Fic: "My Body Betrays Me," Chapter Four -- Part One. Non-con Kurt/Karofsky, Kurt/Blaine
So... fun fact. This entire portion started as one bullet point note in my outline for this fic. But it became apparent pretty quickly that the boys had a lot to talk about, and it just... morphed into its own autonomous entity.
Regardless, I hope you all enjoy. :) If this part feels like a great deal of lead-up... it is. Yeah... sorry about that... XD
Title: "My Body Betrays Me" (Chapter Four: Kurt -- Part One)
Author: emilianadarling
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: non-con/dub-con Kurt/Karofsky, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Vaguely explained magic, non-con, dub-con, angst, awful situations, manipulation, crack prompt gone serious.
Length: 7,500 words for this chapter.
Spoilers: This is an AU, so not really.
Story Summary: Kurt’s been in a secret relationship with his roommate at Dalton for months. That would be fine... if he wanted any of it. If he could say no, and if Dave would listen. If he were with Blaine, his wonderful friend from the school’s glee club, instead.
Prompt: Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Kurt is magically compelled to follow orders. Dave takes advantage. Blaine just wants to make everything all right again.
Notes: With regards to this portion: Chapter Four wound up being really large, and so it has thus been divided into two portions. In order to keep up a regular posting schedule, Part One is being posted now. As per usual, Part Two will be posted as soon as possible. :)
Chapter One: Dave
Chapter Two: Kurt
Chapter Three: Blaine
Although Kurt has never been inside Tower Residence before, he has seen it many times from the outside. A lofty four levels high in comparison to Dalton’s diminutive main building, it stands sleek and tall and almost-brand-new; Kurt passes it every morning and afternoon on his way to and from class. It is an eye-catching spectacle, especially considering the old-fashioned feel of the rest of campus.
As it turns out, the interior of Tower Residence is just as up-do-date and modern as its outside implies. Blaine’s dorm room is spacious and bright, if slightly messy. It has none of the antiquated respectability of Kurt’s own dorm or the Dalton campus in general. The walls are a clean, crisp white where they are not adorned with clearly-a-compromise-between-two-very-different-people posters. A framed periodic table of elements. Several large prints; one, a sprawl of colours and faces by Klimt that Kurt doesn’t know by name. An oversized calendar, all of its notations made in one person’s handwriting.
And Blaine, sitting in front of him on an expensive-looking computer chair and staring at Kurt as though his world is ending.
Just tell me what’s wrong. It was strange, how those five unintentional words changed everything - and Kurt is still reeling.
It had taken over twenty minutes for Blaine to calm him down to coherency, and ten more to convince him to venture out of the privacy of the abandoned classroom. Only when Blaine had finally managed to wrench out his tear-choked consent did he shift from his position curled up on the floor next to him, removing the protective arm around Kurt’s shoulders in order to get them both on their feet. Blaine had taken Kurt’s hand without any hesitation and held on tight as he led them purposefully across campus. He had led them right to Tower Residence, giving Kurt’s hand a squeeze every other minute and taking the least populated route possible.
The entire walk, he had clutched at Kurt’s hand like a lifeline. As though he was afraid that if he let go, it would somehow allow Kurt to slip out of his life again.
Once they arrived, Blaine had unlocked the front door, let them inside, and ushered Kurt into Blaine’s dorm room with all the swiftness of a man in charge. After indicating the closer of the two twin beds for Kurt to sit on, Blaine had grabbed a wad of tissues in the bathroom for Kurt to use - and had started making tea. Clicking on an electric kettle (plugged into a low socket and sitting unpretentiously on the faux-wood floor) before puttering around the room in a way that had inexplicably reminded Kurt of his mother.
Now, half an hour later, they sit.
Perched on the bed with a half full mug of steaming tea in hand and explanation hanging in the air between them like a physical presence, Kurt feels strangely calm. Surreal, almost. As though the story he has just told has happened to someone else, not to him personally. Talking about the past two months... he had felt his lips move and heard himself speak the words without feeling any of the impact they should have had. Even now, it almost feels as though Kurt is floating through the room; indistinct and incorporeal as he waits for Blaine to say something.
He knows he must look a complete mess. Kurt can feel how swollen his eyes are from his breakdown; puffy and probably still red around the edges. His face is still blotchy in a way that no amount of dabbing with a warm washcloth can fix, and still cannot stop himself from sniffing every so often.
It’s better now, at least, than it was in the classroom: there, Kurt literally had not been able to stop himself. Hysterical and gasping and face streaked with tears and snot, and Blaine all wrapped around him like some kind of security blanket. Holding him tight and murmuring words that didn’t mean anything, even if they were nice to hear.
Part of Kurt cannot believe how completely and utterly he broke down, and in front of whom. Another part is so relieved at finally being able to let the tears come after all these months that he just can’t care who it happened in front of.
Kurt wonders if he’s stupid, or naive, or some kind of masochistic idiot for telling Blaine everything - the curse, his past, DaveDaveDaveDaveDaveDaveDave - considering how frenetically his family urged him to keep it all a secret growing up, or how he always concealed it from the world even when it meant embarrassment and humiliation and pain.
Considering what happened the last time he told someone.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, says Carole’s voice in his mind playfully. One of those motherly phrases she’d brought into the household and directed lovingly at him, Finn, and his dad in equal measure.
But Kurt knows with blind, stupid certainty that Blaine would never use his curse against him. Knows it in the way he knows his father loves him more than anything, or that his mother wanted for him to have the best life he possibly could. The certainty is inexplicable, but unshakable in nature. It thrums inside his muscles, his bones. Along his very skin.
In the past half hour, Kurt Hummel has trusted Blaine Anderson with everything he is.
In front of him, Blaine is sitting with a lost expression on his face. Slumped in his rolled-over computer chair, blazer undone and tie loosened around his neck. There is a growing look of horror stealing over his face as Kurt’s words sink in. Blaine looks very much worse for wear in general, Kurt thinks, guilt twisting in the base of his stomach. His hair is unkempt and curly around his ears, and dark circles line the hazel of his eyes.
He looks shockingly young.
“Kurt, I... " Blaine trails off, scrubbing a hand through his hair and looking utterly out of his depth. “God, I... I don’t know what to say.”
And there is nothing Kurt can say to that. Not really.
He takes a sip of tea instead. It’s ginger with brown sugar, which is... strange, but somehow fitting. As far as Kurt was able to tell from a cursory look at Blaine’s room, Blaine must make this particular drink a great deal. The small box labelled Authentic Ginger was already sitting next to the kettle when they came in, along with a small pot of brown sugar with a spoon nestled inside. The tea is strong - almost spicy - but with an edge of sweetness that teases at Kurt’s tongue. The hot liquid soothes his raw throat on the way down.
“I’m so sorry,” says Blaine at last, staring down at his lap and blinking hard. There is nothing charming about him now. His voice is broken up and thick; either with honesty or pity, Kurt cannot tell.
“Thank you,” Kurt says quietly, eyes fixed on the amber liquid cradled in his hands. The apology makes his eyes sting. Around him, the world swirls in an unreal blur. Silence hangs between them, thick and impenetrable as Kurt works to push down the hysterics fighting to bubble up out of him again. Being allowed to cry was cathartic, and important, and so very necessary; but now is not the time for tears anymore.
A quick motion makes Kurt’s eyes flick up again just in time to see Blaine lean forward and reach out toward him, moving to lay a hand on his knee. The sight almost makes Kurt sighs with relief; god, does he want that. He wants the friendly, comforting touches that Blaine has always seemed to sprinkle throughout their friendship; wants back the tender way Blaine had cradled him in the empty classroom less than an hour ago. The gentleness of his embrace; genuine and caring, with no false facets or hidden levels. Kurt had even liked how small Blaine had been curled up against him, with the warmth of his hands sweet and kind and real.
But with his fingers just an inch away from Kurt’s knee, Blaine stops. And when Kurt raises his eyes to meet Blaine’s, he sees a conflict there. Hesitation, as though Blaine is being torn apart by some sort of internal dilemma.
Finally, after what seems like an enormous pause, Blaine jerks his hand back and clasps them together in his own lap. He looks as though he is mentally berating himself.
Kurt blinks, trying to suppress the dull pang of hurt in his chest. But he does understand. I wouldn’t want to touch me either. He clutches at the mug in his hands a little bit tighter.
Across from him, Blaine gives his head a little shake.
“Kurt...” Blaine begins, hands in his lap and biting down on his lower lip. “Do... do you have any idea how rare that kind of remnant of the old magic is?” he asks at last, apparently opting to go for the least uncomfortable subject at hand.
“I do. Yeah.” Mild frustration is beginning to edge at the surreal fog of Kurt’s mind. Of course he knows. He’s lived with this condition his whole life; struggled with it, railed against it, cursed his family over and over for whatever they did to deserve such a punishment. Kurt has spent hours - days - researching possible ways to break it, stories from other relatives, and old magic lore and myths. Does Blaine truly think he’s never delved into any of the history of something that defines so much of his life?
“Because it’s rare.” Apparently Blaine isn’t finished. He makes an aborted gesture, then scrubs a hand through his hair again. The curls are loose, now; falling out of their tight gel-slicked curves. “I mean... the last incident in America that the history books talk about was in 1938, and that one got taken to court and lost -”
“I know, Blaine,” snaps Kurt, and Blaine flinches so hard that he immediately regrets it. Because Blaine has always been surrounded by an aura of dapper-friendly-gentleman in Kurt’s mind, especially after Dave started to pull him away from virtually everyone else. His one link to the rest of the world; the only person he could be himself with. A few times, on the cusp of sleep and with Dave’s warmth pressed up against him in the dark, Kurt had even entertained absurd rescue fantasies with Blaine in the starring role.
But in reality, Blaine is not some kind of knight in shining armour, or a flawless mentor with all of the answers. He is just a sixteen-year-old kid who’s been drawn into a terrible situation - and he doesn’t know what to do or say to make it better.
“... sorry,” mutters Kurt a minute later, feeling contrite.
“It’s fine,” says Blaine, a little too quickly.
Both of them fall silent again, and Kurt takes another long sip of tea. It empties the mug, so he awkwardly sits it down on the floor beside the bed. The pause drags on, shifting into awkwardness, but Kurt can’t think of anything to say. But just as Kurt opens his mouth to say something, anything to break the silence, Blaine begins to speak.
“I can’t even believe what’s happened to you, Kurt. What you’ve had to deal with.” Blaine is speaking quietly, but his voice may as well be amplified tenfold for the way his words reverberate along Kurt’s skin. He fidgets, not meeting Kurt’s eyes. “And I don’t know what to do. I - I don’t know how to make it better for you, or what you need, but tell me -” Blaine cuts himself off, wincing. “I mean... if you want, you can tell me. And I can try. I’m just... I’m so confused, and I don’t know what’s -”
“Real?”
Blaine winces again, but Kurt understands.
“No, it’s fine,” insists Kurt, reaching forward and putting a hand over Blaine’s black slacks-clad knee before he can think better of it. Internally, Kurt grimaces; he doesn’t want to make Blaine feel uncomfortable, not after he had helped him so much when Kurt needed it so badly. Blaine looks down at the hand on his knee in surprise and something else, but it’s too late to move away now. Kurt plunges onward. “I wanted to explain to you so badly. While it was happening, but I couldn’t, and... you can ask me. If you like.”
Across from him, Blaine looks back sceptically --but Kurt wants to talk about it. Has been silenced for so long; made to sit and smile and scream inside his mind where no one could hear him for months. And the past three days...
An involuntary shiver runs through Kurt’s body at the memory. The past three days have been unbearable. Disgust and humiliation boiling inside of him as one thing after the other went horribly wrong, falling down like dominoes, and all Kurt had wanted to do was to yell. To grab Blaine by the shoulders and say wait, please, you don’t understand, help me, I need you. And instead, he’d had to avoid the person he wanted to talk to most. To avoid his eyes, and watch his phone lit up with Blaine Anderson is calling and not able to pick up. To read every one of his text messages and not be able to say anything in return.
So when Blaine gives him another are you sure? look, Kurt nods.
It’s a welcome surprise, though, when Blaine tentatively stands - and moves to sit beside him on the bed, angled so that they can still look at one another but without any physical contact. The bed creaks and lowers slightly under the added weight, and Kurt is so aware of Blaine beside him that it almost hurts.
Kurt wishes Blaine would hug him, but he understands.
“So,” says Blaine eventually, and his hand is so close to Kurt’s on the bed that their fingertips are almost touching. He takes a deep breath, and then lets it out. “How long?” he asks, tentative and wary as though frightened of the response.
“Two months,” says Kurt, voice high in the stillness of the room.
Blaine closes his eyes for a long moment, a pained expression tugging at his face. “Two months,” he says. “Your family crisis.”
Something twists in Kurt’s stomach, sickly and horrible. Guilt, yes. And -
“David, what are you doing? You’re hurting me -”
“Why was that guy in the common room getting so damn cuddly, Kurt?” Pushing him up against the dorm room wall by his shoulders hard enough to bruise, thick fingers gripping him tight. Dave’s just upset; he isn’t particularly trying to frighten him, Kurt knows. But fear is still clenching at his stomach. “What are you trying to hide from me?”
“Nothing! Dave, it’s nothing, I swear, he was -”
“Tell me who he was, and tell me the truth.”
“... that was Nick, from the Warblers. He was worried because I missed another rehearsal and wanted to know why. You wanted to spend time with me instead.”
A loosening of the grip. “Oh.” A large hand reaching up to stroke along his face, cradling his cheek in its palm. “Oh.” Panting hard with relief, the ugly possessiveness beginning to abate in his eyes.
But not gone. Never gone.
Dave leans down and pulls Kurt into a tight kiss, slamming their mouths together and twisting his hand into Kurt’s hair. It hurts, and it’s sloppy, and the repulsion is so strong that the desire to pull away is a physical need. This is all so new, and awful, and every touch is a fresh violation. Eventually, Dave releases him; presses gentler kisses along his face instead, running a hand up and down Kurt’s arm.
“If someone asks you a question like that,” mouths Dave along his skin, kissing his left cheek. “Tell them...that you’ve had a family emergency.” His breath is hot and warm along Kurt’s forehead as he presses another kiss there. “Tell them you don’t have time for any extra activities.” Dave kisses the corner of Kurt’s mouth. “Tell them... tell them that... god, Kurt, want you so much -”
“That was the cover story he made me tell,” says Kurt, and the words seem so empty. So impersonal. Just another fact; not something that happened to him personally.
Without seeming to realize what he is doing, Blaine reaches over and puts his hand on top of Kurt’s. His hand is warm and soft with long piano-playing fingers, and the touch is so comforting - so instinctual - that Kurt immediately curls his own hand around it. Once again, he wonders if there is something wrong with him for wanting the physical contact as badly as he does. Wonders if Dave broke something important inside of him, and now he can’t tell what he wants and what he doesn’t.
Blaine’s hand feels good in his, though, and so he holds it tight.
“And...” starts Blaine, eyes darting away. “When... when I kissed you?”
“It’s okay,” coos Dave softly, stroking a hand through Kurt’s hair as he sobs into Dave's chest. “It’s all right, babe.”
They are sitting on the bed with Kurt scooped up into Dave’s arms like a small child, and Kurt’s face is hot and wet as he chokes out the words.
“Please,” Kurt begs, all dignity gone, clutching at the fabric of Dave’s t-shirt. “Please make it stop, make it better, I can’t - I can’t even think. My head... it’s broken and wrong inside my head, Dave, please...”
“I know,” murmurs Dave, voice quiet and subdued, and Kurt can’t even feel ashamed of himself anymore. It’s all wrong and twisted and blocked and jammed and misdirected, and trying to think in a straight line is practically impossible. He just wants it to stop so badly it hurts, is willing to do anything it takes to be himself inside his own mind again. He clutches harder at Dave’s shoulders.
“Whatever you want.” Kurt’s muttering senselessly now, an endless chain of entreating words as he shivers and shudders in Dave’s arms. The words don’t mean anything compared to the way his thoughts barely belong to him, a prison of don’t think and don’t feel he keeps running into like walls. “You can do whatever, okay? Even... what you m-made me do before. Just - just fix it. God, please, fix it, it - it’s too much, I can’t - please -”
“Kurt.” The word is soft but commanding, and he feels Dave’s large hand tilt his head up so that their eyes meet. And fuck, Dave’s eyes. Full of something soft and sweet and completely false as he strokes a thumb over his cheek. “Kurt, you can think and feel just like you would normally, okay?”
Kurt inhales sharply and lurches forward. The world is spinning around him, but Dave’s arms are still tight and sure. And if Kurt was crying before, he’s sobbing now. Gasping and choking on tears of relief as he feels his mind begin to mend itself. Connections being repaired, and blocks being lifted, and a flood of things he wasn’t allowed to feel all coming back at once. Fear, and anger, and grief for himself rushing into his head all at the same time, and he can barely breathe for the heaving sobs that wrack his chest.
And when Dave spreads his hands out on Kurt’s back and pulls him close, pressing hard and frantic kisses against his lips, Kurt lets it happen. Flushed and trembling from the hysterical gratitude of being able to think again, he lets it happen.
“Don’t cry about this anymore, baby,” murmurs Dave against his lips, the kisses forceful. Claiming. “It’s okay,” he says, clinging to Kurt with the desperation of a drowning man struggling for air. So many kisses, one after the other, fast and raw. “I’ve got you. Don’t cry.”
And all at once, the tears stop.
Drying up immediately, as though someone has turned off a faucet. Kurt gasps for breath, blinks hard - and no tears come. It’s like grasping for straws, at something just out of his reach. And all at once, he wants to cry more badly than anything. Wants more of the release of hot moisture on his cheeks and the cleanse of everything as it pours out of him. A horrified whine escapes from the back of Kurt’s throat; Dave pushes him down onto the bed with hard kisses.
“You’re all mine,” chokes Dave, shaking fingers reaching down to unbutton Kurt’s shirt. “All of you, every inch. I’m so sorry I hurt you like that, babe. I never meant to.”
Dave slams their lips together, reaching down into the opened shirt and rolling Kurt’s nipple between his fingertips. Gently, teasingly, as he opens Kurt’s mouth with his own and pushes his tongue inside. Tears are trying to choke the back of his throat, but they simply won’t come. And Kurt is scared, frightened out of his mind.
But at least he can feel it at all.
“Just need you close so bad, you know?” Dave mutters when they break apart, panting. “Need you here with me always. Always mine, Kurt, no one else’s. This... this doesn’t change that.” Moving to kiss a trail down Kurt’s neck before biting down on the skin there, sensitive and flushed. Kurt gasps, and his body instinctively tries to jerk away, but Dave holds him in place. Still whispering words along his skin every time he pulls back. “Don’t flirt with anyone, like before, yeah? And - fuck, Kurt, you taste so good -don’t let anyone touch you like this. Not ever. Just - just get out of there and come find me and I’ll take care of you, Kurt, I’ll always take care of you -”
The sharp taste of bile rising in Kurt’s throat is enough to jolt him out of the memory. When he blinks, Blaine’s face comes into focus. Staring at him as though Kurt might break, and Blaine will have to pick up the pieces.
“He... Dave...” Blaine gives him a strange look at his use of Dave’s first name, but ‘Karofsky’ simply will not come to Kurt’s lips. The command to only use Dave’s first name is still under effect, after all. “He’s jealous. When he got rid of the orders that changed the way I thought -”
“Wait, what?” Fresh horror floods Blaine’s face. “You - it can change the way you think? Like... like in your head?”
“Mhmm. How I feel, too.”
“Jesus,” breathes Blaine, appalled shock apparent in the word. He looks slightly sick, and he’s squeezing Kurt’s hand so tightly it almost hurts.
“Anyways,” says Kurt, because when he says all this out loud the weight of it all doesn’t feel like so much, so horrible, as it did on his own. When he was the only person in the world to know what was happening to him. “When he did that, he covered his bases. Told me not to flirt with anyone, and... to come to him if anyone... did anything to me.”
“... oh, god.” All at once, Blaine sounds very small. Very frightened. “Oh, god, Kurt. When I kissed you, did you have to tell Karofsky -?”
“No,” says Kurt quietly. “There was a loophole. I just had to find him, he never said I had to tell him.”
And Blaine gives him this look. It’s long, and hard, and it makes Kurt feel more exposed than anything they’ve talked about so far. Almost more exposed than when Blaine opened the door and saw the two of them together. As though Blaine is peeling back his skin and seeing what’s inside.
“...you’ve been fighting for so long, haven’t you,” says Blaine softly, still looking at Kurt as though seeing him for the first time.
It isn’t a question, so Kurt doesn’t bother responding.
“And then you saw us,” continues Kurt, staring into his lap. Remembering the squirming desperation as Dave fucked him hard into the mattress when the door opened. Himself moaning like a whore and wanting it, so badly wanting it, lost in a fog of heat and need as Blaine stood there and stammered. Being hard and unsatisfied and ordered to stay when Blaine ran off and Dave followed, writhing and gasping and fighting with everything he had to think straight and stand up and go and it wasn’t enough. “And it was the worst thing I could imagine, and I couldn’t explain, and he made me stay there when you left, and I couldn’t explain -”
“I left you there,” says Blaine, words full of dull horror and reverberating with quiet self-loathing. “Kurt... you were being raped and I left you there.”
“You didn’t know,” insists Kurt quickly, both for himself and for Blaine’s sake. He winces at that word.
“And I told him,” says Blaine, gaining speed and looking angrier with himself by the second. “I went and found him and told him you were my friend. You were hiding me, Kurt, and I walked right up and told him.”
When Kurt catches sight of Dave marching purposefully up to him in the hallway between classes, an unreadable expression on his face, he winces - but doesn’t suspect anything right away. Sometimes, when Dave has a hard day at school or a difficult class, he will seek Kurt out in public. Take him into a private corner and wrap his arms around Kurt until he’s calm again.
But -
“Come with me,” says Dave, almost snapping, and Kurt knows at once that something is horribly, horribly wrong. Because Dave never, ever speaks to him this way in public; he is always friendly and amiable, all shoulder slaps and loud laughter. Not stony-faced and hard, walking quickly ahead of Kurt and not looking back as he leads them into an empty classroom.
When they get inside and the door is safely closed, Dave turns on him.
“What the fuck is going on?” Dave snarls, and Kurt’s eyes widen. Because Dave simply does not talk to him like this. Angry expletives and dangerous eyes, and leaning in so that the height difference between them is exaggerated and dramatic. Back facing the wall, it takes all of Kurt’s willpower not to take a step back. And it takes Kurt a moment to realize that Dave is waiting for a response.
“I don’t -” he starts, but Dave cuts him off by slamming his palm into the wall beside Kurt’s head. The sound of its collision makes Kurt recoil and shrink back and Jesus, Dave is furious. Angrier than Kurt has ever seen him by far, and it’s such a change from his usual caringlovingkind routine that Kurt has no idea what to do.
“You lied to me,” says Dave, words coming hard and fast. “You fucking lied to me, Kurt.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking ab-”
“Anderson came and talked to me this morning.”
Oh, fuck. Ohfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
The humiliation of last night is still raw like a fresh wound, but at Dave’s words the feeling gives way to blind panic.
“He says you two are real buddy-buddy,” continues Dave, a look of derision and betrayal pulling his face into an ugly expression. “Good friends, that’s what he said. You never told me about him, Kurt, not even when I asked. Were you hiding him from me?”
Distract him, Kurt thinks desperately. For Christ’s sake, distract him. Don’t let him focus on Blaine.
“You never let me see anyone!” Kurt shouts back, only barely keeping his voice low enough to go unnoticed by the students outside. There’s only so much he can verbalize, Dave having placed down order after order in the past about what he is allowed to say, but he can edge the boundaries as closely as possible. “Remember Jeff? Remember Nick? Or how about all of my other friends I never see anymore, Dave? I had to hide him in order to interact with a single human being other than you! You just - you want to keep me locked up in your ivory tower, and -”
“Stop talking,” says Dave, voice cold, and Kurt’s mouth slams shut before he can think to fight it. Kurt wants to glare at him, to snarl and huff - but those were some of the first things Dave stopped him from doing. He settles for staring at Dave, unblinking and hard.
Dave takes a slow step forward, and then another, until he and Kurt are practically nose-to-nose. The expression on his face is colder than Kurt has ever seen it before. After a long moment, he reaches a hand up and places it along the curve of Kurt’s cheek.
“We’re gonna talk about this later,” enunciates Dave, slowly and carefully, making every word count. “But until then? Do not talk to Blaine Anderson. Do not communicate with Blaine Anderson. Ignore, do not respond to, and avoid Blaine Anderson. Is that clear enough for you?”
For a fleeting moment, Kurt thinks this is it. This will be the order that ends everything, the one he’ll finally manage to withstand.
So he fights. Stumbling back against the wall, Kurt struggles against the pain, and the nausea, and the pounding voice inside his mind saying youhavetoyouhavetoyouhaveto. Eyes clenched shut and body rigid with effort, he thinks of Blaine. Blaine, who has been the one shred of light in his life for the past two months. Who is kind, and gentle, and actually cares about Kurt as a person. Who brought him chocolate and is interested in his midterm results and who kissed him in the library, soft and sweet and yearning.
Kurt fights, and fights, as his muscles clench and his head pounds and it feels as though he’s going to pass out and then it feels like he’s going to die and it’s too much too much too much -
Until his body finally gives out, sliding down the wall as his mind gives in. Kurt sits, sweat pouring down his face and still trembling from the effort, and hates himself more than ever before.
“Good,” says Dave, extending his hand. There is no point in Kurt not taking it, even as he refuses to look Dave in the eye.
Once he is standing, Dave strokes a hand over Kurt’s brow. Wiping away the excess sweat and straightening his hair. Some mix between affectionate, warning, and possessive that Kurt just cannot bring himself to contemplate right now.
“Meet me in our dorm after class,” says Dave at last, short and commanding - and he leans down and presses his lips against Kurt’s in a kiss - hard, and fast, and claiming - before turning and heading to the door.
Right before he leaves, he looks over his shoulder. “You can talk,” says Dave, almost as an afterthought, and then he is gone.
Standing alone in the room, trembling and an utter mess, Kurt’s phone begins to vibrate in his pocket.
“It wasn’t your fault,” says Kurt, voice monotone to his own ears. Blaine stares at him, long and hard, and Kurt reaches down to unthinkingly rub at his wrists. “The past two days have been... hard, though.”
Blaine’s eyes widen into a look of utter distress before he carefully schools his expression into something more neutral. And god, is it ever hard watching him react. In the past months, the entire nightmare of a situation has degenerated from unimaginably awful to simply Kurt’s life, day in and day out. But seeing someone else respond... Kurt’s throat feels thick and his eyes begin to sting.
And all at once, Kurt needs to be out of here now. He coughs lightly, straightening his posture, before turning to face Blaine.
“Would it be all right if I used your bathroom?” he asks, proud for there not being a hint of a waver in his voice.
“... what?” There is a beat, and Blaine blinks before giving his head a little shake. “Sorry. Sorry, yes, of course you can, Kurt. Of course.”
Before Blaine can even finish his sentence, Kurt is striding purposefully across the bedroom without looking back. Past the messy second bed and into the private bathroom, shutting the door with a too-loud thud and locking it behind him.
--
As soon as the lock clicks shut, Kurt pauses - and lets out a long, uneven breath of air. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, which are starting to water again, before turning toward the sink. Kurt lets the water run warm before cupping his hands beneath the flow and splashing several handfuls onto his face. A few stray drops trickle down his neck and soak into the fabric of his button-up, but Kurt cannot bring himself to care. After patting down with the hand towel hanging on the wall - deep-red and plush, obviously new and expensive - he opens his eyes and stares into the mirror.
The boy staring back at him is pale and haggard-looking. His cheeks are still blotchy and red in ugly patches, and the rims of his eyes remain stubbornly swollen. The blue of his eyes is sharper than usual. Conventionally attractive, he thinks, if a little damp and wrung-out. Face more slender and defined than it used to be even a year ago; a passable nose and curved lips that Dave has described as ‘pretty’ more times than Kurt can count.
He looks overwhelmed. Defeated.
“You’re weak,” Kurt tells his reflection.
His reflection doesn’t say anything back.
--
Ten minutes later, Kurt opens the door and comes back into the dorm room proper. Composed and straightened up; steeled to say what needs to be said. Blaine is sitting in the same chair as before, and if Kurt’s mug wasn’t refilled and steaming with a fresh round of tea he would probably assume that Blaine hadn’t moved since he left. Blaine sits with his hands folded in his lap and a soft expression of determination on his face.
“Blaine -” begins Kurt, but Blaine interjects.
“What do you need me to do?” Blaine asks, which is a perfect lead-in to what Kurt was going to say anyways.
Kurt leans against Blaine’s desk - it must be Blaine’s because it’s covered in law books and sheet music and a tremendously expensive-looking laptop - and tilts his head to one side. “If you could...” He coughs lightly. “Removing Dave’s orders would be very helpful.”
“Oh, god, of course,” says Blaine at once, and he screws up his face in an expression of concentration. He clears his throat. “Don’t follow... wait, no... you can choose to follow or not follow all of the orders Karofsky gave you. Does that work?”
But Kurt is already slumping against the solid wood of the desk in relief. It is as though hundreds of courses of action have been opened to him all at once, a straight-flowing river all at once branching off into dozens of possible options. Like having manacles removed after having them on so long, they felt like second-nature. If Kurt wanted to, he could pick a direction and start walking as far away from this school as possible. Or call his father, or punch Karofsky in the face, or any of the innumerable possibilities that Dave forbade him from for so long.
It feels so life-changing, and impossible, and free that Kurt chokes out a sob before he can help it.
“Are you okay?” blurts Blaine, sounding slightly frantic. All at once Blaine is up from his chair and moving toward him, putting a steadying arm on Kurt’s shoulder. “Did I do it right?”
“Yes,” breathes Kurt, swallowing hard. “Yes, it’s... it’s fine. It worked.”
“Oh, thank god,” exhales Blaine, and Kurt takes a moment to truly look at the boy in front of him. Hair a mess and face flushed, with his tie loosened around his neck in an informal way Kurt has never seen before. His hand on Kurt’s shoulder is solid, and guilt ripples in Kurt’s stomach for being so grateful for the touch. Blaine’s thick brows are furrowed in concern, and his eyes are shining with worry, and anxiety... and something else. There is a slight mania lurking just below the surface, as though he’s holding himself together for Kurt’s sake. As though, were he alone, Blaine would fragment into a million pieces.
He never asked to be involved in this.
“Blaine... thank you,” says Kurt, biting down on his lip and meeting Blaine’s eye. “For pushing. And taking me back here, and...” And even if it’s too much to handle, I’m so grateful. “It just means so much to me.”
“Of course,” says Blaine, a small uncertain smile tugging at his lips.
Kurt returns it, lets out a breath - and begins to head for the door.
“Hey,” says Blaine, quietly at first, but gaining volume as he continues. “Hey, Kurt, what - where are you going?”
Hand on the door handle, Kurt freezes. “I don’t know,” he says, words slow and careful, eyes fixed on the door. “Maybe the library? I just... I need to think. Figure out what to do next.”
There is a pause, long and stretched out and increasingly uncomfortable, and eventually Kurt feels the need to turn around. Blaine is standing in the middle of the room, hands at his sides and looking at Kurt as though his head is on fire.
“What are you talking about?” Blaine’s voice is brimming with confusion. “You don’t have to leave.”
“You’ve been very nice,” says Kurt carefully. “And I’m grateful, believe me. And you deserved an explanation. But Blaine... you don’t have to feel obligated -”
“I don’t,” says Blaine at once, taking a step forward. “I don’t feel that way.”
Kurt feels his eyebrows draw together. “Then why...?”
Nervously, Blaine runs a hand through his stiff hair. Their eyes are caught together, frozen as they stare at one another across the room.
Blaine lets out an uneven breath. “Kurt... you must know that I...” he trails off, eyes darting down to Kurt’s lips for the smallest fraction of a second. Kurt remembers the library. The chocolate, bitter and complicated on his tongue. Remembers Blaine kissing him. At the time, it had been a problem more than anything. One more thing to deal with. He hadn’t taken much time at all to think about why. Blaine shifts awkwardly where he stands. “I care about you, Kurt. A lot. When Karofsky made you run away from me, it was... you’re one of my best friends.” Blaine’s posture twists into something ashamed, hunched over and small and guilty. “You don’t need to deal with how I feel, okay? You’ve been through so much, and you shouldn’t have to handle that, but... I want to help you.”
“Oh.” The sound is quiet and surprised on the air. “I didn’t...” Because what does he want from me and I don’t know how I feel about him and he doesn’t deserve to have to deal with this keep running through Kurt’s mind like a broken record, over and over, and Kurt can’t make it stop. But Blaine has been the only real part of his life for two whole months; has made him feel like a human being when everything else was taken away.
But he never, ever let himself think that he was important to Blaine in the same way.
“...okay,” he says at last, and the word makes Blaine look weak with relief.
“All right,” says Blaine, breathing out a sigh. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and gives Kurt a look. “Now... are we calling the police first, or your dad?”
Kurt blinks. “I... what?”
“The police, probably, right? Give them a chance to get here quickly...” Blaine leans over and begins to hit buttons on his phone’s touch screen.
“Blaine, stop it,” says Kurt, alarmed. “Stop it, there isn’t any point.”
“Of course there is,” says Blaine absently, large white 9-1-1 numbers already prominent on his phone’s screen. Just as he’s about to press the green ‘send’ button, however, Kurt darts forward and grabs his arm to stop him.
“Call them and tell that what?” asks Kurt harshly, and there is some of the emotion he’s been pushing down for the past hour. “That I had sex with a boy my own age for two months without reporting it, and suddenly I’m saying this? Or that there are no physical signs of me being forced, none at all, because he always stretched me out and prepped me like a little fucktoy? Or that Karofsky will tell them it was consensual, could even order me to tell them I wanted it? Because that is all the police are going to see, Blaine.”
“But,” says Blaine, in a baffled sort of way that speaks of a lifetime of trust that police will always try to do the right thing. For a moment, Kurt envies that privilege. “But the curse...”
“Tell me, then,” says Kurt, hands flying up in an expression of defensiveness. “Tell me that when I explained to you what happened, you didn’t feel the slightest bit of doubt or scepticism about it. Go on.” At Blaine’s guilty look, he continues. “1938, Blaine. And they lost in court. No one’s going to believe me about this; no one wants to believe me about this. And ‘I have to do what anyone tells me to do’?” Kurt raises his fingers up into air-quotations. “Can you think of an easier curse to fake?”
“But you aren’t faking,” says Blaine softly, looking like a kicked puppy.
“I know that, Blaine. And so do you, but...” Kurt shrugs. “No one else is going to want to.”
Blaine looks dismally down at his cell phone before deleting the three numbers on its screen. He lets out a small noise of frustration.
“That’s... that’s so unfair, Kurt.”
“I know,” says Kurt. I’ve been dealing with it my entire life.
“But then... how are we going to handle Karofsky?”
“I have no idea.” Kurt’s voice is high and fragile in the quiet room. He takes a seat on Blaine’s bed again and picks up the fresh cup of tea. He doesn’t want it, really, but it’s something to do with his hands.
“If - if I ordered you to not obey any of Karofsky’s orders ever, would that...?” asks Blaine, straightening up with a hopeful look in his eyes.
“No,” says Kurt bitterly. “My dad... we tried that, with the bullies at my school. New orders just cancel it out.”
“Damn it,” mutters Blaine, and Kurt nods. There is another long pause.
“Well... my father has some pull with the school board,” says Blaine slowly after a moment, sounding as though he is constructing the idea even as he speaks it out loud. “He could... I don’t know, have you change rooms? You could come and live with me instead.”
“So I could still see my rapist in the hallway every day, you mean?” states Kurt matter-of-factly, although his voice cracks slightly on the word ‘rapist’. Blaine flinches, and Kurt shakes his head. “It wouldn’t stop him. Karofsky is...” Obsessive. Unhinged. Delusional. In love with me. “... more determined than that.”
They sit for a while longer, Blaine staring off into nothing in a way that suggests frantically considering all the options. “We could tell your dad,” suggests Blaine after a long pause, glancing down at his phone again.
The idea is so comforting, so appealing that Kurt cannot stop himself from closing his eyes and imagining it. His father, ever the pillar of gentle strength, wrapping him up in his arms and telling him that everything’s gonna to be okay, buddy. Taking him away far away from this school; back to Finn and Carole, and their house, and his old life.
But it isn’t as simple as that.
“If I know my dad at all,” says Kurt slowly, “he wouldn’t be able to hear about what happened... what’s been happening to me... without going after Karofsky. And how would that look?” Kurt tilts his head to one side. “’ Grown man ruthlessly beats helpless teenage boy,’” spits Kurt, waving his hand over the air to indicate a fictitious newspaper title. And there’s something worse, too. A certainty that sits heavy and hard in Kurt’s stomach. “And Dave - Karofsky, I mean... I think that at this point, even if my dad took me away... he would come after me.”
“You think he’d go that far?”
“Yes,” says Kurt at once, hating the answer even as he knows it to be true.
“Shit,” says Blaine, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t... I have no idea what to do, Kurt.”
And that is when the idea comes. Creeping and insidious along the edges of Kurt’s mind, nudging and twisting at the corners of his brain. It is fragile and indistinct and not fully developed, but it’s something. He looks up at Blaine, sitting there with his head in his hands. Blaine, who claims to care about him. Who wants to help to make things right again. The proposal dancing on the tip of Kurt’s tongue is horrific, but at least Blaine wouldn’t have to take the brunt of it.
Kurt thinks, long and hard, about whether or not he is willing to do this.
He decides that he is.
“I have one idea,” declares Kurt, straightening up his posture and wrapping determination around himself like a cloak. “But I’m going to need your help.”
Next: “Chapter Four: Kurt - Part Two”
Regardless, I hope you all enjoy. :) If this part feels like a great deal of lead-up... it is. Yeah... sorry about that... XD
Title: "My Body Betrays Me" (Chapter Four: Kurt -- Part One)
Author: emilianadarling
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: non-con/dub-con Kurt/Karofsky, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Vaguely explained magic, non-con, dub-con, angst, awful situations, manipulation, crack prompt gone serious.
Length: 7,500 words for this chapter.
Spoilers: This is an AU, so not really.
Story Summary: Kurt’s been in a secret relationship with his roommate at Dalton for months. That would be fine... if he wanted any of it. If he could say no, and if Dave would listen. If he were with Blaine, his wonderful friend from the school’s glee club, instead.
Prompt: Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Kurt is magically compelled to follow orders. Dave takes advantage. Blaine just wants to make everything all right again.
Notes: With regards to this portion: Chapter Four wound up being really large, and so it has thus been divided into two portions. In order to keep up a regular posting schedule, Part One is being posted now. As per usual, Part Two will be posted as soon as possible. :)
Chapter One: Dave
Chapter Two: Kurt
Chapter Three: Blaine
Although Kurt has never been inside Tower Residence before, he has seen it many times from the outside. A lofty four levels high in comparison to Dalton’s diminutive main building, it stands sleek and tall and almost-brand-new; Kurt passes it every morning and afternoon on his way to and from class. It is an eye-catching spectacle, especially considering the old-fashioned feel of the rest of campus.
As it turns out, the interior of Tower Residence is just as up-do-date and modern as its outside implies. Blaine’s dorm room is spacious and bright, if slightly messy. It has none of the antiquated respectability of Kurt’s own dorm or the Dalton campus in general. The walls are a clean, crisp white where they are not adorned with clearly-a-compromise-between-two-very-different-people posters. A framed periodic table of elements. Several large prints; one, a sprawl of colours and faces by Klimt that Kurt doesn’t know by name. An oversized calendar, all of its notations made in one person’s handwriting.
And Blaine, sitting in front of him on an expensive-looking computer chair and staring at Kurt as though his world is ending.
Just tell me what’s wrong. It was strange, how those five unintentional words changed everything - and Kurt is still reeling.
It had taken over twenty minutes for Blaine to calm him down to coherency, and ten more to convince him to venture out of the privacy of the abandoned classroom. Only when Blaine had finally managed to wrench out his tear-choked consent did he shift from his position curled up on the floor next to him, removing the protective arm around Kurt’s shoulders in order to get them both on their feet. Blaine had taken Kurt’s hand without any hesitation and held on tight as he led them purposefully across campus. He had led them right to Tower Residence, giving Kurt’s hand a squeeze every other minute and taking the least populated route possible.
The entire walk, he had clutched at Kurt’s hand like a lifeline. As though he was afraid that if he let go, it would somehow allow Kurt to slip out of his life again.
Once they arrived, Blaine had unlocked the front door, let them inside, and ushered Kurt into Blaine’s dorm room with all the swiftness of a man in charge. After indicating the closer of the two twin beds for Kurt to sit on, Blaine had grabbed a wad of tissues in the bathroom for Kurt to use - and had started making tea. Clicking on an electric kettle (plugged into a low socket and sitting unpretentiously on the faux-wood floor) before puttering around the room in a way that had inexplicably reminded Kurt of his mother.
Now, half an hour later, they sit.
Perched on the bed with a half full mug of steaming tea in hand and explanation hanging in the air between them like a physical presence, Kurt feels strangely calm. Surreal, almost. As though the story he has just told has happened to someone else, not to him personally. Talking about the past two months... he had felt his lips move and heard himself speak the words without feeling any of the impact they should have had. Even now, it almost feels as though Kurt is floating through the room; indistinct and incorporeal as he waits for Blaine to say something.
He knows he must look a complete mess. Kurt can feel how swollen his eyes are from his breakdown; puffy and probably still red around the edges. His face is still blotchy in a way that no amount of dabbing with a warm washcloth can fix, and still cannot stop himself from sniffing every so often.
It’s better now, at least, than it was in the classroom: there, Kurt literally had not been able to stop himself. Hysterical and gasping and face streaked with tears and snot, and Blaine all wrapped around him like some kind of security blanket. Holding him tight and murmuring words that didn’t mean anything, even if they were nice to hear.
Part of Kurt cannot believe how completely and utterly he broke down, and in front of whom. Another part is so relieved at finally being able to let the tears come after all these months that he just can’t care who it happened in front of.
Kurt wonders if he’s stupid, or naive, or some kind of masochistic idiot for telling Blaine everything - the curse, his past, DaveDaveDaveDaveDaveDaveDave - considering how frenetically his family urged him to keep it all a secret growing up, or how he always concealed it from the world even when it meant embarrassment and humiliation and pain.
Considering what happened the last time he told someone.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, says Carole’s voice in his mind playfully. One of those motherly phrases she’d brought into the household and directed lovingly at him, Finn, and his dad in equal measure.
But Kurt knows with blind, stupid certainty that Blaine would never use his curse against him. Knows it in the way he knows his father loves him more than anything, or that his mother wanted for him to have the best life he possibly could. The certainty is inexplicable, but unshakable in nature. It thrums inside his muscles, his bones. Along his very skin.
In the past half hour, Kurt Hummel has trusted Blaine Anderson with everything he is.
In front of him, Blaine is sitting with a lost expression on his face. Slumped in his rolled-over computer chair, blazer undone and tie loosened around his neck. There is a growing look of horror stealing over his face as Kurt’s words sink in. Blaine looks very much worse for wear in general, Kurt thinks, guilt twisting in the base of his stomach. His hair is unkempt and curly around his ears, and dark circles line the hazel of his eyes.
He looks shockingly young.
“Kurt, I... " Blaine trails off, scrubbing a hand through his hair and looking utterly out of his depth. “God, I... I don’t know what to say.”
And there is nothing Kurt can say to that. Not really.
He takes a sip of tea instead. It’s ginger with brown sugar, which is... strange, but somehow fitting. As far as Kurt was able to tell from a cursory look at Blaine’s room, Blaine must make this particular drink a great deal. The small box labelled Authentic Ginger was already sitting next to the kettle when they came in, along with a small pot of brown sugar with a spoon nestled inside. The tea is strong - almost spicy - but with an edge of sweetness that teases at Kurt’s tongue. The hot liquid soothes his raw throat on the way down.
“I’m so sorry,” says Blaine at last, staring down at his lap and blinking hard. There is nothing charming about him now. His voice is broken up and thick; either with honesty or pity, Kurt cannot tell.
“Thank you,” Kurt says quietly, eyes fixed on the amber liquid cradled in his hands. The apology makes his eyes sting. Around him, the world swirls in an unreal blur. Silence hangs between them, thick and impenetrable as Kurt works to push down the hysterics fighting to bubble up out of him again. Being allowed to cry was cathartic, and important, and so very necessary; but now is not the time for tears anymore.
A quick motion makes Kurt’s eyes flick up again just in time to see Blaine lean forward and reach out toward him, moving to lay a hand on his knee. The sight almost makes Kurt sighs with relief; god, does he want that. He wants the friendly, comforting touches that Blaine has always seemed to sprinkle throughout their friendship; wants back the tender way Blaine had cradled him in the empty classroom less than an hour ago. The gentleness of his embrace; genuine and caring, with no false facets or hidden levels. Kurt had even liked how small Blaine had been curled up against him, with the warmth of his hands sweet and kind and real.
But with his fingers just an inch away from Kurt’s knee, Blaine stops. And when Kurt raises his eyes to meet Blaine’s, he sees a conflict there. Hesitation, as though Blaine is being torn apart by some sort of internal dilemma.
Finally, after what seems like an enormous pause, Blaine jerks his hand back and clasps them together in his own lap. He looks as though he is mentally berating himself.
Kurt blinks, trying to suppress the dull pang of hurt in his chest. But he does understand. I wouldn’t want to touch me either. He clutches at the mug in his hands a little bit tighter.
Across from him, Blaine gives his head a little shake.
“Kurt...” Blaine begins, hands in his lap and biting down on his lower lip. “Do... do you have any idea how rare that kind of remnant of the old magic is?” he asks at last, apparently opting to go for the least uncomfortable subject at hand.
“I do. Yeah.” Mild frustration is beginning to edge at the surreal fog of Kurt’s mind. Of course he knows. He’s lived with this condition his whole life; struggled with it, railed against it, cursed his family over and over for whatever they did to deserve such a punishment. Kurt has spent hours - days - researching possible ways to break it, stories from other relatives, and old magic lore and myths. Does Blaine truly think he’s never delved into any of the history of something that defines so much of his life?
“Because it’s rare.” Apparently Blaine isn’t finished. He makes an aborted gesture, then scrubs a hand through his hair again. The curls are loose, now; falling out of their tight gel-slicked curves. “I mean... the last incident in America that the history books talk about was in 1938, and that one got taken to court and lost -”
“I know, Blaine,” snaps Kurt, and Blaine flinches so hard that he immediately regrets it. Because Blaine has always been surrounded by an aura of dapper-friendly-gentleman in Kurt’s mind, especially after Dave started to pull him away from virtually everyone else. His one link to the rest of the world; the only person he could be himself with. A few times, on the cusp of sleep and with Dave’s warmth pressed up against him in the dark, Kurt had even entertained absurd rescue fantasies with Blaine in the starring role.
But in reality, Blaine is not some kind of knight in shining armour, or a flawless mentor with all of the answers. He is just a sixteen-year-old kid who’s been drawn into a terrible situation - and he doesn’t know what to do or say to make it better.
“... sorry,” mutters Kurt a minute later, feeling contrite.
“It’s fine,” says Blaine, a little too quickly.
Both of them fall silent again, and Kurt takes another long sip of tea. It empties the mug, so he awkwardly sits it down on the floor beside the bed. The pause drags on, shifting into awkwardness, but Kurt can’t think of anything to say. But just as Kurt opens his mouth to say something, anything to break the silence, Blaine begins to speak.
“I can’t even believe what’s happened to you, Kurt. What you’ve had to deal with.” Blaine is speaking quietly, but his voice may as well be amplified tenfold for the way his words reverberate along Kurt’s skin. He fidgets, not meeting Kurt’s eyes. “And I don’t know what to do. I - I don’t know how to make it better for you, or what you need, but tell me -” Blaine cuts himself off, wincing. “I mean... if you want, you can tell me. And I can try. I’m just... I’m so confused, and I don’t know what’s -”
“Real?”
Blaine winces again, but Kurt understands.
“No, it’s fine,” insists Kurt, reaching forward and putting a hand over Blaine’s black slacks-clad knee before he can think better of it. Internally, Kurt grimaces; he doesn’t want to make Blaine feel uncomfortable, not after he had helped him so much when Kurt needed it so badly. Blaine looks down at the hand on his knee in surprise and something else, but it’s too late to move away now. Kurt plunges onward. “I wanted to explain to you so badly. While it was happening, but I couldn’t, and... you can ask me. If you like.”
Across from him, Blaine looks back sceptically --but Kurt wants to talk about it. Has been silenced for so long; made to sit and smile and scream inside his mind where no one could hear him for months. And the past three days...
An involuntary shiver runs through Kurt’s body at the memory. The past three days have been unbearable. Disgust and humiliation boiling inside of him as one thing after the other went horribly wrong, falling down like dominoes, and all Kurt had wanted to do was to yell. To grab Blaine by the shoulders and say wait, please, you don’t understand, help me, I need you. And instead, he’d had to avoid the person he wanted to talk to most. To avoid his eyes, and watch his phone lit up with Blaine Anderson is calling and not able to pick up. To read every one of his text messages and not be able to say anything in return.
So when Blaine gives him another are you sure? look, Kurt nods.
It’s a welcome surprise, though, when Blaine tentatively stands - and moves to sit beside him on the bed, angled so that they can still look at one another but without any physical contact. The bed creaks and lowers slightly under the added weight, and Kurt is so aware of Blaine beside him that it almost hurts.
Kurt wishes Blaine would hug him, but he understands.
“So,” says Blaine eventually, and his hand is so close to Kurt’s on the bed that their fingertips are almost touching. He takes a deep breath, and then lets it out. “How long?” he asks, tentative and wary as though frightened of the response.
“Two months,” says Kurt, voice high in the stillness of the room.
Blaine closes his eyes for a long moment, a pained expression tugging at his face. “Two months,” he says. “Your family crisis.”
Something twists in Kurt’s stomach, sickly and horrible. Guilt, yes. And -
“David, what are you doing? You’re hurting me -”
“Why was that guy in the common room getting so damn cuddly, Kurt?” Pushing him up against the dorm room wall by his shoulders hard enough to bruise, thick fingers gripping him tight. Dave’s just upset; he isn’t particularly trying to frighten him, Kurt knows. But fear is still clenching at his stomach. “What are you trying to hide from me?”
“Nothing! Dave, it’s nothing, I swear, he was -”
“Tell me who he was, and tell me the truth.”
“... that was Nick, from the Warblers. He was worried because I missed another rehearsal and wanted to know why. You wanted to spend time with me instead.”
A loosening of the grip. “Oh.” A large hand reaching up to stroke along his face, cradling his cheek in its palm. “Oh.” Panting hard with relief, the ugly possessiveness beginning to abate in his eyes.
But not gone. Never gone.
Dave leans down and pulls Kurt into a tight kiss, slamming their mouths together and twisting his hand into Kurt’s hair. It hurts, and it’s sloppy, and the repulsion is so strong that the desire to pull away is a physical need. This is all so new, and awful, and every touch is a fresh violation. Eventually, Dave releases him; presses gentler kisses along his face instead, running a hand up and down Kurt’s arm.
“If someone asks you a question like that,” mouths Dave along his skin, kissing his left cheek. “Tell them...that you’ve had a family emergency.” His breath is hot and warm along Kurt’s forehead as he presses another kiss there. “Tell them you don’t have time for any extra activities.” Dave kisses the corner of Kurt’s mouth. “Tell them... tell them that... god, Kurt, want you so much -”
“That was the cover story he made me tell,” says Kurt, and the words seem so empty. So impersonal. Just another fact; not something that happened to him personally.
Without seeming to realize what he is doing, Blaine reaches over and puts his hand on top of Kurt’s. His hand is warm and soft with long piano-playing fingers, and the touch is so comforting - so instinctual - that Kurt immediately curls his own hand around it. Once again, he wonders if there is something wrong with him for wanting the physical contact as badly as he does. Wonders if Dave broke something important inside of him, and now he can’t tell what he wants and what he doesn’t.
Blaine’s hand feels good in his, though, and so he holds it tight.
“And...” starts Blaine, eyes darting away. “When... when I kissed you?”
“It’s okay,” coos Dave softly, stroking a hand through Kurt’s hair as he sobs into Dave's chest. “It’s all right, babe.”
They are sitting on the bed with Kurt scooped up into Dave’s arms like a small child, and Kurt’s face is hot and wet as he chokes out the words.
“Please,” Kurt begs, all dignity gone, clutching at the fabric of Dave’s t-shirt. “Please make it stop, make it better, I can’t - I can’t even think. My head... it’s broken and wrong inside my head, Dave, please...”
“I know,” murmurs Dave, voice quiet and subdued, and Kurt can’t even feel ashamed of himself anymore. It’s all wrong and twisted and blocked and jammed and misdirected, and trying to think in a straight line is practically impossible. He just wants it to stop so badly it hurts, is willing to do anything it takes to be himself inside his own mind again. He clutches harder at Dave’s shoulders.
“Whatever you want.” Kurt’s muttering senselessly now, an endless chain of entreating words as he shivers and shudders in Dave’s arms. The words don’t mean anything compared to the way his thoughts barely belong to him, a prison of don’t think and don’t feel he keeps running into like walls. “You can do whatever, okay? Even... what you m-made me do before. Just - just fix it. God, please, fix it, it - it’s too much, I can’t - please -”
“Kurt.” The word is soft but commanding, and he feels Dave’s large hand tilt his head up so that their eyes meet. And fuck, Dave’s eyes. Full of something soft and sweet and completely false as he strokes a thumb over his cheek. “Kurt, you can think and feel just like you would normally, okay?”
Kurt inhales sharply and lurches forward. The world is spinning around him, but Dave’s arms are still tight and sure. And if Kurt was crying before, he’s sobbing now. Gasping and choking on tears of relief as he feels his mind begin to mend itself. Connections being repaired, and blocks being lifted, and a flood of things he wasn’t allowed to feel all coming back at once. Fear, and anger, and grief for himself rushing into his head all at the same time, and he can barely breathe for the heaving sobs that wrack his chest.
And when Dave spreads his hands out on Kurt’s back and pulls him close, pressing hard and frantic kisses against his lips, Kurt lets it happen. Flushed and trembling from the hysterical gratitude of being able to think again, he lets it happen.
“Don’t cry about this anymore, baby,” murmurs Dave against his lips, the kisses forceful. Claiming. “It’s okay,” he says, clinging to Kurt with the desperation of a drowning man struggling for air. So many kisses, one after the other, fast and raw. “I’ve got you. Don’t cry.”
And all at once, the tears stop.
Drying up immediately, as though someone has turned off a faucet. Kurt gasps for breath, blinks hard - and no tears come. It’s like grasping for straws, at something just out of his reach. And all at once, he wants to cry more badly than anything. Wants more of the release of hot moisture on his cheeks and the cleanse of everything as it pours out of him. A horrified whine escapes from the back of Kurt’s throat; Dave pushes him down onto the bed with hard kisses.
“You’re all mine,” chokes Dave, shaking fingers reaching down to unbutton Kurt’s shirt. “All of you, every inch. I’m so sorry I hurt you like that, babe. I never meant to.”
Dave slams their lips together, reaching down into the opened shirt and rolling Kurt’s nipple between his fingertips. Gently, teasingly, as he opens Kurt’s mouth with his own and pushes his tongue inside. Tears are trying to choke the back of his throat, but they simply won’t come. And Kurt is scared, frightened out of his mind.
But at least he can feel it at all.
“Just need you close so bad, you know?” Dave mutters when they break apart, panting. “Need you here with me always. Always mine, Kurt, no one else’s. This... this doesn’t change that.” Moving to kiss a trail down Kurt’s neck before biting down on the skin there, sensitive and flushed. Kurt gasps, and his body instinctively tries to jerk away, but Dave holds him in place. Still whispering words along his skin every time he pulls back. “Don’t flirt with anyone, like before, yeah? And - fuck, Kurt, you taste so good -don’t let anyone touch you like this. Not ever. Just - just get out of there and come find me and I’ll take care of you, Kurt, I’ll always take care of you -”
The sharp taste of bile rising in Kurt’s throat is enough to jolt him out of the memory. When he blinks, Blaine’s face comes into focus. Staring at him as though Kurt might break, and Blaine will have to pick up the pieces.
“He... Dave...” Blaine gives him a strange look at his use of Dave’s first name, but ‘Karofsky’ simply will not come to Kurt’s lips. The command to only use Dave’s first name is still under effect, after all. “He’s jealous. When he got rid of the orders that changed the way I thought -”
“Wait, what?” Fresh horror floods Blaine’s face. “You - it can change the way you think? Like... like in your head?”
“Mhmm. How I feel, too.”
“Jesus,” breathes Blaine, appalled shock apparent in the word. He looks slightly sick, and he’s squeezing Kurt’s hand so tightly it almost hurts.
“Anyways,” says Kurt, because when he says all this out loud the weight of it all doesn’t feel like so much, so horrible, as it did on his own. When he was the only person in the world to know what was happening to him. “When he did that, he covered his bases. Told me not to flirt with anyone, and... to come to him if anyone... did anything to me.”
“... oh, god.” All at once, Blaine sounds very small. Very frightened. “Oh, god, Kurt. When I kissed you, did you have to tell Karofsky -?”
“No,” says Kurt quietly. “There was a loophole. I just had to find him, he never said I had to tell him.”
And Blaine gives him this look. It’s long, and hard, and it makes Kurt feel more exposed than anything they’ve talked about so far. Almost more exposed than when Blaine opened the door and saw the two of them together. As though Blaine is peeling back his skin and seeing what’s inside.
“...you’ve been fighting for so long, haven’t you,” says Blaine softly, still looking at Kurt as though seeing him for the first time.
It isn’t a question, so Kurt doesn’t bother responding.
“And then you saw us,” continues Kurt, staring into his lap. Remembering the squirming desperation as Dave fucked him hard into the mattress when the door opened. Himself moaning like a whore and wanting it, so badly wanting it, lost in a fog of heat and need as Blaine stood there and stammered. Being hard and unsatisfied and ordered to stay when Blaine ran off and Dave followed, writhing and gasping and fighting with everything he had to think straight and stand up and go and it wasn’t enough. “And it was the worst thing I could imagine, and I couldn’t explain, and he made me stay there when you left, and I couldn’t explain -”
“I left you there,” says Blaine, words full of dull horror and reverberating with quiet self-loathing. “Kurt... you were being raped and I left you there.”
“You didn’t know,” insists Kurt quickly, both for himself and for Blaine’s sake. He winces at that word.
“And I told him,” says Blaine, gaining speed and looking angrier with himself by the second. “I went and found him and told him you were my friend. You were hiding me, Kurt, and I walked right up and told him.”
When Kurt catches sight of Dave marching purposefully up to him in the hallway between classes, an unreadable expression on his face, he winces - but doesn’t suspect anything right away. Sometimes, when Dave has a hard day at school or a difficult class, he will seek Kurt out in public. Take him into a private corner and wrap his arms around Kurt until he’s calm again.
But -
“Come with me,” says Dave, almost snapping, and Kurt knows at once that something is horribly, horribly wrong. Because Dave never, ever speaks to him this way in public; he is always friendly and amiable, all shoulder slaps and loud laughter. Not stony-faced and hard, walking quickly ahead of Kurt and not looking back as he leads them into an empty classroom.
When they get inside and the door is safely closed, Dave turns on him.
“What the fuck is going on?” Dave snarls, and Kurt’s eyes widen. Because Dave simply does not talk to him like this. Angry expletives and dangerous eyes, and leaning in so that the height difference between them is exaggerated and dramatic. Back facing the wall, it takes all of Kurt’s willpower not to take a step back. And it takes Kurt a moment to realize that Dave is waiting for a response.
“I don’t -” he starts, but Dave cuts him off by slamming his palm into the wall beside Kurt’s head. The sound of its collision makes Kurt recoil and shrink back and Jesus, Dave is furious. Angrier than Kurt has ever seen him by far, and it’s such a change from his usual caringlovingkind routine that Kurt has no idea what to do.
“You lied to me,” says Dave, words coming hard and fast. “You fucking lied to me, Kurt.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking ab-”
“Anderson came and talked to me this morning.”
Oh, fuck. Ohfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
The humiliation of last night is still raw like a fresh wound, but at Dave’s words the feeling gives way to blind panic.
“He says you two are real buddy-buddy,” continues Dave, a look of derision and betrayal pulling his face into an ugly expression. “Good friends, that’s what he said. You never told me about him, Kurt, not even when I asked. Were you hiding him from me?”
Distract him, Kurt thinks desperately. For Christ’s sake, distract him. Don’t let him focus on Blaine.
“You never let me see anyone!” Kurt shouts back, only barely keeping his voice low enough to go unnoticed by the students outside. There’s only so much he can verbalize, Dave having placed down order after order in the past about what he is allowed to say, but he can edge the boundaries as closely as possible. “Remember Jeff? Remember Nick? Or how about all of my other friends I never see anymore, Dave? I had to hide him in order to interact with a single human being other than you! You just - you want to keep me locked up in your ivory tower, and -”
“Stop talking,” says Dave, voice cold, and Kurt’s mouth slams shut before he can think to fight it. Kurt wants to glare at him, to snarl and huff - but those were some of the first things Dave stopped him from doing. He settles for staring at Dave, unblinking and hard.
Dave takes a slow step forward, and then another, until he and Kurt are practically nose-to-nose. The expression on his face is colder than Kurt has ever seen it before. After a long moment, he reaches a hand up and places it along the curve of Kurt’s cheek.
“We’re gonna talk about this later,” enunciates Dave, slowly and carefully, making every word count. “But until then? Do not talk to Blaine Anderson. Do not communicate with Blaine Anderson. Ignore, do not respond to, and avoid Blaine Anderson. Is that clear enough for you?”
For a fleeting moment, Kurt thinks this is it. This will be the order that ends everything, the one he’ll finally manage to withstand.
So he fights. Stumbling back against the wall, Kurt struggles against the pain, and the nausea, and the pounding voice inside his mind saying youhavetoyouhavetoyouhaveto. Eyes clenched shut and body rigid with effort, he thinks of Blaine. Blaine, who has been the one shred of light in his life for the past two months. Who is kind, and gentle, and actually cares about Kurt as a person. Who brought him chocolate and is interested in his midterm results and who kissed him in the library, soft and sweet and yearning.
Kurt fights, and fights, as his muscles clench and his head pounds and it feels as though he’s going to pass out and then it feels like he’s going to die and it’s too much too much too much -
Until his body finally gives out, sliding down the wall as his mind gives in. Kurt sits, sweat pouring down his face and still trembling from the effort, and hates himself more than ever before.
“Good,” says Dave, extending his hand. There is no point in Kurt not taking it, even as he refuses to look Dave in the eye.
Once he is standing, Dave strokes a hand over Kurt’s brow. Wiping away the excess sweat and straightening his hair. Some mix between affectionate, warning, and possessive that Kurt just cannot bring himself to contemplate right now.
“Meet me in our dorm after class,” says Dave at last, short and commanding - and he leans down and presses his lips against Kurt’s in a kiss - hard, and fast, and claiming - before turning and heading to the door.
Right before he leaves, he looks over his shoulder. “You can talk,” says Dave, almost as an afterthought, and then he is gone.
Standing alone in the room, trembling and an utter mess, Kurt’s phone begins to vibrate in his pocket.
“It wasn’t your fault,” says Kurt, voice monotone to his own ears. Blaine stares at him, long and hard, and Kurt reaches down to unthinkingly rub at his wrists. “The past two days have been... hard, though.”
Blaine’s eyes widen into a look of utter distress before he carefully schools his expression into something more neutral. And god, is it ever hard watching him react. In the past months, the entire nightmare of a situation has degenerated from unimaginably awful to simply Kurt’s life, day in and day out. But seeing someone else respond... Kurt’s throat feels thick and his eyes begin to sting.
And all at once, Kurt needs to be out of here now. He coughs lightly, straightening his posture, before turning to face Blaine.
“Would it be all right if I used your bathroom?” he asks, proud for there not being a hint of a waver in his voice.
“... what?” There is a beat, and Blaine blinks before giving his head a little shake. “Sorry. Sorry, yes, of course you can, Kurt. Of course.”
Before Blaine can even finish his sentence, Kurt is striding purposefully across the bedroom without looking back. Past the messy second bed and into the private bathroom, shutting the door with a too-loud thud and locking it behind him.
--
As soon as the lock clicks shut, Kurt pauses - and lets out a long, uneven breath of air. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, which are starting to water again, before turning toward the sink. Kurt lets the water run warm before cupping his hands beneath the flow and splashing several handfuls onto his face. A few stray drops trickle down his neck and soak into the fabric of his button-up, but Kurt cannot bring himself to care. After patting down with the hand towel hanging on the wall - deep-red and plush, obviously new and expensive - he opens his eyes and stares into the mirror.
The boy staring back at him is pale and haggard-looking. His cheeks are still blotchy and red in ugly patches, and the rims of his eyes remain stubbornly swollen. The blue of his eyes is sharper than usual. Conventionally attractive, he thinks, if a little damp and wrung-out. Face more slender and defined than it used to be even a year ago; a passable nose and curved lips that Dave has described as ‘pretty’ more times than Kurt can count.
He looks overwhelmed. Defeated.
“You’re weak,” Kurt tells his reflection.
His reflection doesn’t say anything back.
--
Ten minutes later, Kurt opens the door and comes back into the dorm room proper. Composed and straightened up; steeled to say what needs to be said. Blaine is sitting in the same chair as before, and if Kurt’s mug wasn’t refilled and steaming with a fresh round of tea he would probably assume that Blaine hadn’t moved since he left. Blaine sits with his hands folded in his lap and a soft expression of determination on his face.
“Blaine -” begins Kurt, but Blaine interjects.
“What do you need me to do?” Blaine asks, which is a perfect lead-in to what Kurt was going to say anyways.
Kurt leans against Blaine’s desk - it must be Blaine’s because it’s covered in law books and sheet music and a tremendously expensive-looking laptop - and tilts his head to one side. “If you could...” He coughs lightly. “Removing Dave’s orders would be very helpful.”
“Oh, god, of course,” says Blaine at once, and he screws up his face in an expression of concentration. He clears his throat. “Don’t follow... wait, no... you can choose to follow or not follow all of the orders Karofsky gave you. Does that work?”
But Kurt is already slumping against the solid wood of the desk in relief. It is as though hundreds of courses of action have been opened to him all at once, a straight-flowing river all at once branching off into dozens of possible options. Like having manacles removed after having them on so long, they felt like second-nature. If Kurt wanted to, he could pick a direction and start walking as far away from this school as possible. Or call his father, or punch Karofsky in the face, or any of the innumerable possibilities that Dave forbade him from for so long.
It feels so life-changing, and impossible, and free that Kurt chokes out a sob before he can help it.
“Are you okay?” blurts Blaine, sounding slightly frantic. All at once Blaine is up from his chair and moving toward him, putting a steadying arm on Kurt’s shoulder. “Did I do it right?”
“Yes,” breathes Kurt, swallowing hard. “Yes, it’s... it’s fine. It worked.”
“Oh, thank god,” exhales Blaine, and Kurt takes a moment to truly look at the boy in front of him. Hair a mess and face flushed, with his tie loosened around his neck in an informal way Kurt has never seen before. His hand on Kurt’s shoulder is solid, and guilt ripples in Kurt’s stomach for being so grateful for the touch. Blaine’s thick brows are furrowed in concern, and his eyes are shining with worry, and anxiety... and something else. There is a slight mania lurking just below the surface, as though he’s holding himself together for Kurt’s sake. As though, were he alone, Blaine would fragment into a million pieces.
He never asked to be involved in this.
“Blaine... thank you,” says Kurt, biting down on his lip and meeting Blaine’s eye. “For pushing. And taking me back here, and...” And even if it’s too much to handle, I’m so grateful. “It just means so much to me.”
“Of course,” says Blaine, a small uncertain smile tugging at his lips.
Kurt returns it, lets out a breath - and begins to head for the door.
“Hey,” says Blaine, quietly at first, but gaining volume as he continues. “Hey, Kurt, what - where are you going?”
Hand on the door handle, Kurt freezes. “I don’t know,” he says, words slow and careful, eyes fixed on the door. “Maybe the library? I just... I need to think. Figure out what to do next.”
There is a pause, long and stretched out and increasingly uncomfortable, and eventually Kurt feels the need to turn around. Blaine is standing in the middle of the room, hands at his sides and looking at Kurt as though his head is on fire.
“What are you talking about?” Blaine’s voice is brimming with confusion. “You don’t have to leave.”
“You’ve been very nice,” says Kurt carefully. “And I’m grateful, believe me. And you deserved an explanation. But Blaine... you don’t have to feel obligated -”
“I don’t,” says Blaine at once, taking a step forward. “I don’t feel that way.”
Kurt feels his eyebrows draw together. “Then why...?”
Nervously, Blaine runs a hand through his stiff hair. Their eyes are caught together, frozen as they stare at one another across the room.
Blaine lets out an uneven breath. “Kurt... you must know that I...” he trails off, eyes darting down to Kurt’s lips for the smallest fraction of a second. Kurt remembers the library. The chocolate, bitter and complicated on his tongue. Remembers Blaine kissing him. At the time, it had been a problem more than anything. One more thing to deal with. He hadn’t taken much time at all to think about why. Blaine shifts awkwardly where he stands. “I care about you, Kurt. A lot. When Karofsky made you run away from me, it was... you’re one of my best friends.” Blaine’s posture twists into something ashamed, hunched over and small and guilty. “You don’t need to deal with how I feel, okay? You’ve been through so much, and you shouldn’t have to handle that, but... I want to help you.”
“Oh.” The sound is quiet and surprised on the air. “I didn’t...” Because what does he want from me and I don’t know how I feel about him and he doesn’t deserve to have to deal with this keep running through Kurt’s mind like a broken record, over and over, and Kurt can’t make it stop. But Blaine has been the only real part of his life for two whole months; has made him feel like a human being when everything else was taken away.
But he never, ever let himself think that he was important to Blaine in the same way.
“...okay,” he says at last, and the word makes Blaine look weak with relief.
“All right,” says Blaine, breathing out a sigh. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and gives Kurt a look. “Now... are we calling the police first, or your dad?”
Kurt blinks. “I... what?”
“The police, probably, right? Give them a chance to get here quickly...” Blaine leans over and begins to hit buttons on his phone’s touch screen.
“Blaine, stop it,” says Kurt, alarmed. “Stop it, there isn’t any point.”
“Of course there is,” says Blaine absently, large white 9-1-1 numbers already prominent on his phone’s screen. Just as he’s about to press the green ‘send’ button, however, Kurt darts forward and grabs his arm to stop him.
“Call them and tell that what?” asks Kurt harshly, and there is some of the emotion he’s been pushing down for the past hour. “That I had sex with a boy my own age for two months without reporting it, and suddenly I’m saying this? Or that there are no physical signs of me being forced, none at all, because he always stretched me out and prepped me like a little fucktoy? Or that Karofsky will tell them it was consensual, could even order me to tell them I wanted it? Because that is all the police are going to see, Blaine.”
“But,” says Blaine, in a baffled sort of way that speaks of a lifetime of trust that police will always try to do the right thing. For a moment, Kurt envies that privilege. “But the curse...”
“Tell me, then,” says Kurt, hands flying up in an expression of defensiveness. “Tell me that when I explained to you what happened, you didn’t feel the slightest bit of doubt or scepticism about it. Go on.” At Blaine’s guilty look, he continues. “1938, Blaine. And they lost in court. No one’s going to believe me about this; no one wants to believe me about this. And ‘I have to do what anyone tells me to do’?” Kurt raises his fingers up into air-quotations. “Can you think of an easier curse to fake?”
“But you aren’t faking,” says Blaine softly, looking like a kicked puppy.
“I know that, Blaine. And so do you, but...” Kurt shrugs. “No one else is going to want to.”
Blaine looks dismally down at his cell phone before deleting the three numbers on its screen. He lets out a small noise of frustration.
“That’s... that’s so unfair, Kurt.”
“I know,” says Kurt. I’ve been dealing with it my entire life.
“But then... how are we going to handle Karofsky?”
“I have no idea.” Kurt’s voice is high and fragile in the quiet room. He takes a seat on Blaine’s bed again and picks up the fresh cup of tea. He doesn’t want it, really, but it’s something to do with his hands.
“If - if I ordered you to not obey any of Karofsky’s orders ever, would that...?” asks Blaine, straightening up with a hopeful look in his eyes.
“No,” says Kurt bitterly. “My dad... we tried that, with the bullies at my school. New orders just cancel it out.”
“Damn it,” mutters Blaine, and Kurt nods. There is another long pause.
“Well... my father has some pull with the school board,” says Blaine slowly after a moment, sounding as though he is constructing the idea even as he speaks it out loud. “He could... I don’t know, have you change rooms? You could come and live with me instead.”
“So I could still see my rapist in the hallway every day, you mean?” states Kurt matter-of-factly, although his voice cracks slightly on the word ‘rapist’. Blaine flinches, and Kurt shakes his head. “It wouldn’t stop him. Karofsky is...” Obsessive. Unhinged. Delusional. In love with me. “... more determined than that.”
They sit for a while longer, Blaine staring off into nothing in a way that suggests frantically considering all the options. “We could tell your dad,” suggests Blaine after a long pause, glancing down at his phone again.
The idea is so comforting, so appealing that Kurt cannot stop himself from closing his eyes and imagining it. His father, ever the pillar of gentle strength, wrapping him up in his arms and telling him that everything’s gonna to be okay, buddy. Taking him away far away from this school; back to Finn and Carole, and their house, and his old life.
But it isn’t as simple as that.
“If I know my dad at all,” says Kurt slowly, “he wouldn’t be able to hear about what happened... what’s been happening to me... without going after Karofsky. And how would that look?” Kurt tilts his head to one side. “’ Grown man ruthlessly beats helpless teenage boy,’” spits Kurt, waving his hand over the air to indicate a fictitious newspaper title. And there’s something worse, too. A certainty that sits heavy and hard in Kurt’s stomach. “And Dave - Karofsky, I mean... I think that at this point, even if my dad took me away... he would come after me.”
“You think he’d go that far?”
“Yes,” says Kurt at once, hating the answer even as he knows it to be true.
“Shit,” says Blaine, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t... I have no idea what to do, Kurt.”
And that is when the idea comes. Creeping and insidious along the edges of Kurt’s mind, nudging and twisting at the corners of his brain. It is fragile and indistinct and not fully developed, but it’s something. He looks up at Blaine, sitting there with his head in his hands. Blaine, who claims to care about him. Who wants to help to make things right again. The proposal dancing on the tip of Kurt’s tongue is horrific, but at least Blaine wouldn’t have to take the brunt of it.
Kurt thinks, long and hard, about whether or not he is willing to do this.
He decides that he is.
“I have one idea,” declares Kurt, straightening up his posture and wrapping determination around himself like a cloak. “But I’m going to need your help.”
Next: “Chapter Four: Kurt - Part Two”