AN: So, I'm just going to say it. This is dark, and not nice. It's short, but it's certainly not sweet. It's got rather graphic self harm, some and is very violent and dark right from the start. If you don't like that sort of thing, then don't read this fanfic. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.If you're okay with anything mentioned above, by all means, read on, review, try and enjoy what has come from the darkest depths of my mind. It's just a oneshot, I know it's not very long, but it popped into my head and I wrote it and I have no idea but yeah. Whatever. As I said, try to enjoy.

Kurt's sat there, naked on the cold hard tiles, tears in his eyes as he stares into his boyfriend's hoping that if he looks long enough, then maybe the life will come back to them. He's sobbing, clutching the love of his life in his arms and he can't help feeling that maybe he's gone too far this time. He's never done this before. No matter how hard things got, or how awful he felt, all of his feelings were taken out on himself. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd stood in his bath tub, clutching the razor in his hands and smiling softly to himself, feeling better even as he sobbed, watching the deep red of his blood fall down, breaking the beauty of the perfect white tub, the same way it broke the beauty of his porcelain skin when the blood oozed from his self inflicted wounds, leaving a crimson trail downwards until it dropped off his body. He'd cut anywhere that his lover couldn't see, not wanting to worry him, never to hurt him. His hips and his thighs were covered in scars, varying in size and colour. The older ones a deep and faded purple, barely noticeable on his skin, whilst the newer ones were red and angry, glaring up, plain and clear. Kurt liked to think of them as his diary, a way of showing his pain. The age and the size combined told him how bad he had felt and how long ago. His favourite was the slightly faded one which ran from the top of his left hip downwards. He could touch it and remember, feel the razor in his hands and the blades cutting deep into his skin, being dragged down until he was forced to stop, from what he wasn't sure of. He could see the blood, the most he'd ever spilled, running in a long line, could still feel the burning pain and the sweet relief that came from cutting. Cutting himself, always himself. Up until now.

Lately, Kurt had given up on his razors, craving something better, something to cut deeper. And that's how he ended up here, sitting in a puddle of blood on his bathroom floor, clutching his lover, rocking him in his arms, ignoring the blood soaking into their skin and the knife on the floor, an arms length away. His knife, but not his blood. Not today. Today everything he usually did had gone horribly wrong. He felt worse than he'd ever felt before, hopeless and lost and craving a way to make all of his hurting just to stop, to make himself better again. So he did the only thing he could think of that could ever work, would ever help him forget and give him a pain he could deal with, not this emotional turmoil that he often found himself in. He'd taken his knife, new and rarely used, to the bathroom, in such a state that he didn't lock the door. He stripped off his clothes, not wanting to dirty them, and climbed into the tub, clutching his knife tightly in his hand. He bit his lip and looked down, grinning at the way the shiny silver of the blade glinted under the artificial lights. It started off small, with Kutt taking a small swipe to his right thigh, so that just a tiny pool of blood formed, not even deep enough for it to hurt. Nothing. Not even a prick, a slight tingling. And so he did it again, right next to the other one, cutting deeper this time. He kept going, leaving cuts side by side, getting deeper and deeper, more painful and more messy each time. Every cut meant more blood, more pain, more things to focus on instead of this almost constant state of depression and hopelessness and cruelty and fear and every other emotion that he couldn't put a name to without thinking about it and letting it take over his whole body, flooding his veins, blocking out the few happy thoughts that Kurt possessed. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for one more cut when the bathroom door was flung open. Kurt stared, like a deer in the headlights, caught in his secret act of relief, tightening his grip on the knife as he stared into his partner's eyes. Perfect eyes, pretty eyes, innocent eyes. Eyes which quickly found their way to the blade, and the wounds it had caused.

What happened next was a blur in Kurt's memory, the basic happenings lurking in amongst the hazy details that he wasn't even sure he wanted to know or make sense of. The words that were yelled, the things that they did. The accusations, the blaming, the trying to explain, the lack of understanding and the lack of regret, the tears and the unspoken apologies in two pairs of eyes, that for the first time in forever would not meet each other. The fear of moving, of doing something reckless, the emotions building up inside of Kurt, making him a volcano of depression and hurt and hatred towards the rest of the world that had been kept bottled up for so long, for so many months, was just waiting to erupt, until it all got to much and he couldn't take it anymore and so he let it all out. But it wasn't through talking or yelling, through heated discussions, through bitter words. Nor was it through gentle coaxing, convincing looks, reassuring touches, nods of acknowledgment, a loving tone, promises of forever and curing or words of sympathy or encouragement. No, Kurt wasn't one to talk about his feelings, instead he acted on them. But even this wasn't subtle hints, tiny glimpses into Kurt's head, and his heart, and his soul and into everything he was feeling. It was one action. One simple action, made out of years of rage, of frustration and confusion and depression and wishing for it to get better and believing that it would go away and disappointment and hatred towards everything and everyone. Kurt lost control, only for a few seconds. But a few seconds can make a life, change a life, can even end a life. Which is just what happened. He can't remember what he screamed, doesn't know he closed his eyes, forgot the knife in his hand and threw his arms around wildly. Kurt wasn't careful enough. Blaine wasn't quick enough. The knife hit, Kurt fell silent and opened his eyes to his worst nightmare. Blaine had fallen to the floor, hazel eyes still wide with fear and sadness, staring at Kurt who quickly ran to his lover, caught him in his arms. He stared at the knife that had lodged itself in Blaine's shoulder, his sobs uncontrollable. He has no idea how long he's there, holding, comforting, ice blue eyes locked on warm honey-hazel ones, watching the life, the happiness and the hope, that shining glimmer and spark slowly fading away, and Kurt felt useless once again. He closed his eyes, just for a few minutes, knowing that that was it, the end, unable to believe what he had done, wishing it was him and not the man that he had been in love with since the day they met. But then a hand moved, clutching at Kurt who's eyes flung open. And there were Blaine's, looking up at him, life slowly returning to them, slowly but surely, filtering in. There was a small smile on his lips, and his breathing was loud and heavy, making it impossible to deny that he was alive.

"I love you.." Blaine choked out, and without even thinking Kurt rolled his eyes.

"I know you do," he murmured in reply. "You tell me every day." Blaine gave a small laugh at that, accompanied by a faint nod of his head.

"I'll make you better," Blaine said weakly. "A-and you can make me better."

And there and then, in that moment, in those words, Kurt was sure that somehow, everything would work out. Because despite everything that had happened, everything they had gone through, not just now, but always, they were still here, together. Still joking and smiling and loving one another more than either of them could ever have imagined. They would be okay.