The first fight is a shock, which is kind of shocking in and of itself.  Later, curled up and alone, by the small window overlooking a dirty alley between their building and the neighboring one, Kurt will wonder how it is that he didn’t see it coming.

Because fighting with Blaine is one thing, something they’ve done before. They’ve been together for five years, it’s expected. And maybe they don’t fight as much as other couples, preferring to talk things through before they boil over, but the do fight. They’re both opinionated and strong willed and in Blaine’s case, possessing of an impressive temper most often held carefully in check.

But this fight, this fight was a storm. It was sudden and in the aftermath Kurt can only struggle with the overwhelming feeling of being blindsided, which in turn only makes him feel stupid because really, how could he have expected anything else? Right now, though, he’s capsized, which really, drowning in stormy waters? It’s such a trite cliche, Kurt has to roll his eyes. And it’s not even that true; once he’s calmed down, regulating his shuddering breaths with exercises he’s learned in school, once he’s cleaned up his face and is no longer huddled like a refugee on the cold floor of the apartment, Kurt isn’t lost. He’s not confused or even shocked any more. He is tired.

Because he knows, this is just the beginning. They’ve just crossed over the starting line of this marathon, and in a way it’s ok. The ring he gave Blaine is a promise to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep working and loving until they can be them again. Until this can be over.   Kurt knows, because he’s nothing if not almost stupidly stubborn, that he’ll do it. That he’ll fight every day for Blaine, for them. For that feeling of them that he’s broken. It’s not a question of how (because he has no idea) or of when (as long as it takes). It’s not even a question.

But it is going to be work. It’s going to be hard, and he’s not even the one having to forget. Having to learn to trust again. Kurt’s job is simpler- learning to live with the regrets he has, finding a way to forgive himself for hurting the person he loves most in the world. Finding some way to withstand Blaine’s anger and accusations and jealousy. It might be a simpler task, he thinks, but it’s definitely not easy. Kurt has never been a shrinking violet, he’s emotional and often scathing, cutting, quick to defend himself with hard words. This, this thing between them, is a challenge.  For every hurtful accusation (“God, Kurt if you just wanted to fuck around with other guys why are you still here? I’m not blind. You were all over him.”) Kurt has to stifle himself, work hard to keep his words in.

He knows he has no right, no right to any defense other than the truth (“Blaine, you know me, come on, you’re angry. I’m so sorry, so so sorry, baby I love you. You know I don’t want anyone else.”). He has no ground to stand on while Blaine yells. There’s a beautiful orange glass bowl breaking as it hits the floor, the sound of glass rending is quiet when compared to the sheer volume of Blaine’s accusations.  There’s a knee jerk sort of anger, burning and shameful, that Blaine could even make these accusations, and Kurt’s internal monologue is weary, worn down as it reminds him that Blaine has every right. Because even though Kurt could never want anything else like he wants Blaine, he was the one to kiss someone else. He was the one to break that trust. And he can’t think of any way to fix it that doesn’t involve time and patience; weathering Blaine’s anger and hurting and keeping a stiff upper lip until it’s over.

So he cleans up in the silent apartment, a rarity; the still air is a stark contrast to the usual noise of their laughing banter, Kurt’s vocal exercises while Blaine fools around on the keyboard, ignoring the thumping protests from the neighbors.  Even alone Kurt is never quiet, playing the radio and signing along quietly to fill the void.  Silence makes him feel itchy and out of place, makes him want to drop a book or cough, just to break apart the sober air, break into it and start filling it with the reassurance that he’s ok. In the too quiet moments, Kurt can only ever hear his thoughts, which tend to spin and spin out of control when not tempered and mostly, Kurt just needs to be. Needs to exist in a place where he is ok, and loved, and so happy, without examining how much he had to do to get there.

The apartment is stunningly quiet now. He moves carefully; growing into his limbs as a man he’s only become more elegant and lithe, something he’s acutely aware of as Blaine has spent many moments, early mornings still sleep drenched and late nights redolent of laughter and wanting, quick moments stolen in between classes and rehearsals and jobs, telling him. Laying Kurt out and tracing the lines of his skin with fingers and tongue and whispering words of praise and worship until Kurt is saturated in love, skin humming because he’s so turned on he can barely move.

It’s been four weeks since their engagement. Four weeks since Kurt has felt that familiar thrumming of love and home, at peace next to and inside Blaine’s body. And this is maybe the biggest reason why the fight should never have caught him by surprise. But it’s easy, in the maelstrom of their lives, to turn and look the other way. For a week it was the focus on Burt. It was the distraction of not knowing what would happen with his father, their father. And when they got the call, late into a beautiful New York morning, Carole laughing and crying because Burt was fine, it wasn’t cancer after all, Kurt turned to Blaine and hugged him hard.

And they’d made love; or something close enough, but it had been different. There had been something missing, something just a little strange about Blaine, who seemed both a little frantic and a little absent.

It had only gotten worse from there, which should have alarmed Kurt. But there were finals, and the hectic run of rehearsals leading up to the opening night of the musical.  There was that awkward, so awkward dinner with Blaine’s parents who had been passing through on a business trip.  So when Kurt had collapsed in bed, turning to run a light hand over Blaine’s shoulder and down, down, until it was skirting the crease between Blaine’s ass and thigh, he didn’t think. He didn’t stop to realize that in the past weeks, he’d been the only one to initiate contact.  He made excuses for Blaine’s response, somewhat vacant, because yes, they were both tired and it had been a difficult month.

Kurt realizes now, it’s so clear that he can’t help but close his eyes, biting his lip to keep the tears in.  Things have just been so off between them, and maybe they’ve both realized all along; somewhere along the line they started pretending things were ok when they weren’t. Blaine’s explosion this afternoon was a testament to this, to simmering anger or resentment or hurting that he’d been holding onto, holding in, and Kurt knows, he knows Blaine would never have reacted the way he had, if it weren’t for this.

And Blaine is somewhere, out wandering the city maybe, or sitting on Jan’s couch, angry and frustrated and if Kurt knows him, beating himself up. Because Blaine hates losing control, has always hated his own temper.  The Blaine Kurt had met in high school, so proper and self-assured, was a mask. A way to feel in control, to feel like he was better than his own emotions, unstable and unsure.  Blaine had grown out of that- his need to put up a front and pretend to be something he wasn’t. Even so, it was rare for him to lose his temper, to forget himself in anger. He never forgot to keep working at keeping it in check. And he never stopped berating himself for every time he let it spiral out of control.

Kurt stoops to pick up scattered items, ignoring the uneasy way his stomach is knotting and tightening; outwardly he’s graceful and careful and contained.  He’s working around the image of Blaine, Blaine’s temper that Kurt has only ever really seen twice in five years; Blaine sweeping the contents off their hall table, mail and keys and that small depression era glass bowl that only ever collected flotsam, skittering and breaking all over their floor. It’s an image that has Kurt feeling tied up, strings of remorse and hurting (hurting because Blaine was hurting, remorse because Blaine was hurting thanks to him) snarling and tormenting him. It’s an image that makes him want to hold Blaine, to tell him it’s ok, and that he understands, to whisper, god, please it’s ok baby, I deserved every word. I deserve every angry word you have for me.