He pulled himself up and shuffled towards the kitchen window. He ran his hand through his hair as if the simple movement could somehow file his thoughts into some sort of logical order. No such luck. His thoughts were threads, tangled and knotted, no pattern, no order, just an abundance of memories and ideas. There was one particular thread that Kurt wanted to separate from the tangle, which would allow him to scrutinise and overanalyze it until his head hurt.

Why had he just seen Blaine clinging on to dear life? Who did that to him? What provoked such a brutal attack? Kurt had theories, some more likely that others, the most likely being Blaine’s father. He just couldn’t understand how a father could look at his son, a human he created, and make him feel worthless, bring him pain and insecurities. He sighed as he recalled the details of Blaine’s injured body. It’d be a miracle if Blaine survived, but Kurt was positive he would keep breathing. That was the kind of person that Blaine was, strong.

The physical pain was searing, the emotional even more so. His dreams ran to dark places, to haunted houses and graveyards, to prisons and torture chambers. His dreams ran to a kitchen, elaborately decorated, with shining silver appliances and counters and cabinets. They ran towards a man. His father. Sneering and smirking and shouting. A cold, cruel laugh emanating from his mouth as he watched his only child wither and scream.

Kurt. Kurt, Kurt, Kurt. He focused on his boyfriend’s face, his sweet, beautiful face. The face that was the only light in the darkness that was his life. He focused on the sound of Kurt’s voice, unusually high, but similar to what Blaine imagined an angel might sound like. He focused on the feel of his soft porcelain skin, the feel that was absent from his fingertips. Despite the fact he promised.

The shrill ring of Kurt’s mobile pulled him from his dream like state and threw him head first into reality. He knew who was calling, his own father, most likely worried about his well-being. He was proved right when the gruff voice asked where he was, each word dripping with exhaustion.

“It’s Blaine, Dad. He’s hurt. Badly. He’s in hospital, in critical condition,” His voice was monotonous, dead, void of emotion; he had cried himself out, and was now feeling lost and empty.
“Kurt, are you okay? Are you at the hospital with him?”
“Yes,” Kurt lied. If Burt knew he was alone where he had found Blaine he would make his way over to check he was alright. Kurt wasn’t ready to face anybody at that point.
“Okay, I’ll come over-” Burt began, but he was cut off as his son begged him not too, telling him that he wouldn‘t be allowed in Blaine‘s room, that they’d made an exception for him, and he couldn’t leave Blaine’s side; he’d promised to stay with him. A promise that Burt needn’t know he had broken.

Only when Kurt had promised to come home the following night to get a decent sleep had Burt decided to leave Kurt be. He was a smart kid, he just wanted to comfort his boyfriend. And there was nothing wrong with that. If only Kurt was doing what Burt thought he was.

Kurt ran up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him but hesitated slightly when he had reached the landing. The hesitation was quickly pushed aside by curiosity and the longing to avenge Blaine. He pushed open the tall wooden door and stepped inside, taking in the posters and photographs and various musical instruments. He made his way to the desk that was concealed under the mass of homework that had lost Blaine’s interest, only half completed. He yanked open one of the drawers, his mind refusing to dwell on the fact that this was a complete invasion of Blaine’s privacy, and peered inside. Ah-ha! He had found what he had been looking for: A diary.

…He hates me. I told him I was gay this evening, after dinner. He laughed and told me to grow up. I told him I was in love. It hurts to write this, as he threw me around a bit, nothing major though. What hurt most was when he had told me that I wasn’t his son, and that he hated me. He told me he’d kill me, he hasn’t yet, obviously, but I’m still worried…

…I haven’t written in a while, turns out he had broken my wrist. I’m okay now though, he’s not here anymore, barely ever is. He goes away a lot, business trips he tells me. I know it’s just where ever he fancies, because he cannot bear to be in the same house as me, his ‘faggot of a son‘…

…He came back the other day, he had heard about me and Kurt. I denied all of the rumours he threw at me. He believed me, but still he hit me. I ended up being pushed down the stairs. It hurt, the doctors said it was really bad, but I’ve had worse. He left as soon as he saw me lying at the foot of the stairs, but he’ll be back. Someday…

Kurt stopped there. The urge to give Blaine’s father what he deserved had subsided; he realised what truly mattered here was making sure Blaine was alright. He had broken his promise and he was horrified at himself. He knew what he needed to do, and that was go to the hospital, hold Blaine’s hand, whisper words of comfort into his ear, send him love.

Through the veil of unconsciousness, Blaine could feel Kurt’s hand grasp his own. Kurt’s lips momentarily made contact with his forehead, and that was the moment he knew that it’d be okay. Hope and light flooded his thoughts, leading him away from the painful memories. The broken promise lay forgotten, and he concentrated on the feel of Kurt’s hand. He tried to wake up, to see him, to talk to him, to kiss him, but his mind was ahead of his weak body, so he settled for dreaming sweet dreams until his body caught up.