Notes: Written for the Klaine Advent Drabble Challenge 2018 prompts 'festival' and 'incident'. Also, the title and the summary suck, but it's been a long couple of weeks.

"Mr. … Mr. Anderson? Blaine Anderson?" Kurt tiptoes cautiously through the dark quad, bright red delivery bag looped over his shoulder announcing his presence from a mile away. Everything in his body screams, "Turn around and run!", that this is a practical joke at best or at worst – a trap. But the bizarre sense of obligation that comes from both having something that doesn't belong to you (in this case, a jumbo Jack combo) and a job he doesn't want to lose keeps him pressing onward, even if he might be walking head on into danger. During his time as a DoorDash delivery driver, he has had a few people pull pranks on him - send him to either an abandoned house, a tree in an empty field, even all the way to Columbus to deliver seventeen pizzas to some underground BDSM and leather festival. That one he didn't mind so much. The people there accepted his gift of free pizza (since he gets to keep the food if the order is undeliverable), invited him to hang out with them for a while, and showered him with tips.

All in all, not the worst experience in the world.

He doesn't understand why people pull pranks like that other than they suck. They pay for it in the end – literally. They pay for the food and they can't get their money back. They've basically spent their hard earned cash to waste his time, give him a paycheck and a free meal. How is that a satisfying joke by any stretch of the imagination?

He's never had anyone prey on him before. He knows it's a possibility. He's heard of it happening to other drivers, mostly women - lured out to the middle of nowhere and attacked. But it's never happened to him.

This delivery might actually be the case.

He looks down at his phone, the only thing he has lighting his way, and checks the address one more time. Lima High School, outdoor quad/lunch area (under construction). Kurt reads that last part and swallows hard. How did he miss that? Under construction? What the heck does that mean?

Kurt looks up and squints into the black, eyes trying to readjust from the bright white screen to pitch black surroundings. A few hard blinks later and he sees it – a sizable portion of the cement in front of the doors that lead to the cafeteria have been torn up. Yellow caution tape wrapped around orange safety cones surround it, warning anyone who comes near not to accidentally walk into it … the way he was about to. Kurt looks left and right, eyes and ears straining for any trace of the customer who supposedly ordered dinner and wanted it delivered here.

"Mr. Anderson? It's DoorDash. I have your food. Can you tell me where you are, please?" Kurt had tried calling the man, but it went straight to voicemail. Still, Kurt chooses to remain optimistic. There's a dozen reasons he can think of why someone would place a one a.m. order for Jack in the Box to be delivered to Lima High School. There's construction being done. Maybe it's a construction worker. Or the janitor. Or someone from the drama department working late on sets for the spring musical.

A skeptical voice interrupts his positivity to remind him that this is a high school campus. Therefore this has the potential to not only take a turn for the worse, but end up splattered all over YouTube, too.

That thought has him back stepping, ready to turn around and bolt, declare this delivery a bust and give the whole cholesterol laden meal to his stepbrother Finn when he hears a soft whimper. A voice calls out, of all things, his name.

"K-Kurt?"

The fear vibrating in that voice makes Kurt's blood go cold. He turns toward it, expecting to see some short, shivering, Gollum-like creature standing behind him, but there's no one. "Mr. Anderson?"

"Kurt?" A hollow knock follows. "Is that you, Kurt?"

Kurt's entire body turns to stone, wondering how the mysterious voice knows his name. But then he remembers – the app tells the customer who's delivering his food.

"Yeah, it's me." Kurt walks carefully around the cement patio, trying to pinpoint the voice's hiding place. "Are you Blaine Anderson?"

"Yes! I-I'm Blaine Anderson! Are you alone?"

That question glues Kurt to the ground. Why would Blaine need to know that he's alone? Can't he see him?

What did he plan on doing to him?

"Yes, I am … for now. My stepbrother's waiting for me in the car," Kurt lies. "He's a big guy. A football player. And he'll come running in a moment's notice if something happens to me!"

"I'm not going to do anything to you! I promise! I need your help because I'm … I'm stuck!"

"Stuck?" Kurt turns on his flashlight app and starts swinging the beam around, searching for any place a human being could get stuck. It strikes him that Blaine may have fallen into that hole, and he hurries over to investigate. He sees darkness, some pipe, and a lot of rubble, but no person. "Stuck where?"

A mumbled sentence answers Kurt's question.

"Sorry," Kurt says. "I didn't catch that. Where are you?"

Blaine sighs. It's so heavy and defeated, Kurt can hear it as clear as if Blaine were standing beside him. "I'm in the porta potty."

"Porta potty, porta potty …" Kurt doesn't recall seeing one when he walked in, and they're pretty difficult to miss. He turns a full circle, swinging his light around high and low, and spots it in the corner – a tall, blue portable toilet, identical to the ones they have scattered around the McKinley sports fields, but this one has several benches pushed up against the door. And in the slot for a padlock, the handle of a fork has been slid in to keep it closed.

"Oh my God!" Kurt runs up to it, gives the door a knock, and hears a startled yelp reply. "Blaine? Are you in there?"

"Yeah, I am!" Blaine sounds relieved. "Please, get me out!"

"I will! I will! Give me a minute!" Kurt springs into action while flashbacks of a particularly horrible incident involving one of his friends getting locked in a porta potty hops to mind, not to mention his own experience getting locked in a dumpster. It was on spaghetti Tuesday, and ruined one of his favorite Alexander McQueen sweaters. "One second and I'll have you out!"

"Okay."

Kurt puts down his bag and starts shoving benches aside. They're not heavy, just awkward, stacked in such a way that the metal supports lock together, making it difficult for him to maneuver without pinching his fingers. And since he had to put his phone in his pocket to free up his hands, he's doing this completely in the dark.

This is definitely more nightmare fuel than he needs in one night.

With the benches gone, he slides the fork out of the lock. Before he can do anything else, the door flies open, nearly smacking him in the face, and a boy about his age stumbles out. He bends over double, sucking in air so quickly, Kurt thinks he's about to pass out. Or puke. Kurt wouldn't blame him. The stench that wafts from the narrow stall hits Kurt's olfactories like a hammer, and he retches. He can't picture having to live with that for longer than a few seconds.

Kurt pulls out his phone to check if Blaine has any injuries. He looks the boy over from a short distance, searching for black eyes or a fat lip. But aside from having been locked in a porta potty for who knows how long, he appears unharmed.

Blaine's knees wobble. He weaves to his right, unable to stand upright yet, finds one of the moved benches and takes a seat. "T-thank you. You have no idea how stuffy it is in there."

"I can imagine." Kurt picks up the DoorDash bag with the boy's meal inside and holds it protectively in front of him. This could still be a prank, Kurt reminds himself, peeking stealthily around as Blaine struggles to compose himself. "But, if you don't mind me asking - you were locked in a porta potty. Why did you order DoorDash? Why didn't you call your parents? Or the police?"

Blaine takes a few deep breaths, then lifts his head, sadly looking Kurt in the face. Kurt smiles sympathetically at what he sees. The boy looks pale, as if he's recovering from a flu he's had for at least a week, his bottom lip quivering, his forehead covered in sweat. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, and his sleeves rolled up to his biceps. The mop of curls on the top of his head hang damp and limp, as if he ran his fingers through them obsessively. His eyes, shining in the light from Kurt's flashlight app, translate clearly from their hazel depths how exhausted he feels. He definitely looks like a boy who's been locked in a small, humid box for a few hours, stressed beyond belief, trying to find a way out.

But he's also a handsome young man, someone Kurt would definitely notice walking down the halls of school if they both went to McKinley.

"I was on low battery," Blaine explains. "My parents are away for the weekend. My brother would be no help. He'd make fun of me, then tease me worse when I got home. And I've tried the police before. They think it's a practical joke. They don't even send anyone to check it out."

A lump rises to Kurt's throat when he hears that. Apparently this has happened before then. And no one's done anything about it yet? No one?

"My dad used to joke that if my life was ever in danger, call for pizza, not the police, because most pizza places guarantee they'll be at your house in 30 minutes or less. So, I kind of went with that and took the chance you'd actually show. I wrote: 'Help me! I'm locked in a porta potty!' in the special instructions box. Didn't you see it?"

"Sorry. No. The only note on your order was please bring extra Chick-fil-a sauce. I couldn't, by the way. They're not open right now."

"You know, I keep trying to erase that, and it never works. I don't even order from Chick-fil-a anymore. Stupid app. No offense."

"None taken. I feel the same way."

Blaine sighs, resting his head in his hands. An awkward silence grows, and Kurt can't think of anything to do, any way to make this better. And he wishes he could. He really does. If they were at McKinley, he'd take Blaine to see Mr. Schue. Will Schuester has spent much of his teaching career championing his students' causes. He'd definitely help Blaine.

But here at Lima High, Kurt knows no one. McKinley High and Lima High are in the same district. They compete against each other, go to each other's rallies and what not. Maybe Mr. Schue could still help.

But not right now. Not at one a.m. For lack of anything better to do, Kurt unzips his bag and takes out Blaine's food. "Well, uh …. here's your order."

"Thanks." Blaine reaches out a trembling hand and takes his food. He puts the bag in his lap, hugging it like a security blanket.

"No problem." Now what? Kurt thinks. This is generally the point where he races back to his car and hopes for another order, but he can't leave Blaine here in the dark with his meal. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah. I mean … this happens all the time. Jerk hole jocks. No offense to your stepbrother."

"None taken. He used to be a jerk hole himself."

"I'm an easy target. I'm the only out gay kid at this school, and I …"

"… constantly get picked on?" Kurt finishes, taking a seat beside Blaine. "Thrown in dumpsters, shoved into lockers, that kind of thing?"

Blaine turns to look at Kurt. "Yeah. How do you know?"

"It happens to me a lot at my high school, too. For the same reason."

"Oh." Blaine's eyes open wide when he gets it, but he sits up straighter. "Oh, I'm sorry. What school?"

"McKinley."

"Ah. Land of the Slushie Facials."

"So you've heard of it?"

"Ironically, I did everything in the world to avoid going there. But Lima High's not much better. Minus the slushies."

"You're lucky. They're a special kind of hell."

"I bet."

Kurt looks down at his phone with the red and white app screen still visible. He has yet to mark this order delivered, and he should. He should get going. He's already considered late (unavoidable since he had to search the campus to find Blaine in the first place), and he really should get as much work as he can in before he has to be home. He's saving up for college. His dream school – NYADA. But the thought of bidding Blaine adieu doesn't sit well with him. He needs to know that Blaine is going to be okay, that he's safe, and that his brother isn't going to give him too much grief for what happened tonight.

Blaine doesn't have anyone reliable in his corner if the person he put his faith in was a food delivery driver.

If they went to the same school, they'd have one another.

Kurt wonders if that's a possibility …

He swipes his finger across the screen. Instead of waiting for another order, he marks this one delivered, and signs off. He has months to save up for school. As important as NYADA is to him, he has a feeling that there's something more important he needs to do here.

Be there for Blaine.

"Do you have a way to get home?" Kurt asks.

"I … yeah. My car should be in the parking lot. Only it's a far parking lot, and I'm a little bit afraid of walking out there by myself … in the dark. I just don't know if they're waiting for me. I don't think they would stick around here on a Friday night, but …"

"Gotcha. Well, Blaine Anderson, if you would, please do me the honor of letting me escort you to your car. Then maybe you and I can go somewhere and talk? Get a coffee? Compare battle scars? I've got a doozy on the back of my calf where I cut it on a trash can."

"Hey, I think I have one of those, too." Blaine waits for Kurt to stand, then clumsily follows, putting a hand to his hip when it complains about moving. "I wish my phone hadn't died. Then we'd have two flashlights to light our way. What happens if we get ambushed? Do you think your stepbrother can help us?"

"I … uh … kind of lied about him being here. Sorry about that. But don't worry." Kurt reaches into his DoorDash bag and pulls out an industrial-sized bottle of pepper spray wrapped in a black leather holder with a silver spike on the bottom – courtesy of the kind members of the Lace and Leather Sadomasochists Club of Greater Columbus. He unlocks it and gives it a good shake. "I've got us covered."