A/N: Hello again. A brief disclaimer, since prom happens in this chapter and I've used some of the events and dialogue from the season two episode "Prom Queen." Anything you recognize belongs entirely to Glee, though I've tailored things here and there to fit this version of events.

Quite a few of you have been very impatient to know what comes next after the way that last chapter ended (sorry), and finally the wait is over. Happy reading! And, you know, happy reviewing, too. xo

Sex and Poetry: Chapter 11

The alarm blared loud and shrill into Blaine's room at 6:30 on Friday morning, cruelly waking him from an already fitful sleep. His hand fumbled and blindly crashed against it a few times before he finally felt out the button in the dark and silenced the sharp ringing, earning himself a moment or two of peace while his mind tried to sink back into sleepy visions of pale skin and blue eyes and soft smiles.

By 6:31 the quiet inside of him had already passed. As he blinked and stirred from his rest a different kind of noise had slowly filled the space in his head that had been occupied by indistinct dreams of mouths and tongues a few minutes earlier. Bleary, hazy, and very real memories of his loud argument with Kurt the night before twisted cold, ruthless fingers into the fabric of more pleasant thoughts and yanked them away, slipping into his head to take their place. Oh, yeah. That.

Well. That settled it.

He wasn't going to school today. Or next week. Or at all.

There was no point. What did it matter if he failed his classes anyway? He wasn't going to stick around Lima now, not if the one reason he'd found for staying was probably never going to speak to him again. He could go back to his routine now, spending his days stealing cigarettes and alcohol and his nights at Scandals, smoking and drinking and fucking the next few weeks of his life away before hopping on a bus headed for somewhere new, before his dad could make good on his promise to send him back to military school.

He groaned and turned away from his clock (6:39) as the previous evening came to the surface of his mind again, pulling the covers back up over his head and burrowing his face more deeply into his pillow, hoping he could fall back asleep and just forget the whole thing for a few more hours.

Not likely. Not when his sheets still smelled like Kurt and the other memories of last night – the ones before the sudden explosion of hurt and anger between them – were right there, playing themselves out again every time Blaine closed his eyes. He could still see Kurt's full, pink lips gasping around his name, the blue of his eyes lit up with happiness and arousal as they gazed into his own, his soft fingertips whispering across his skin. He didn't want to go back to his old routine, he realized. He wanted Kurt, and a strange, painful warmth glowed in the pit of his stomach as he pictured his face; sweet and caring and so, so beautiful.

And then he thought about how hurt that perfect face had looked when Blaine had lashed out at him, firing angry words at him until tears had streaked down his flushed cheeks. The heat burned hotter in his gut, flames licking up into his chest and scorching his heart as he remembered Kurt walking out the door.

Was that the last time he would ever see him? That brief glimpse of his back before the door slammed shut behind him? He was fairly confident Kurt would never want to come here again, and if he didn't go back to school, well, then that was that. It was over, and he had seen the smile in those eyes for the last time.

No. He couldn't live with that. He had known from the very beginning that he couldn't turn his time with Kurt into something lasting, or anything more meaningful than stolen hours of pleasure in this small, lonely hotel room, and he was fine with that. But he didn't want to give him up before he absolutely had to, either. He wanted a few more weeks of the new, wonderful feeling he got when Kurt looked into his eyes, reached his hands out to touch his face, leaned into his kisses and sighed those happy sounds into his ear. He wanted to hear him laugh and make him smile and spend as many minutes as he had left in Ohio memorizing what it was like to love someone.

Shit, no. That's not what he meant. Not love. Not really. Just want. And need. And that strange pull in his chest that he couldn't explain and couldn't get enough of.

There had to be a way to fix this. To erase whatever damage he had done and get Kurt back in his life for just a few more weeks. He thought briefly about swallowing the lump in his throat and agreeing to go to the prom, but before he could even form half a plan to offer, the panic had surged into his throat again and his palms started to sweat, and no. No. He couldn't do that.

He'd have to just apologize and tempt him back with sweet, kind words and maybe, if Kurt would let him, sweeter, kinder kisses. If that didn't work then, well, Blaine didn't know what he would do.

At 6:58, he got out of bed and slipped on a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt and scrubbed dry hands across his face, trying to rub the stress and sadness from his eyes. He shrugged tired arms into his leather jacket and nudged his sneakers on before picking up his school bag and walking out the door.

For the first time since he'd met Kurt two weeks ago, his heart and his feet were heavy on the way to school.

Kurt was not going to look at him.

No.

He had sat at his usual place in the school courtyard before classes started that morning, and he had noticed Blaine near the steps almost at once. But he was staunchly refusing to so much as glance in his direction. For the first time in a long while he was giving his undivided attention to Mercedes, who seemed to be equal parts excited and stressed about her quasi-date with Sam.

"I know Rachel and Jesse are going to be there and it's technically supposed to be a group thing, but if I know her at all she's going to strand me alone with Sam within the first twenty minutes, and I bet we won't even have five words to say to each other."

"You never know," Kurt mused, trying to encourage her and help her relax. Just because he was going to be alone and miserable at his prom, didn't mean he wanted Mercedes to freak out and waste what could be a perfectly fun evening, too. The fewer of them to suffer the humiliation of attending a school dance solo, the better. "Maybe sparks will fly. Maybe this is the opportunity fate has been waiting for."

Mercedes gave him a look. She could not have said you are crazy any more clearly even if she had used the actual words. "He's only dated pencil-thin cheerleaders since he moved here, Kurt. I am not his type."

It took everything in him not to sneak just the tiniest of peeks toward the dark shape on the stairs that he knew was Blaine in his leather jacket, but Kurt forced himself to smile at Mercedes instead. "Don't be ridiculous. Guys don't always have one specific type. Look at Puck and Zizes."

"I just want to have one night of feeling like a princess," Mercedes said. "It doesn't matter if it turns into something more, as long as tomorrow is magical."

Kurt nodded and tried to look happy for her, even though his insides were twisting uncontrollably in his stomach just knowing Blaine was there - right there - on the steps. He was pointedly avoiding talking about the night before with Mercedes, since he half-expected her to gloat and say I told you so as soon as she found out that his fling with Blaine had gone sour. Plus, he'd spent too much of his time thinking about him and pining after him and, after last night, crying over him already. He'd been stupid enough to put his heart into every minute he'd spent with Blaine, and then it had been hurt, crushed between those callused hands until it was bruised and weak and aching. There were plenty of tears on his pillow to prove it.

Mercedes was still talking about Sam, but he couldn't focus anymore. All the talk of prom was taking him right back to that hotel room, to the way it felt when Blaine had taken all of his hopeful expectations and ground them into dust. God, he really had been an idiot, to believe Blaine was looking at him with anything other than lust during all those study sessions in his room. He'd brought him there for one reason, and one reason only, and it hadn't been to get his homework done. It'd been to take advantage of him, to make him feel just special and wanted enough to take off his clothes and let Blaine have everything he wanted.

Well, not everything. Not really. They'd fooled around and gotten very physical and done things Kurt wouldn't have even been able to imagine a few short weeks ago, but they hadn't had sex. Not all the way. And if Kurt allowed himself a minute to think about what had gone so wrong last night, he started to wonder what had made Blaine treat him so dismissively before he'd gotten the only thing he'd claimed to have wanted from the beginning. To fuck him.

Maybe Kurt was much worse at everything than Blaine had let on. Maybe once he'd finally been on more than just the receiving end of all the sexual favors, Blaine had realized that bothering with him would be a huge waste of time. Maybe he was a disappointment.

But that couldn't be true. If he was that terrible than Blaine wouldn't have enjoyed it enough to get off, would he? And the way Blaine had held him after, like he was cradling something precious and fragile in his arms. And the way he'd looked at him, like he was afraid Kurt might be a dream, a perfect vision that could vanish in the blink of an eye...

Well. He must have imagined that. It had been wishful thinking, those times Kurt had looked up and seen something more than pure want in those hazel eyes. Something like hope and affection and awe. Something that had made Kurt feel like he was looking into a strange sort of mirror that reflected his exact feelings, because those were all things he felt, too, when he looked at Blaine. Wonder and warmth and longing.

It took Kurt a moment to realize that he wasn't just remembering that heated, hazel gaze. He was staring into it. At some point during his thoughts he'd turned and found Blaine's eyes without meaning to, and wow, no. He was not imagining it. There was something here between them. Still. All those same stirrings started up inside of him at once, but there was more now. Sadness and disappointment and anger and regret.

He looked away quickly, already feeling his pulse race and his heart start to beat wildly in his chest. No. No. As much as he wanted to go back, to have that secret happiness again, it was too late. Everything had changed the moment Blaine had yelled that he didn't want him for anything more than sex.

Wait. No. Kurt chewed his lip and stared down at the table as he thought back. It had been before that. It had been the moment Kurt had suggested that Blaine come with him to prom. That had been it. That had been the instant that he'd watched the warmth freeze over in Blaine's eyes. He'd gone pale and his breathing had turned erratic. His brow had furrowed, the storm clouds had blown into his eyes, and his lips had stopped kissing Kurt at once, instead pulling into an unsettled frown.

At the time he'd been too nervous and eager for an answer to notice, but something nagged in the back of Kurt's mind as he pictured that expression again. He'd seen it somewhere before. He searched his admittedly short supply of memories with Blaine and tried to find it, tried to pinpoint exactly when he would have seen Blaine looking so, so...scared. That was it, wasn't it? He couldn't think of a reason Blaine had to be afraid of a school dance, but that was it. Undeniably. For some reason he associated that shocked, shaky scowl with fear.

He glanced back up and felt the familiar shiver rush through his body. Blaine's eyes were blazing and aimed right at him, burning deep and shocking his heart into an even more frantic rhythm. Kurt couldn't help it. He stared back for a brief moment, taking in Blaine's rather rumpled appearance and the slight sag in his shoulders, but then tore his gaze away. He stared down at his hands on the table and breathed heavily, reminding himself not to get lost in that fiery gaze again. It didn't matter how Blaine looked at him anymore. It didn't matter that he seemed weighed down and desperate and stuck somewhere between sad and sorry over there on the courtyard steps. Kurt had sworn he wouldn't give any more of his time to that jerk, and he had meant it.

The warning bell rang and chaos broke out in the common area as everyone rushed to their homerooms. Kurt stood and slung his bag over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on anything but Blaine. His feet. The ground. Santana.

Santana. She was standing right in front of him, wearing a ridiculous red beret and jacket and her typically hard stare. "Come on, Mr. Ma-gay. I'm escorting you to class."

Oh, right. Santana's insane plan to protect him from harassment in the hallways. She for some reason thought this new anti-bullying stance was going to win her votes for Prom Queen, and Kurt secretly thought the plan was nuts, but as the only out gay kid in the student population, he was sort of forced to take part in the charade. He gathered his books with an air of resigned annoyance and followed her from the courtyard, ignoring her loud proclamations against school violence and hoping that she wasn't serious about doing this all day, because frankly it was almost as humiliating as the bullying itself.

As they filed away from the steps, Santana shouting warnings to any potential tormentors the whole way, Kurt couldn't help himself. He looked back just once, and was met again by the intense pair of eyes that had upended his entire life just a couple of weeks ago.

He blinked hard as he turned around and walked a little more quickly to keep up with Santana. That was over, now. He had to start putting things back how they belonged.

By some miracle or by the sheer force of his will, Kurt managed to keep his mind off of Blaine for most of the morning. He spent the entirety of Civics class continuing a discussion of the dance with Mercedes, was paraded down the hallway in service of Santana's Prom Queen campaign again before second period, and sat through an angry tirade from Quinn, who felt that he was being disloyal to Finn by participating – however passively – in an opposing run for prom court. By the time the end of his second class rolled around, Kurt had to admit he was looking forward to the end of all the prom-induced drama and hysteria as much as to the dance itself.

He loaded his textbook and notes into his bag and headed for the hall, hoping that he could make it to his next class without being chaperoned by Santana and without running into or glimpsing Blaine. Not that he was even thinking about Blaine. Because he wasn't.

To his relief, he didn't find Santana waiting for him in the hallway.

To his horror, he found Karofsky instead.

"I'm supposed to walk you to class," Karofsky mumbled, and Kurt could only blink at him in shock. He had braced himself for any number of names or comments when he saw him in the hall. Faggot. Fancy Pants. Fairy Boy.

Kurt stared at him suspiciously, hardly daring to believe this wasn't some kind of trick. But then he noticed the bright red jacket and beret that matched Santana's exactly, the walkie-talkie in his hand, and the fading but still very noticable bruises on the side of his face - the ones Blaine had given him - and suddenly he found himself feeling sort of sorry for the guy. He was so trapped. Caged. Unable and unwilling to be himself, choosing instead to masquerade as a macho jock with a cheerleader girlfriend, the person so many people had told him he should be.

It was the saddest thing Kurt could imagine.

"Okay," he finally said, falling in step alongside him and heading for his third period classroom. They walked in silence, Kurt marveling silently at the wary, watchful expression on Karofsky's face, walkie-talkie clutched tightly in his palm, as if he really took this whole protecting him thing very seriously.

They reached his classroom door and Karofsky told him he was headed to Calculus and rattled off some kind of instructions about what to do after class, but Kurt was still trying to figure out how Santana had talked him into doing this. He knew her fake boobs didn't hold any power over a closeted gay teen, so what the hell was in it for him? It didn't make any sense.

Unless Karofsky wanted...to help him? Unless he was actually...remorseful? Was that possible?

Kurt nodded absently and watched a couple of students file past them and into the class. And then he realized that something seemed strange, and it wasn't that someone as seemingly thick as Karofsky could be taking Calculus in his junior year, although that was pretty surprising.

He looked at Karofsky uncertainly, and then decided that maybe things had cleared up enough between them to try a conversation. "Have you noticed that no one has said boo to me this week?"

Karofsky seemed almost proud, as if he hadn't been the main source of Kurt's terror for two straight years. "Because the Bully Whips are protecting you."

Kurt had thought of that. He also thought it might have something to do with the fact that until today he was frequently seen in the hallways with Blaine Anderson, and most people seemed to think he was someone they shouldn't piss off. But part of him hoped there was another reason that there had been such a drastic change in the way his peers were treating him.

"Maybe," Kurt said. "But maybe no one has been harassing me this week because nobody cares."

Karofsky shook his head and scoffed, disbelieving. "You're dreamin'.

"Okay, look, I'm not saying that everyone in the school is ready to embrace the gay, but maybe at least they've evolved enough to be indifferent." Karofsky looked utterly dismayed, like he was on the verge of tears, and a wave of compassion had Kurt saying way more than he'd initially planned. "I see how miserable you are, David. I could just hate you when you were bullying me but...now all I see is your pain. And you don't have to torture yourself over this. I'm not saying you should come out tomorrow, but maybe soon the moment will arise when you can."

The bell rang, and it was as if the sound opened a dam inside of Karofsky. He started to cry, and Kurt didn't know what to make of it. He stood staring, clutching his books to his chest and hardly knowing how to react to sight of the biggest, meanest jock at McKinley breaking down before his very eyes.

"What's wrong?"

Karofsky slumped against the wall, his anguish apparently too much to carry without help. He pulled his beret off tiredly, and then, shockingly, Kurt was getting a tearful apology.

"I'm so...I'm so freaking sorry, Kurt. I'm just – just so sorry for what I did to you." His voice was wrecked, and Kurt was fairly certain he'd never seen anyone so unhappy in his entire life. Which was saying quite a lot, because he'd been standing right next to Rachel Berry last year when they'd lost Regionals.

"I know. I know."

Karofsky's eyes suddenly went wide, and then stoic as he wiped them with the back of his hand and pushed himself away from the wall. Kurt opened his mouth to try another handful of encouraging words, but before he had a chance he heard a familiar voice behind him. A voice that made his blood run warmer and his heart clench painfully in his chest. A low, smooth timbre that seeped right through his skin and into his bones.

"What the fuck did I tell you about bothering him, Meathead?"

It was Blaine. His voice was sharp and angry, too much like it had been last night in his room, when he had yelled for Kurt to leave and stay away. Kurt flinched when he heard it, even though this time the venom wasn't aimed at him.

Karofsky ignored Blaine, addressing Kurt as he took a nervous step back. "Remember. Wait for me here, right?"

"He's not going to be waiting for you," Blaine hissed, stepping in front of Kurt and leaning right in to Karofsky's face. "But I will be if you come anywhere near him again."

Karofsky glanced quickly between Blaine and Kurt, looking stricken and scared, and Kurt stared back at him with wide eyes, every bit as shocked by Blaine's sudden intercession as Karofsky seemed to be. He finally recovered enough to speak, but before he could say anything by way of a mediation Karofsky had turned and was hurrying away to his own class.

"David, wait –" he shouted to Karofsky's retreating back, but the red jacket and beret had disappeared around the corner, and now he was left alone with Blaine outside of his classroom.

Great.

Blaine was facing him now, his eyes tearing over his face with a crazed sort of desperation, as if he'd been starving for the sight of him for hours. But there was something of the old guardedness in them, too; that cold, inexpressive hardness that had found its way back to his gaze last night when they had fought. Kurt hated it.

There was a long moment of stubborn silence, and then they each decided to speak at once.

"He wasn't bothering me," Kurt informed him bitingly, just as Blaine scowled and said, "'David'?" questioning Kurt's suddenly friendly terms with his bully and screwing up his face as he repeated the name, as though the syllables themselves tasted foul and unpleasant.

"Yes, David," Kurt glared at him, secretly infuriated that Blaine could look so handsome even with his features pulled into a disgusted grimace. How annoying. "He wasn't bothering me. We were only talking."

"I told him not to talk to you," Blaine growled, stepping closer and reaching out to grasp Kurt by the elbow. Kurt felt the familiar flare of heat in his skin where Blaine's fingers gripped him, and he set his jaw, trying hard to ignore both the burn of his touch and the flash of metal he could see on Blaine's tongue as he spoke. "I told him not to touch you, look at you, or say a goddamn word to you ever again."

Kurt was suddenly livid. He had felt just as miserable last night after Blaine had yelled at him as he ever had after any awful encounter with Karofsky. Worse, even, because he had started to trust Blaine, had opened up to him, had acted on desires that he'd been forced to keep hidden and secret almost his whole life, and had let himself believe that it meant something. But it hadn't. It'd been a lie, a cruel trick, and it had hurt more than anything he'd faced in his life so far.

And now Blaine had the nerve to act like he was protecting him? No. Kurt wasn't going to let him do that. In fact, he was going to do everything he could to make Blaine feel as bad as he did. It was only fair.

"What makes you so interested in who I talk to?" he asked, yanking his arm out of Blaine's grip. "Are you worried that I'll take everything you showed me and use it on someone else?" The very idea was absurd, but he was glad when he saw the angry, jealous fire rise up in Blaine's eyes.

"That's not funny," Blaine said, in a surprisingly even tone, apparently trying hard not to have a repeat of the prior night's screaming match.

But Kurt wasn't done. Part of him was getting a sick kind of joy watching Blaine get upset, after all the hurtful things he'd had shouted at him in his room. "Who says I'm joking?" he said, challenging. "Who says I won't use every trick you taught me on the whole fucking football team?"

Blaine's eyes flashed again, and for a moment Kurt remembered why he'd found him so intimidating and almost scary when he'd first met him. He looked furious. Dangerous. Like he'd tear every linebacker limb from limb if he thought that they had so much as glanced at him. "Don't fuck with me, Hummel. I know you only want me."

"No, I don't," Kurt spat, and he tasted the bitterness of a lie on his tongue, but he ignored it. "You are fucking impossible! You were practically begging to spend the weekend with me one minute and then treating me like a pile of trash the next. What am I supposed to make of that?"

"I don't know what you want from me, Hummel. I told you from day one that I wasn't gonna be your boyfriend."

"I didn't ask you to be," Kurt couldn't help but raise his voice a little in frustration. "All I wanted was for you to go with me to a stupid dance."

"If it's so stupid, why do you want to go?" Blaine demanded. "We could still hang out on Saturday. Just skip it and come to my place instead. We can think of a different way to have fun." He reached out and held Kurt's arm again, stroking the inside of his wrist with a rough thumb.

Kurt jerked his arm away, ignoring the heat that seemed to spread from where Blaine had touched him and straight to the pit of his stomach. "No. I'm going to my prom. I worked hard on my tux and all my friends will be there and I'm going to have fun and make tons of amazing memories and I don't know why I ever thought I needed you with me to do it."

"Come over tonight, then," Blaine asked, his eyes wide and pleading, the anger melting into desperation. "Or Sunday. Please?"

"I don't want to do that with you anymore." There it was again. The taste of dishonesty on his tongue as he spoke the words. He swallowed and tried not think about all of those stolen hours with Blaine. The kisses, caresses, and sweet, murmured words that left him breathless. "You were using me. You made me feel like some kind of – of toy, or something."

"I wasn't –" Blaine stopped himself before he could get a full sentence out, then changed direction entirely. "What if I promise not to lay a hand on you? We can just work together. Come over and help me with this school shit."

"You don't need my help. I'm a fucking idiot, remember?"

Blaine just stared at him, and Kurt could tell he was panicking, that he'd actually thought that they could just pretend the previous night had never happened, that they could sweep it all under the rug and pick up right where they left off. Some of the hardness was leaving his expression, though, now, and when he reached for Kurt's arm a third time, it was with hesitant, gentle fingers, and the warmth Kurt felt at the touch was slower, steadier, and glowed quietly in his heart when Blaine looked at him with unmasked apology.

"Kurt. I – I get that you're mad," Blaine's voice was trembling and pitched a little higher than usual, and so Kurt listened, holding his breath. "I was such a fucking prick, okay, I know. I know that. But I'm sorry and I'm full of shit and every single fucking thing I said to you was a lie. I really like you and I want to spend time with you and I don't think you're an idiot. I think you're the greatest."

Kurt let out an exasperated breath, then, "You're just saying that so you can fuck me."

"No," Blaine's eyes had gone wide and sincere again, and Kurt's heart was hot and aching in his chest from trying to ignore how beautiful they were. "No, I'm not, I swear. I don't care if you never let me touch you again, but please come this weekend. You don't even have to talk to me, I – I just really like having you there."

He looked so hopeful, and even though Kurt knew better - knew that this could easily be nothing but another lie, another trick, another attempt just to get what he wanted from him - he found himself wanting to give in.

He didn't, though. Not right away. Not entirely.

"I can't," Kurt said, surprised when his voice came out completely calm and devoid of the anger that had surged through veins like a drug mere minutes ago. "But you know where I'll be tomorrow night. If you want to see me, you should come. I'll -" he swallowed hard. "I'll save you a dance."

A look of pure anguish crossed Blaine's beautiful face, and he opened his mouth to answer, but Kurt didn't give him the chance. He didn't think he could bear to be rejected again. Not now. Not after this whole fucked up day and not when he felt like crying or screaming or hitting Blaine for putting him through this or some combination of the three. He tugged the door to his classroom opened and rushed inside, ignoring the way every single head in the room turned to stare at him as he made his way to his seat and threw himself into it, barely fighting off the urge to weep into his hands.

His teacher graciously disregarded the interruption, carrying on at the front of the room as if nothing at all had cut into her lecture, and Kurt dug a notebook and pen out of his bag, preparing to take notes and try to catch up on what he'd missed.

He didn't end up writing a single word. He didn't even scribble in the margins. He was too lost in his own thoughts.

Yesterday it had been kisses that made him late to class. Today it was tears.

"I don't like it."

Later that night, Kurt finally had his tuxedo to a point where he could at least try it on, and he was spinning around a little in his living room, showing it off to Finn and his dad. The kilt he had made fanned and spun perfectly, but Burt Hummel, for one, was not impressed.

"Well of course you don't like it," Kurt said lightly, hardly unused to his father's confusion over his wardrobe choices. "It's not finished yet. I think it still needs like a sash, or maybe some beads around the - "

Burt didn't seem too interested in the suit's finishing touches. "Look, I'm not gonna stop you from wearing it, but I gotta be honest, I - I think you're just trying to stir the pot a little bit. I think you're tryin' to get some attention.

"Exactly. What's the point of dressing up? I mean that's why some guys wear the tails with the top hat and the girls wear the hoop skirts. I mean, Finn, help me out here. Actually, no, don't. You're wearing a rugby shirt, so your opinion doesn't count."

Finn looked down at his shirt with a somewhat puzzled expression, as if he didn't know what could possibly be wrong with a rugby shirt, and Kurt didn't even have time to go into that now, and his dad wasn't finished being disapproving, anyway.

"There's a lot of bad people out there, Kurt, and they're a lot worse than this Karofsky kid, and all they're lookin' for is a match to light under the fire of their hate. Now, of course I want - I want you to be yourself. But, I also - I want you to be practical."

Kurt thinned his lips. He knew his dad was looking out for him, just wanted him to be safe, but he was irritated all the same that this town and its army of small-minded inhabitants were holding him back.

Again.

"Okay," he said finally, "I have done everything right, and prom is about joy, not about fear. So I'm wearing this suit. I worked hard on it, and I think it's fantastic." He turned on his heel and marched back to his bedroom, pretty sure now that his first prom experience had so far been about as terrible as possible, considering the dance was still a full day away. The only guy he'd thought would possibly want to be his date had shot him down immediately, he had somehow found himself caught between opposing Prom Queen candidates, and now his dad was frowning on the outfit it had taken him weeks to get just right. He was basically telling him to tone it down a bit, which Kurt supposed he ought to be used to by now, since it was something he'd been hearing his entire goddamn life.

But it still stung.

Oh well. Prom itself was bound to be more fun than the days leading up to it. He was going to dance and drink punch and probably spend a large part of the evening looking around at the dresses and silently berating the girls for making tragically wrong color choices and over-accessorizing.

Alone.

Which was fine.

Because, honestly, how much did he really want teen romance anyway? He'd watched all of his friends bicker and fight and make each other cry over boyfriends and girlfriends and who had sex with whom and who made out behind whose back and who got whom pregnant. The whole concept of young love was a mess, and Kurt would consider himself lucky to make it out of high school unscathed by the madness.

He took off his jacket and toyed with one of the sleeves, considering his options for some last-minute detailing at the cuff and telling himself that he was much better off without all the potential disappointments and pressures of a date.

But a tiny, hopeful voice in his head reminded him that he'd invited Blaine. That he'd promised to save a dance in case he changed his mind. His heart beat a little faster, and a smile almost crossed his lips as he imagined what it might be like to be surprised by a rose, or a callused hand held out as Blaine asked him to dance.

Maybe he really wants to be with you, the little voice said. Maybe he'll come.

Try as he might, Kurt couldn't get the voice to stop whispering to him, to stop getting his hopes up and inevitably setting him up to be let down. So he did the next best thing.

He sat down with his jacket and a handful of beads, and drowned it out with the steady whir and hum of the sewing machine.

Exactly 24 hours later, Kurt was standing on the fringes of the dance floor in the school's gym with a glass of punch in hand, watching (most of) his friends enjoy the dance. A few of them were missing. Finn and Jesse had nearly come to blows over Rachel before Coach Sylvester had shown up and forcibly dragged them from the building. Artie had disappeared barely ten minutes after he'd arrived, undoubtedly thwarted in his attempt to spike the punchbowl, since the drink Kurt was nursing had absolutely no kick. He hadn't talked to Mercedes and Sam much either, but that was because the two of them were dancing constantly, laughing and smiling and in general having such a good time on the dance floor that they'd barely sat down for ten minutes since the music had started.

Kurt smiled wryly to himself. He wondered what Mercedes would be talking about more when they got back to her house after the dance: how much fun she'd had with Sam or how badly her feet hurt.

He looked away from them when Sam leaned and whispered into Mercedes' ear, feeling like he was intruding somehow even though he was way too far away to hear what was being said to make Mercedes giggle like that, and then found himself doing the same thing he'd been doing all evening. Staring at the doors to the dance and hoping to see a familiar face walk through them. Blaine.

So far, he'd been disappointed.

Rachel came twirling over to him a few moments later and interrupted his thoughts, and Kurt was relieved. He didn't want to spent the whole of the evening throwing his own pity party in the corner.

"Kurt, I can't tempt Sam away from Mercedes to save my life! Come dance with me!"

Kurt set down his glass and grasped Rachel's hand instead, spinning himself underneath her outstretched arm and tugging her playfully to the dance floor. They hopped and shimmied through a few fast songs, then swayed during a slow one, though Kurt wasn't sure which of the two of them was leading. They made the most of it, even if they each knew the other would rather be dancing with someone else.

They passed an hour or so together, dancing and drinking the non-alcoholic punch and bemoaning their singledom in a gymnasium full of couples, until Principal Figgins stopped the music and called all the prom court hopefuls to the stage.

"This is the moment you've all been waiting for," Figgins said at the microphone, "When we announce our Junior Prom King and also Prom Queen."

The prom court candidates looked excitedly and anxiously between themselves, and Kurt wondered how many of them had fantasized about murder to get their hands on that shiny little tiara. All of them, probably.

"Roll the drum, please." One of the band kids (Kurt really ought to know their names by now) obliged, and Figgins pulled the slip of paper from its envelope with a flourish. "This year's Junior Prom King is...David Karofsky!"

The crowd cheered, and Kurt clapped along with them as Karofsky gamely took his crown and scepter from the principal. Santana blew him two kisses and clapped ecstatically, clearly taking Karofsky's victory as proof that her campaign strategy had paid off. A small part of Kurt was sad for Karofsky, even as he applauded his win. There he was, sitting in the prom court throne, smiling but still pretending, still afraid.

Figgins was back to business. "And now, your 2011 McKinley High Prom Queen, with an overwhelming number of write-in votes is..."

The whole room seemed to hold its breath as Figgins silently read the name of the winner on the card. One thing was for sure, Kurt thought to himself. Whoever won was going to look freaking gorgeous up there. He was happy to see that all the girls had taken his advice to heart when choosing their gowns. Quinn looked like a real-live fairy tale princess, Santana smoldered in her red gown, and Zizes was as glamorous as Kurt had ever seen her. He waited along with everyone else to hear who would win, and then:

"Kurt Hummel."

There was a stunned silence, during which a few hundred pairs of eyes turned to stare at him and Kurt tried to make sense of the fact that he had just heard his own name from the stage.

Not Quinn. Not Santana. Not even Lauren Zizes.

Kurt Hummel.

Prom Queen.

Prom Queen.

He ran.

He ran, and no one followed him.

He ran out of the gym and down the nearest hallway, crying and cursing himself for thinking any part of this night had been a good idea. The kilt. The sash. The boots. The confidence.

Of course. Of course it all came back to kick his ass in the end. He wasn't allowed to have anything good. At least nothing good that would last. He'd found an escape in Glee two years ago, an outlet, a place he could be himself. Then Karofsky had taunted and tortured him until he was forced to give it up for the safety of Dalton Academy.

And Dalton had been great, too. A happy rest from the day-in, day-out hell that was public school. A place where he could walk down the hallway without fear. But he had to do it in a uniform, a kind of mask, a muzzle over his heart and his soul and everything that made him, well, him.

Then he'd had Blaine. A boy who liked him, wanted him, looked at him like he'd happily choose his smile over the sunrise any day of the week. Until he hadn't anymore. Until he'd looked at him with something dangerously close to hatred instead.

He thought he could at least have prom. One night of dressing to the nines and letting loose with his friends. He'd thought things were changing at McKinley. That people were opening their hearts and minds to the people who were different. But no. They hadn't bothered him in the halls of school anymore because he had Finn, and Blaine, and recently Santana and Karofsky watching his back. But that had been a temporary fix, one the hateful student body had handily outsmarted with the sharp dagger of a ballpoint pen filling out a secret ballot.

He was still running. Past a few couples who had left the crowded gym to find a secluded corner to whisper in, past the cafeteria and then through the English hall where he'd first met Blaine.

Blaine.

The thought of him didn't slow Kurt's steps. He kept running, kept moving in any direction that was away from that sea of faces that had capsized his dreams of one night as a normal teenager.

His tears started to blur his vision, and he finally was forced to stop moving when he could hardly see where he was going. He turned into the first boys' restroom he found and leaned against the door, gasping between sobs to catch his breath.

Well, everyone had warned him, hadn't they? Mercedes, his dad, and even Karofsky had told him the hate was still there, under the surface, ready to boil over and scald him with the tiniest provocation. But he'd ignored them all, hadn't seen the discreet glares or heard the whispered insults in the hallways. He'd been distracted by a couple of weeks of happiness and fun with Blaine, and he'd been lured right back into a trap. This stupid dance had been one big stage for the entire school to humiliate him on.

Despite himself, he wished Blaine had come with him. Maybe this wouldn't feel so terrible, like such a cruel, unbearable injustice, if only he didn't have to go through it alone. But of course, wishing was pointless. Blaine didn't want him. That much was as painfully obvious as this school's attitude toward his sexuality.

Kurt felt another wave of tears spill from his eyes and his nose starting to run, and somehow found it in him to move his legs and carry himself to the sink, pulling out a handful of paper towels and wiping the moisture from his face. He looked in the mirror, saw the tears still streaming down his cheeks, saw the pain and embarrassment and fear on his own face. Something in his own eyes was calling to him, and he stared at his reflection for a long moment, trying to place it.

And then he gasped with sudden recognition.

Here it was again, right in front of him. That look. He had seen it on his own face before, of course. Two weeks ago exactly - when he'd stood at the mirror in the boys' locker room, shaking and gasping from the terrible memory of that kiss with Karofsky - he'd worn this very expression. One of dread and terror and misery.

But he'd seen it more recently, too, he realized. Across a different face. A dark, handsome, perfect set of features that had suddenly twisted and pulled into this very expression and shouted at him to get out and stay out.

Scared. Scarred.

And then Kurt knew, without having to wonder if he was crazy or grasping or making things up, why Blaine had said no with such fierce certainty when he'd invited him along. Why he'd gotten angry and retreated behind that mask of indifference and hardness. Why he'd lashed out and pushed him away.

Why he hadn't come tonight.

Kurt couldn't have known he was wrong about that last part.

Blaine had left school immediately after confronting Karofsky, then Kurt, outside of the French classroom on Friday afternoon, too shaken and upset by the cold way Kurt had talked to him to even think of finishing the day, and spent the rest of the night chain-smoking his way through three packs of cigarettes and drinking what was left of the vodka in his fridge.

He swore he could still taste Kurt's lips on the bottle.

Sleep had been elusive for the second night in a row, and he'd spent the small hours of the morning alternating between swearing up a storm at Kurt in his head – how fucking dare he talk to him like that, make all those threats to fool around with other guys, when Blaine had been trying to apologize, for fuck's sake – and swearing up a storm at himself for messing everything up in the first place.

It was the latter voice that won out in the end, and the next day brought with it a grim determination to go to the fucking dance and set everything straight. He'd march in there and find Kurt, kiss him firmly on the lips, and claim him in front of everyone, secrecy and fear be damned. That beautiful boy was his, and no bad memory or bone-deep trauma was going to take him away.

And so, Blaine had come. In fact, he'd been one of the first to arrive at the school, dressed in one of his nicer shirts – a striped button-down he hadn't worn in years, a little tight across his chest and biceps now, but still better than his assortment of band tees for this sort of thing – and his neatest pair of jeans. He'd walked from his hotel to the high school and was almost to the parking lot by 8 o'clock, as the first couples started to show up in limos and borrowed BMWs and excitedly entered the gym.

Then he'd thrown up.

The mere sight of the guys in tuxedos, greeting each other with high fives and loud jokes about their friends' suits or bowties while their dates giggled and fussed over their hair, had turned his legs to jelly and his stomach into a pitching sea of anxiety.

He couldn't go in. He wanted to. He wanted to so, so badly. He wanted to see Kurt and dance with him and make sure he knew exactly how much Blaine loved - no, liked, liked - being with him. How much he looked forward to touching him and hearing his voice and breathing him in every single day.

Blaine watched for over an hour from the edge of the football field, hoping he would glimpse Kurt when he arrived with his friends and find it in him to go inside, but he didn't see him. He saw more of the same. Loud football and hockey players making crude comments about what they hoped to do with their girlfriends after the dance, clapping each other on the back and letting their hands wander low over the girls' dresses.

He puked two more times behind the bleachers, and went home.