Blaine waited until he lost count of the hours he had spent staring at the ceiling. He feels like he’s wading a river trying to reach the bank on the other side, except there isn’t one. He tentatively touched his cheek and realized that it didn’t hurt at all. Blaine blinked and tried to replay the scene and only came up with his own mistakes. He knew he needed to apologize.
He stay there, lying on the carpet, shivering from the cold again. It might have been his overwhelming feelings, if he had any. He had grown accustomed to closing himself off. His fingers danced, pressing down and tugging at the carpet, the familiar melody running through his head. At times the melody was all he had left to cling to. He closed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the floor, tapping out the notes. The only time opened his eyes when he heard the silence shattering sound. A single loud, soul-wracking sob erupted his concentration and he ached. He ached to have to the ability to say it all, to feel something other than this misery and self-loathing. He ached to find that in Kurt Hummel. It started shakily at first, barely noticeable over the shower noise, then it grew steadier. Kurt’s sobs that slowly died away after several minutes. Blaine kneaded his eyes with his palms and curled into himself even more. His body was clearly starved as it reacted at a single blissful sigh. Maybe that had just been his head. Why would he be sighing like that if he had just been crying? Blaine shook his head and began to crawl closer to the wall, but decided that was too much work and settled somewhere in between the space from the wall and his bed. He willed his body not to react to the sighs and sobs that were making it difficult to close himself off. Why had Kurt Hummel been able to get under his skin in only a few instances? He muttered a curse word and crawled to his desk, retrieving his pencil and notebook.
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Kurt Hummel had never felt this hollow, never felt this broken. This feeling was twenty times worse than every bullying scenario he encountered, because he allowed his anger to bring himself as low as his previous attackers. The terror and disbelief that flickered in Blaine’s eyes; he would never forgive himself for that.
Slowly, he adjusted the water and hissed softly as his limbs protested the small movement. He must have been lying in this tub for at least an hour and a half, if not more. Closing his eyes and sinking further down the slick surface, he tries not to cry. Kurt tells himself he needs to get out and do his skin routine because his skin will be so disgusting and pruned when he steps out of this safe shell that he might have to double the daily dose. But instead of doing that he twists the knob further and lets the scalding hot water rain down on his stomach, legs, and chest. He wants to talk to Blaine because the black-haired boy deserves it. He deserves so much more than the way Kurt reacted. In a whirl of motion, he has a towel wrapped around him, the shower off, and is standing in front of the dark-stained cherry door. He raises his hand to knock but instead lets it drop back to his side. He never realized how much he had been aching for the boy blocked by a thick door. He felt a chill pass through him as he wonders if Blaine was in the same state he found him yesterday. Kurt reaches out for the doorknob, grasping the cold metal and takes a deep breath. It can last until tomorrow, he tells himself, and he may be extremely upset. Kurt is still gripping the doorknob when he hears some shuffling on the other side. He can’t tell what his feelings are as he turns and walks into his identical red and blue bedroom.
“I’m sorry, Blaine Anderson.” Kurt whispers before he opens his French textbook and recites phrases until he falls into a fitful sleep. To say Kurt had a dream would be sugar coating it, he had something that was more like every horrible experience he ever went through mashed together. He watched helplessly as his mother was being lowered into the ground, he felt himself being slammed into the lockers, he walked outside to see hurtful words spray-painted across the side of his Navigator. Lastly, he saw his spirit float out of his body and float helplessly by as he slaps Blaine. He wakes up at three in the morning, his fists clenching his pillow and tears trailing down his cheeks. Breathing seems to become difficult as his abdomen tightens. He’s breathing so haggardly that he fears he will get sick. Kurt rolled to face his window and stayed motionless as he watched several different Dalton students scale the back wall and drop down onto the perfectly manicured lawn. He almost smiles as he recognizes Wes and David. He knows they’re most likely sneaking back from the girl’s school that is located four blocks away and then it hits him again. Every overwhelmingly oppressive feeling hits him again, threatening to pull underneath a dark blanket of misery. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries deep breathing which has no effect on the fact that he feels this way. He sits up after several seconds and swings his legs over the side, his toes instinctively wiggling in the soft carpet. The dej� vu flashes in his head to the morning before Blaine Anderson entered his life. He almost wished he had said no but that would change nothing about his father.

Kurt stands up and for the first time thinks about the probability of Blaine killing someone. Blaine’s height makes him seem much weaker than he actually is. His arms and stomach are so defined that he knows he’s very strong despite his size. Kurt comes to the conclusion that it’s not a likely possibility but Blaine is capable of it. Grabbing his ballpoint pen and a piece of paper, he flicks on his desk lamp and begins to write.