The boy runs through the sparse woods, feet pounding on the forest floor and sweat running down his forehead and neck as he goes. There's a cramp in his side and the uniform he's wearing is getting heavy and sticky and clinging to his arms, but he can't stop. Can't stop to breathe or figure out where he's going because it's over, it's all fucking over, and he has to get out get out get out get out –

Thoughts of food and shelter and money keep bursting along the edges of his mind in panic-washed moments of practicality, but none of it matters. Nothing matters because it's over, it's all fucking over. He ruined this like he ruins everything.

Like he was willing to ruin him.

You're weak. The words pound in his ears, high and beautiful and horrible. You're weak, and awful, and you repulse me

The last two months are pounding in his head like a motherfucking drum, and he feels so sick he can barely breathe. Can't go back, can't go back –

There's snot running down his face, mingling with the tears and sweat, but the boy keeps running. Stripping off the navy-and-red blazer when it gets too hot – it'll just make him easy to recognize, anyways – and going at a sprint as the trees fly by. Until the foliage things and the road appears ahead, straight black asphalt to take him anywhere. He gasps out a few breaths, scans the road – and picks a direction.

The door to the nurse's office shuts with a too-loud slam that makes the windows shake; they're old-fashioned and poorly sealed, and the reverberation is enough to make the glass shiver and creak in its frame. Mouth open and a million unspoken words on his tongue, Blaine sits on the bed clutching gauze to his face and replays the image of Kurt walking out the door over and over in his head. There's a lump in his throat and his eyes are stinging, and every single breath sends sharp little jolts of pain through his chest.

It had all happened so fast. Kurt leaving, yes; one second the slender boy was there, the next he was gone, and Blaine can barely remember what he'd said. But not just that. The entire day has been like a television with the fastforward button held down; all new information and no time to handle it and speeding and rushing and planning so quickly, no time to stop and think, and all of it barely seems real without Kurt in the room. It's as though the world's been jolted back into regular speed, achingly slow in comparison, and Blaine doesn't know what to do.

He hurts. All of the aches and sharp twinges and sprained fingers and his broken nose, fuck, that hadn't seemed important at all a few seconds ago are coming back into sharp focus. None of it had mattered because Kurt had done it, really done it, and that was everything important in the entire world and Blaine couldn't believe it and Kurt was free. But now Kurt's gone. Kurt's gone and everything hurts and less than an hour ago Blaine was getting the shit kicked out of him by someone twice his size. He'd been so scared, too. For Kurt, for himself. Scared and on the ground and there was nothing he could do, nothing at all.

Everything Blaine's been shoving down for the past few days is starting to swell and simmer in his chest. The anxiety, the fear. The utter, utter horror at Kurt's story that he'd tried so hard to hide because Kurt didn't need that right now, didn't need to deal with Blaine's own freak-out when he was being raped and forced and broken down. It's all building up and pushing at his insides, a frantic desperation trying to push up and escape through his mouth. The fact that Kurt willingly let himself get assaulted this afternoon; that Blaine let it happen. The fact that it was such a close thing, in the clearing: so close, too, close and Kurt had almost been gone. Completely gone, hollowed out and emptied and stolen away, one hundred per cent gone forever. It had all happened, and Blaine had tried so, so hard to follow Kurt's instructions: later, Blaine. Later. Later. Later.

But now it is later, and Kurt's not here anymore. There's suppressed hysteria bubbling up inside that Blaine can't hide anymore. It won't be pushed down.

"Hey," someone says softly, and Blaine nearly jumps out of his skin. The movement makes cruel pain twist in his chest so hard he cries out, tensing his whole body and clenching his eyes shut to stop it from happening again. "Sorry," says Nurse Manning apologetically, putting a hand on Blaine's shoulder to keep him steady. "... are you okay, Mr. Anderson?"

There's something too sad in his voice, and Blaine knows the nurse isn't really talking about his ribs.

"I –" Blaine tries to begin, but is cut off by sound of the office door flying open. He looks up – and there is his mother. Standing in the doorway wearing a stylish navy dress and pumps, she looks frantic and discomposed in a way that is so rare for her. There are a few strands escaping from the dark brown lacquer of her hair, and she's breathing hard in a way that suggests running.

"Oh," says Marita Anderson, voice catching and hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, darling boy."

"Mom," chokes Blaine, and she's already striding across the room. Snapping off her oversized white sunglasses as though they didn't cost a great deal of money and looking at him with such a devastated look that it makes his lip tremble.

"Your face," his mother whispers, crouching down in front of the bed. She reaches out with one long, elegant hand and ever-so-gently traces his hairline with her fingertips. The touch still makes Blaine wince: his entire face is practically one big bruise, and every single inch of it hurts. Marita takes a shaky breath, eyes already damp, and looks into his eyes. Blaine looks into the hazel eyes that are so, so like his own; there is sadness there. Sadness, and heartbreak, and anger at the world. "Oh, beloved," she whispers, voice snagging on the endearment. "Not again."

"Mom," says Blaine again, because he thinks it's all he can say, and his face is hot and crumpling up and the whole room's gone blurry and everything hurts. Without even realizing it's happening, there's something coming hot and wet down Blaine's cheeks that won't stop, and all at once his mother's long arms are around his shoulders in the gentlest, most careful hug he can imagine. He doesn't want to cry – crying hurts, makes his whole chest ache and pain shoot up his back – but he just can't make himself stop.

"It's okay," she whispers, and the sweet smell of her perfume is filling his nose. It smells like being a child, being safe, and it just makes him cry harder. Every sob sends horrible jolts of pain through his torso, and he can't reach up to hug her back in case that hurts, too. "Darling boy, I'm here. I'm here."

Blaine cries. He cries because his whole body hurts, and because it's all too much, and because his best friend got raped today. He cries because his heart won't stop aching, and because of what very well could have happened if anything had gone differently in the clearing, and because of how stupid they were about everything. He doesn't know what to do to make any of this better, or if it even can be made better at all.

He cries because he finally can.

And Blaine understands. He really, really does. Knows that Kurt's been through more in the past months than most people go through in a lifetime; that he deserves a chance to heal without someone else's confusing emotions getting in the way. That Kurt's mind has been broken down and put back together so many times that Kurt must barely know who he is anymore, and that getting away from everything is probably the healthiest thing he could possibly do. Kurt deserves all the time in the world, like Blaine said. He's willing to give Kurt forever if necessary, is willing to wait days or weeks or months if that's what Kurt needs.

Blaine understands, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. It makes it hurt more.

Perched on the edge of the bed, his mother holds him so softly he can barely feel her wrapped round him. They stay like that for what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes, until the tears haven't dried up but the pain gets too much to keep sobbing. They slide quietly down his face, Blaine holding up the icepack to his as his mother gets a quick rundown from the nurse. Afterward she and Nurse Manning lead him carefully to her car, a slick silver Jaguar with cream interiors that Blaine's barely ever driven in before, and load him inside.

They don't speak on the ride to the hospital, although the occasional wetness still manages to escape and streak silently down his cheek. But his mother keeps a soft hand on his knee, and plays music quietly on the radio, and hums along to every song she knows for the entire drive there.

Walking all the way to the Westerville bus station in town takes just under an hour, but the boy doesn't care. He can barely feel the exhaustion tugging at his limbs, or the hunger aching in his stomach. Being without the blazer makes him less conspicuous, but the tie is still a dead giveaway to anyone who knows anything. He strips it off and trashes it in the first garbage can he sees.

At the ATM outside the bus station, he takes out his bank card – thank god his wallet was in his pants pocket, thank god – and draws out everything in his pathetic account. It's all from summer jobs and allowance when he was a kid, but it's going to have to do because he hasn't fucking got anything else. He throws the bank card away afterward, because he's seen enough crime shows to know people can be traced that way.

Jesus fucking Christ, crime shows, he's a criminal, they have a fucking video and he then beat that fucking kid to pieces –

The boy buys his ticket to Columbus with cash. The ride there doesn't feel very long, and when he arrives he buys another ticket, this time to Chicago with over an hour before his bus leaves. He goes into the skeevy-as-fuck bathroom and locks himself in one of the stalls, sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands. Breathing too hard, too fast as he tries to think of what to do next, where to go, how to live, how to hide. He isn't quiet; a couple of guys open the door and leave after a few seconds. But eventually he manages to calm down again.

When the boy boards the bus, the tears have been wiped away. He sleeps curled up into the window, sitting on all the money he has in the world and dreaming of bright blue eyes that shine with tears and fury.

The door slips out of his hand and closes with a loud slam, but Kurt can't muster any remorse. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, tears streaked down his face, as he walks determinately down the hall. It only takes a few paces, though, before Kurt starts to go faster. Speeding up, and taking bigger steps, until he's flying down the hallway, almost tripping over his feet with sudden desperation to get out, to leave, to get out of this place. He speeds down the main staircase, almost tripping over his feet, and all but throws himself at the heavy main door separating him from the outside world. Kurt slams into it, shoves it open –

—and chokes in a deep breath of air as he's sent stumbling onto the large stone steps of the entrance. It's bright outside. Bright and warm and sunny, cool air filling his lungs. Not closed in by the stuffy walls and doors and hallways anymore. Outside, in the open. Free.

Shaking, Kurt glances up. There is a familiar brown truck turning into the school grounds, taking the corner too quickly as it speeds toward him. The sight of it alone is practically enough to set him off again, and he bites down hard on his lip. The truck slows down as it winds to the front of the school, and Kurt can see his dad through the window. He's wearing his usual hat and a red plaid shirt, and Kurt can see from a distance that his rounded face is pulled into an expression of confused concern.

"Kurt –" begins his dad in a worried tone, but Kurt's already speeding down the steps. He reaches the passenger side, flings the door open, and clambers hurriedly inside.

"Drive," Kurt orders, slamming the car door shut. His hands are shaking as he reaches for the seatbelt, but they just need to go right now. "Please, dad, just drive. We need to go. Please –"

Without wasting a moment to ask why, Burt slams on the accelerator. The truck may be old, but it's tuned and maintained to within an inch of its life. It starts quickly, and within a few moments they're speeding down the road; through the main gates of Dalton, flying past a fancy silver car headed toward the school. Out, out, out. Away from everything he couldn't stop from happening to him: the pain, the humiliation. Away from what came so close to happening in the clearing.

Away from Blaine, and how the other boy makes Kurt's heart ache with confusion and doubt.

Burt doesn't say anything for the first few minutes of the drive, staring hard at the road in front of them with an inscrutable look on his face. It gives Kurt a chance to catch his breath; pressing himself back into his seat and trying to focus on the in and out, in and out. He knows he must look an absolute disaster; eyes red and face damp, with leaves still clinging to the backs of his uniform trousers. His dad doesn't say anything; just looks straight ahead and drives.

And then they begin to slow. Before Kurt knows what's happening, they're turning off into a small rest area.

"What...?" Kurt asks, not understanding.

"It's a long drive to Lima," Burt explains, pulling the truck into an empty parking space. Not even bothering to back in the way he always does, just driving the truck in front-first. The rest area is practically empty. There's a gas station and not much else; there are only four other cars in the large parking area, spread out far apart from one another. A sparse smattering of foliage lines the outskirts where asphalt turns to dirt. Burt turns the keys in the ignition, and the low rumble of the truck ceases. He turns to face his son. "You're too upset to wait until we get there, and I want to look you in the eyes when you tell me what's wrong. Now: what's wrong, kiddo?"

The words hit Kurt hard in the chest, and for a moment all he can think about is how very much he's missed his father. Missed talking to him, and their weekends together, and the way Burt knows him better than anyone else in the world.

"I missed you, Daddy," Kurt whispers in a tiny voice, tears starting to choke in his throat again. His father's eyes widen at the long-lost term of endearment: it's something Kurt hasn't called him regularly since he was perhaps six years old.

And he just can't hold back any longer. Unbuckling his seatbelt with trembling fingers, Kurt closes the space between them and lets his dad pull him into a tight, warm hug. It's an awkward position; leaning over sideways with the gearshift digging into Kurt's side, but none of that matters. The smell of Old Spice and motor oil makes nostalgia edge alone hid mind as he buries his face in his father's shoulder.

"I did it, Dad." Kurt can hear the words, high and shaky and stifled by the rough material of his dad's shirt. They're coming fast and uncontrollable from his mouth, as though without permission. "I really did it. I broke it. I don't – it's not in me anymore."

His father's arms tense around him, and Kurt clings on tighter.

"What?" Burt asks, quiet and careful and not-too-hopeful. There's a rough edge to his voice. In case he misunderstood, or misheard, because Kurt knows it's more than he's ever hoped for. "You mean...?"

Growing up, Kurt imagined this scene a thousand times. Somehowfinding a way to break the curse, to make himself free. He'd spent hours fantasizing about how it would feel to have every single path open to him. The idea that maybe one day, if he tried hard enough, he could go anywhere, do anything, and not have to be terrified of discovery or consequences the entire time – it was a beautiful one, and he'd thought about it often. He'd imagined telling his dad, and celebrating, and hugging him so tight they'd find it hard to breathe.

Kurt had never imagined this moment would hurt so much.

"The curse," Kurt sobs, and the tears are back again. Sliding down his cheeks , and he has no idea if it's happiness or grief that's put them there. Can't tell what's up or down in his head; can barely tell if this is even real. "It's gone now, Dad, I – I broke it, it's –"

"Kurt," his dad croaks, clinging onto his son's shoulders. He's shaking, and Kurt can feel his heart beating in his chest so hard it starts to worry him. "Kurt, oh my god. Are you – you're sure –?"

"Tell me to do something," says Kurt, pulling back. His father's face is ruddy with emotion, and dampness around his blue eyes. Burt blinks hard, and Kurt can see the hope – but also the carefulness, the doubt. The disbelief. "Tell me to do something, Dad."

"Are you sure?" Burt asks seriously, brows furrowing together. Kurt honestly cannot remember the last time his father gave him any kind of order, even by accident. Finn tended to forget often; he frequently had to undo stupid commands while the two of them were living together, flushing in embarrassment and stammering out awkward apologies. Even Carole occasionally blanked and slipped in motherly orders – put on a jacket before you go out, sweetie and make sure you're home by ten – if she was distracted by something. His dad, without exception, never gave him orders. Any sort of instruction was always phrased as a request, a suggestion. And he never, ever forbade Kurt from doing anything while he was growing up.

Kurt can't remember the way his mother dealt with his condition anymore. Those memories are lost, or tucked away, or never existed to begin with.

"Yeah," says Kurt, nodding hard and swiping a hand across his eyes.

For a long moment, Burt hesitates. He fidgets guiltily before opening his mouth and, as though the words are foreign to him, saying tentatively: "Open the car door."

And Kurt shakes his head. "No," he whispers. There is no pain. No dizziness, no aching muscles. There is just the soft syllable of the denial as it hangs along the air. "No, Dad. I won't."

"Oh my god." Whispered words, rushed in disbelief. Tears swelling up in blue eyes. "You – Kurt, you –"

"I know," Kurt chokes out, and his father pulls him into another tight hug.

"I can't believe – Kurt –" Burt grips his son's shoulders hard, pulling him in closer than can possibly be comfortable in the small space. He can feel his father's chest shaking as he cries unashamedly into Kurt's shoulder. Kurt twists up his face and tries to commit this moment to memory. This pure, untainted happiness and pride.

"It's – it's all I ever wanted for you," Burt says brokenly into his shoulder. "Kurt, it's – it's all we ever wanted for you. Your mom –" His dad shudders hard, drawing in a ragged breath as he squeezes Kurt so hard it's almost hard to breathe. "Your mom would be so proud of you. And so happy."

"I know," Kurt says again, clutching at the red plaid fabric of his father's shirt.

For a few minutes, there is nothing but their shared breathing as they cling to one another in the cab of the truck. His father, who loves Kurt more than anything. Who'd hoped since he was a child that he could maybe, one day, have a normal life. Who grieved for Kurt's curse before Kurt himself could even understand what it meant. They hold each other tight, and Kurt knows that the embrace isn't just for him.

After a long minute, Burt pulls away.

"How?" he asks, and unbridled joy is coming off his voice in waves. It makes something awful twinge in the base of Kurt's stomach. Burt laughs, squeezing Kurt's shoulders hard. "How did it happen? Kurt, you can do whatever you want! Be whoever you want! You can have a proper life, the way we always wanted for you! I can't even – you'll have to tell me everythi –"

But before Burt can even finish the sentence, he freezes. Looking into Kurt's face, the laughter and delight begins to slide away from his father's expression. In its place, concern is swelling up large and real. Kurt winces, curses his face for being so fucking emotive. For showing everything before he wants it to.

He wishes he could have postponed this moment a little bit longer. Let his dad be happy for just that little bit more.

"Kurt?" his dad asks, eyes darkening. "What's—?"

"I have to tell you something else," says Kurt in a quiet monotone, folding his hands into his lap. His dad pulls back, looking at him with a confused look on his face. Anxiety and disgust for himself swirl unpleasantly in the bottom of Kurt's stomach. For all he's desperately wanted to talk to his dad – to find his dad, to tell his dad – over the past months, the words seem to cling to his tongue.

When he'd confessed his story to Blaine, he'd had the benefit of just tell me what's wrong to push him through the difficult parts. The aspects that scraped at his insides and hurt to talk about, because it meant that all of it had happened. Because the whole story... the whole story is ugly, and brutal, and humiliating. But every time he'd hesitated when telling Blaine, or had wanted to avoid an aspect, the faintest touch of dizziness had spurred him on. The thing that had kept him imprisoned had allowed him to reach out for help.

But there is no curse now. There's nothing to support him through this. The past two months have been unthinkably wrong in every possible way, and telling his dad... telling his dad means that it was real. That it happened, to him. That he wasn't strong enough to stop it from happening.

He'll never look at me the same way again. The thought twines along the corner of Kurt's mind, dull with horrified resignation. And if he tells his dad, it won't be the end. There will be trips to the police, to doctors, and information making it into the news. Submitting evidence and doing interviews and figuring out witnesses and accounts. He won't be able to keep the last two months quietly in the past as he'd hoped; they'll be splashed across his life, a constant reminder.

But after long wordless pause, Burt leans forward and puts a hand on Kurt's knee. The touch is gentle, and steady, and not going anywhere. His hand feels warm.

Don't fall apart, he tells himself. Just hang in for a little bit longer.

Straightening up, Kurt forces himself to push down the emotion and the hurt. How close, how soon, how much it all is. He opens his mouth, takes a deep breath – and begins to speak.

The boy arrives in Chicago late at night. He has no place to sleep and no money to buy a room, so he naps on a park bench outside and waits for the buses to start running again. It's cold and he hasn't got a jacket, and it's probably incredibly stupid to sleep with so much cash on him in a place like this, but he can barely care enough not to lie down right on the ground. He hides the money in his shoe and drifts in and out until the sun rises again.

He spends most of the rest of his pathetically small savings on bus tickets. Running farther and farther away, with no idea who's coming after him or how fast or if they're even coming at all. It only hits him when he's three capitals away and trying to figure out where to sleep for the night that he's never going to see his parents again. Not his father with his greying hair and patient eyes, or his mother with her tiny stature and strong embrace. The realization hits him so hard he dry heaves in the bus station bathroom for fifteen minutes, tears running down his face that aren't from the retching at all.

He wonders if this is punishment for what he tried to do – for what he almost succeeded at.

Kurt, he thinks desperately as he clings to the hard, cold porcelain. Kurt, Kurt, Kurt, Kurt, Kurt.

In the next weeks, Kurt often finds himself vaguely surprised that the days keep coming and going. It feels, having told his family what happened to him in the past two months, that time should somehow stop working. That the clocks should stop, and the world should stop spinning, and that everything should change because of it.

It doesn't, though. Days turn into nights, which turn into nightmares, which turn into sheets soaked with cold sweat as he wakes up to the sun just beginning to creep through his curtains. Burt, Carole, and Finn all lead busy lives, even if his dad decided it was necessary to take a few weeks off work to spend time with him. There are tears, of course, and devastated expressions when they find out what he's been forced to hide from them for months. But it continues to shock him, the little ways that life keeps moving forward. Finn still has programs he likes to watch on television, and Carole still cooks dinner. His dad still listens to sports on the radio when he thinks Kurt is tucked up in his room and won't be coming out for a few hours.

There are some differences, of course. The trips to the police station, or the hospital, or the friend-of-a-friend-of-an-employee therapist his dad was able to find. Dr. O'Reilly is kind, and collected, and willing to believe Kurt about his former condition with only a few moments of scepticism. But for the most part, Kurt stays at home.

He loves his family, but they have no idea how to act around him. How to talk about or respond to this horrific thing that has invaded their lives; what to say that won't make him flinch, or draw back into himself, or lash out.

And he doesn't know how to act around them, either.

Kurt doesn't know how to act around himself. He feels as though someone has taken a dealing with grief and loss book, turned it upside down above his head, and shaken it out until all the possible symptoms tumbled down around him like standing in a rainstorm. Some days he feels matter-of-fact, and other days he can't dredge up the energy leave his bed. Some days he goes hours without thinking about it all; and others his dad saying 'good morning' will set him off into hysteria-tinged tears that last for hours, feeling disgusting and filthy and wanting to strip off his skin like a snake. It's frustrating beyond words, not knowing what to expect. He hates having to go through all of it more than anything else, wishes he could just skip this bit and get over everything and be done with it already. To not let the memory of Karofsky control him anymore. Kurt feels impatient with himself more consistently than anything: upset that his family has to deal with him like this.

Sometimes he thinks that the only one who's frustrated by his process is himself.

Life chips away slowly at the hard, mercenary-like veneer of surviving he's had to take on. It's terrifying, letting it go. Letting it go means being a victim, being someone who had something happen to them that they couldn't stop.

The first time Kurt accidentally calls himself a whore out loud during one of his slightly-frenetic crying jags, his dad slams his hand down onto the kitchen counter so hard the cupboards shake. The action makes Kurt's whole body freeze and an inexplicable flash of fear shoot through his body – before he realizes his dad is trembling. Eyes squeezed shut and wavering, shaking his head back and forth with tears leaking out of his eyes and before Kurt knows it, he's the one with his arms wrapped around his dad. Whispering Daddy, it's okay and I know, Dad, I know and it's stupid, I know I didn't – it's stupid, I'm sorry, I'm sorry over and over again.

Burt spends all night on the phone and books Kurt's first appointment with Dr. O'Reilly the next day.

In the weeks after he comes home, Kurt sees his father cry more than in the rest of his life put together. Even when Elizabeth died so many years ago, Burt had kept that grief private. Separate; soldiering on to raise his son alone. This time, Kurt can't help but see how devastated his father is that he wasn't able to protect his son. Couldn't ignore it if he wanted to.

Finn and Carole try their hardest, but Finn has no idea what to say or how to act and Carole just doesn't know him well enough. They try. Finn attempts to let him choose what they watch on television, and Carole asks him what he wants for dinner every day when she comes home from work, but the strangeness of both those things puts him on edge instead of at ease. Makes his skin feel tight and wrong along his body.

When Finn tries to pull him into a hug for the first time since he came home, the larger boy jolts back before his arms can even wrap all the way around Kurt's shoulders. Face a map of horror and regret and guilt, Finn stammers out apologies with wide eyes until Kurt can't take it anymore. Until he snaps forward and grabs Finn around the stomach, pressing his face into Finn's wide chest and refusing to move. Burying himself in the safety of the warmth of is stepbrother's body, smell and feel so utterly different from what Finn is scared of reminding him of, until Finn finally relaxes and hugs him through the tears he didn't even realize were there.

Physical contact becomes accepted, after that, as long as he initiates it. Carole's hand tracing up and down his arm as they sit next to one another on the couch, or burying himself in his father's side, or Finn wrapping an arm around his shoulders. It's instinctual and base and raw and Kurt wants it so badly, wants to feel safe and held and cared for by people he loves. By people who thinks he matters.

It still feels surreal, not having the sickness or the dizziness or the compulsion screaming at him inside his own mind. Kurt feels oddly empty, as though a tumour that's been there his whole life has been sliced out and taken away all at once, without any time to adjust or heal or come to terms with it. He barely knows what to do with himself, most days. Barely has any idea how to think, or react to mundane situations, or think about himself. Has no idea how to approach the world.

The days come and go, sickly slow like dripping honey, and Kurt tries to relearn who he is.

It isn't until he's been in this city for a few days that he sees the news reports. The television set in the shelter is a piece of shit, at least ten years old. It sits on the kitchen counter and is always on, image flickering dully as the men and women in front of it eat Cheerio's out of industrial-sized boxes without milk because there isn't the money for it at this time of year. The boy sits in a pair of jeans three sizes too big and a hoodie he got for free from a church clothing drive as the story splays across the screen.

"This week, an Ohio boy from a small private school in Westerville was charged with both assault and sexual assault against his classmates," says the pretty blonde newscaster in a sombre voice. Her eyes still sparkle charmingly despite the content of her story. "The names of all parties are being withheld due to minor status. The boy in question is seventeen years old, and has not been seen for over a week. His parents claim to have no knowledge about his whereabouts. Authorities are on the lookout, although an officer with the Ohio State Police has stated that they 'are inclined to believe he may have fled the state'." She shuffles her notes, smiling at the screen. "Now, on to the weather, Alex..."

There's a loud clang, and the boy is jolted out of his terrified daze to realize that he's dropped his spoon onto the wooden table. A couple of people glance up briefly, but no one looks at him for too long. The eyes of these people are clouded with regret and drugs and loneliness, and they don't have time for some stupid newcomer who's too young to know what real trouble is. No one here even knows his real name.

And no one seems to have noticed the news report.

It's with shaking hands that the boy picks up the spoon again and continues to eat, keeping his head down and his eyes pointedly fixed on the table below.

By mid-May, the weather is finally beginning to warm up. Around campus, more and more students are starting to go without their blazers when not in class; dozens of boys in white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up can be seen, excited for the transition into summer weather. With final exams and papers coming up in just over a month, and air of anxiety is mixing with the anticipation for summer holidays. Dalton teachers have high standards, and the school itself orients toward preparation for post-secondary education. Even with Blaine only in junior year, the pressure to perform well is high.

Missing a few days of school after the confrontation in the woods hadn't helped his preparedness levels, either. Neither had the fact that Karofsky had managed to sprain two fingers in his writing hand. They'd swollen and bruised and hurt badly for the first week, and only now is Blaine able to attempt any sort of mobility in them at all. Writing notes by hand is still completely out of the question, although the school had done their best to accommodate him. Every one of his teachers had been instructed to allow him to bring his laptop in order to frantically type sloppily with his left hand only, and most had organized for one of their other students to photocopy their notes and provide him with a copy. It isn't ideal, but it's better than nothing at all.

It's been a week and a half since the encounter with Karofsky in the woods, and Blaine hasn't heard anything from Kurt since the other boy walked out of the nurse's office refusing to look Blaine in the eye. In his more honest moments, Blaine knows that having no idea how Kurt is doing hurts worse than all his injuries combined.

But he understands. He does, and Blaine doesn't want to be that friend. Who promises space and then crowds around, shoving himself into Kurt's personal space where he doesn't belong and making everything harder. So aside from the single text message he sent on the day of the confrontation, Blaine hasn't tried to contact Kurt at all.

The text had been typed out with his left hand after returning home from the ER, lying in bed and wincing at the pain in his chest with a mug of his mother's salabat steaming on his bedside table. His father had hovered anxiously outside his bedroom door, obviously debating whether or not to come inside, as he typed:

To: Kurt Hummel
May 9th 2011, 10:54pm
Whenever you're ready. I care about you so much, Kurt. I can wait. – Blaine

It's been a week and half, and he hasn't received anything back. But at least this time Blaine know the reason for Kurt's drawing away, understands it. Is willing to give Kurt the room he needs. Besides, finals and notes and dealing through the pain of three cracked-not-fractured-thank-god ribs have all been at least a decent distraction.

And when he finally hears anything at all about Kurt's well-being, it doesn't happen quite in the way he'd expected.

Blaine is walking from the main building back to Tower Residence, a bookbag slung over his wrong shoulder and fretting slightly about an assignment for Law when he notices a vehicle pull into the residence parking lot. That in itself is unusual at this time of day, and so is the vehicle in question. It's a large brown truck, odd when juxtaposed against a lot filled mostly with sleek silver sedans. Without fully understanding why he bothers, Blaine pauses to watch as the door opens and a man slides out.

The man is older and bald, wearing a black cap and a tired expression. His shirt looks like some sort of uniform in a rough blue, and when he turns Blaine gets a look at his face. He doesn't look much like the kind of adults who usually come to visit their children here, even as Blaine feels guilty thinking it. Something twinges in his head, like a memory half-forgotten. As though Blaine's seen him somewhere before...

When it hits him, his eyes fly wide open.

"Mr. Hummel!" Blaine shouts, because the man is walking toward the main building at a quick pace that Blaine can't keep up with without his chest screaming in protest. "Mr. Hummel, wait!"

Burt Hummel turns at the sound of his name being called, the confused expression on his face twisting into a fusion of shock and suspicion when his gaze falls on Blaine's face. It's a look that Blaine's grown extremely accustomed to over the past few weeks: the swelling in his nose has gone down a lot, but there bruises still fading along the ridge of his nose and eyes. It doesn't exactly make him look friendly.

"Do I know you?" Burt asks slowly, eyes lingering on the gnash above Blaine's eyebrow that Karofsky left with his school ring.

"Sorry," pants Blaine, coming over as fast as he can without hurting himself. "Sorry, no, but – Kurt had a picture of you and him as his Facebook profile for a long time, so –"

"Wait, you know Kurt?" The older man's face hardens, and something distrustful comes into his eyes. It hurts to see, even if Blaine understands. "How do you –?"

"Blaine Anderson," he says, too quickly, stepping on Burt's words like on a partner's feet in a dance. "Sorry. I don't – I don't even know if he mentioned me, but..."

Blaine trails off when he sees the recognition twinge in Burt's expression. Kurt's father seems to freeze, staring down at Blaine's face as though for the first time. Taking in the bruises and the cuts with a new eye. Blue eyes dart down to where Blaine's right hand is motionless down by his side, the way he's holding himself slightly awkwardly. Blaine doesn't know this man at all, only has Kurt's stories to go on. Has no idea how much Kurt's decided to tell his father, or how Burt will react.

But Burt's posture is loosening, slumping. His eyes are sad.

"Oh, Blaine," says Burt, shaking his head. "That son of a bitch really did a number on you, didn't he." It isn't a question, and it's all Blaine needs to know that Kurt has told his father everything.

"Is he okay?" Blaine can't stop himself from asking. "Is Kurt okay? Or. Not okay, of course, but..." He bites down on his lip. "He's all right?"

"He's dealing," says Burt without inflection, and the words make Blaine wince. Of course Kurt's dealing. He's not all right, or okay, or anything resembling those things. It would be stupid to think otherwise.

In front of him Burt crosses his arms, and for a horrifying second it hits Blaine that maybe Burt thinks he abandoned Kurt when things got hard. That he threw up his hands and let Kurt walk away without offering any help at all. The idea of Kurt's dad thinking that sort of thing him makes Blaine feel slightly sick.

"Space," he blurts, sounding more and more like an idiot with every passing second. "Kurt wanted space, so I'm giving it. Space, I mean. And time." Burt expression doesn't shift at all, so Blaine keeps going. "And that's fine, I get it, I really do. But I saw you and knew who you were, and I just thought..." Blaine looks down at his feet, feeling heat rush into his face. Awkwardness is clenching in his chest. "It's just... hard, you know? Knowing he's hurting and not being able to help. So it's stupid, but could you... could you maybe give him a hug from me? You don't have to say it's from me, or anything," he hastens to clarify. "Just... make sure he knows there are people who really care about him."

There's a long, long pause. Blaine's hearts sinks with the complete certainty that he's gone too far, he's overstepped boundaries. He's just about to try to duck away when Burt nods.

"Sure," says Kurt's dad, nodding slowly. "I can do that."

"Oh," says Blaine weakly. "Thank you, sir. Really."

"Burt's fine," says Burt, and Blaine fully expects him to make his excuses and continue on his way toward the main office. He doesn't. Instead, he keeps looking right at him. Looking at Blaine as though he's seeing something more than bruises and slicked-down hair and a nice uniform. It makes Blaine feel incredibly uncomfortable, exposed. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Eventually, Burt is the one to break the silence.

"Kurt... he's not very good at doing nothing. I think it's hard for him, in a funny way, being at home so much." A pause. "Did you hear that Karofsky kid pulled a runner?" Burt asks, as though trying to make conversation, but something awful and bitter twists in Blaine's chest.

"Yeah," Blaine mutters, shaking his head. "My parents tried to press charges for –" he gestures with his left hand, as if to encompass the bruises and the cuts, "— but no one knows where he is. The last thing we heard, someone saw him get on a bus to Columbus, but... nothing since then." Blaine shakes his head, and there's a strange numbness edging at his fingertips. "I can't believe he's going to get away with it," he says dully. "With everything, with... with what he did to Kurt."

"I know," says Burt gruffly. There are bags under his eyes, and for the first time Blaine realizes how exhausted Kurt's father looks. Blaine can't even imagine finding out about what happened to his son, or how powerless Burt must feel about the entire thing. And it's all so fucking unfair. It doesn't seem like it's possible that they should live in a world where sometimes bad people don't get what's coming to them. That one person could irrefutably damage so many people's lives and walk away scot-free, and that there's nothing anyone can do to make it better.

In a strange way, it makes Blaine angry with the fairy tales and children's books his mother used to read to him when he was small. The ones where the good guys always saved the day, and the bad guys got punished, and everything ended in happily ever after no matter how horrible everything had been before. Those books had never prepared him for anything like this; for how unfair it could all be.

All at once, Blaine comes back to himself. "Sorry," he mumbles, giving his head a shake, but Burt's giving him and understanding look that even edges on pity. Because this is a man who has known for years. Who watched his son grow up and knew exactly how unfair and awful the world has the potential to be.

It occurs to Blaine for the first time to wonder why Burt is at Dalton at all. "Mr. Hu – I mean, Burt – if it's okay to ask, what are you doing here?"

"Picking up Kurt's stuff out of his room," the older man explains. "Everything got left there he when we took off, and I haven't had the chance to come get it yet. Kurt... he didn't really want to go back again to pack, you know?"

An image drifts into Blaine's mind. A tangle of naked limbs and the slide of sweat-on-sweat, choked gasps and pleasure that wasn't real emanating off Kurt in waves. And another image, from that awfulsickdisgustingwrong video. The one Blaine had been forced to edit on his laptop in order to convert it into the right filetype to put on a CD. A little clip of Kurt on his knees, small body jolted with every rock as Karofsky slams his cock into Kurt's mouth playing over and over in his mind.

"God, of course," Blaine mutters, shuddering. He catches Burt's eye. "Do you need any help?" When Burt looks dubiously down at Blaine's right hand, he clarifies. "I mean, I can show you where his room is if you have his key." The Law assignment can wait until later tonight, Blaine decides. This is more important. "And I can carry some of the lighter things, if you want the help."

"I do have his key," says Burt slowly. "Was just going to go ask the main office for directions, but... yeah. Why not? Show me the way, kid."

Blaine smiles, and leads the way. Kurt's father walks with him to the Milward-Hopkins building in a manner that Blaine finds himself truly appreciating, even if he can't quite put his finger on why. Burt Hummel doesn't walk ever-so-slightly too quickly like his own father, as though challenging Blaine to go that little bit faster, push that little bit harder to catch up. And he doesn't baby him like Blaine's mother, who winces every time he takes a step and looks as though she means to catch him if he falls. Instead, Burt slows his pace and they walk side by side. It's nice.

When they reach the door to Kurt and Karofsky's dorm room, Burt turns the key in the lock – and both of them freeze as the door swings open.

The room looks as though there are two boys still living there. There's a Dalton sports hoodie thrown over the back of one of the computer chairs, and an iPod plugged into the wall and charging next to what Blaine can only assume was Kurt's bed. There's a crumpled piece of paper on the floor that Blaine is almost positive is the note they wrote together. The bathroom light is still on.

Neither of them can look at one another for a few minutes, hovering in the doorway until Burt finally takes a deep breath and steps inside.

Emptying out Kurt's room takes a while, in the end, and the two of them don't talk very much in the process. Burt brought boxes and bags in the car, and the two of them fill them all up with clothes that Blaine folds and Burt carries, pots of moisturizer, books, CDs, rolled-up posters, and a million other things left here like relics of the past.

Words hang between them, unspoken and loud amid the shuffles of sorting and packing up Kurt's life.

He's able to find work, eventually, with a construction company that pays cash and doesn't check his references or resume too closely. His bosses are questionable at best and his coworkers aren't really worth talking to, but the work is easy enough. Three summers' worth of experience helping his uncle renovate the family summer home is enough to give him some basic skills, and the rest comes pretty intuitively.

It takes another two months of living at the shelter before he's able to find a place to live that's cheap enough and doesn't require legitimate references.

It's a complete shithole. The wallpaper is ancient and peeling, and on his first tour he finds rat droppings in the kitchen. He takes it anyways.

There isn't any point in getting to know his coworkers, or trying to make friends, because there's nothing left in him for anyone to get to know. There's never anyone else, either, because the only one that matters isn't there anymore. He's been hollowed out and left living, surviving every day for reasons he himself can't even comprehend.

Some nights, the boy dreams of what-might-have-beens and a million lost chances. Of an apartment shared with a beautiful boy with a brilliant smile and bright blue eyes, who nods and grins and lets himself be kissed.

He wakes from those dreams sweat-soaked and panting, hands curling in the sheets and sick to his stomach with want and self-hate and revulsion.

After a month in the Hudson-Hummel household without anything to truly set his mind to, Kurt starts feeling slightly stir-crazy. He's left the house, of course: going grocery shopping with Carole, or to the garage with his dad, and even once with Finn to help him pick out a dress shirt to wear on a date with his girlfriend. Practically as an act of defiance to himself, Kurt's even started making every-other-day trips to the Lima Bean. It's a local coffee shop with questionable cookies but very friendly baristas, and Kurt makes a point of bringing a book with him and sipping through at least one non-fat mocha before he leaves.

Being able to go wherever he wants, whenever he wants, to talk to whomever he wants... it's overwhelming in a way that isn't easy to explain. Kurt's entire life has been limited, stunted. Not allowed to go to school until he was older, or discouraged from extracurricular activities, or scared to make real friends in case they decide to take advantage. Having so many opportunities available... it's terrifying.

His dad, Carole, and Dr. O'Reilly keep telling him not to push himself, that it's okay to move at his own pace. But staying home staring at walls isn't making him any less anxious, and the days are too empty without something to fill them with. Re-integrating all of his Dalton possessions had been a nice task once his dad had brought them home, and having his own laptop again is pleasant. But none of it can quite hold his interest for long enough to stop things he'd rather not think about from lingering in his mind.

A month and a week after the day Burt took him away, Kurt asks his dad to start figuring out how to finish his last semester of junior year. Before long, pamphlets for summer school and correspondence learning begin piling up on the kitchen table.

Kurt knows that no one's been able to find Karofsky, knows how much it kills his dad not to have anyone to punish for what happened. But in a way he won't admit to anyone out loud, Kurt isn't surprised. He told Dave to run, and didn't seriously expect him to stop any time soon.

Being tucked away in his own little fortress doesn't stop him from looking out the windows, however. He's become a champion Facebook-stalker over the past weeks, mastering the art of looking and reading without posting anything. Kurt sits with his laptop in the living room and watches his friends comment on one another's statuses, or post pictures of parties he didn't attend, and clicks the links to the only-sometimes-funny things they post.

Kurt is just chuckling to himself over a parody of "Tik Tok" that David from the Warblers posted a few minutes ago when a comment pops up right beneath the video.

Blaine Anderson:
Ohmygod that is too perfect! Good one man! :)

Aside from a tiny part of Kurt's mind that judges him for the lack of commas, everything in Kurt's body seizes up immediately with jolted frustration. Blaine wrote that just now. He's on this stupid website at this very moment, writing and talking and socializing.

I wish I could talk to him, Kurt finds himself thinking in frustration. Before he realizes, of course, that he can.

Kurt hesitates for a long moment, trying to figure out how to determine if he's in a better place to talk to Blaine now than he had been a month ago. But he doesn't have any idea how wellness is determined, really. How it's measured, or quantified, or solved like an equation. Kurt cries less than he did when he first came home, yes, but characters calling one another "babe" on television still makes his hackles rise just as much as before. The memory of Blaine's lips pressed against his own in the study room is quietly terrifying, but Kurt's fallen asleep to the memory of the curly-haired boy holding him close during his breakdown n the abandoned classroom more times than he can count.

Mostly, however, all he can think about is how much he wants to talk to Blaine.

Biting his lip and taking a deep breath, Kurt clicks the "available to chat" toggle and sends out a message before he can think better of it.

Kurt Hummel: Hi. Are you there?

At once, the message looks about a billion times stupider than it did in his head. Breath almost catching in his throat, Kurt waits for a response. And waits. Self-doubt starts to floor his mind after a few seconds without a response, because oh, god, Blaine probably hasn't thought about him in months. All at once he feels like a complete moron for expecting Blaine to have... to what? To have been waiting for Kurt to contact him with bated breath? It's finals soon, and essays will be due, and Blaine always had tonnes of friends at Dalton that Kurt is sure filled any void he may have left quickly enough. Face heating up, he starts to type again.

Kurt Hummel: Never mind, don't worry about it. Have a good night.

Blaine Anderson: nononoo! wait no plz don't go

Blaine Anderson: typing one handed

Blaine Anderson: just taeks me a minute

Blaine Anderson: to respond :)

Seeing Blaine's name on the screen feels like puzzle pieces clicking into place. He's missed Blaine. With Karofsky... doing what he was doing, everything had been about surviving and making it through and finding a way to keep himself during everything. He had almost forgotten how close he and Blaine had been before everything happened. How much he'd genuinely liked Blaine when they were just two boys at school, learning one another and bantering over coffee.

It takes a second for the contents of Blaine's messages to sink in, and Kurt raises an eyebrow in confusion before he realizes why Blaine must be typing with one hand. Guilt hits him in the stomach like a punch, and he remembers Karofsky slamming his foot down onto Blaine's outstretched hand. The way he'd cradled it over his chest afterward; watching the nurse tape his fingers together.

Kurt Hummel: Oh, my god. Of course. I'm so sorry... does it still hurt?

Blaine Anderson: not r4eally anymore, its just sore

Blaine Anderson: but im trying to rest it up a bit for finals

Blaine Anderson: so they don't hurt too much 2 write

Kurt Hummel: I'm sorry, Blaine.

Blaine Anderson: nono its fine! Im just sorry i have 2 suck at tryping for u. i dont usually fail this much i promise!

Kurt Hummel: No. No, Blaine, I'm just... I'm really sorry.

Blaine Anderson: ... kurt...

Swiping at his eyes, Kurt bites his lip and waits for more. The 'Blaine Anderson is typing' message stays at the bottom of the screen for an absurdly long amount of time before:

Blaine Anderson: is it maybee okay if i call u? theres a lot i wanna say but itstaking me so long to write this out. you dont have to say yes if that would make u uncmfortable, though

And since waiting on responses for so long is starting to make him feel physically anxious – and because the idea of hearing Blaine's voice makes something warm and pleasant curl around his stomach – Kurt responds almost immediately.

Kurt Hummel: I'd like that. You still have my home phone number, right?

Blaine Anderson:i do yeah

Kurt Hummel: Call me in five minutes?

Blaine Anderson: okay :)

Kurt stares at the last message, still hanging on the screen for a long moment, before he takes a deep breath and shuts off his laptop. Grabbing the portable phone from its cradle on the coffee table, he grips it tight in his hand as he heads up the stairs. Knocking on Burt and Carole's bedroom door elicits a warm 'come in!' from Carole almost immediately, so Kurt gently pokes his head inside.

His dad and stepmother are lying on opposite sides of their queen-sized bed, Carole with several file folders and a calculator on the sheets in front of her and his own dad with a worn paperback in hand. The soft red glow of the clock on their bedside table reads 10:36pm.

"Hey, buddy," says his dad warmly, looking up at him from the book and marking the page with his thumb. Carole smiles at him. "What's on your mind?"

"Just saying goodnight," says Kurt, in a too-high voice. "And... and that Blaine's calling in a few minutes. So if you hear talking from my room, it's just him."

Carole darts a look at her husband, but Burt just nods. "For sure. He seems like a pretty okay kid. Just let me know if you need anything?"

Translation: come get me if you end up having some kind of freak out over this.

"I will," says Kurt softly. The phone is still clutched tight in his hand.

"Love you," says Burt, because they've all been saying it more since Kurt came home.

"I love you, too. Night, guys."

Closing the door behind him, Kurt pads softly down the hall to his own room and shuts the door behind him. He turns on his bedside lamp and climbs on top of the sheets, every nerve on edge in anticipation for the phone to start ringing. He taps his foot as he waits.

It doesn't take too long for the phone to ring, and Kurt picks it up on the first one. Finn's taking a nap – not asleep for the night, taking a nap, good lord what that boy's sleep schedule is like – and Kurt doesn't want the noise to wake him.

"Hey," Kurt says into the receiver, leaning back into the pillows.

"Hey," comes Blaine back through the speaker. Warm, and low, and more than a little bit nervous. It's the first time Kurt's heard his voice in weeks. The sound of it makes such an array of emotions rush through him that Kurt doesn't know which one to feel. Confusion. Guilt. Regret. Excitement. Doubt. Gratitude. The terrible strands of what must he want from me and does he even want to talk to me at all twine with he sounds good and I miss him in Kurt's mind.

A small cough comes from the other end of the line. "Sorry," says Blaine. "I'm just. It's really nice to hear your voice again, Kurt. I really missed you."

"Yeah," says Kurt, fiddling with the tassel on one of his throw pillows. "I know. I mean, I feel the same."

There's a long pause.

"How are you doing?" Blaine asks, at almost exactly the same time Kurt says, "I'm so sorry."

"Kurt. Please, you don't have to – it's fine. I promise you, it's all fine."

"I got you hurt," Kurt whispers, and he can feel his throat growing tight even as he tries to shove the feeling down.

"I got off really easy, all things considered. I'm fine now. And I've had worse, and... and you know I was willing to. Whatever it took, Kurt, it didn't matter."

"I know," says Kurt, hearing his voice grow thin. He scrubs at his eyes. "I know, and... and that's what's so scary, Blaine. I just... I feel like I barely know what to do with myself right now, and you're so certain, and I don't... I don't even know if I can be what you want, and I'm so sorry –"

"Wait," Blaine quietly interjects, sounding confused and as though he's trying to calm Kurt down all at once. "Kurt... what are you thinking that I want you to be?"

Clutching at the blanket, Kurt can't stop himself from letting out a choked laugh. "You kissed me, Blaine," Kurt says, something hard creeping into his voice. "I think I can figure out what that means."

"Kurt..." Blaine sounds at a complete loss. "Kurt, no, I just – I can't – " He cuts himself off, and Kurt can practically envision him running a hand through his hair in that trademark-Blaine-way. He wonders if his hair is curly and soft, or slicked down flat. Blaine takes a deep breath. "When I said I missed you, you know who I miss? My best friend. I miss being able to talk to him, and spend time with him, and laugh with him. And right now, my best friend is hurting, and I just want to make him feel better. You're my best friend, Kurt. And... yeah, I... I care about you a lot. So much, but... you're my friend before anything else. I'll be whatever you want me to be, okay? Just that, and nothing more unless you say so."

Kurt blinks. That... he wasn't expecting that. For the briefest of moments, Kurt can hear Karofsky's voice in his head, saying God, you were made for this. Can feel the sick feeling growing at the back of his throat and the revulsiondisgustpowerlessness before he refuses to follow that train of thought any to tell himself that he's not disgusting, or wrong, or broken. That there are reasons people might want to spend time with him that have nothing to do with the musky smell of sex or strangled groans or the slide of skin on skin.

For the most part, it almost works. Blaine's words are like rubbing lotion on aching burns; he can feel some of the anxiety, some of the confusion begin to ebb away. It isn't gone, but it isn't the first thing on his mind, either.

"Oh," Kurt says softly into the receiver.

"Yeah," says Blaine, sounding more anxious than ever.

"I just... yeah," Kurt chokes out. "God, I miss my best friend too," he says, half-laughing and half-crying, swiping underneath his eyes. He hesitates for a moment, because the next part is not something he's ever wanted to really say out loud. "I've never had a best friend before."

There's another long pause, but this one isn't like the others. It's a beat of respite, not an awkward hesitation. Because Kurt didn't realize until just this moment how very, very much he's missed having Blaine in his life. To talk to, and tease, and laugh with about nothing. And now Blaine is someone – the only someone – outside his family who knows everything. The whole story, not the edited-for-mass-consumption version. Someone he can be normal with, but who can sympathize about the abnormality and horror of those months. Someone who was literally willing to put everything on the line for him.

Kurt's been missing his best friend so much it hurts, and until a few moments ago he didn't even know he had a best friend.

"Tell me how it feels to have broken it," Blaine prompts after a while. "Like, I just told you to do something and you don't have to! Did your dad freak out? Is he happy?"

"Oh, my god, Blaine. You have no idea," Kurt begins, before launching into the story.

He talks about telling his dad, and how happy he was, and how surreal and amazing it feels to refuse any order he wants. He talks about Carole's sweetness and Finn's cluelessness, his therapist, and how claustrophobic it's been starting to feel with nothing to do. Somehow that derails into a conversation about what one could do with spare time, which leads to a very silly discussion about knitting, which leads to Blaine jokingly suggesting that Kurt could start training to be a weightlifting champion with all his spare time, which somehow reminds Kurt to ask and what on Earth was all that about a Sadie Hawkins dance, anyways?

From there, the conversation turns to the bullying at Blaine's old school and the post-dance beating that wound him up in the emergency room with two fractured ribs, a broken nose and arm, and a foot he couldn't walk on for three weeks. They sympathize for a while about similar backgrounds before the conversation turns to Blaine's recovery this time around, and the record-breaking amounts of ginger tea his mother made for him while he was at home, which leads to Blaine doing a very funny impersonation of an angry Mr. Anderson that Kurt suspects should probably be sad, but they just can't stop laughing.

They talk, and talk, and talk about random things, important things, stupid things. Anything and everything until it's three in the morning and Blaine's starting to yawn and Kurt realizes that Christ almighty, Blaine, it's a school night and Blaine responds with but we were having fun! and it takes another fifteen minutes to actually properly end the conversation.

And when Kurt, out of habit, goes to say goodbye with see you soon? and Blaine responds too-quickly with I'd love that, they end up making plans to get coffee together five days from now.

They finally say goodnight at three thirty in the morning, and when Kurt finally presses the 'end' button on the phone he's grinning too-wide and just can't stop. He reaches out into his own mind for a moment, brushes over the idea of seeing Blaine in person – and doesn't even feel anxious. Nervous, a little, and excited. But the idea doesn't scare in the same way it used to, a twisting ball of anxiety over what will I say and what does he want and things will never be normal with him again.

More than anything, Kurt feels relieved. Staying away from Blaine for a little while... it was the right decision. Kurt knows he isn't well, not really, not by any stretch of the word. But before, the idea of seeing Blaine before had made him feel as though he was about to snap into two pieces; like spun sugar pulled too thin, so easy to shatter and break with the slightest of touches. Now, the notion of seeing Blaine in person feels... nice. Exciting, and pleasant. As though Blaine is someone to be with, and laugh with, and help him through this instead of another part of the problem to worry about.

There's been so little to be happy about for so long, and Kurt feels like a man dying of thirst after being given a long drink. He changes into pyjamas, performs his nightly hygiene routine, and goes to sleep with a smile on his face and anticipation buzzing in his fingertips.

Days pass. Weeks, months, years in the same slide of day-after-day nothingness until the boy turns into the man. He uses a new name at every job he takes on, since none of them have his real information anyways. They're all seedy and questionable and sometimes he gets ripped off, but it's worth it to stay hidden and stay no one.

Eventually, he gets ID that's fake for the name and not the age. The man discovers how alcohol can make him forget everything, can make him so spun-around shitfaced that he can't remember where he is anymore. It helps him imagine, even if only for a little while, that things had turned out differently.

The morning after is always spent retching into filthy toilets and wishing he could get back the sense of possibility being drunk gives him. He'll try again, that same night, but it never works in quite the way he wants.

The man without a name in a city that doesn't care.

When Blaine pushes the glass-panelled door open and walks into the heat of the coffee shop five days later – called the Lima Bean, which is kind of adorably dorky in a way he can appreciate – he can't stop himself from anxiously scanning the heads of the people inside. There's an obviously pregnant woman in the far corner with a half-eaten Danish on a plate in front of her, and several businessmen in shabby-looking suits clustered around the table immediately in front of the door. A young woman with a stack of books and three empty coffee cups around her like a fortress, a sweaty-looking man in jogging shorts and runners, and –

And there he is.

For a moment, Blaine doesn't recognize him without the Dalton uniform. Kurt is standing and leaning against the bar, chatting with a curvy barista with dark skin and a beautiful smile as she makes drinks. He's far enough out of the way that other customers can easily grab their coffee once it's ready, but he still shoots them a tiny 'oops, sorry I'm in your way!' look every time someone comes up. He's wearing snug jeans that fit him in a way the standard-issue Dalton black slacks never could, tall boots, a long-sleeved brown shirt, and soft-looking cream scarf.

All at once Blaine doesn't regret in the slightest the forty minutes he spent in front of the mirror before he drove here. Even when his mother had poked her head in, said "darling boy, are you going on a date?", and he'd had to deflect for ten minutes before she grudgingly left him alone. He'd been serious about what he'd said to Kurt on the phone about missing Kurt's friendship above anything else, but it was hard to not want to look his best.

Kurt turns to look at him, and when his eyes fall on Blaine they light up like something out of a movie. He turns and says something briefly to the barista, who smiles, before grabbing two mugs from off to the side of the bar.

"Thanks, Mercedes," he hears Kurt say, before he turns back toward Blaine and nods toward a small unoccupied table in the back. Blinking, Blaine snaps out of it and moves to meet him there. Kurt is just finished putting the mugs down, straightening up when Blaine arrives.

There's a long moment where the two of them pause, unsure of exactly what to say. They've had two more hours-long phone conversations since the first, so technically speaking Blaine should be completely caught up with 'what's happening with Kurt Hummel right now'. It's the strangest feeling, though, seeing Kurt in person. For some reason, it feels as though they were never apart and like they never met in the first place all at once.

"Hey," says Blaine at last, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"Hey," says Kurt in return, biting down briefly on his lip. "Medium drip, right?"

"I... wait," Blaine blinks, eyes flicking down to the mugs on the table. One houses a chocolatey-looking drink, and the other is filled to the brim with dark liquid. No room for cream, just the way Blaine likes it. "You know my coffee order," murmurs Blaine stupidly, mind flashing back to all the coffee dates and meet-ups they used to have when Kurt first transferred. They seem like a very long time ago.

"Of course I do," says Kurt simply, wrinkling his nose. He reaches up and rubs his forearm, glancing down. "It's just drip coffee, Blaine, it isn't complicated."

A laugh escapes Blaine's throat before he can help himself, even though he isn't sure if laughing is exactly appropriate right now. He has absolutely no idea what proper protocol is for a situation like this. Blaine licks his lips.

"Do you," Blaine begins, gesturing vaguely down at the chairs. "Do you wanna sit down?"

"Not really," says Kurt quietly, before taking two purposeful steps forward, wrapping his arms around Blaine's neck, and pulls him into a tight hug. Shocked at the physical contact, Blaine tenses up and raises his hands in the air above Kurt's back as though he might be electrocuted if he touches him. It's – he's – Kurt's been through trauma, after all, and Blaine's sure he doesn't want –

"It's fine," murmurs Kurt against his neck, giving his head a tiny shake. There's a beat – before ever-so-slowly, Blaine lowers his hands to rest on Kurt's back. He's positive they must be making a bit of a spectacle now, standing and hugging for so long in the busy cafe, but he just can't bring himself to care. He closes his eyes. Kurt feels so solid and real and alive pressed up against him, nothing like the hollowed out and blank figure that had haunted Blaine's nightmares for days after the confrontation in the clearing. He smells like hairspray, and laundry detergent, and Kurt.

"I missed you," says Blaine quietly, the fingers of his left hand clenching into the material of Kurt's shirt. There are other words there, in between the lines, but this is no place for them.

"Me too." Kurt's words are loud and close in his ear. "Thank you. For waiting for me... thank you."

Eventually, they have to pull away. Laughing slightly and avoiding one another's eye, they slide into their chairs and tuck into the table. Blaine blinks in surprise and stares when Kurt unexpectedly slides his had overtop of Blaine's outstretched one on the table. Kurt catches him looking down at their hands together on the table and inhales sharply.

"I'm sorry," says Kurt, hand tensing to pull away. "If you don't want –"

Before he can move, Blaine curls his fingers around Kurt's hand.

"I do," murmurs Blaine, giving Kurt's hand a squeeze. Kurt lets out a breath across from him, relaxing into the contact. "I just didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

"It doesn't," says Kurt simply, giving his head a tiny shake. His thumb traces patterns only he knows over Blaine's wrist. It almost tickles, but not quite. Blaine nods.

"Okay," he says. "You just have to tell me, yeah? Because I don't... I won't know what does make you uncomfortable unless you tell me."

"Sure," says Kurt quietly, staring down at their hands. His eyes look darker for a moment, and slightly far away. "I used to look forward to this," he explains vaguely, thumb still moving in tiny circles. "When you'd hold my hand, or give my shoulder a squeeze. When it was happening. It was... it was really special to me. If that makes any sense."

"When Karofsky was controlling you," says Blaine, and Kurt nods; he doesn't even flinch at Blaine's stupidly mentioning Karofsky's name, which makes Blaine blink in awe. He works to maintain a straight face, but inside something shatters quietly at the idea of desperately wanting something so simple. At Kurt, all those times they met in the library, desperate to tell him and be held by him and unable to say a word.

"I'm still working on it, you know," Kurt says, looking down at the table. "Not feeling like... like people can tell, even if they don't know me. That it makes people not want to touch me."

"It doesn't," Blaine insists, but Kurt shakes his head.

"I know," he says. "In my head, I know. But I'm still trying to... you know, feel it." Kurt shakes his head. "Anyways," he says, tone turning into something determinedly lighter. "I was hoping to maybe ask you something. Every Friday night my family has dinner – it's stupid, just something since my mom died, but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come this week? I know you're probably really booked up with finals, but you can bring your books and study before if you need to, we'd totally understand."

"I'd love that," Blaine responds, feeling the warmth and excitement in his chest leak into his words. "I really would. I like your dad a lot, and I'd love to meet everyone else –"

"Wait," interjects Kurt abruptly, eyebrow flying up into his hairline. "When did you meet my dad?"

"A few weeks ago, when he came to campus to get your things from you room? I helped him pack everything up. Well, sort of helped," Blaine adds lamely, gesturing to his right hand. He looks up only to see Kurt with his lips pursed tense, shaking his head at some unknown frustration. "What?" Blaine asks, blinking. "He didn't tell you?"

"That man," says Kurt, still shaking his head. He lets out a sigh that Blaine knows him well enough to realize is more affectionate than frustrated. "I told him that we were taking some time apart, and he probably didn't want to 'pressure me into contacting you before I was ready', oh my god. I can't believe him sometimes." Kurt lets out a little huff, reaching with his free hand to pick up his mug and take a sip.

"Did he pass on my hug?" Blaine asks eagerly, and Kurt very nearly spits mocha all over the table.

"That was from you?" Kurt exclaims, eyes wide, and Blaine can't help but laugh.

They sit there until their drinks are empty and longer, talking and laughing. Getting used to one another again, to being in the same room. To being friends. A couple of times, one of them says or does something that makes Kurt tense, and shake his head, and say can we talk about something else? – but those moments grow fewer and fewer as the conversation goes on. It isn't taking Blaine long to figure out what kind of topics are fine, while others are sometimes, and fewer are not right now. Some things still surprise him, but he's trying his best to figure it out.

They sit there until long after the staff begin cleaning up – fairly early, since they're a small and privately-owned store – and the Mercedes girl even lets them stay a little past closing. Their hands stay clasped the whole time, sitting on the table. Every time Kurt laughs, he gives Blaine's hand a little squeeze; the unintentional openness of the affection makes happy sparks fly in Blaine's stomach. They sit until they finally get kicked out, and hug goodbye at the door.

And Blaine couldn't be happier. Because his friend – his best friend – is letting him in again. Is letting him help, and be there, and hold his hand while they talk.

There are scars that both of them are going to take from all this, that aren't going anywhere any time soon. He doesn't think he'll ever really, fully understand what Kurt's going through. Can never possibly comprehend it all. But Kurt is going to let Blaine be part of the mending, and that... that means more than Blaine could ever convey with words, or songs, or the touch of a hand.

They wave at one another as they walk to their separate cars, Blaine can feel the excited hum of next time underneath his skin.

Sometimes, he thinks about going back. About finding the boy with bright blue eyes and taking him away, caging him up and keeping him in the way that haunts his dreams.

Other times, he sits along the edge of the grungy tub in his awful apartment, holding the razor over his arm and wishing beyond belief that he could just do it. End it. Make it all go away, knowing that there's no one in the world who could find him and pull him away from the brink. To not have to suffer through every day as nothing, as no one of consequence.

He never quite manages to do either.

It doesn't take long before Blaine slides fully back into Kurt's life again. He meets Kurt's family, gets along with all of them right away. The only exception is a brief period which Finn spends eyeing him up and trying to look threatening before Kurt has to practically hit his brother over the head with something heavy. Kurt gets to meet Blaine's parents, too, although both of them don't tend to be in town on the same day for great lengths of time. They're busy people, the Andersons, seeming to always have things to do and deals to close and charity lunches to organize.

Correspondence school is slightly frustrating, but the material is far below the level Kurt was expected to achieve at Dalton. He works in his own free time to read chapters and fill in worksheets, dragging essay files into online dropboxes. Kurt doesn't know what he wants to do in September for senior year just yet, but he's keeping his options open.

Even when summer rolls in like a wave of warmth and free time for Blaine, Kurt notices that is friend just spends even more time at the Hudson-Hummel house. Watching movies with them, or chopping vegetables as Kurt makes dinner, or even making good-spirited attempts to help out at the garage. He's almost always around; a hand on Kurt's arm, or his toes running up Kurt's bare calf as they watch an episode of something together in Kurt's bed with the door open, or knees knocking into one another under the dinner table.

Eventually, Kurt works up the courage to ask Mercedes-the-barista to go shopping with him for new summer clothes. They start meeting semi-regularly, for lunches and shopping but never coffee, sometimes with Blaine and sometimes without him. There aren't any friends from his old high school to get back into contact with, but Kurt makes an effort with some of the Warblers. Contacts Jeff again, and Nick, and Wes and David, each of them prepped by Blaine with the safe-for-public-consumption version of his story. As if they haven't guessed from the vague stories splashed across the news without names attached, with Kurt dropping out and Karofsky missing and Blaine with his face smashed in right after.

It's nice, having friends again. Nice, and new, and so different without the underlying fear that used to lie just below the surface with every one of his friendships in the past.

But Blaine is always there more than anyone, larger in his mind. Dark and beautiful and so, so careful. Unreal and incredible in all the right ways. He still looks at Kurt the way he used to, months ago. As though he's the most important person in the world.

He knows all of Kurt for who he is, and still looks at him in that exact same way.

Alcohol and self-hate rot the man from the inside out, and he disappears into the city of grime and dirt and litter, melding along the edges and fusing with it to become one. He doesn't need an identity because there's no one to share it with. Doesn't need anyone else because there's nothing left of him to share.

He self-destructs. Not quickly, in a blaze of fire and fury, but slowly. Over years and days, slipping away from anything he used to be. Nothing left inside a shell of a human being, everything that made him a person completely stripped away by his own hand.

They're lying together on Kurt's bed, the two of them, on a summer day that's unseasonably sweltering even for August. Fully clothed except for their shoes, neatly lined up at the bottom of the bed. Door open to catch the breeze, they are a tangle of overlapping limbs and slightly sweat-sheened skin from the heat. There's music playing on the radio; melancholy and drifting instrumentals, and a beautifully sad voice that lilts and sways along the notes.

One of Blaine's legs is thrown idly over Kurt's calf, and his head rests on Kurt's shoulder. Every few minutes, Kurt's hand reaches up to stroke through his loose curls. Blaine's hand drifts along Kurt's upper arm to the baseline of the music, steady and consistent, as it hums in the air. A day like any other, in the summer. Lazy and drawn-out, slowed with heat and time and one another. Neither of them have spoken for over thirty minutes.

"Do you ever wonder where he is?" Kurt asks eventually, breaking the silence. The question hangs in the air above them, drifting idly. He doesn't have to specify who he's referring to, even though Kurt has never asked this particular question before. For a long moment, Blaine thinks.

"No," he lies at last, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "I don't. Do you?"

"No," Kurt lies right back, voice soft and high in the air. The slender boy pushes himself half up onto one elbow. Their eyes meet. Silently, they acknowledge the untruth – and accept it. It's a good lie, and one they're both happy to pretend to believe. Because there's no point in being anything other than what they are, and worrying about a day that might never come is best left to dark corners of the night. Blaine stares up at him, and Kurt stares back. For longer than should be comfortable, they hold one another's gaze.

And ever-so-slowly, moving so carefully it aches, Kurt leans down and presses their lips together. It's a soft kiss, short-lived and sweet, barely more than a brush of lips. Blaine's eyes flutter closed despite the brevity of it, kissing back as gently as he knows how. Their first kiss was hard and fast, all misunderstandings and need and confusion. This, their second kiss, is none of those things. It is certainty, and care, and understanding, and a bone-deep knowledge and awareness of one another that's been growing between them for months.

When Kurt pulls away, he whispers three words against Blaine's lips. Blaine smiles, reaches up to run a hand down Kurt's cheek, and says them back.

It isn't the solution to anything. But it is a beginning.

They spend the rest of the day curled up into one other, letting the music drift around them in the air of the room, and prepare to face the future side by side.

The End