Kurt tapped the steering wheel impatiently at the red light, pursing his lips at the Westerville traffic designers. He had the directions to Blaine's theater company's rehearsal space, and he'd been there a few times in the past, but it was a chore to get there without breaking any laws. Which he didn't. Because his father had given him a talk about vehicles that would shake up a full-grown man, let alone a nine-year-old boy. So Kurt drove safely. Impatiently, but safely. His rational side argued that Blaine's director had a rather lax sense of time, and he could arrive thirty minutes late and still manage to beat the director. This knowledge didn't make enduring the traffic any easier.

At least the scenery here was nicer, Kurt thought. Flora and trees dotted the plain Ohio landscape as opposed to the Lima cut-and-dry. He even saw a small park on the way there, complete with a playground and benches and a gazebo. Kurt loved a good gazebo. Kurt made one of the many turns—there must be an easier way to get to the building—and said goodbye to the pretty scenery as he moved into one of the more built-up areas.

He was close now. In fact, he could probably just park here and walk the rest of the way, but Kurt didn't know the neighborhood at all, so he continued to navigate the horrendous streets.

As it turned out, this choice saved his life.

Kurt stopped—again—at an intersection, and checked his directions. He only had to turn at the next light and he would be there. With Blaine. Kurt felt a smile split his face and butterflies settle low in his stomach. They never went away, the butterflies. Not in all the months they had been dating. Kurt tapped on his steering wheel. It was then that he heard the raucous noise of lowlifes with endless opinions.

Kurt glanced up through his eyelashes at the pavement outside. Five or six big-looking guys sauntered down the street. A few carried baseball bats, but none were in sporting gear. They were tough and confident, throwing back jokes and insults in loud, deep voices. Kurt swallowed carefully, thankful for the walls of the SUV around him, and checked the name of the street he was supposed to be turning on one last time before the light turned green. He wasn't scared, not really. Years of experience had taught him to be cautious despite the fact that he knew they couldn't see him or his fabulous outfit. Constant awareness of possibly dangerous people was something that Kurt prided himself on.

He drove forward carefully, as usual, until he realized that the noise of the lowlifes could still be heard, that he would have noticed them long before he did if they had just been walking up the street from a few blocks away. But they hadn't. They had come from the street that Kurt was heading towards.

Kurt floored it.

Adrenaline surged through his body, his vision sharpening as Kurt weaved through the traffic with his cumbersome SUV. Cars began to honk. Kurt couldn't care less. He knew, in some reasonable back part of his mind, that the guys he'd seen could have been coming from somewhere else, that it didn't necessarily point to Blaine beaten and bloodied—

Kurt swung the final turn. Because he knew that the only place of interest to a group like that would be the rehearsal space of a high school musical theater company. What else would there be? The area was cheap, full of abandoned warehouses and 24-hour convenience stores. Kurt tried to desperately not to remember whether there was blood on those baseball bats. Breath came cold and hard in his lungs, making him shiver.

He parked his SUV haphazardly across the street from the building and flew out of the car, running into the parking lot reserved for the actors and crew. A sour feeling filled his gut at the sight of the cars. Some were left alone, but not by choice, it seemed. Most of them had their windows smashed or sides keyed. He sucked in a breath that burned down his throat, weaving through the cars.

"Come on, man. Wake up!"

"Blaine! Blaine! He's not breathing. Someone did call 911, right?"

Kurt followed the noises, not quite hearing or seeing anything after the frantic calls of his boyfriend's name. He ran through the parking lot and up the few stairs to the small concrete porch where six or seven people stood crowded around. Some held phones, others seemed to be serving as lookouts.

"Who are you?" The girl who asked the question was thin and wiry, and she looked at Kurt with eyes that screamed of terror. She had a bruise on her bare collarbone and one on her arm.

"I'm… Kurt. I'm Kurt. I'm… Where's Blaine?" Kurt gulped in air and took a few steps toward the group. The girl took a step forward to meet him, shoulders squared, fists clenched, but she still looked terrified.

"Wren, who is that?"

"Kurt?" Kurt looked up. The voice was familiar, but not the one he wanted to hear. His mind placed it before the rest of him could catch up.

"Jeff. Jeff! Hey. I… Where's Blaine? I saw the… Where's Blaine?" Kurt jumped toward the Warbler, who made a quick hand gesture at the girl—Wren, Kurt's brain helpfully pointed out—and took his shoulder, pulling him through the people. Jeff, he noted with a twist in his chest, sported three clear bruises across his face. The poor private school boy didn't look that shaken, however, which was something that confused Kurt.

"He's inside. He's not"—Jeff cleared his throat—"He's conscious. He's just not… in a good way."

"They said he wasn't breathing," Kurt mumbled as he followed Jeff through the doors.

"Oh, no, that's… Jerome. Jerome's not breathing. Blaine knows his parents. Knew how to contact them." Kurt's vision cleared ever so slightly and he heaved out a sigh. They made their way through a small hallway and then into a well-lit, open room. Props and light gels were scattered everywhere. Some of the more threatening ones, such as brooms and slapsticks, were in a pile close to the door.

"Jeffrey. Visitors now? Really?" An older woman with an odd accent walked up to the two boys. She had a cell phone in one hand and an empty first-aid kit in the other. It seemed, however, that she didn't have time for an answer, and swept right past them.

A few other people his age were huddled in a tight-knit group on the opposite end of the room, talking quietly. Kurt scanned their heads, but found no gelled-down curls, so he continued his silent search.

"He's over there. I've gotta get back." Jeff pointed and then walked out, but Kurt was already running across the room to Blaine, who was sitting with another boy. Neither of them looked up until Kurt kneeled next to them, hands fluttering by his sides, unsure of what to do.

"Who are—"

"Kurt."

Kurt opened his mouth to speak, but found out very soon that it was something that he was quite incapable of doing, looking at the myriad of purple and blue that blossomed against his boyfriend's face, neck, shoulders, and arms. Kurt could only manage a strangled sob. He knew what bruises that color felt like. He'd been pushed into lockers and thrown into dumpsters long enough to know the stinging, never-ending sensation of bruises that looked like that. The other boy held a bloodied tissue, which he pressed against the side of Blaine's face, occasionally pulling it back to check.

"The idiot ran right into the middle of them when they started beating on Ian and Jerome," the other boy said tersely. "He's lucky he didn't get any bones broken. Those guys had bats, Blaine," he chided. Beneath his swollen skin, Blaine's eyes flickered.

"Kurt, are you okay? They didn't get you too, did they?" Kurt shook his head silently, slipping his hand into Blaine's. Had he been thinking straight, he would have retorted with something along the lines of Blaine's silly priorities. As it was, Kurt's eyes swam with gut-deep sympathy, but he forced himself together. Blaine seemed to be keeping the pain under control, but he'd recognize that mask on anyone, anywhere. He'd seen it too many times in the mirror to not notice. Swallowing, he turned to the other boy.

"Can I take him ho—to my house? I've got medicine. What I—er—can he be moved?" The other boy blinked at Kurt, apparently still unsure of who he was, before looking at Blaine, his face painted with worry.

"I don't know. I'd ask Trey—he's our stage manager—but he's kind of busy with Jerome and Ian." He paused, frowning. "Um. Sure. I… sure. You good with that, Blaine?" Blaine nodded, staring at his and Kurt's intertwined hands with a dazed expression.

"Tell Trey."

"I will. Should I tell him you're not coming in tomorrow, too?"

"No. Thanks, Jake. I'll be here tomorrow." Kurt's lips twitched, wondering if he should convince Blaine to take the day off, but he knew how Blaine was with his theater kids. He'd show up to rehearsal in an oxygen mask if necessary. Jake just nodded, squeezed Blaine's shoulder, and stood, taking Blaine's other hand to help him up. Kurt felt a twinge of something bitter and dark green in the back of his mind, but pushed it aside, assisting Jake in getting Blaine to his feet. The bruised boy wobbled, clutching both of their hands tighter. Instinctively, Kurt swung an arm around Blaine's waist, shifting his weight to support him.

"It's just a head rush. I've been sitting too long," he muttered. The force on Kurt's shoulder spoke otherwise.

"You've been sitting for a total of ten minutes, Blaine. Shut up and let us help you," Jake snapped. Kurt glared at him for the retort, but lowered his gaze when he actually looked at the other boy. His eyes were flicking nervously from side to side and there were spots of color high in his cheeks. Jake, too, sported a bruise on an arm. He walked Kurt and Blaine to the door before muttering something about talking to Trey. He said a quick goodbye to both of them before running down a different hall.

Wren gave Kurt a sour look when she saw them, but she helped him get Blaine own the stairs, murmuring quietly in the older boy's ear. Blaine nodded and smiled at the small girl, but the lack of focus in his eyes worried Kurt, and he was soon hurried across the parking lot and into the Navigator. Kurt settled him in the passenger seat, strapping him in. He looked around quickly before pressing his lips against Blaine's forehead, which had somehow escaped harm.

"Blaine. I'm going to get you out of here as quickly as I can, but I need to you to look at me. Actually look at me," he amended when Blaine stared aimlessly at him. His eyes sharpened, but only a little. Kurt wanted to weep. "Jake said you hadn't broken anything. Was he right? Do I need to take you to the hospital?" Blaine took a deep breath and winced, holding eye contact with his boyfriend as he shook his head.

"It's just bruises, Kurt. I'll be okay." Kurt wanted to tell him that it was not "just bruises." He wanted to say that it was okay to cry, that it was just him, that he didn't have to pretend with him, the boy who had broken down in front of him on the first day they had met. But then Blaine's face closed off again, and he just looked ahead blankly. Kurt sighed and shut the car door, proceeding to get them out of the area, speeding horrendously. His father, Kurt thought, probably wouldn't mind.

Blaine didn't speak until they were outside the city limits.

The hour-long drive out of Westerville was punctuated only when Kurt changed the CD from Andrew Bird to The Beatles. Kurt spent the rest of the time trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach when Blaine didn't sing along. It's perfectly reasonable, he tried to tell himself. Blaine's holding himself together for Kurt, and that just means closing off from the outside world, even if it's Blaine's second favorite CD (Kurt thinks the Katy Perry disk he's got stashed in his glove compartment would be inappropriate). Kurt knows that he was in pain and just wanted to hide for a bit. So Kurt let him.

Five minutes into Lima, Blaine spoke.

"Kurt. Pull over, please?" He asked, his voice choked with something Kurt didn't recognize. It wasn't tears, because even though Kurt had never seen Blaine cry, he knew it wouldn't sound like it did then. But he pulled into the shoulder and switched the engine off. Before Kurt could look up, Blaine was out of his seat and the car, staggering out into the completely un-picturesque fields that characterized the outskirts of Lima. Kurt clambered out after him, leaping over the passenger seat and into the field. Alarm bells clamoring in his head, Kurt opened his mouth to ask him something, anything, but before he could Blaine was doubled over, making awful sounds as he emptied his stomach into the dry grass.

Something deep and essential to himself recoiled at the sight and sound, the smell of bile mixed with something that Kurt didn't want to indentify, because there was something distinctly coffee-like about it and he could feel his own gorge rising.

But then the horrible liquid noise stopped, replaced with dry retching and breathless, tearless sobs and Kurt found his heart breaking for the boy who was stumbling back into him and Kurt held him so close that he was sure he'd be aggravating the injuries but he didn't care and neither did Blaine because he turned and clutched at Kurt, his blunt nails dragging against his back and shoulders and he smelled like coffee and sweat and acid but Kurt pretended he didn't mind and on some very basic level he didn't because Blaine needed him and that was enough. He kind of even thrilled at the realization that Blaine was finally, finally letting him be the hero.

So he rocked him and pressed small kisses to Blaine's neck and whispered silly things that didn't mean anything, because anything that meant something would be too much.

"How do you do it, Kurt? Last time… Last time I could just leave. But I can't now. I can't. There's a show and Jerome and Ian and Jake and Jeff." He coughed drily. "Even Wren. How do you go back?" Blaine sounded desperate and lost and Kurt had never seen him like this, with his legs knocked out from under him needing someone else's help. Kurt wanted to be able to say the right thing, the perfect thing that would pick Blaine back up and fill him with confidence, with purpose. He wanted to be able to say something like what Blaine said to him on the day they first met. But he wasn't Blaine and all he could think of was "courage." That seemed so paltry and fake, though. How could he tell the beaten boy in his arms to suck it up and move on? It would be callous at best and Kurt didn't want to cause him any more pain. So he went with honesty, because while it might not be the best thing, it's what he's always done with Blaine and what Blaine had always done with him.

"I don't know. I really don't. But you will. Because you love it, and you won't let anything—even something like this—stop you from doing something you love." He paused as Blaine shuddered in a breath. "You taught me that."

And then Blaine was actually crying, hot tears falling into Kurt's neck in a torrent. He was quiet about it, but not in a way that worried Kurt. He had been worried that Blaine would've hidden behind his mask for too long and Kurt would have had to claw him back out. This way… It wasn't easy, but it could've been so much worse that Kurt found himself smiling against Blaine's hair.

The tears didn't stop, not really, but both boys knew that they needed to be getting to Kurt's house, and Kurt felt Blaine's blood on his neck, and, really, this field smelled awful. Kurt went into his car and brought out a water bottle so Blaine could clear some of the bile out of his mouth. The other half Kurt made the older boy drink, muttering something about dehydration, even though both of them knew that Kurt really wanted to use it to wash the blood off of his neck. Neither one mentioned it. Blaine just smiled tiredly, making a face when Kurt stared at him until he downed the entire bottle in measured gulps. Then Kurt kissed the top of his head and clambered into the car from the passenger's side, taking Blaine's hand once the bruised boy followed.

The rest of the trip was much more relaxed, and Kurt did his best to coax the odd smile out of Blaine. It wasn't good—Kurt doubted that it would be good for a while now—but it was better. Kurt could even hear Blaine singing along when Blackbird began playing.