another human being tastes like. It's all he can think about when he meets his eyes.
So he doesn't look at Blaine, joins in instead with his glee club, who drive him nuts and somehow emphasise instead of cushioning his isolation and are very clearly not charmed by Kurt's guest, but who he feels a part of when they're performing. Halfway through he's forgotten that Blaine's even there, and when they finish he just hugs Mercedes from behind and laughs and says, "You are amazing and you know it."
"Yeah I do," she preens, and then they hear the slow clapping of their audience of one, and everyone looks up at Blaine, sitting there in the seats just suppressing a smile, eyebrows tight.
He stops clapping and lifts a hand. "Question. Why exactly are you surprised that the rest of the school treat you like dorks?"
Mercedes mutters against Kurt's cheek, "Don't care if you are humping, gonna bring the pain on him so bad."
Finn says, "Dude, if we're such dorks then why was your foot tapping?"
The last thing Kurt expects Blaine to do is laugh. Apparently Blaine always does the last thing that Kurt expects him to do. "Good song. No, bravo, it was honest applause. But you do see why people act like this is uncool. It is very, very uncool. That doesn't mean it's not good."
"So Mr Anderson," Mr Schuester says, leaning back against the board with his arms folded, shirtsleeves rolled up. "Are you in or out?"
Blaine rubs with his fingertips at the inside of his wrist for a bit, and Kurt realises it's a nervous gesture, he's feeling for a leather bracelet that's not there anymore. Blaine plays with it when he feels uneasy. Played with it. Kurt puts a hand over his sleeve where it sits, and Blaine takes in a little breath and stands up. "I'm in. For now."
Catcalls and whooping, and Kurt bites down the grin, tilts his weight on his hip and smirks at him. "So can you sing?"
"You want me to audition?" Blaine says to Mr Schuester, who spreads his arms in a shrug. "Now's as good as whenever."
He walks straight down to the piano, invites Brad to take his leave of it with a disarmingly well-mannered bow; Brad stands up, offering him the keys. The glee club straggles back to their seats, Kurt curious now, because when he brought this boy here he did it mostly out of pride because this is something he's good at and wants to show off, not because he honestly believed that Blaine would be any good at it. But Blaine skims some little scales off and then sets his fingers right, and begins playing.
The piano rumbles, low and threatening. Kurt doesn't know what music he expected Blaine to be into; rap, hip-hop, metal, punk, whatever angry young men listen to nowadays. What Blaine plays is Angie Stone, Wish I Didn't Miss You. The fact that he's chosen a song by a female artist makes something flush warm inside Kurt. The fact that as soon as he opens his mouth he can sing is beyond surprise, what it makes Kurt feel is joy, like he's found his home. And then he blinks, and twists the leather band on his wrist, and tries not to feel so much. Not even so much of anything in particular, just so much, too much, all the time now.
Mercedes and Santana are bobbing their shoulders and they give in by the first chorus, supply him some backing vocals. Finn is sneaking to the drum kit. He's good, god he's good, Kurt thought he was letting some stray mongrel tag in here after his heels but now they've got him in the bath he turns out to be a glossy-coated best in show purebred, nodding hard as he plays, losing himself in it. And Kurt turns the song over in his mind, while Blaine's voice moves him like a hand on his spine, electric; why this song, and what does it mean to him . . . ?
He's shaken his hair loose when he finishes, flushed and surprised by the applause that starts. He blinks up at them, and the smile is faltering and embarrassed, and as Kurt reminds himself to clap Blaine's eyes meet his, shielded and unsure like he needs reassurance. Kurt smiles. Blaine's mouth twitches, and his face settles itself careless again, and he gets off the piano stool, gives an ironic little bow, and says to Mr Schuester, "So, am I in or out?"
Mr Schuester pats his shoulder, grinning. "You are very, very in, Blaine."
Rachel bursts into fresh and excited applause. Kurt glances up at her, knows what she's thinking, narrows his eyes. You wanted Finn for your duet partner and you got him. This one's mine, Berry. Back off or the sweater kitten gets it.
The rest of practise they discuss choreography, try out some old school Motown moves, classier than a lot of what Kurt has to put up with in this glee club. Blaine sits on the sidelines, watching them. Whenever Kurt looks up he's looking at him, and by the end of practise, he doesn't even blush anymore. He just meets his eyes and listens to how his heart beats, that so-fast Motown bangbangbangbang.
When practise breaks up Kurt pulls his jacket on and Mercedes says, "I guess you'll be too busy to hang out with us," her eyebrow working hard to emphasise exactly why Kurt must be too busy for anything else. "See you tomorrow?"
"If you don't hurt yourself on that bitch face and have to miss school," Kurt says, picking up his bag. Mercedes whacks him in the shoulder but laughs, and waves to him and a little uncertainly Blaine as she turns away. Blaine gives her a quick smile and stands next to Kurt, while Mr Schuester gathers his papers, the glee club hurry out, laughing and talking and some of them singing Stevie Wonder as they go, Santana and Brittany shaking their skirts. Finn says awkwardly, "I'm . . . driving Rachel home. See you at dinner?" Kurt twitches a smile, watches him leave.
At his shoulder Blaine murmurs, "I have really, really tall competition?"
"My stepbrother," Kurt says, and there's only Artie wheeling himself out and then they're alone. Kurt beams. "You enjoyed it. Don't tell me you didn't. You didn't tell me you could sing."
Blaine rubs his nose and shrugs, shoulders wriggling. "I used to, you know, when I was a kid. Used to like. This sort of stuff."
"And then . . . ?"
"And then." Blaine says like it's an explanation, and hikes his bag over his shoulder. "It was alright."
"You were so into it. And you were so good, I had no idea - and we need you, we always need new members because Coach Sylvester could snatch the Cheerios out of our midst any second and leave us under regulation numbers and one of these days if we're lucky Rachel might actually mean her weekly storming out and you're good and we could use you and everyone'll warm to you, they always do, they'll love you-"
"Don't - act like this is the best thing that ever happened to me, okay? There's just - fuck-all else fun to do at this crappy school, since you won't let me do you."
Kurt's cheek twitches but he ignores it. "This could be good for you. I know glee club's mismatched and chaotic and obnoxious but you could make some friends and-"
"Don't act like I need this!" Kurt pulls his head back a little when Blaine's voice rises. "Don't act like I need babysitting, Jesus-"
Kurt says stiffly, "It can't be easy starting a new school under a cloud of rumours. I'm just trying to help, Blaine."
"Well don't! Don't act like I need rescuing, especially by you-"
Kurt's backbone has hardened, a solid straight icicle. "Oh, Blaine, the irony." he says, and glares for the exact disdainful second necessary before he spins to walk out.
"In the interests of honesty," Blaine shouts after his back, "I only stayed to the end because I was thinking about fucking you over the piano!"
"In the interests of honesty," Kurt yells over his shoulder, "fuck yourself with the piano!"
From the sound of it, that's when Blaine kicks the piano's leg. Kurt's already halfway down the corridor, walking fast, sucking down every breath and blinking hard. Why does everything have to feel so much when so many things feel so bad?
*
Kurt lays on his side on his bed and picks at the leather braid around his wrist. The knot is still too tight to work off one handed, and maybe it's because he knows that that he keeps on working at it. There are an awkward two taps at the door and he lifts his head, pushes the bracelet quickly up his sleeve. It's Finn, head ducked like Kurt's ceiling might be lower than his, hands stuffing into his pockets. "Hey."
"Hi," Kurt says, as his iTunes shuffles to Edith Piaf and Finn gives it a bemused look. "Did . . . you need something?"
Finn looks back at him and tips his weight back and forth on his ankles, and Kurt sits neatly upright, tucking his ankles together underneath the bed. This does not look like it'll be fun. "So you're like, hanging. Out. With Blaine."
"When I can't avoid it," Kurt says guardedly, and the leather band on his wrist burns.
Finn lifts his shoulders almost to his ears. "He was fun. In glee club. Kind of douchey but fun, I guess."
Finn is actually surprisingly good with words, can often compress what Kurt needs a long and gesture-filled monologue to properly describe into a simple little sentence. Kind of douchey but fun: Blaine Anderson and his attitude problem in five words. Kurt shrugs. "I thought glee would be good for him. I suppose I have to wait and see if I'm right."
"I get how he's fun and, you know, gay." Finn says, and Kurt frowns at how exactly Finn is thinking these sentences through. "But he's still - we still don't know him or anything about him really, only that he's dangerous, and-"
Kurt sighs. "What did Rachel tell you to say?"
Finn squirms. "I dunno. She was talking a lot. A lot of it was . . . we want you to be safe, man."
It's not been a good day, and Kurt is actually quite spitefully glad to have someone to take it out on. "I got tired of your selectively being my 'brother' a long time ago, Finn. It's frankly just easier if you ignore me all the time."
"I'm trying to protect you here."
"Protect me from what? He's dangerous but the half of the football team who would see me dead and I do not mean that metaphorically don't seem to worry you at all and - Finn you don't know him and you don't know me. So butt out. And you can tell your girlfriend the same, but louder."
"Look, just because he's gay you don't have to-"
"What is this obsession of yours? What does his being gay have to do with anything?"
"Well just 'cause he's - you know, an option. It doesn't mean you have to. I get you haven't really ever . . . you know, had anyone you, you could with before. You don't have to settle for the first guy when he's," he shrugs again, "kind of an asshole."
Kurt closes his fists on his thighs because the urge to leap up and punch Finn is violent and overwhelming and not one Kurt is remotely familiar with, physical aggression just isn't him. "What the hell would you know about - like I would drop at the feet of the first available option, like I'm that pathetic-" Kurt's first available option held Kurt's head back by his hair today, and would have done worse if Blaine hadn't got there. What the hell would Finn know about it, he doesn't want Blaine because he's available, he wants Blaine because -
Oh fuck, he wants Blaine.
"Get out." It's the only thing left to him. "Get the hell out of my room."
"Dude-" Finn has his hands up, and he looks lost. "We do care -"
But not as much as Blaine does, and Blaine only met Kurt yesterday. "Just go." he spits, and throws a cushion for good measure. Finn pulls the door behind himself and it bounces off the wood. Kurt sits there, fuming and flustered and his chest shaking and straining because yes Blaine is kind of a douche and yes Kurt wants him and it is so, so not fair -
His phone sings a text. He closes his eyes for a second, swallows hard, leans over and picks it up. It's from Blaine, apparently he stole Kurt's phone and gave him his number all at once.
I'm sorry I'm a dick. I don't want to ruin your good things.
Kurt holds the phone and breathes for some time, and then swallows. He texts back, It's ok. I'm sorry if I sounded like I was patronising you.
He gets up, touches things on his desk, tries to convince himself that he's doing something other than waiting for the next text. He hums. His phone goes off.
Me too. Which window is yours?
Kurt stares at it for some time, then goes to his window and opens it, leans out. There's a car parked outside his house, and Blaine Anderson is sitting on the hood, phone held up on his crooked knees. He lifts his head to Kurt's, face pale and young in the night, and calls with a voice made small by the quiet all around them, "Hi."
". . . hi," Kurt says back, and blinks. "Why are you . . . ?"
"In the interests of honesty," Blaine says, letting his legs down, tapping his phone off his thigh. "I don't have many people I can talk to."
". . . oh?"
Blaine shrugs. "In the interests of honesty, I don't have any people I can talk to. Um. You gonna come take pity on me or what?"
Kurt stares down at him, and his heart sings hard in his chest. "Let me get a jacket."
Part III
Fix part II of IV V yeah screw my OCD this has all got a bit beyond my control. Multiple kinds of augh, anyway. Part I is here.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, nor the world, nor the concept.
Rating: I'm still sticking with R. Kids, read *nice* things instead.
Summary: I should have taken a knife to this stupid leather so-not-me bracelet-thing so he would have felt it gone this morning and known that I don't need a bodyguard and I am not his wolf pissing-pole and I do not need his trouble.
He's hardly out of his car - Finn's already off, jogging like a Labrador after its distant master to take care of his latest girlfriend troubles - before Mercedes has his arm. "Seven texts, Kurt! Seven! Tell me you were doing something really worth blowing off seven of my texts for or we're not talking, boy."
He bips the alarm on, rolls his eyes as Mercedes drags him towards the school. "I lost my phone. The social situation of McKinley will already be light years ahead of me after a night of missed texting, clearly, who's going out with whom now?"
Mercedes sighs, and starts, "Okay, so Santana says-"
Someone has Kurt's other arm now. "Hey Kurt. Did you miss this?"
Kurt stares at Blaine, stares down at his phone, opens his mouth. "Where did. Why-"
Mercedes has stopped walking, and is holding his arm carefully, like she'd like to pull him back. Blaine says, "I wanted your number. This is the pretty girl in all your photos, right? You looked fierce in that feather boa."
"You wa- you could have asked me for my number!" Kurt snatches the phone back, flicks the screen alight; eighteen texts, thank you Blaine Anderson. "You pickpocketed me? When?"
"After the first time we made out, before the second." He grins up at Kurt's face. "You looked fierce in the feather boa too."
Mercedes' fingers have gone tight on his arm and Kurt just cannot even right now. "This," he snarls, waving the phone in Blaine's face. "This is why you keep getting in trouble. You could have asked me. You didn't have to steal my phone. And look through all my photos, god-"
"Sometimes I get shy asking cute guys for their numbers."
"You're as shy as a hooker, Blaine! Why do you have to make things more difficult for yourself, why can't you just-"
"Gonna be late for homeroom," Mercedes murmurs, pulling at his arm.
Blaine runs his hand down Kurt's arm and for one second, his finger tugs the leather braid around his wrist. "See you later," he says, and he's gone, the heat and weight of him off Kurt's body in a fraction of a second, and Kurt's hungry skin whines a little in disbelief before Mercedes is tugging him fast in the opposite direction.
"The hell, Kurt. That is why you couldn't text me? Because you were off humping him-"
"Who said humping? No-one humped!"
"Who do you think we were texting about last night? He's like, Puck concentrated! Guy is trouble an' it was like funny trouble until he's - is he gay?"
Kurt stumbles after Mercedes' quick stride. "No, Mercedes, he made out with me because it was dark. Of course he's-"
"Are you two going out?"
"What? No! I don't know. No."
She stops then, bumping him sideways, and he is already tired of being jiggled about like a rag doll and it's not even nine o' clock yet. "It was funny gossipy trouble until he's sucking your face, okay, because the guy is-"
"Oh my god have you seen the Muckraker this morning." Tina is almost bouncing her way up to them, tripping on the sheer volume of gossip. "They gave him a double page spread. He's been to five schools in the last two years. Five. Three of them this year! And-"
"This school is such a bell jar," Kurt mumbles, but Mercedes has let go of his arm to shake Tina by the shoulders.
"He's making out with Kurt! He stole his phone and made out with him! He's-"
"Oh my god-"
"Oh my god," Kurt snaps back. "Enough. We were in detention together, he's - pushy. Nothing really happened. And we are going to be late for homeroom."
"Screw homeroom. He's pushy? How is he pushy?"
"Kurt, he got thrown out of his last school for assaulting a teacher, you need to be careful around him."
Why do you care about him being around me when you never even seem to see Karofsky? Kurt bites his tongue, turns for the doorway. "I'm not talking about this. I have texts to reply to. My schedule is too busy to talk about nothing."
"It's glee club tonight, remember! You won't escape!"
"Be careful!" Tina calls. "Avoid eye contact!"
Kurt fumes his way up the steps into the building until he catches the eye of - of a glaring footballer with two black eyes and tape over his nose, and all the blood reels back from Kurt's face. He turns his head away, hurries past, prays to just be ignored -
Through the noisy crowds of the morning the only part of the mumble he hears is, "- dead." He wishes Mercedes still had his arm.
He crosses his arms around himself, slips his fingers up his sleeve, touches warm leather. He keeps his head up, and keeps walking.
*
The school is a bell jar, and by mid-morning the gossip spirals around whatever crazy fight the football team got into with itself last night judging by the bruises, the mid-semester transfer and how much trouble he is, and how he's totally gay for Kurt Hummel. Doesn't even blush about it when asked point blank by Santana and Brittany, just says, "I'm gay, not 'gay for'. But if I was straight? I still would. Have you actually looked at him?"
And people look at Kurt, who cringes back a little, and wishes he'd worn something less outrageously blue today, maybe something locker-yellow so he could blend in like a chameleon . . .
It's all Mercedes' fault, Mercedes and her giant mouth, Mercedes telling the entire rest of the glee club - and since the glee club contains every last one of the school's biggest gossips, therefore telling the entire school - Mercedes badgering him all damn morning about Blaine. And Kurt doesn't know what he thinks about Blaine. What Kurt thinks that morning is -
I'm not dead yet. It's a good start. It's just not necessarily indicative of the day as a whole.
I should have taken a knife to this stupid leather so-not-me bracelet-thing so he would have felt it gone this morning and known that I don't need a bodyguard and I am not his wolf pissing-pole and I do not need his trouble.
God he smelt really good it's like he washes himself in icemelt mountain waterfalls and comes back to us fresh and clean and boy-scented and oh god stop thinking about how he smells.
Why am I not dead yet?
What is Rachel wearing, I cannot conceive, where does she get those clothes, who sits down and designs that as an item of clothing, I need to spill something on her so she has to change for her own damn good.
He'll come when I least expect it. He always does.
God he smelt so, so nice.
Why am I still wearing his stupid bracelet.
Why am I not dead yet.
Where is he?
Where is he?
At lunch Kurt sits opposite Mercedes and plays with his salad, while Rachel recounts like she's so damn wise (she is wearing a sweater with a kitten on it) that she knows what it's like to fall for a bad boy but it's never worth the grief and it's so much healthier to just say no (it is playing with a ball of yarn, Kurt would take advice from a recently concussed Brittany before he'd listen to someone wearing that sweater) and however cute Blaine might be he has a seriously shady past and Kurt is essentially innocent (oh fuck you Rachel Berry like you know anything about anything your sweater has a kitten on it) and if Kurt cares about his career and his grades-
Blaine scrapes onto the chair next to Kurt's. Everyone else goes silent. Kurt, head propped lazily on a hand, flicks his eyes up to Blaine and says, "What now? I'm pretty certain I still have my wallet on me."
"Don't say that, I don't only hang around you to steal your stuff. And I only borrowed it. And I gave it right back."
"After going through my photos."
Blaine eats a fry. "And some of your texts."
Kurt's jaw tightens. "Blaine."
"So these must be your friends!" Blaine grins around the table like Kurt isn't wishing him dead from half a foot away. "I'm Blaine, I just transferred. I have selective kleptomania, it only kicks in around cute boys."
Kurt glares at the ceiling and counts to ten, and then twenty to be sure.
"I'm - Mercedes and this is Rachel, and we know who you are." Mercedes says, and, pouting and unsure, pushes a much-folded copy of the Muckraker across the table to him. "So, what, you asked Kurt out?"
Blaine opens the flimsy paper, scans it, eats fries. "Not exactly. We're still in the unresolved sexual tension stage." Kurt smacks him, sudden and appalled, in the shoulder. Blaine wriggles it a little, but doesn't stop reading. "Your school newspaper appears to contain no actual news."
Mercedes says, "So, is it true?"
Blaine shrugs. "Someone did their Googling. I'm not going to deny any of it."
Kurt hasn't read it, makes a point of not reading that damn rag, and now he looks at the table, shifts his salad with his fork, wonders what it says. He doesn't know if he wants to know too much about Blaine. He can't work out - the boy next to him is bright and quick and a little dangerous, and he knows it, but it is to Kurt a very particular kind of danger and not one he's been in before. He can test it, or back off, or at least try to back off, but he doesn't know if he does want to know more. And since Blaine has apparently started following him around, since Blaine got Kurt into a fight with most of the football team last night, since Blaine tagged Kurt he does know that he doesn't have much choice in this now anyway . . .
Rachel folds her hands on the table, leans forward. "Blaine, it's nice to meet you and I'm sure you are a very interesting person underneath all the casual delinquency, but as Kurt's friends we need to know what your intentions towards him are. We want him to be safe."
Blaine eats a fry, watching her with his head a little tilted, then says, "Yeah, it's a - little bit hard to swallow that you want him to be safe, since none of you seem to be aware of how entirely not safe he is here."
Mostly, they look surprised. But Kurt has tipped over the edge into fury now, and sets his fork down with a hard click. "You got here five minutes ago and why exactly do you think you know my life better than-"
"They haven't even noticed. Excuse me but I noticed within half an hour. Plus," Blaine picks up Kurt's fork and spears a tomato segment on Kurt's plate, "there was this guy on unofficial hunger strike in juvie who was like, the grand master of the 'shifting food around until it looks like you actually ate some of it' thing. Not that you're not good at it." He puts the tomato into his mouth, looking up at Kurt with very calm eyes, very relaxed eyebrows, while the girls very obviously don't know what to say. "I guess he found it a really slow suicide method though, because he took a broken pen to his wrists one night instead."
Kurt draws his breath in through his nose, says, "You don't know me." and stands up, picking his bag up, leaving his tray.
Mercedes says, "Kurt-"
Rachel says, "Of course we - notice, of course we care about-"
Kurt just walks away. Because he can't bear feeling bitter towards his friends, they're all he has here, he can't bear feeling this, he can't blame them for what other people do -
Blaine doesn't follow him. Small mercies. Kurt heads for his locker, to get the books for his next class, to check how pink the rage has turned his face. He's still breathing too hard as he opens the door; he hates having his vulnerabilities pointed out, hates anyone drawing attention to the ways that he isn't perfectly contained and perfectly capable. Blaine doesn't know anything, doesn't know how hard Kurt works to keep holding onto his friends, everything that must be forgiven and ignored, everything he has to swallow down and not mind. And god knows they probably put up with enough from him, this is how human relationships work, you ignore how hard your throat fills, you compromise a thousand times a day because need is stronger than pride . . .
He closes his locker door and he's there. He feels what it does; his face opens, he can't control the expression, the blood drains, his stomach cavity is empty, his arms are rigid around his bag. Karofsky's got a cut in his forehead, just above one eyebrow, and odd purpling bruises around his eyes, and Kurt did that, and Kurt can't breathe.
"We're not supposed to," he starts, but his tongue loses the strength. They are under instruction not to interact in the corridors. Who's there to enforce it, though?
"You never get it." He's shuffled his body to cup Kurt's desperately needed personal space, there's no exit through him, Kurt can only blindly back away but he can't, he can't move when Karofsky looks at him like that. "How many times until you get it, Hummel?"
He could respond, and should respond, because it's so much worse when he can see the triumph in Karofsky's eyes, can see how glad he is that he's got Kurt's voice closed tight in his own fist. Kurt tries to draw some breath to say something; it comes in stuttered, and there aren't any words. Karofsky glances to the side as the bell goes, at the students ignoring them completely, passing them by like running water. He looks back at Kurt, and says low and blunt, "Is he fucking you?"
If there was any blood left in Kurt's face, it's gone now, and Kurt's mouth opens but nothing comes out. Karofsky's mouth curves, contempt and rage, and he spits again, low and rough, "You let him fuck you?"
Kurt understands what he's being asked and needs to cry but he can't, he can't do anything, even crying is an active verb and with Karofsky over him like this Kurt is passive tense, things can only be done to him. He manages to shake his head, just such a very little, eyes fixed by Karofsky's. Karofsky's face tightens, his bruised eyes full of hate, and god why doesn't anyone notice, why doesn't anyone do -
A door bangs, and Kurt's eyes flick to the side, and the corridor is empty. They're the last ones in it. And -
The shock is worse than the pain, when that does hit, the shock of being touched. The hand in his hair yanks his head back, his neck strains, opened out under Karofsky, and a little noise jumps in his bared throat but he can't even scream and he needs to. "Nothing's changed. Nothing changes. He won't help you. You understand?"
Kurt doesn't want to understand. Karofsky's hand tightens, twists, in his hair.
"You understand?"
Kurt hears it first, the smallest click. And then - oh synthetic fabrics, best and worst leap forward fashion ever made - the back of Karofsky's jacket goes so cheerfully up in flames, leaping ceilingwards so quick and bright, an orange indoor bonfire. Karofsky seems to smell it before he feels it, yelps and lets go of Kurt to sag into the lockers while he spins, beating desperately at his back, and behind him Blaine takes a step backwards and flicks a silver lighter closed, watching him with cool dark eyes.
Karofsky manages to jerk the jacket off, beating it against the lockers, kicking it off his wrist. "Jesus! Jesus Chr-"
"The next time you touch him," Blaine says, while Kurt's breath comes back in shaking staggered gulps in his chest, "I'm pouring gasoline on your crotch. Do you understand?"
Karofsky's still kicking at his jacket with a heel, trying to put it out. A door is opening down the corridor; Blaine grabs Kurt's wrist. "Come on. We don't want to be here when the sprinklers kick in."
Kurt's jerked off after him, too numb to fight back. Apparently being dragged around like a rag doll is his theme, today. Blaine pulls him around the corner and down the corridor, his head swinging left and right checking doors, and Kurt swallows, croaks, "Here," tugging at his wrist. They're outside the choir room, and it'll be empty at this time of day.
Inside it's so quiet, and Blaine closes the door, looks down, touches the little twist-lock in the handle but leaves it. He follows Kurt's lurching walk to the chairs but doesn't touch him, just lets him collapse into one and drop his bag, wrapping his arms around his stomach, hanging his head. Oh god. Oh, god -
Blaine says, "He won't bother you again."
"What the hell would you know about it," Kurt snaps up at him. "He said he'd kill me if I - he said -"
Blaine shrugs. "People who are going to kill you try to kill you. People who say they're going to kill you are bullshitters."
"He said -"
"If he looks at you again I'll make him regret so, so much. Just-"
"When the hell did this become your problem? I'm not your pity-project, I don't need-"
"Clearly you're dealing with it swell and all, but I think I'll keep stepping in when he's got you by the hair, Kurt."
"You're making things worse!"
"Fuck, worse? You want to talk about worse? How about the time he's got such a hard-on from torturing you he starts wanting to do something about it, you think that won't be worse-?"
The sob comes out barked, and bends him in half around it, great shaking sobs coming from his stomach and rocking him with the force of them. He never makes a sound when he cries, he's so good at keeping it silent, but this is beyond any control, this is like being physically shaken by some outside force, the noise keeps punching out of him, gulped on each breath. And Blaine whispers, "Hey," and sits next to him, hesitates, puts an arm over his back. "Hey. Okay. Okay."
Nothing is okay. Kurt tries to shrug him off but he's crying too hard to co-ordinate himself to do it, and Blaine puts his other hand on his shoulder now, and sings softly, "Hey hey hey," his hands just enough on him, pulling him sideways until the side of Kurt's head is pressed to his chest, where his breath comes slow and steady and huge against Kurt's ear, and his heart runs, steady and strong, behind it. "Okay," Blaine says, hand running down Kurt's back. "Okay."
Kurt wipes a cheek off, sniff-shudders, wipes the other cheek. He lifts his head a little, blinking worn eyes, sniffs in hard again and mumbles, "Sorry."
"It's okay." Blaine's thumb, warm and a little rough, rubs over Kurt's cheek. "Sorry. I shouldn't have - said that. Not like that. Sorry."
Kurt closes his eyes, and begins digging in his bag for a tissue. Blaine watches him, silent, until Kurt can blow his nose, when Blaine says, "When he attacked you in here. It was - that. Wasn't it?"
Kurt squeezes the tissue in his hand, doesn't look at him, doesn't look at that corner behind the piano. "I don't know."
Blaine's just silent. Terror and revulsion squeeze in Kurt's stomach, and he wipes his eyes again. "I - felt it. When he pushed me down. Against my - stomach." He shudders, all the way through. "I don't know what he was going to do. I don't."
Blaine says, quietly, "I do."
Kurt shakes his head. "You don't understand. He's so - so scared of himself, of being - I don't know if he's even capable of-"
"I don't think I'd wonder what someone might be capable of if they shoved me down and stuck their dick into my stomach."
Kurt hunches his arms around himself, blows his nose again. He hadn't questioned it at the time, either. Screamed until there was a hand over his mouth and he couldn't, until his scrabbling hand felt something, anything he could get him the hell off himself with -
Blaine says, "You didn't tell anyone. You let them think he's some kind of wounded party when he could have-"
"What would I tell them?" Kurt whispers. "Who do you think would even believe me? It's my word against his and he'll say I'm making it up and I don't even want to have to say it. I don't want to - I don't want my dad to know - I don't want it all over the school, I just want it to stop."
Blaine rubs Kurt's back a little, and works his jaw. "It won't. Not if you don't stop it."
"Don't say anything. Blaine, don't. Don't. I've thought about it, believe me, I have thought and thought and the only possible good that might come out of it is him leaving me alone. But it could ruin his life, you have no idea how they'll turn on him if-"
"You give a fuck about his-?"
"- and it'll destroy my dad," Kurt says, voice wavering, swallowing hard. "I can't tell him, I can't bear for him to know, and - and he had a really serious heart attack this year and he's not supposed to get stressed and he'll just go insane and -" The breath hiccups in him again, and he puts a hand over his mouth. "And everyone will look at me differently and they'll know and it just - I can't bear it. I can't. Don't tell anyone, please."
Blaine's jaw is still tight, and his eyes are fierce with too much light. He takes a long hissed breath, then says, "So long as he never touches you again, I won't say anything. Shit, with my history, it's not like they'd believe me either."
"You can't. You can't, you can't-"
"He'd just really better keep his fucking distance, hadn't he?"
Kurt puts his hands over his eyes, works on not crying again. Blaine's hand rubs at his shoulder blade, warm and hard, and Kurt relaxes with a slow shudder against it. He wipes his nose again, and presses the tissue back into its packet because there's nowhere else to put it, and combs his fingers through his hair a little to check it's alright. Blaine just watches him while he composes himself, before he lifts his head, looks at Blaine's face - relaxed, only so slightly wary - and says, "How did you end up in juvie?"
Blaine's mouth goes tight, and he shrugs. "For something I'm actually ashamed of." Kurt just keeps watching him, and Blaine scratches the back of his head, throws up a whatever shrug. "I hid a gun for someone. Don't - tell me how entirely stupid and shitty a thing to do it was. I know it was. I wasn't thinking clearly at the time."
Kurt sits, composed, and is more appalled than he thought he would be, until he makes himself stop being appalled and start thinking. "Why did you do it?"
Blaine's shrug is more awkward this time, more of a genuine sixteen year old boy not trying to be something else. "I knew this guy. He wasn't the sort of person you say no to. I." He scratches at his hair again, and Kurt notes how messy it's getting, and how easy it would be to lean across and neaten it. "I had a stupid crush, on a stupid straight guy, who knew it. So - he got me in trouble, mostly because he could. Or I let him get me into trouble, because I'm an idiot like that." He folds his arms around himself, looks to the side. "He's in jail now anyway, he won't get out until I hope to hell I am out of this entire dustbowl state. Stupidest thing I ever did, you don't need to tell me."
The combination of Kurt's slightly OCD approach to hair styling and Kurt's ever-present low-level desire to touch Blaine is making keeping his hands on his lap difficult. "You know," he says, quietly, "you can stop doing stupid things whenever you like."
"Maybe you can. Maybe other people can." Blaine shrugs. "I fuck my life up. I know I'm doing it, I just can't seem to stop. I do try, sometimes. Or I used to. But I know I'll only fuck it up again so there's no real point even trying anymore."
Kurt draws his breath in, slowly, and gives up. He reaches up and strokes his fingers through Blaine's scuffed hair, smoothing it again, and he murmurs, "You can stop. Don't you have people to help you? Your parents-?"
Blaine laughs, catches Kurt's wrist - around that leather band Kurt is still wearing like a collar - and lolls back in his seat. "You clearly haven't met my parents."
"But they must love you."
"Must they?" Blaine says vaguely, turning Kurt's wrist, opening his curled fingers out. "Hey, look at your love line. It's got me written all over it."
Kurt closes his hand again, says, "Blaine."
"I'm a walking disaster," Blaine tells him, very matter of factly. "I will fuck things up for you if you give me access to things that can get fucked up. Just so you can't say I didn't warn you."
"You didn't need to warn me. You just enjoy patronising me. Like I can't decide for myself -"
"Have you decided?"
He's still got Kurt's wrist. "What - do you want from me?" He's afraid, suddenly, with his eyes on Blaine's. He ducks his head a little but doesn't break the stare. "I've never had a boyfriend."
"Neither have I. Friends I occasionally get off with. I don't do boyfriends."
Kurt's face is hot, now, and he knows it must show. He says roughly, "Why not?"
"Too much opportunity to fuck up. And get fucked up. So! Are you in detention again tonight? Do I need to concoct something to get myself banged up with you again this afternoon?"
He's dropped Kurt's wrist, stood up and walked to the piano. Kurt folds his arms quickly, confused by how cold he suddenly is. "No. They let me off Tuesdays and Thursdays for glee practise. It's supposed to be a good influence on me." He smirks at Blaine's stare, Blaine frozen with one hand on the keys. "What? It is a good influence on me."
"You're in your school's glee club. Seriously."
"It's fun. You should come."
"Yes, yes, I should. I should come sing happy songs with the mouth breathers and choreography-dyslexics. What the hell are you doing in glee club? You don't get enough hassle at this school anyway?"
"We're good." Kurt says bluntly. "I'm good. I enjoy it. It's the best part of my week. Come for practise, it'd be good for you too."
"You seriously." Blaine stares at him, then puts the lid down on the piano keys like it's dangerous having them bared. "You are actually inviting me to join show choir."
Kurt says, "Scared?"
Blaine takes his face in for a long time. "They never stop abusing and physically threatening you, and you don't even keep your head down, stay away from show choir and make yourself invisible. I told you. You're not the type that breaks."
Kurt just holds his head steady, feeling something like pride prickle under the skin of his cheeks. "Are you coming or not?"
Blaine shrugs. "Hell. What have I got to lose?"
*
Kurt's late for French, but Karofsky doesn't seem to have pointed the finger over his jacket's spontaneous combustion and he excuses himself by saying he was showing the new kid to his class. He doesn't get a choice of partner for their speaking exercise though, being late sucks - Azimio glares right at him, eyes narrowed and arms folded, while Kurt settles himself straight-backed and composed. It's strange how five minutes of conversation with Blaine makes him feel stronger, though, bold enough to meet Azimio's eyes and say stiffly, "I'm going to assume that of course you didn't do the homework assignment and you don't actually know any of the vocabulary, so it's better if I save my breath than actually try to have a conversation with you."
"We got a game next week." Azimio says. "My arm's still screwed? Your little boyfriend is a dead man, Hummel."
Kurt's shoulder blades prickle with wanting to snap something irreparable, but he controls his tongue, bites out, "I don't know why you can't all understand that it's better for everyone if you leave him and me alone."
"'cause then you think you can get away with it. This is Lima, man, not San Francisco or Oz or where the hell ever, this is Lima an' you gotta go around being all-" He waves a hand at him. "Too gay, Hummel. There are rules. We got standards to maintain here."
He folds his arms, says icily, "Your 'standards' clearly don't reach as high as basic conversational French." He switches languages because he can. "We are better than you. You wouldn't understand. It's about who you are, not what you are, and who you are is -" He snorts. "Poor, poor."
Azimio bangs a little blue book on the desk. "I got my dictionary. You just said something bad? It is fucking on." He begins flicking the pages. "What'd you say about newsomes, what?"
"When I leave this town and tell people about you they will think I am making it up."
"Talk slower, man, Jesus-"
"Have you smelt him?" Kurt says distractedly, and rubs his arms a little. "He makes me feel hungry. It cannot be normal. Is it normal? I want to bite him."
"Fuckin' faggot language," Azimio mutters, and Kurt lets his eyes look through the classroom wall, lets his fingers slip under his cuff to warm plaited leather.
*
Of course the entire glee club knows by practise that afternoon. The only thing that saves Kurt from a metaphorical dogpile as soon as he's through the door is that Blaine slips in after him as close on his heels as if he's trying to dance with him; Kurt murmurs, "Did you behave yourself?"
"I had the most boring afternoon ever, thanks for asking."
He's close enough that Kurt can feel the warmth of him, though that may just be the paranoia that requiring a seven foot diameter of personal space instils in you. He walks quickly, diving into the seat beside Mercedes for safety; Blaine slips into the one behind his, and presses his foot up against Kurt's ankle so he gives a little jump as he drops his bag. Mercedes gives him the long slow look of so not impressed with you today and then looks up at Blaine, arms folded, mouth pouting, apparently even less impressed by Blaine. "You like, actually realise where you are, right?"
"Show choir." Blaine does jazz hands, eyebrows raised. "Kurt invited me. Apparently juvie and five different school discipline systems didn't do it, but show tunes will totally show me the error of my ways."
"We don't only do show tunes," Kurt says. "In fact we don't do nearly enough show tunes."
"Okay, guys!" Mr Schuester's walking in, arms full of music, grinning. "It's been a good week and it's about to get better because we're working up to the big group number of this assignment and - hi." He's seen Blaine and stops, while Blaine sits there stroking at the back of Kurt's heel with the tip of his shoe, and Kurt lifts his foot and grinds it back down onto Blaine's; he will scratch the leather. "You're . . . our new transfer student."
"Blaine Anderson. Hi. Kurt brought me."
Mr Schuester looks at Kurt. Kurt says, "He needs focus."
"He needs watching," Rachel says darkly.
He needs a restraining order, Kurt thinks, as Blaine's foot slips in alongside his again. If it's actually possible for feet to nuzzle, that's what he's doing, and it's a goddamn foot and it shouldn't be making all the nerves down Kurt's leg wobble so helplessly.
"Well that's - great, Blaine, can you sing?"
"I'm here to observe," Blaine says calmly. "I am not sticking my neck out on this until I know exactly which level of lame we're working at."
"I will stamp on your foot again." Kurt says. "I'll kick you. I have steel toecaps. I can make you regret things."
"Okay, we always need new members, so you can audition if you enjoy the show we put on. Guys, let's show Blaine what we've been working on."
The assignment this week was Motown, the influence on and invention of modern pop music, and Kurt and Mercedes scissor-paper-stoned over Ain't No Mountain High Enough for who got which part, and it turns out that Kurt is lucky only in small and delightful ways. They almost stopped speaking over the 'best version' discussion though, because Kurt will not hear a word against Diana Ross and Mercedes is for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell all the way and when they argue they can really go for it. They pulled themselves together for their performance, though. They're professional like that.
The group number this week is Dancing In The Streets. Rachel's sulking because Quinn and Mercedes have the solos, so Kurt is ignoring her, and Finn who's giving him the confused frown Kurt's already weary of - it means he'll have to explain things to Finn, using very small words, and he so does not have the energy - and Blaine, because if he looks at Blaine then he knows he'll lose all concentration on anything else. It is very strange knowing what another human being tastes like. It's all he can think about when he meets his eyes.
So he doesn't look at Blaine, joins in instead with his glee club, who drive him nuts and somehow emphasise instead of cushioning his isolation and are very clearly not charmed by Kurt's guest, but who he feels a part of when they're performing. Halfway through he's forgotten that Blaine's even there, and when they finish he just hugs Mercedes from behind and laughs and says, "You are amazing and you know it."
"Yeah I do," she preens, and then they hear the slow clapping of their audience of one, and everyone looks up at Blaine, sitting there in the seats just suppressing a smile, eyebrows tight.
He stops clapping and lifts a hand. "Question. Why exactly are you surprised that the rest of the school treat you like dorks?"
Mercedes mutters against Kurt's cheek, "Don't care if you are humping, gonna bring the pain on him so bad."
Finn says, "Dude, if we're such dorks then why was your foot tapping?"
The last thing Kurt expects Blaine to do is laugh. Apparently Blaine always does the last thing that Kurt expects him to do. "Good song. No, bravo, it was honest applause. But you do see why people act like this is uncool. It is very, very uncool. That doesn't mean it's not good."
"So Mr Anderson," Mr Schuester says, leaning back against the board with his arms folded, shirtsleeves rolled up. "Are you in or out?"
Blaine rubs with his fingertips at the inside of his wrist for a bit, and Kurt realises it's a nervous gesture, he's feeling for a leather bracelet that's not there anymore. Blaine plays with it when he feels uneasy. Played with it. Kurt puts a hand over his sleeve where it sits, and Blaine takes in a little breath and stands up. "I'm in. For now."
Catcalls and whooping, and Kurt bites down the grin, tilts his weight on his hip and smirks at him. "So can you sing?"
"You want me to audition?" Blaine says to Mr Schuester, who spreads his arms in a shrug. "Now's as good as whenever."
He walks straight down to the piano, invites Brad to take his leave of it with a disarmingly well-mannered bow; Brad stands up, offering him the keys. The glee club straggles back to their seats, Kurt curious now, because when he brought this boy here he did it mostly out of pride because this is something he's good at and wants to show off, not because he honestly believed that Blaine would be any good at it. But Blaine skims some little scales off and then sets his fingers right, and begins playing.
The piano rumbles, low and threatening. Kurt doesn't know what music he expected Blaine to be into; rap, hip-hop, metal, punk, whatever angry young men listen to nowadays. What Blaine plays is Angie Stone, Wish I Didn't Miss You. The fact that he's chosen a song by a female artist makes something flush warm inside Kurt. The fact that as soon as he opens his mouth he can sing is beyond surprise, what it makes Kurt feel is joy, like he's found his home. And then he blinks, and twists the leather band on his wrist, and tries not to feel so much. Not even so much of anything in particular, just so much, too much, all the time now.
Mercedes and Santana are bobbing their shoulders and they give in by the first chorus, supply him some backing vocals. Finn is sneaking to the drum kit. He's good, god he's good, Kurt thought he was letting some stray mongrel tag in here after his heels but now they've got him in the bath he turns out to be a glossy-coated best in show purebred, nodding hard as he plays, losing himself in it. And Kurt turns the song over in his mind, while Blaine's voice moves him like a hand on his spine, electric; why this song, and what does it mean to him . . . ?
He's shaken his hair loose when he finishes, flushed and surprised by the applause that starts. He blinks up at them, and the smile is faltering and embarrassed, and as Kurt reminds himself to clap Blaine's eyes meet his, shielded and unsure like he needs reassurance. Kurt smiles. Blaine's mouth twitches, and his face settles itself careless again, and he gets off the piano stool, gives an ironic little bow, and says to Mr Schuester, "So, am I in or out?"
Mr Schuester pats his shoulder, grinning. "You are very, very in, Blaine."
Rachel bursts into fresh and excited applause. Kurt glances up at her, knows what she's thinking, narrows his eyes. You wanted Finn for your duet partner and you got him. This one's mine, Berry. Back off or the sweater kitten gets it.
The rest of practise they discuss choreography, try out some old school Motown moves, classier than a lot of what Kurt has to put up with in this glee club. Blaine sits on the sidelines, watching them. Whenever Kurt looks up he's looking at him, and by the end of practise, he doesn't even blush anymore. He just meets his eyes and listens to how his heart beats, that so-fast Motown bangbangbangbang.
When practise breaks up Kurt pulls his jacket on and Mercedes says, "I guess you'll be too busy to hang out with us," her eyebrow working hard to emphasise exactly why Kurt must be too busy for anything else. "See you tomorrow?"
"If you don't hurt yourself on that bitch face and have to miss school," Kurt says, picking up his bag. Mercedes whacks him in the shoulder but laughs, and waves to him and a little uncertainly Blaine as she turns away. Blaine gives her a quick smile and stands next to Kurt, while Mr Schuester gathers his papers, the glee club hurry out, laughing and talking and some of them singing Stevie Wonder as they go, Santana and Brittany shaking their skirts. Finn says awkwardly, "I'm . . . driving Rachel home. See you at dinner?" Kurt twitches a smile, watches him leave.
At his shoulder Blaine murmurs, "I have really, really tall competition?"
"My stepbrother," Kurt says, and there's only Artie wheeling himself out and then they're alone. Kurt beams. "You enjoyed it. Don't tell me you didn't. You didn't tell me you could sing."
Blaine rubs his nose and shrugs, shoulders wriggling. "I used to, you know, when I was a kid. Used to like. This sort of stuff."
"And then . . . ?"
"And then." Blaine says like it's an explanation, and hikes his bag over his shoulder. "It was alright."
"You were so into it. And you were so good, I had no idea - and we need you, we always need new members because Coach Sylvester could snatch the Cheerios out of our midst any second and leave us under regulation numbers and one of these days if we're lucky Rachel might actually mean her weekly storming out and you're good and we could use you and everyone'll warm to you, they always do, they'll love you-"
"Don't - act like this is the best thing that ever happened to me, okay? There's just - fuck-all else fun to do at this crappy school, since you won't let me do you."
Kurt's cheek twitches but he ignores it. "This could be good for you. I know glee club's mismatched and chaotic and obnoxious but you could make some friends and-"
"Don't act like I need this!" Kurt pulls his head back a little when Blaine's voice rises. "Don't act like I need babysitting, Jesus-"
Kurt says stiffly, "It can't be easy starting a new school under a cloud of rumours. I'm just trying to help, Blaine."
"Well don't! Don't act like I need rescuing, especially by you-"
Kurt's backbone has hardened, a solid straight icicle. "Oh, Blaine, the irony." he says, and glares for the exact disdainful second necessary before he spins to walk out.
"In the interests of honesty," Blaine shouts after his back, "I only stayed to the end because I was thinking about fucking you over the piano!"
"In the interests of honesty," Kurt yells over his shoulder, "fuck yourself with the piano!"
From the sound of it, that's when Blaine kicks the piano's leg. Kurt's already halfway down the corridor, walking fast, sucking down every breath and blinking hard. Why does everything have to feel so much when so many things feel so bad?
*
Kurt lays on his side on his bed and picks at the leather braid around his wrist. The knot is still too tight to work off one handed, and maybe it's because he knows that that he keeps on working at it. There are an awkward two taps at the door and he lifts his head, pushes the bracelet quickly up his sleeve. It's Finn, head ducked like Kurt's ceiling might be lower than his, hands stuffing into his pockets. "Hey."
"Hi," Kurt says, as his iTunes shuffles to Edith Piaf and Finn gives it a bemused look. "Did . . . you need something?"
Finn looks back at him and tips his weight back and forth on his ankles, and Kurt sits neatly upright, tucking his ankles together underneath the bed. This does not look like it'll be fun. "So you're like, hanging. Out. With Blaine."
"When I can't avoid it," Kurt says guardedly, and the leather band on his wrist burns.
Finn lifts his shoulders almost to his ears. "He was fun. In glee club. Kind of douchey but fun, I guess."
Finn is actually surprisingly good with words, can often compress what Kurt needs a long and gesture-filled monologue to properly describe into a simple little sentence. Kind of douchey but fun: Blaine Anderson and his attitude problem in five words. Kurt shrugs. "I thought glee would be good for him. I suppose I have to wait and see if I'm right."
"I get how he's fun and, you know, gay." Finn says, and Kurt frowns at how exactly Finn is thinking these sentences through. "But he's still - we still don't know him or anything about him really, only that he's dangerous, and-"
Kurt sighs. "What did Rachel tell you to say?"
Finn squirms. "I dunno. She was talking a lot. A lot of it was . . . we want you to be safe, man."
It's not been a good day, and Kurt is actually quite spitefully glad to have someone to take it out on. "I got tired of your selectively being my 'brother' a long time ago, Finn. It's frankly just easier if you ignore me all the time."
"I'm trying to protect you here."
"Protect me from what? He's dangerous but the half of the football team who would see me dead and I do not mean that metaphorically don't seem to worry you at all and - Finn you don't know him and you don't know me. So butt out. And you can tell your girlfriend the same, but louder."
"Look, just because he's gay you don't have to-"
"What is this obsession of yours? What does his being gay have to do with anything?"
"Well just 'cause he's - you know, an option. It doesn't mean you have to. I get you haven't really ever . . . you know, had anyone you, you could with before. You don't have to settle for the first guy when he's," he shrugs again, "kind of an asshole."
Kurt closes his fists on his thighs because the urge to leap up and punch Finn is violent and overwhelming and not one Kurt is remotely familiar with, physical aggression just isn't him. "What the hell would you know about - like I would drop at the feet of the first available option, like I'm that pathetic-" Kurt's first available option held Kurt's head back by his hair today, and would have done worse if Blaine hadn't got there. What the hell would Finn know about it, he doesn't want Blaine because he's available, he wants Blaine because -
Oh fuck, he wants Blaine.
"Get out." It's the only thing left to him. "Get the hell out of my room."
"Dude-" Finn has his hands up, and he looks lost. "We do care -"
But not as much as Blaine does, and Blaine only met Kurt yesterday. "Just go." he spits, and throws a cushion for good measure. Finn pulls the door behind himself and it bounces off the wood. Kurt sits there, fuming and flustered and his chest shaking and straining because yes Blaine is kind of a douche and yes Kurt wants him and it is so, so not fair -
His phone sings a text. He closes his eyes for a second, swallows hard, leans over and picks it up. It's from Blaine, apparently he stole Kurt's phone and gave him his number all at once.
I'm sorry I'm a dick. I don't want to ruin your good things.
Kurt holds the phone and breathes for some time, and then swallows. He texts back, It's ok. I'm sorry if I sounded like I was patronising you.
He gets up, touches things on his desk, tries to convince himself that he's doing something other than waiting for the next text. He hums. His phone goes off.
Me too. Which window is yours?
Kurt stares at it for some time, then goes to his window and opens it, leans out. There's a car parked outside his house, and Blaine Anderson is sitting on the hood, phone held up on his crooked knees. He lifts his head to Kurt's, face pale and young in the night, and calls with a voice made small by the quiet all around them, "Hi."
". . . hi," Kurt says back, and blinks. "Why are you . . . ?"
"In the interests of honesty," Blaine says, letting his legs down, tapping his phone off his thigh. "I don't have many people I can talk to."
". . . oh?"
Blaine shrugs. "In the interests of honesty, I don't have any people I can talk to. Um. You gonna come take pity on me or what?"
Kurt stares down at him, and his heart sings hard in his chest. "Let me get a jacket."
Part III