Welcome to the new age

I'm radioactive

He hasn't slept since he came back from New York. Not really. He lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling and ignores the sick twisting of his stomach. He flips through the photo album Kurt gave him for his last birthday. He doesn't even remember what it felt like, to be happy like he is in those pictures.

There's a part of him that longs, so badly, to be that boy again. There's a part that scoffs at his naivete.

He passes out, usually, a couple hours before dawn.

He thinks he might be numb. Kurt hasn't spoken to him in weeks, not even to break up with him. The hope that Kurt would somehow find a way to forgive him flickered out as quickly as it lit inside him – he knows not to expect that. He knows he doesn't deserve to expect anything.

It's probably better this way, anyway. Blaine doesn't trust himself. He looks in the mirror to see if anything has changed, searching his own face, his eyes, his body for the demon, for the thing that's gone wrong in him. He just sees himself. That's somehow worse.

He tells his mother, when she asks. She's worried, she says. She wants to know if anything is wrong in school, and it's so far off that Blaine almost laughs. He doesn't. He just tells her that he and Kurt broke up. She leaves him alone after that, and he overhears her tell his father to give him space. He supposes it must be a relief, to them.

He was angry back then, he remembers. He was snappish at home and held his head up at school, through the desertion of one friend after another, through whispers and slurs, through pain and bruises and every blind eye from somebody who could have stopped it. He was defiant. He was alone then, too, but it was everybody else who was wrong, he knew it in his bones.

He tells Cooper, when he calls. He gets a truly sympathetic "I'm sorry, squirt" and a few trite platitudes before Cooper launches into an account of his most recent commercial audition, which he's a lock for, apparently. Blaine is grateful for probably the first time ever for his brother's pathological self-absorption.

The glee club stays away from him like he's contagious. Tina doesn't talk to him, hardly looks at him. Artie gives him uncomfortable smiles when their eyes meet. Brittany tells him straight out that she can't sit with him at lunch anymore. She pats his arm and explains, apologetically, "You hurt my favorite unicorn." Sam pulls out his best supportive bro act, but he gives it up pretty quickly when Blaine doesn't cooperate. The others take their cues from the seniors.

It's what he expected.

He goes to school, relying on coffee to keep him conscious, goes to glee, sits at the head of the table at student council meetings. He smiles his best smile, when he needs to. He does his homework. He maintains his 4.0 GPA. He doesn't fight Tina for solos. He tells Artie to cast him wherever he wants to in Grease. He fully expects to be T-bird number 4.

He lies awake at night and tries not to think.

He remembers reading Of Mice and Men his freshman year and feeling so very much for Lennie, who couldn't help but destroy the things he loved. Blaine understood the urge to cling with both hands and squeeze. He was painfully grateful at the time that he, at least, had the self-control to deny himself.

Lennie didn't understand what he was doing. He couldn't. It's what makes him such a tragic figure.

Blaine did.

It's a relief that there's no one left for him to hurt.

He destroyed the best thing in his life without a second thought. For nothing. For something that he knew could only make him feel worse. It made him feel sick.

He did it because it was easy. He did it because that's what he does. He runs away.

He did it because, deep down, he's always known what his clumsy hands are capable of.

He could see it happening, feel it like hands at his throat, like his hands stroking lovingly at the pulse point just before the final squeeze. His need suffocates. He couldn't stop it, he knew he couldn't stop it, so he pulled a knife instead.

He did it because he's weak.

&&&&&

It's a split second decision when he makes it. He's feeling restless. The quiet dark is driving him crazy.

Usually when he feels like this, he makes a trip down to the heavy bag in the basement. He hits hard and fast and doesn't have to think. It feels good.

It's different tonight. His skin doesn't feel right, itchy and too hot and not entirely his. He thinks about how long it's been since someone touched him. The last was probably Kurt, when he kissed him hello in New York. The thought makes his blood run cold.

He gets out of bed, gets dressed, wets his hair and runs a comb through it. His parents are out of town, so there's no need to be quiet. He grabs his fake ID from its hiding place in his bow tie bin.

The last time he was at Scandals was just about this time last year. Blaine heads straight for the bar. It's a memory he wants to purge.

He's a few drinks deep when someone asks him to dance. The guy is probably in his late twenties, average looking, looks at Blaine with clear interest. Blaine says yes. This is simple.

Dancing is nice. It makes him feel present in his body, the music and the rush of alcohol drowning out the endless loop of his thoughts.

This is what he needed, he thinks. And then the guy, what's-his-name, he slides his hands down Blaine's sides and around to the small of his back, and Blaine shivers with the pleasure of it. His grip is tight, and warm, and he pulls Blaine closer, so close he can feel the guy's chest on the inhale. He's real, flesh and blood and warm breath, and he's there. It's like Blaine's blood is singing with it, this hunger he's been ignoring, woken up and insatiable. His hands find their way up behind the guy's shoulders, and he presses in, reveling in the shift of bone beneath the guy's skin and the dampness of sweat leaking through his shirt. The guy's hands travel, up his back and down, down, down.

The guy buys him another drink when the song ends, and things take their natural course.

They end up in the back lot, the brick cold against Blaine's back and vibrating faintly with bass notes from within. The guy is on his knees. Blaine's head is tipped back, and he can see the stars and see his own breath coming hard and heavy. It feels good, but the best part is when the guy looks up at Blaine, lips parted and voice dark, and says, "God, you're pretty."

It doesn't feel like it should. He feels emptier, when they're done. The guy doesn't demand reciprocation, which makes Blaine happy, because that sick feeling is back. It churns with the alcohol in his stomach. He gulps down a glass of water from the bar to quell it.

He feels more sober now. It isn't really very far to his house. He drives slowly and looks four times both ways at intersections, and he's home before he knows it. The house is still quiet and still dark, and his mind is louder than ever. He's maybe a little drunker than he thought. He collapses on top of the covers, finding only enough energy to toe his shoes off before letting sleep take him under.

&&&&&

He does it again the next night, and the next. The pleasure of being seen, and touched, it makes up for everything else. The disgust has dulled by the end of the week, anyway.

He knows enough to know this isn't really what he needs, but it's what he can get.

He doesn't tell anyone. It's not hard to guess what they'd think. No, he's not for sale, but that's only because he's offering everything up for free.

They won't understand the kind of good it feels, that so many people want to take it.

&&&&&

He's always careful. He hides his hickeys, he doctors his hangovers, he smothers his exhaustion with a well-practiced smile. No one says anything.

It's been about two weeks when he sees the light of concern in his mother's eyes. She looks at him, really looks at him, and he has to stop himself from shifting under her gaze.

It's breakfast. Blaine is sipping at his coffee and pretending to read the paper. His mother is gulping hers down at the counter – she's about five minutes from being late for her first client. She sets her mug down.

"Blaine. Have you been sleeping well, sweetie?"

"No worse than usual."

"You just look...tired."

"Sectionals are this weekend."

There's a pause at this. Blaine doesn't look up, doesn't give in to her scrutiny.

"Are you sure there isn't something wrong? I know these last few months haven't been easy for you."

"I'm fine, Mom. Really."

He looks her in the eye, very best smile all over his face. She doesn't smile back.

"If there were something wrong, it would be okay, sweetie. Dr. Ramirez is only a phone call away."

"I don't need to talk to Dr. Ramirez."

"I know you don't need to. You can just want to. I know how much it helped, before."

He knows what he should do. He should smile and nod and make a vague noise of agreement. She would let it go and never have to see the frustration that's been winding tighter and tighter in him since he was beaten up at a school dance and his parents treated it like the problems were all in his head.

But he's got a headache and his stomach is still a little queasy, and he just doesn't have it in him.

"That isn't what helped. Boxing helped. Transferring to Dalton, that helped. Dr. Ramirez just sat there and never really listened to me and definitely couldn't have cared less about my 'difficulties.' I didn't go for me, Mom, I only ever went for you."

"Blaine, I..."

She looks at him like she doesn't know him, like she's seeing him for the first time. It's not a happy look. Blaine takes a deep breath and pulls the smile back on.

"I'm fine, Mom. I promise. I'm just a little on edge because of Sectionals. You know how it is."

She doesn't. She nods anyway.

"Alright. Well, good luck. Maybe you can get us tickets for this weekend."

It would have meant the world to him, last year. This year, he'll be swaying in the back. This year, it would just feel like pity.

"That's okay. I know Dad's got that conference."

"Then I'll go by myself. It would be nice to meet some of the other parents, anyway."

"It's really okay. You won't be missing much."

"I love to hear you sing. You know that."

He doesn't.

"I don't even have a solo."

She pauses. Her eyes narrow in. She opens her mouth, and Blaine doesn't want to know what's going to come out. He can guess, anyway.

"You're going to be late, Mom."

She glances at her watch and swears, mildly, under her breath. She sets her mug down in the sink with a clatter.

"We'll talk about this later," she calls as she pulls on her coat.

They don't.

&&&&&

It's a routine that works for him. He works hard at school, stays quiet at glee, keeps going to all the clubs that don't drive him crazy. He does his homework, fills out college applications, takes a certain ironic satisfaction in the fact that he's grown so good at pretending to care. He knows what people want to see when they look at him. He's stopped caring that it's a lie, when he delivers.

He keeps himself busy during the day, and at night, there's Scandals. He doesn't go every night, not after the first week or so, but most. He doesn't always hook up, either. Sometimes, the idea of someone's hands on his body makes his skin crawl. Others, it's enough to make him go breathless with need. Sometimes, he feels like an addict.

He sees Sebastian there for the first time a few weeks in. They chat, briefly, and Sebastian eyes him like it's his birthday and Christmas and he's gotten every single thing on his list. Blaine almost gives in, almost says yes, because why not? But then he hears Kurt's voice in his head, the hurt behind the accusation when he asked if it was Sebastian. It wouldn't be a betrayal, this time, because there's nothing left between them to betray. It doesn't matter. It still feels...wrong.

He hooks up with the mildly attractive blond who's been winking at him from down the bar, instead. It's an unsatisfying hand job in the bathroom, but it's enough.

Sebastian eyes him with disappointment and maybe a little concern, because, okay, that guy was probably in his forties and definitely had a wedding band, but Blaine's 18 and definitely not jail bait, and it's none of his business anyway. Blaine flashes him a cool smile and asks someone to dance, and they mostly avoid each other after that.

&&&&&

Kurt calls around mid-December. Blaine almost doesn't answer.

"Hello?"

There's a pause, and for a second, Blaine is sure he's hung up.

"Hi."

Blaine waits. Nothing.

"How are you?" he says, for lack of anything better. He really does want to know, it's important, but he knows he's not going to find out this way.

"I'm okay. You?"

"Fine."

Kurt sighs, impatient.

"Let's not do this. I'm sorry I didn't call before now. I just – I needed some time."

"I understand."

"I'm calling because I'm coming to Lima for Christmas, and I'd like us to meet. I really do want to talk to you, Blaine. About all of...this. I'm ready, now. I just think it would be better if we did it in person."

"Okay," he says, because there's nothing Kurt could ask that Blaine doesn't feel like he owes.

"I get in on the 21st. Will that work for you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Lima Bean, 4:00?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"I guess...I'll see you then."

"Yeah."

"Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"I just – I want you to know that just because I'm still...hurt, it doesn't mean I don't care about you."

"I know. I care about you, too."

"Blaine..."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. The 21st?"

"See you then."

"Goodbye, Blaine."

Kurt hangs up first. Blaine takes a deep breath, bites his tongue. He won't cry about this, he won't. It's the mess he made. He can deal with the consequences.

He marks the date on his calendar. He just writes "Kurt." It still feels like the blade of the guillotine, hanging over his head.

&&&&&

School lets out for winter break, and suddenly his days stretch out, long and empty.

He finishes his Christmas shopping. It doesn't take very long. He tells his parents he's going out to meet friends, then hits the winding, rural roads and drives and drives until the sun sets and his stomach growls, blasting David Bowie so loud he can't think. He ignores half-hearted texts from Sam, gets his coffee to go, marathons the DVDs that Cooper left behind when he moved out ten years ago. They're still in his room, alphabetized in the media cabinet like he'd care if they were rearranged. The whole room is a shrine to him, their successful son.

He submits his college applications. He doesn't really remember what he wrote. It should be enough to get him out of here, at least.

Finally, the day arrives.

He knows what to expect – Kurt wants closure, he needs to understand so that he can move on. Blaine can give him that.

That doesn't mean he wants to.

He doesn't know what he's going to say. He doesn't try to prepare. The best he can do is to be honest and look him in the eye.

It comes too soon.

He gets there early, but Kurt is earlier. He's at his favorite table, one cup in his hand and one in front of the chair across from him. He's drumming the fingers of his free hand against the tabletop.

He looks good. Impeccable as always, with that new air of sophistication that New York and vogue.com have bred in him. His hair is styled high and his outfit is layered self-protectively.

Blaine's nerves hit a peak, then settle. He moves to the table, sure-footed and straight-backed.

"Hi," he says. His smile is stuck on polite, he knows that. He doesn't think Kurt would accept anything more, if he were to offer it.

"Hi." Kurt's smile is genuine. "Sit down, please."

Blaine does.

"How was your flight?" he asks.

"Fine. Crowded, but no screaming babies."

"That's good."

He's settled in, now, coat and scarf hanging off the back of his chair, and Kurt's eyes are roving over his face.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"Congratulations on the Sectionals win. Finn told me about it."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks. I didn't really do anything, though."

Kurt's brow furrows at this. Blaine takes a sip of his coffee. Medium drip – his regular when they first met.

"How's everything at work?" he asks, before Kurt can comment.

It's the right question. Kurt lights up, has a million stories. He smiles his big, brilliant smile and moves his hands in double time, and something in Blaine eases. Kurt is happy.

He can do this, maybe. He can sit here and watch him glow and be supportive and keep him at arm's length.

This is so much better than he imagined. He figured Kurt would be cold to him from the start, bitter, unyielding. He figured Kurt would tell him he never wanted to see him again and to please refrain from contacting him. He never really considered that they could be...friends. Maybe Kurt really could forgive him just that much. Watching him smile like that...it gives Blaine a certain kind of hope.

Eventually, though, the stories run out and Kurt's smile fades. He sighs.

"We should really talk about...you know."

"Do you want to go first?" It's polite and it's cowardly, because Blaine would really rather just get this part out of the way. He stiffens his spine for what he knows is coming.

"Okay." Kurt takes a deep breath, lets it out. He looks Blaine in the eye. "What you did...it hurt me, Blaine. I felt betrayed and, god, so angry at you. I'm still angry at you. You broke my trust and you just, you ruined what was good between us for something meaningless. I honestly don't think you get how sick it made me to think of you with someone else. I just...I don't get why you would do that, you know? I go back and forth, because I really just don't get it at all. Were you trying to hurt me? Get my attention? Were you just so horny you couldn't handle another night with your right hand? I don't know." Blaine winces at this, tries not to show it. "But the thing is, I do know you. You made me doubt it, but I do. I know you, Blaine, and I can't force you into the role of Asshole Boyfriend Who You're Better Off Without, the way Rachel keeps telling me I should, because that's not you. It's never been you. So I decided that I'm going to hear you out. I'll listen, and I won't interrupt, and I'll keep an open mind, because, Blaine, I...I really do miss you."

His expression is open, edging toward vulnerable. This, too, isn't what Blaine expected. The nerves spike in his stomach. He swallows.

"I do, too, Kurt. I...don't know where to start."

"Just start with why."

Honest. Be honest and don't hide.

"I don't have an excuse, Kurt. There is no excuse."

"I'm not looking for an excuse. I'm looking for why, Blaine. I just want to understand what was going through your head."

Blaine blinks, can't stop his fingers from fiddling with his coffee cup.

"I'm not sure I can explain it, Kurt, not in a way that's going to make sense. I was...alone, and I couldn't handle it. I wanted you, and I couldn't have you, and I felt like..." He stops, starts again. "I hurt you. It kills me that I hurt you. It didn't mean anything, and it was stupid. I know there's nothing I can do to take it back, but I would if I could, I really would."

Kurt is quiet for a moment. He's slumped back, posture crumpled around the edges. His face is neutral but for the disappointment Blaine can read so clearly.

"You're right, Blaine, that doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense to me. It was just two weeks more. You couldn't wait two weeks?"

"I'm sorry."

Kurt stares at him, eyes wide, mouth set hard in anger. He crosses his arms across his chest and leans forward.

"You were the one who pushed me to go. You told me to go to New York, you sang to me."

"I meant it."

"You don't get to punish me for not being here when you practically begged me to leave!"

"I know that."

"Really? That's all you're going to give me?"

"I was lonely, and I was weak. That's it. I'm sorry if that isn't the answer you were hoping for. I'm just – I'm trying to be honest."

"Blaine – I don't – I'm sitting here ready and willing. I'm looking for a reason to forgive you, don't you understand that? You just need to give me a reason."

"There isn't one."

"You're not even going to try? You're just going to give up on us."

Blaine swallows. He lets his eyes flicker down, he needs to.

Honest.

"I'd like us to be friends, if we could."

Kurt breathes in, sharply, like he's been slapped. He sets down his cup, rises to his full height.

"I should go."

"Kurt. I'm sorry."

"I know. That's not enough."

"I know."

Kurt gives a small, tight smile in response. He leaves. Blaine is still frozen in place.

At least it's over, now.