DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title is from "Get Busy Living Or Get Busy Dying (Do Your Part To Save The Scene And Stop Going to Shows)" by Fall Out Boy.

This was originally posted on Tumblr back in January, but there's not enough (see: none) of Skank!Kurt on here, and there really needs to be. So I suppose that warnings would be: sex tape made by minors, slut-shaming, homophobic language, bullying, attempted non-con by an OC.

Tumblr is here (endofadream)

Blaine Anderson usually lives for Thursdays and its after-school glee dance rehearsal, but today when he walks into school he's glowing, unable to keep from smiling and completely unwilling to as the doors shut behind him. He catches a few odd glances from others as he walks past them towards his locker, but he's grown used to them since becoming friends-with-benefits (the school doesn't know about the benefits part, but Blaine's more than willing to guess that they suspect it anyway) with Kurt Hummel of the Skanks.

Kurt. Blaine just barely stops himself from sighing dreamily like a teen movie cliché. He clutches his messenger bag closer as he turns another corner and is greeted with more stares from people looking up from the glowing screens of their phones; he holds his head high and breezes past them with a casual determination he's adopted and perfected since the beginning of the semester. Last night he'd had Kurt over and…it'd been different. There hadn't been haste, no rushing and fuck mes. It had just been them, together, slow and sweet and powerful, and something blooms warm and encompassing from Blaine's heart at the memory of Kurt so compliant and unguarded below him, no biting words on his tongue, no sarcasm and endless wit.

How did we go from fucking in the backseat of my car to…to making love? The phrase pops up unannounced, surprising Blaine, and he takes a second to assess the truth, the late realization that what he and Kurt are doing now just might be a far cry from their earlier agreement of you're hot for a nerd, and you're gay and available, so we shouldn't let something like that go to waste.

Two boys walk by as Blaine's turning the dial of his lock, and he hears the hushed hiss of a whisper as they go past. He can't help but hunch up, setting his jaw and feeling fear and paranoia swell up like a great cloud as he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. His hand trembles on his lock. You're okay, Blaine, you're fine. Just because they're whispering doesn't mean it's about you.

Even though he knows it'll probably be a waste of time, he wants to ask Kurt what, exactly, "they" are now. The door pops open after another twist, and Blaine looks for a moment at the photo of him and Kurt on his locker door, smiling fondly as he takes in Kurt's easy smile, the swoop of his pink-streaked hair and the glint of his eyebrow and nose rings.

Like everyone else, Blaine had been more than a little intimidated by Kurt. His devil-may-care attitude, chain-smoking proclivity, and his eerie ability to skip class and somehow still remain on the high honors list without breaking a sweat is something that still makes Blaine jealous. His spot on the list is maintained semester after semester by hard word, detailed notes, and a lot of after-school sessions.

Kurt is…well, he's Kurt, and Blaine will never regret any of his choices that have led him to this moment in his life. They'd been partnered together for a class project, and Blaine remembers clearly (blushingly) that heavy ball of dread mixed with excitement sitting in the pit of his stomach as Mr. Dreyfus called Kurt's name after Blaine's own and Kurt had turned around, eyebrow raised in an attempt at neutrality as he'd rested his arm over the back of his chair; Blaine remembers blushing and looking down as Kurt had continued to stare. And so what if most of his friends side-eye him warily now that he's become friends with Kurt and has been seen (grudgingly) skipping class more than once? Kurt makes him happy, and the Skanks, especially Quinn Fabray, aren't all that bad once you get to know them.

He puts his books from last night neatly in his locker and grabs the ones for today, opening the flap of his bag and slipping them in. Half-covered by his AP Calculus book is a blurry shot of Kurt kissing his cheek, and though Kurt had Blaine move it to the very back—"No one needs to know that I kiss people on the cheek, Anderson, are you trying to ruin my reputation?"—Blaine sees Kurt seek it out every time he's around when Blaine's locker door is opened. And every time it feels like something of a breakthrough, a crack in that tough exterior that the world sees to expose the bare nerve, the softer inner side, that only Blaine and Kurt's family sees.

Sneaking a glance at his watch, Blaine sees that it's still ten minutes before the first bell. Kurt should be here soon, sauntering in on worn-out Toms and clothed in simple layering options that are always brought to life by a scarf or a necklace or a carefully picked out jacket. Blaine bites his lip, ducks his head as he smiles to himself, and he looks at the photo on his locker door one more time before closing it.

"So, Blaine Anderson, glee club co-captain and editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, how does it feel to be ranked up there in infamous popularity with the likes of Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian?"

Blaine blinks and pushes up his glasses, taking a moment to focus as Jacob Ben-Israel appears in the space that the open door of his locker had once hid. A microphone is shoved unceremoniously in his face, and behind thick-rimmed glasses beady, watery eyes watch him ravenously. It feels like Blaine's the small mouse faced with the predatory hawk, and he has nowhere to go or hide. Unease begins to bubble up, and Blaine looks over his shoulder for a moment to make sure that no one is behind him. He turns around and looks into the round lens of the heavy camera held in one of the AV Club kid's hands. "I, um, what?"

Jacob holds out his iPad, which Blaine cautiously takes. It's open to Safari, the page the first on Jacob's blog, and there, in unmistakably good quality with black bars in all the right places, is a still from a video that Blaine's only ever seen once.

It's him. And Kurt. It's from a video that was made on a less-than-sober night a few months ago. It's from a video that Blaine had thought was hidden carefully away on Kurt's computer, folder inside a folder on a password-protected account. It's from a video where Blaine had had the best orgasm of his life, and beneath the censored snapshot of Blaine on Kurt's lap, head tossed back and hand wrapped around his own cock while he rides Kurt's, is an embedded link.

Blaine is suddenly uncomfortably aware of the camera on him, of the microphone and the silence as Jacob and the AV kid wait for his reaction. He knows now why everyone has been staring and watching and whispering as he'd walked past—they've seen. They've seen the results of a drunken snap decision and the sober decision to keep it but make sure that it's safe and secure. Or at least, that's what Kurt had told him. And Blaine had believed it. Stupid, naïve nerd Blaine Anderson had believed someone infamous for cutting people down with no remorse, and all because he thinks—no, he's positive—that he's in love with him.

It's funny how everything can crumble in an instant, starting a landslide that threatens to take you helplessly with it. All Blaine's ever wanted to do was get through high school without too much incident, barring that he's gay and openly so, graduate, and go to college far away from here. And now there's a sex tape out there, and someday someone that Blaine knows or works for might find it.

"You can't…this isn't…that was private." Blaine's horrified to hear his voice so small, so childlike and breakable. He feels his life dangerously close to crashing, crumpling unsupported like a house of cards, and imagines his parents finding out, imagines his brother and his extended family somehow seeing it. His hand trembles and the iPad shakes dangerously; Blaine wants to drop it, wants it to crack and shatter and blow apart.

But it doesn't. Jacob takes it back, looking smug. "What do you have to say? Not even graduated and already you're up there with Hollywood's finest."

Blaine's chin wobbles, lower lip trembling, and everything around him blurs and fuzzes to an oil-painting smear. The floor feels unsteady against his feet, and his chest feels tight. He needs to run, needs to get out of here, get away from the whispers and the stares—

"What the hell is going on here?"

Kurt's touch eases Blaine's panic, but doesn't fully abate it, and he's still hot all over, trembling and breathing hard as Kurt gently touches the small of Blaine's back. His familiar scent of Drakkar Noir and cigarettes is the next deep lungful Blaine takes in, and Blaine wants to be angry, wants to pull Kurt aside and ask why, what did I ever do to you to deserve this humiliation?

Kurt turns to Jacob, mouth rose in a sneer, and Blaine's only faintly pleased to see the step back Jacob takes, the flinch as he shifts the microphone over to Kurt and all but shoves the iPad in Kurt's face. The lump in his throat grows bigger and more painful with each frantic, thundering beat of his heart. He grips hard at the hem of his soft gray sweater, the one Kurt had picked out for him, and tries not to scream.

A minute goes by, then two, and Kurt finally hands the iPad back almost too calmly, face carefully neutral even as Blaine feels the press of Kurt's hand grow firmer and harder against his back. "You delete that right now, you piece of shit, and say it was photoshopped."

"I—I can't. Everyone's already s-seen it, and the v-video—"

Kurt knocks the microphone away, steps forward and grabs onto the front of Jacob's shirt. "You'd better find a good coffin, then, weasel," he hisses, and Jacob squeaks, mouth opened in silent surprise as his eyes flit from Kurt's face to the AV kid's. Kurt shoves back, letting go, and Jacob stumbles on his feet, narrowly missing the lockers behind him. "No interview, got it? I don't want to have anything to do with your worthless blog, you pathetic fame monger."

They scatter, and finally Blaine sags against the locker bank, letting out a dry sob as Kurt steps in front of him to block him from the curious stares of people across the hall. He runs his hand over Blaine's face, shushes him in a soothing, quiet voice. "Calm down. Please. You'll make yourself sick. I know it looks bad, but we'll get through this."

"Every—everyone's seen uh—us," Blaine hiccups, and his gut flips, invisible fingers gripping tightly as it all finally hits him: everyone in the whole school-presumably-has seen him being fucked. He blanches, gripping hard onto his stomach at the sudden rush of nausea, of hard-gripping panic. "They saw our tape. How did they see it? How, Kurt?" His voice begins to slide up into hysteria, from thick to high-pitched words that quickly grow frantically louder.

"I know." Kurt's voice is tight, furious, and every so often he looks over his shoulder to shoot a glare at whoever is watching them. He keeps his hands on Blaine's shoulders, rubbing gently. "I'm going to find out who hacked my computer and fucking kill them."

"Was it you?" Blaine turns to Kurt, letting his hands fall into tight fists at his sides. He's unprepared for the hot, rushing tide of irrational anger that sweeps over him and knocks him helplessly off his feet. "Did you do it?"

Kurt blinks, takes a step back and looks surprised as his hands fall from Blaine's shoulders. "What?"

"Last night?" Blaine continues with no regard to Kurt's confused divot between his brows before his voice peters out and the anger wanes as quickly as it'd come. He looks furtively around, narrow-eyed against the sting of building tears, and sees all the people watching, waiting, listening for any sign of a breakdown from him—because it will be him, not tough Skank Kurt Hummel, who breaks first. "You let me…you told me you had never…"

"Blaine." Kurt's voice stops him, and with great difficulty he looks up and is met with a pained, torn look in Kurt's eyes that he's never seen before. Gentle fingers touch under his chin, then stroke across his cheek and curl into his hair as Kurt steps close. "Did you think last night didn't mean anything to me? Did you think I released our tape?"

Hearing it from Kurt's mouth, so clinical and questioning, makes Blaine squirm in shame, has him realizing the rash unfairness of how he'd just acted. How could he have even thought that for a second? Kurt may be bitter and cynical and biting, and may also be a pain in the ass most of the time, but he'd never deliberately hurt someone like that. Blaine shakes his head, shuffles his feet, and tries not to look over Kurt's shoulder like he so desperately wants to.

Kurt pulls him close, wrapping his arms around Blaine's back. Blaine melts easily against him with a sob, and no matter how tightly he squeezes his eyes shut the tears still come, hard and fast and hotly wet where they slide down his cheeks and soak into Kurt's scarf. Kurt rubs his back soothingly, whispering quietly into his ear. "Shh, shh, B, it's okay. Everything's gonna be okay. I'm here. I've got you."

"It won't be," Blaine sobs. His whole body trembles, and the nausea doesn't fully abate. They can't tell any administration without risking themselves in the process. All they can hope is that Jacob will take it down, but even then, there are still cell phones, the spoken word, the ability to save things onto computers and websites. When it's gone, it's not really gone. "Wheneh—whenever any—anyone sees us now this is ah—all they're gonna see."

Kurt pulls him closer, hugs him tighter, and presses his lips against Blaine's ear. "I promise you, baby, that it'll all be okay. We'll make it okay."

And Blaine's powerless to do anything but nod, pressing his face into the crook of Kurt's neck and grabbing harder onto Kurt's shoulders. He struggles to even his breathing, to swallow back his building headache. Neither of them notices that Kurt's said anything out of the ordinary.

— -

By second period, Blaine knows without a doubt that everyone has seen or at least heard. On his way to AP History he's hip-checked into the lockers, and he collides with a grunt of pain, a sharp flare up his side that sparks hot in his brain as his books fall to the floor with a loud clatter; before he can right himself and look up the jocks are gone, laughing as they turn the corner and don't look back.

When he bends down to pick up the books he'd dropped, he hears a whispered slut as someone walks by; it's followed by more laughter, both male and female this time. Tears sting Blaine's eyes, and he stays knelt down, taking off his glasses to pretend to clean them as he wipes his eyes with the backs of his fingers while rummaging through his bag for his lens cloth.

It isn't the first time he's been whispered about or even hissed at, but this time it hurts because none of it is even remotely true: both he and Kurt had been virgins before their arrangement, and even now the amount of times they've had sex can be ticked off on one hand. At least when the whispered insults were fag and homo they'd been crudely and hurtfully true.

Blaine isn't a slut. He's never done anything bad—he's never even had sex with anyone else. But this is high school, and he's suddenly acutely aware of how very wrong things can go in just one day.

— -

He has third period French with Kurt, and even though he's fairly early by student standards the class is full when he walks in, all eyes trained on the door like they've been waiting. That feeling of being prey for a creature much, much bigger than himself returns, and Blaine feels his cheeks burn, feels, to his horror, his lip start to quiver again. He grabs the strap of his bag to ground himself and stave off the tears, clenches and holds his head high, and walks into the room.

His seat is in the back next to Kurt's, and though some looks are sympathetic and some words are consoling he gets more than enough jeers as he walks down the center aisle. He focuses on his breathing, in-out, in-out, on the placement of his feet in front of him, and tries to drown out the hissed whispers.

Slut.

Whore.

Fag.

"Are you and Hummel gonna make another tape? I loved watching you take his dick like a champ, Anderson. I didn't think you had it in you—you always seemed a little prudish and frigid to me."

This one is said by a jock, a broad, well-built guy with an unbecoming sneer who's more than likely one of the hockey players, whose name that Blaine doesn't know. He sets his jaw, squeezes his eyes shut and pretends not to hear him, pretends that the following giggles and whispers have nothing to do with him. it's the only way he'll make it through this day with any shred of dignity and self-respect left, and even that possibility is looking more and more impossible as time goes on. He feels like he's slowly descending into madness, into hell.

Blaine finally makes it to his desk when Kurt walks in, and this time there are no whispers, but every heard still turns as Kurt saunters toward the back, glaring at everyone and barking dares to say what's on their minds. He falls into his seat next to Blaine's, slamming his bag hard on the desk, and several shoulders flinch as everyone's heads turn quickly towards the blackboard.

"How's it going?" Kurt asks. Their teacher, Ms. Duncan, walks in, and the hard, flint-like look in Kurt's eyes softens and melts; the small smile he offers as he reaches over and brushes his fingers across the knuckles of Blaine's tensed hand is genuine, and Blaine holds on to this feeling, keeps it close to his chest as he commits to memory this uncommon gentleness.

Blaine shrugs, tries to play it nonchalant as Ms. Duncan writes on the blackboard the page number they're supposed to turn to. "Like I'm the new school slut, but hey, I'm used to it. At least now I'm being called one because I've actually had sex, not just because I'm gay."

Kurt looks at him sadly, mouth thinning and tightening. "This isn't fair," he whispers angrily, turning with more force than probably necessary to the page on the board. "Everyone knows that all the jocks and the Cheerios fuck all the time and probably do a hell of a lot more than we have, but suddenly we're the scum of the social chain? That's fucking bullshit."

Blaine feels his lips move half-heartedly into an attempt at a smile, and he shrugs again, picking up his pencil and writing the words down into his notebook. "No one's bothering you," he points out, and despite himself he can't stop the churning, hot bitterness in his stomach.

"That's because I have established myself as someone you don't want to mess with unless you want the full weight of the Skanks making your social life a living hell," Kurt replies, scratching down a sentence quickly. He turns to Blaine again, reaches over and grasps his hand, holding it in the space between their desks. He gives Blaine a valiant attempt at a reassuring smile. "You're not a slut, Blaine."

Blaine squeezes Kurt's hand, swallowing hard and blinking quickly. He pushes his glasses up with his other hand and wishes he could just forget all the whispers and taunts that won't seem to leave his head. He tries not to believe them, tries to forget them, but every time they're said and he remembers what he's done, he begins to feel more and more like-maybe they're true. "I know."

He just wishes that he could believe it.

— -

Blaine hides out under the bleachers at lunch with Kurt and the rest of the Skanks, too scared to begin thinking about facing the cafeteria. Even though it's December and overcast and cold, and Blaine had left his jacket in his locker, he refuses to go back in and get it, so instead he huddles up against a support beam, arms wrapped around his torso as he breathes in brisk air and the acrid scent of smoke.

Mac gives him a sympathetic look as she flicks her cigarette to the concrete. "I don't think you're a slut, little B," she says truthfully. "I think you're pretty awesome. Y'know, for an overachieving nerd."

Blaine gives her a wan smile, declining her offer—again—for a cigarette as she lights up another one. "Thanks, Mac," he says. He rolls his eyes, but for the first time all day he feels the tense knots in his body loosen, feels a little less sick and stressed from it all. Here are people that the rest of the student body doesn't, or is unwilling to, understand, treating him like they normally would, scandal or not.

"Anyone who finally manages to get Kurt laid is an automatic hero," Quinn says, nudging Kurt with her elbow and grinning after finishing applying a fresh coat of red lipstick. "Maybe now he'll stop being such a bitch."

"Ha ha. You're a regular Robin fucking Williams, Q," Kurt says sarcastically, taking a drag of his own cigarette and blowing the smoke in her face. She waves it off, coughing, but she's still smiling at Kurt when she recovers.

Though Blaine is freezing and hungry, and though the smoke aggravates the bearable throb of his earlier crying-induced headache, for the first time all day he feels normal. No one is mentioning the blog post, which has been since taken down after the rest of the Skanks cornered Jacob in a deserted hallway earlier in the day, and no one is looking at him any differently. It's the first time all day that he's actually felt like everything just might be okay.

— -

The sting of the repetitious insults begins to fade throughout the day until finally Blaine doesn't flinch, doesn't hurt, doesn't feel anything when he hears slut or whore. No one is bothering to be more creative because no one is really bothering to slow down as they pass or Blaine passes them, and Blaine's come to discover that the faster he walks the fewer slurs he hears.

The anxiety returns as glee rehearsal nears. He hasn't seen anyone from the club all day because he'd skipped lunch, and though they're the friends that have stuck around despite initial protest at mingling with the Skanks, Blaine still feels small, insecure, afraid that they're finally going to reject him, too, and he's going to lose everything he's spent so hard working for since his transfer.

Kurt, who always waits around for Blaine when he has any after-school meeting, leaves Blaine at the entrance to the auditorium with a rare public kiss and a quick hand squeeze before disappearing around the corner with a swish of his hair and a thump of his own messenger bag.

Blaine pauses, hesitating with a hand outstretched toward the handle of one of the double-doors, and takes a deep breath. No matter what, he can know that he's at least tried to be as good as he possibly can be. If they all leave him, he's still got Kurt. He still has the club, even if it might be awkward and less than cordial.

He doesn't expect to be hugged the instant he steps into the room, barely catching sight of the well-lit stage and the figures of a few members stretching on the stage before they begin. He belatedly brings his arms around in a hug, and finally he realizes that it's Tina; he brushes his hand over her hair and awkwardly pats her on the back. "Uh, hi?"

She pulls away, and Blaine's shocked to see a faint shine of tears in her eyes. Behind her Blaine can see Finn and Sam ascending the steps. They look a little unsure, but they don't look disgusted, and they definitely don't look like they want to kick Blaine out. "Oh, Blaine, I am so, so sorry."

Blaine raises an eyebrow. "Why are you sorry?"

"We heard," Sam says, rubbing his hands on his thighs and giving Blaine a sympathetic look. "About the…tape or whatever. On that dweeb's blog."

"Yeah, man," Finn says, and though he does look slightly uncomfortable, Blaine can't blame him since Kurt is involved, too. "That was not cool. I heard the Skanks got to him, though."

Blaine smiles a little at the memory of them retelling the story. He shrugs, setting down his bag. "It's not like it was your fault or anything. Jacob is good at hacking. And everyone's always wondered about the oddest couple at McKinley." He lets out a chuckle that no one else joins in on.

Tina worries her hands together, then ties her hair up in a ponytail like she needs something to do with them. "But it's not fair! Don't act like it's not a big deal, Blaine, because it is."

Santana walks up the steps, Brittany in tow, and Blaine's shocked to see that even she looks sympathetic, eyebrows creased and mouth pulled tightly down. She even scoops Blaine into a tight hug that leaves him gasping for air and squaring his shoulders to ease a little bit of the ache her strong grip had put there.

Brittany steps forward, gently grabbing onto Blaine's arm as she leans in to murmur, "You and Kurt together were really hot. Santana and I actually had to find an empty classroom, but don't tell her I told you."

Blaine looks over, cheeks burning at Brittany's stage whisper, and sees Santana, cheeks equally red, looking around like she hadn't heard anything. Blaine squeezes Brittany's hand and smiles. "Thanks, Brit. It'll be our little secret, okay?" he says with a wink.

After a moment Rachel finally appears, clapping her hands together and looking more chipper than the mood calls for; Blaine knows she's just trying to put everyone back in a good mood, and Blaine thinks it might actually be working. Being here, with people who don't judge him even at his most challenging moment, is already giving him more hope than he's felt all day.

"Come on, guys! When we win Nationals then we'll really give the people in this school something to talk about."

— -

Kurt's running late today, Blaine notices as he opens his locker and shoves his books he needs for homework into his bag. He piles his clothes from today in on top, leaving his workout clothes on from rehearsal under the premise of going home, showering, and changing.

As he's about to close his locker Blaine feels a strong shove against his shoulder; he slams into the lockers, rattling the others in the row, and winces as he slides to the ground. When he looks up, he sees that it's the same jock from French class that had been harassing him earlier in the day.

"Fancy seeing you here, Anderson," he says.

Blaine stands up, rubbing the shoulder that had slammed into the lockers. He doesn't say anything, afraid that if he does it will be the wrong thing, and the jock takes his silence as compliance as he steps forward and corners Blaine against the lockers.

"I always thought that you were a tight little prude, Blaine," he says. "But you proved me wrong." Blaine swallows, blinking owlishly from behind his glasses, and feels fine tremors of fear run through his body. Heat rushes up under his arms as he starts to sweat, and he becomes aware of the difference in height and build between them.

"Please," Blaine finds himself whispering.

"How about you jump on my dick," the jock continues, raising his lip in what Blaine thinks might be his attempt at a seductive sneer, and one of his hands rests low on Blaine's hip, hot and unfamiliar and wrong over his sweater, "and ride it like you did that Skank's, you filthy little slut. I wanna watch you bounce on it over and over and beg me like the whore that you are."

Blaine's ears begin ringing, his cheeks slicked wet and hot in thin trails, and it takes him a moment to realize that he's crying, fear grasping at his heart with sharp claws. Pleas echo amidst static, please don't do this to me, leave me alone, please, and he doesn't even realize it's him doing it until a familiar voice cuts through, sharp and icy and absolutely venomous.

"Hey, fuckface, get the hell away from my boyfriend."

Kurt gets in a well-aimed right hook that has the jock stumbling back and Blaine slides to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and resting his forehead on them as he realizes how close he might have come to being seriously injured or ra—

Blaine squeezes his eyes shut, lets out a whimper and shakes his head, refusing to process that thought. No one would do that to him, not like this, unless he was a whore. Unless he was asking for it. Maybe-maybe everyone has been right all along. What kind of person makes a sex tape with their high school boyfriend? Only sluts do that.

He isn't sure how long he's down there, but when Kurt touches his arm gently his breath is heavy, winded, and Blaine looks up, blinks in shock behind his glasses at the blood smeared bright red on Kurt's knuckles, at the split in his lip and the impressive bruise blossoming over his left eye. The other guy is nowhere to be seen.

Blaine cautiously reaches a hand up, ghosts over the bruise, and Kurt winces, shifting away. Blaine swallows, wets his tongue and throat, and says hoarsely, "At least he didn't get your piercing."

Kurt laughs, shrugs, and turns serious, all in a matter of seconds. He rubs his split knuckles, says, "I'm glad you taught me the basics of boxing," and finally sighs heavily, like the weight of everything is too much. "Are you okay?"

Blaine shrugs, looking at the thick cotton of his sweatpants. "You didn't have to stand up for me."

Kurt looks confused. "Of course I was going to. That overdeveloped creep was forcing himself on you."

Blaine shrugs again, bites his lip and watches the circle where his tear falls darken. "I deserved it."

"Blaine, what are—?"

"I'm a whore," Blaine says simply, inhaling and closing his eyes as he words echo in his head. "Everyone thinks I am, so maybe I deserved it."

"No, you're not." Kurt's voice is definitive, and he forces Blaine's head up so their eyes meet. There is something so raw and honestly truthful there that Blaine almost feels like he shouldn't be seeing it, that it's-worse yet-a mirage. Kurt is so unpredictable most of the time that, even now, Blaine never really knows what he's thinking or how he's feeling. But now it's so clear, so obvious, that Blaine wonders how he'd missed it all along.

He bites his lip and knows he won't get anywhere arguing with Kurt. He changes tactics. "I heard what you…what you said."

"And?"

The fact that Kurt isn't denying it, that Kurt has a black eye and a split lip and aching knuckles, makes Blaine reach out, getting onto his knees as he cups Kurt's cheek. "Did you mean it?"

"That you're not a whore?" Kurt asks with a smile, and Blaine feels himself smiling back, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

"No, dummy. Am I really your boyfriend?"

Kurt leans in and presses their lips together, and though he winces and though the coppery taste of blood is still strong he doesn't part until Blaine feels like he'll pass out. "What do you think?" Kurt murmurs, running a hand through Blaine's hair. "You somehow managed to bewitch me, nerd, and there's no escaping it."

Blaine feels light and giddy, alone and secure like they're the only two people in the world, and he frames Kurt's face in his hands when he leans back in. He knows that later things may change, that he won't feel this good when he walks into school tomorrow, but for now, he forgets and takes Kurt's hand in his own.