Blaine woke up late the next day and the first thing he saw in the morning sun was a pair of bright eyes, grey with a hint of blue, smiling at him. He had just enough time to think that these were the most beautiful eyes in the world, and how come he hadn’t seen it up till now, before his stupid brain decided to wake up and provide him with the exact reason for Kurt’s being here, complete with audiovisual prompts. He saw his friend’s face grow serious, then worried, then terrified, and wanted to ask what was wrong, but somehow couldn’t get the words out through a weird haze creeping in on him. He heard the familiar voice plead “Blaine, you’ve got to breathe, please, it’s all right, just breathe”, then in the blackness that surrounded him now there was a choked “No, you can’t do this now, breathe damn it!” and there were arms gathering him, pulling him up to a warm, solid chest and the touch was good, so different from the memories. Someone was holding him, rocking him gently and speaking softly, and even though it hurt his shoulder, it was amazing, because it meant that he survived, that the pictures in his head were just that, pictures from the past, and couldn’t really touch him. The weight that had been settling heavier and heavier on his chest lifted now, the darkness was dissipating. There were tears in Kurt’s eyes when Blaine blinked and looked up.

“Don’t you ever do that again, Blaine Anderson. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry. What did I do?”

“You stopped breathing, dummy. For a minute, if not more. I thought you were dying.” Kurt’s hands were shaking hard when he pulled away. Blaine could barely contain a groan of disappointment at the loss of contact, but it was understandable, of course. “I was so scared!”

“I’m sorry. I just… remembered. I panicked.”

Kurt squeezed his hand. “How do you feel?”

“Better. But I could kill for a shower.”

“Will you be able to go by yourself?” There was a blush on his friend’s cheeks.

“I think so.”

“Good. I’ll leave you toiletries, towels and some clean clothes on the counter then.” Kurt went to the bathroom and came out a minute later. “I’ll be right here, call if you need me.”

Blaine got up and stretched stiffly. Apparently the long sleep did him good, for he was feeling much stronger than the day before, the weariness and shaking almost entirely gone. But memories of the assault left him feeling itchy, sticky, disgusting. The shower was a blessing. He scrubbed his skin under the spray of scalding water until it was lobster red, trying to wash off every last remainder of the unwanted touch. Afterwards, he even managed to get dressed without hurting his shoulder further or embarrassing Kurt with requests for help. Now that would have been awkward… He didn’t dare to look in the mirror though – it meant he wasn’t able to shave, but the thought of looking at himself made him slightly nauseous. When he went out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, the bed was made and Kurt smiled at him over a book he was reading.

“Hello, sunshine.” Blaine seriously doubted he had anything in common with such a cheerful thing these days, but the endearment warmed his heart. “Coffee and blueberry muffins, how does that sound?”

“Heavenly,” he lied. He was feeling sick, but he didn’t want to be any trouble or worry his friend.

“Good, because that’s what we’re having for breakfast. I’ll go and bring it up here.”

“Maybe… I can go with you? I’m not being a very good guest, sitting up here all the time.”

“Are you ready to conquer stairs? Both ways? Because I’m not carrying you up later. Besides, there’s no one there anyway. Dad and Carole had this Sunday out of town brunch date planned for weeks. They said they’d cancel, but I promised I’d take good care of you in their absence.” Another spread of warmth shot through Blaine’s chest. “Carole prepared lunch for us, so you won’t be subjected to my cooking just yet, and they will be back by three. Oh, and dad said that if you’re strong enough, he’ll take you home to get some of your things.”

Blaine was glad that Kurt went downstairs after that and couldn’t see the tears in his eyes. There was an ocean of emotions swelling deep within him that he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet. But the thought that this family just took him in, took care of him, kept taking care of him, simply because he was hurt, scared and alone, and just needed it – it moved him deeply. He never knew someone could care for him just because, not due to family obligations or his good grades, talents, charm or whatnot. And this way of caring – just accepting him, being there for him, not pushing, not lecturing, not asking for anything, but being ready to talk or sit in silence with him – it was new too.

It seemed wrong, but he felt more loved and cared for here than he had ever felt in his own home. If his parents weren’t in Europe, he would sit alone all the time anyway. They would look in on him in the evenings, after their long office hours and business dinners, to ask if he needed anything and maybe (in his father’s case) deliver one of their patented “That’s what you get for being gay” speeches. They would strongly discourage reporting his… attack – ”You don’t need this kind of shameful thing in your records”, they would insist, meaning “We don’t want people to know what you are”. And what did Burt Hummel say? “It’s not your fault”, “You didn’t deserve it”, “He has to be arrested and punished”.

He could hear Kurt singing in the kitchen now. He did it all the time, always singing or humming while his hands were busy doing something that didn’t require his full attention. Blaine had a feeling that half the time Kurt wasn’t even aware of it. He stood in the doorway to listen. The song sounded familiar and when he recognized it, his chest tightened with affection. The boy downstairs sang quietly enough that Blaine knew it wasn’t something chosen specifically for him to hear, and that moved him even more, because it meant that even when Kurt was alone, he kept thinking and worrying about him. The clear voice was flowing over the clinking of plates and gurgling of the coffee-maker:

Light footsteps on the stairs made Blaine duck back into the bedroom and wipe his eyes quickly. Kurt was humming something he didn’t recognize when he came in with a tray loaded with plates of food and two mugs of steaming coffee. And even though Blaine faked his enthusiasm for the idea of breakfast earlier, feeling nauseous, suddenly it all smelled delicious and tasted even better. He was sure it had a lot to do with the side-dish of beautiful, warm smiles it came with.

They spent Sunday just lazing about (“it’s what Sundays were made for, Blaine, apart from planning next week’s outfits”). They were watching the first three parts of Harry Potter, sprawled on the bed (Kurt let Blaine raid his DVD collection and choose the movies, obviously), they were talking about the usual (safe, easy, non-life-altering) stuff or just sitting in comfortable silence while Kurt’s iPod played on shuffle in the background. Most of the time Blaine felt almost fine. But there were moments when he lost control over his thoughts and snapped back to the horror of that stuffy little dorm room, panic stealing his breath. There were minutes when he wanted to find a wire brush and scrub at his skin where he could still feel Eric’s hands and lips. Several times there were seconds when he wanted to just not be. And every time it happened, Kurt just started talking about something, anything, or humming under his breath, providing distraction, a way back to reality, to safety.

All Blaine wanted was to stop thinking about that night, to forget it happened, to erase it from his memory forever. To be normal again. He wanted someone to obliviate him. There was just this slight problem that nobody could.

They ate dinner downstairs that evening, with Kurt’s parents, and afterwards Blaine felt well enough to accept Mr. Hummel’s offer to go get his things. His shoulder protested during the car ride but having his own clothes and stuff was well worth it. By the time he went to bed that night, he was exhausted. Kurt went to Finn’s room after making sure his friend had everything he needed and Blaine fell asleep almost immediately.

He’d managed to appear calm and collected since he came home the day before (well, apart from that short panic attack he allowed himself when he was certain Blaine was in the shower), because he knew it wasn’t him and his feelings that mattered right then. He needed to be there – and strong – for his friend, who was oh-so-much more than a friend and that made it infinitely worse. But now he was alone and all the images and emotions from the past 30 hours assaulted him, and he just lost it for a while.

All day he watched Blaine discreetly and noticed everything – the way his smile never reached his eyes anymore. The bruises on his wrists and the way he bothered his cut lower lip with his teeth. The pain in his beautiful eyes as he got lost in thought every now and then. The annoyance when he had to take the painkillers for his shoulder. Hands clenching so tight sometimes that there were purple crescents where fingernails dug in afterwards. The feeling that he’d just given up on himself.

Kurt wanted, more than anything, to just go back to his room, take Blaine in his arms and hold him all night, speaking softly about the world not being all bad, about how perfect Blaine was to him, how he would be there for him no matter what, how much he cared. To tell him that he would never – ever – give up on Blaine. But he couldn’t do that, could he?

He was unable to fix it all for his friend and it was killing him. He hated the man that did it to him with such force it scared him. He felt guilty, like he could have done more to prevent it – but could he really? The pillow was all wet when he finally managed to fall asleep, only to wake up with a start after what felt like minutes.

Something was wrong.

Then he heard it again, a high whimpering sound. No no no don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. I don’t want to. No.

He was up in a heartbeat, on the way to his bedroom across the hall in another. He passed his dad in the doorway.

“I’ve got it,” he whispered and the older man nodded and leaned against the door, deep sadness in his eyes.

Kurt sat on the bed where Blaine was thrashing, careful not to touch him.

“Blaine, it’s me. It’s Kurt. You’re safe. Wake up, you’re safe, I’m here.”

Blaine’s hand shot out and grabbed his, pulling him forcefully down on the bed. His amber eyes opened, the look of utter horror slowly dissipating.

“Kurt,” he sounded half-asleep still.

“I’m here.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t, I promise.” He laid down by the other boy, his hand still squeezed in a death grip.

“Can you… Could you hold me for a while? And sing? Your voice calms me down.”

It required a bit of rearrangement, but then they were facing each other, Kurt’s arms carefully embracing Blaine, who cuddled closer and hid his face on his friend’s chest.

Burt stood in the doorway, amazed. He knew how much trouble with physical contact Blaine had right now – mere hours ago he gasped and jerked away violently when Carole patted his hand during dinner. He tolerated Burt’s touch, but wasn’t really comfortable with it. Yet with Kurt it was a completely different matter – not only was Blaine fine with it, he actually reached out to take his hand, asked to be held. It was a testament to the amount of trust and comfort between these two.

He smiled at the boys and went back to bed, leaving them to sleep together yet again. Their doing anything inappropriate was not on his list of things to worry about today.

Kurt sung quietly, sweetly: