Tuesday, September 11.

His wrist burns with relapse.

He tries to ignore it, but the pain is no longer a satisfying throb; it's a hot, stinging annoyance. He should've sliced his upper arm instead, he decides (it's less noticeable and the skin is stronger so it stings less), but there's something about the smooth, vulnerable canvas of his forearm that makes him want to riddle it with imperfections. The rest of him is flawed, so why not that, too?

He really shouldn't have done it again. When was the last time? Three years ago, four? He's not sure. But he'd been thinking about it so much lately, and he'd needed it. Of course, it stings like hell now, the four thin red lines across his left wrist, and he really, really should've cut his upper arm, because the relief just isn't there.

After a moment of consideration Blaine reaches back down beside him for his razor, bringing it up to rest against his left bicep. Feeling more disgusted with himself than ever, he pulls it across the skin one, two, three times. It's still not enough and he thinks of what a worthless coward he is not to cut deeper, always so fucking afraid. So he presses the metal harder into his skin and drags it across, not even looking at his arm anymore, all precision gone as he adds four, five, six.

His skin has parted away from the razor, the lines thicker than before, and as blood starts to bubble up he feels the throb of release. Blaine looks down and watches as warm red liquid trickles in thin lines down his arm from the haphazard cuts. He can breathe deeper now and he kind of hates it, because this isn't the way things are supposed to be. This isn't the way New York and college are supposed to be.

He's such a fucking freak.

Kurt would be revolted if he knew.

Thursday, September 13.

"Hey Blaine, guess how I did on my English essay!" Kurt calls from the entranceway, and Blaine, sitting at their kitchen counter, can't bring himself to respond. Because of course Kurt's doing great, why wouldn't he be? Goddamn great. Blaine is the only one struggling; he's the imperfection. He clenches his jaw and hopes that Kurt won't notice that something's off, that he'll just tell him how he did and save him from the necessity of speech. No such luck. "Blaine, are you okay?"

Well, isn't that the question of the year? "I'm fine," he says shortly, but his tone screams otherwise. He hears Kurt sigh behind him as his bag clunks to the floor in the hall.

"No, you're not. Do you want to talk about it?"

He forces the tremor of anger out of his voice as he replies. "Not really." I got another D. I don't get D's. "Just a bad day." I'm supposed to be smart. I'm a fucking failure. And though it's the last thing he wants to hear about, "How was your essay?"

"I—are you sure you don't want to talk? I know how it can help to let things out."

The hell it does. He's only mad at himself, but Kurt's there and asking and succeeding and Blaine is so pissed right now. "Yes, I'm sure. God, would you stop worrying for once in your life? Everything's fucking fine."

He's too much of a moron and a coward to even look at Kurt as he says this, but he hears Kurt's surprised intake of breath and sees him stiffen out of the corner of his eye. He expects his boyfriend to yell at him or make some snarky remark—almost hopes he does, actually, because he deserves it—but Kurt sounds hushed and almost shaken when he finally speaks. "Okay." He seems to consider moving toward Blaine for a moment before giving up and adding, "I'll be in the living room then."

Blaine's sure that he just ruined the rest of Kurt's day. Later he'll apologize and give Kurt a warm smile and say he was just in a shitty mood and he never meant to snap at him, and Kurt will forgive him easily because he's just a great person. But right now Blaine sits and broods, because he knows that no matter how much he apologizes for it, he's still really just an asshole.

Saturday, September 15.

He doesn't want to move. He doesn't want to do anything. It'd been hard enough last night convincing Kurt that he was fine wearing long sleeves to bed ("as long as you don't burn up, I guess") and avoiding their planned night of long, drawn-out, wonderful sex ("it's okay, I don't mind, really," even though he clearly does). So now Blaine really needs to do something to make up for it; in other words, he needs to get his ass out of bed and make breakfast for Kurt, like he usually would. But for some stupid reason he just can't make himself move. He wants to lie in a haze forever and hide in the world of warm cotton sheets and Kurt curled into his side, where nothing is wrong—including himself. So he turns his alarm off and falls back asleep, cursing himself for it all the while.

When he wakes up two hours later it's to an empty bed and the sound of a blender whirring in another room. "Fuck."

He hurries into the kitchen and there's Kurt, with smoothies and French toast and coffee and a warm smile. Shit. He smiles back hesitantly as they exchange good mornings and perches beside him on one of the stools at the counter. He bites his lip as he looks down at the delicious breakfast Kurt has set out for them, feeling like the most awful boyfriend in the world. "This looks awesome."

"Thanks! I know how much you love French toast, so you know. Oh, and we even have cinnamon for your coffee! Weird, huh? I thought we were out."

Blaine nods at this, mumbling something in agreement but hating himself inside. He had used cinnamon as an excuse to leave the week before, saying he was getting coffee with cinnamon from a café down the street. And then he'd snuck into an alley and stared at nothing for twenty minutes and tried to smoke a cigarette from that pack he'd bought on a whim at the beginning of sophomore year and coughed and smoked some more and felt even shittier. But yeah, it's weird that they aren't out of cinnamon.

After they've both taken a few bites of French toast and sipped coffee and browsed over the new issue of Vogue in companionable silence, Blaine decides he has to say something. "Hey, Kurt?" When Kurt meets his eyes and nods him on he continues. "Look, I just wanted to say I'm really sorry I've been so... difficult lately. I've been stressed but so have you and I know it's not fair for me to take it out on you." Blaine looks down, unable to hold Kurt's intensely forgiving gaze, and moves his fork mindlessly across his plate. "So, yeah, I just... I'm trying not to be such a downer." He swallows, hating that his voice just almost cracked and that he can feel the ache of tears building behind his eyes. Before he can push them away and bring himself to look up, Kurt's hand is pressed reassuringly to his own.

"You're not a downer, Blaine! It's okay to be stressed, really. You don't have to apologize. I'm sure I've done enough stupid things when I'm worried to balance you out."

Kurt chuckles and Blaine knows this shouldn't be a big deal, but he can't think of any stupid things Kurt has done and the cuts on his arm feel so real and obvious and the bad grades he's been getting swarm in his mind and he can practically smell cigarette smoke and Kurt is being so nice but he would be so ashamed and disgusted by him if he knew, and suddenly there are tears swarming in his eyes that he can't stop. He's still looking down at his plate as he nods, shoulders tensed. He hopes Kurt won't notice and will just go back to eating, but of course he does; he's Kurt and he notices everything about Blaine.

"Blaine? Are you...?" Kurt doesn't seem to want to say the word—crying—probably in case he isn't. But Blaine really looks like he is; he shakes his head, jaw clenched, and rests his left elbow on the counter to lean his face into his hand, hiding from Kurt behind it. Kurt hears the shaky breath he takes afterward. "Oh, honey—" Kurt's fork immediately clatters onto his plate as he stands, enveloping his boyfriend in a comforting embrace that has never failed to make him feel better. A strange, intense feeling of relief rushes through Blaine even as he scolds himself for accepting comfort he doesn't deserve. He presses himself helplessly into Kurt's warmth and holds tight, willing the tears away.

He just loves Kurt so damn much and doesn't want anything to ever ruin that, but he knows what an ass he's been because school is so much harder than he'd expected, and sometimes everything just sucks. And he's still so scared that Kurt will find someone else, some guy who's ten times better than Blaine who'll sweep him off his feet, because New York is so big and how could he not? It isn't until Kurt is hushing him and telling him how wrong he is and murmuring about how much he loves him that Blaine even realizes he's said these things out loud. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

Kurt laughs—actually laughs, and it's genuine and warm and happy. "For what, being human?"

Blaine pulls away, wiping his eyes ashamedly and shaking his head. "I don't know. Ruining breakfast?"

The gentle hands wiping tears from his face and the warm smile Kurt gives him could brighten even the darkest of days. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. Look at all the food we've got left! Breakfast is most definitely not ruined."

For the first time in a while, Blaine thinks that maybe everything can be okay again.

That is, until later that day when he refuses sex again, because there are ten prominent red lines on his left arm that Kurt absolutely cannot know are there. He knows that his boyfriend would make everything else go away, that he'd feel infinitely better, and he wants to be with Kurt more than anything. Yes, Blaine hates that he's saying no, and he can't wait until his arm is healed enough not to be noticeable.

But a part of him really wants to cut again, and it doesn't care about anything else.

Sunday, September 16.

Nothing is okay. He has piles of schoolwork to do and there were countless hours in which he could've finished it, and yet here he is again at one in the morning not even halfway done. Blaine feels wretched and useless staring at his computer screen, having absolutely no idea what to write for a psychology paper that's due in two days. It was assigned weeks ago, but like every other bit of work Blaine has had recently, he hasn't done it. He has had no motivation; even at his desk when he should be working he'll be unable to concentrate and end up fooling around and spacing out, thinking about anything and everything else. It's like he has an aversion to absorbing any new information.

What's worse is that a few times in the last month he has sneaked out and smoked a cigarette without even knowing why. He's not sure if he's addicted—and he fucking hates cigarettes—or if it just feels like release in his mind, but when he smokes his problems seem to evaporate for a while. It's endlessly calming; that is, until it ends. Then he wastes thirty minutes brushing his teeth and washing his mouth out in a panic, praying to any god there is that Kurt won't notice the taste later. It's exhausting and he doesn't know why he keeps doing it, but at the same time he can't stop.

Other times Blaine has spent precious minutes doing nothing but thinking about hurting himself and wondering why he bothers trying at all. Once a couple weeks ago he came home to an empty apartment and, after locking himself in the bathroom for twenty minutes and coming close to cutting, spent a whole hour thinking about it and wondering what Kurt would say if he found out he had. He imagines it wouldn't be pretty.

He hasn't told Kurt about any of this, of course. He doesn't want to consider what his boyfriend would think if he knew how bad things have really gotten. Kurt doesn't even know he used to cut himself when he was a teenager; the scars are almost indistinguishable and he'd never bothered mentioning it. But it's not like it matters. It'd been before Dalton anyway, in a time when bruises and insults and spray paint and even broken bones were the ordinary, when he'd felt even more lost than he does now. Now things are better, he keeps telling himself, because he has Kurt and NYU and friends and the city and happiness. But sometimes it's hard to believe.

This is definitely one of those times. He's sitting in the kitchen of the apartment he shares with Kurt at one thirty in the morning, laptop and notebook open on the table. He has been struggling through calculus problems and typing randomly, occasionally wondering whether he should just go to bed. Kurt had turned in at ten thirty, having finished all of his work earlier that weekend like any smart student would. Blaine doesn't usually tell Kurt how late he stays up, and this is no exception. Except for maybe three times when his boyfriend has walked in and found him working late at night, Blaine has given the impression that he goes to sleep soon after Kurt. A few times a week this is true, like when they have sex or when he isn't too far behind on things, but much of the time it isn't. Even when he actually lies down earlier Blaine often can't sleep, and will spend up to two or three hours tossing and turning and staring and thinking.

Now he squeezes his eyes shut and furrows his brow and runs a hand over his unshaven face and through his hair, hating, hating, hating where he is. It's not that he doesn't understand the material; he just had all the time in the world and fucking wasted it. He hates that he's doing this so late at night and can't stand the thought of all the things about him that have gone wrong lately. He hates that he's such a failure. He hates himself. And his arm itches. He presses a hand to it absentmindedly, savoring the pain and fighting the urge to add more lines to the count. He deserves to bleed a little more, and he can't focus on anything right now except the fact that there's a razor blade in the bathroom calling his name.

At some point Blaine realizes that he hasn't written anything down for at least ten minutes. His head throbs with the knowledge that he has more to do, but he still can't make himself concentrate. Numbers and words and memories swirl confusedly through his mind, and he can't think. Before he's totally conscious of what he's doing Blaine is sneaking through his and Kurt's bedroom and into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. Then he's pulling out a razor blade from a drawer in the vanity and staring at himself in the mirror as he slices his arm open again in five new places. He glares at his reflection in revulsion as he drags the blade back and forth over his bicep and feels the painful tug of the sharpness against his skin.

He hates this. The love of his life is in a warm bed in the next room and he has a massive amount of work to do, and here he is cutting himself in the bathroom like a pathetic loser.

But he feels so much better.

Blaine is more certain than ever that Kurt can never, ever find out.

Thursday, September 20.

It's one of those rare days when they're both back to the apartment early and they have nothing planned, so it's just them for hours and hours and Blaine is such a fucking idiot. He can tell Kurt is getting worried. They've gone longer without having sex before, but it's always because they're either too busy or too tired. Recently their lack of a sex life has been entirely based on Blaine saying he's not up for it. What sucks the most is that he really, really is. He wants Kurt so badly.

But here he is sitting on their couch, mindlessly watching some random program on television while Kurt takes a nap in their bedroom. The only thing he can think of is his boyfriend, lying splayed on his back on their bed, dark hair forgotten and tousled, shirt riding up over his toned, pale stomach, a little crease between his eyebrows as he dreams about something bothersome. His pink lips are probably slightly parted and totally kissable, and the muscles in his arms are flexing as he stretches and turns, and this is not a productive train of thought because Blaine is already half-hard.

Maybe he can risk it. Just turn off the light and hope for the best. It's not like Kurt pays much attention to his arms, anyway.

Yeah, he can risk it.

So he walks across their apartment and quietly through the bedroom to the bathroom for an entirely different reason than he had on Sunday night. He checks his breath and his hair and do I look okay? The cuts aren't going to start bleeding but they're clear in the light. He can feel them when he passes his hand over his skin, but to someone caught up in lust they wouldn't be very notable. Okay.

Then he pulls his shirt back on and, a thrill going through him at what he is about to do, sneaks into their bedroom, quietly turning off the lamp that Kurt had left on. The room is for the most part shrouded in darkness, the curtains closed to the sun outside, and he can just see Kurt's outline on the bed. Two strides and he is sliding over next to his boyfriend and lying down to face him. He traces his hand over Kurt's palm lovingly and then securely laces their fingers together, and for a moment he thinks maybe he should just try to sleep.

But then Kurt's squeezing his hand and his eyes are opening. "Hi."

"Hi."

"What's up?" It's cautious and uncertain, and Kurt turns on his side to face Blaine as he says it. His bright eyes search his boyfriend's for a moment, and immediately Blaine is lost and forgets the world outside of Kurt.

"I don't know. I just kept thinking... about you. How you're right here." He edges close enough that their noses almost touch. Staring at his boyfriend's perfect mouth just inches away, he can't help but think he's not good enough for this god lying beside him. Breathlessly he adds, "And we have a whole afternoon to waste." Kurt's blue-hazel eyes are sparkling at him in the dark.

"Oh, we do? I hadn't realized."

One side of Blaine's mouth turns up, and for once it's a real smile that reaches his eyes. He doesn't drop Kurt's gaze for a second as he mutters quietly against his lips. "Mm-hmm. I guess I was just wondering, you know, if maybe you—"

All of his insecurities are forgotten the moment that Kurt's lips delve his, and Blaine loses himself in the heat of Kurt's body, the intensity of feeling so much, the steady comfort of human contact and love. And for a while he just forgets.

Later, when they're tumbled together and grinning and sharing slow kisses and almost falling asleep before they've even had dinner, Kurt doesn't say anything about the raised lines. Blaine's not sure whether to be ecstatic or upset that he's so good at hiding.

And after Kurt's proximity is lost and he's alone in the living room with nothing to keep him from his thoughts, he starts to hate how easy it is. Because that means there's nothing stopping him from doing it over and over again and digging himself deeper into the mess he has made.

A/N: This is most definitely not the end! I'm not sure exactly where this fic is going, but there is more and don't worry, Kurt will definitely catch on that something's wrong soon. I wasn't going to post this immediately but I caved, so. :)