The hospital smells the same way it did ten years ago: like antiseptic, sickness, and death. In the emergency room, Kurt blinks back tears and squeezes Blaine's hand within an inch of its life while the nurse feels his ribs through the bruises. It hurts. The detectives try to question him, but Kurt can't make his mouth work. Kurt resolutely does not think about how this cold, clinical place sapped the life from his mother all those years ago. Memories of the last time he'd spent in the hospital mixes with the locker room, and Kurt just shakes and turns into Blaine's shoulder, blocking out the sterile white walls and empty faces of doctors and nurses.

Talking just seems so pointless.

After he gets treated in the ER (three cracked ribs, mild internal bleeding, bruises across his chest, back, neck, and wrists, lacerations on his knuckles and head, and a mild concussion), Burt shows up to force Blaine to go home to get some sleep (it doesn't go well; Kurt hears the yells and curses but somehow Burt gets Blaine to leave and the detectives to go speak to the Karofsky's). He is admitted for observation and put in a regular room with an uncomfortable bed and a small night table and a tiny TV up in the corner with ten channels. It's on some football game now, for his dad. Burt tried to talk earlier, but Kurt ignored it. His left wrist is handcuffed to the rails on the bed. The silver metal ring sits heavy and accusing on his arm, reminding him that he royally fucked up this time.

The police officer had looked apologetic when he clicked the cuff shut. "Just a precaution," he'd said. "We just need some time to sort out this mess." Kurt didn't respond, but Burt glared at the officer until he left. It was a good thing Blaine wasn't there. He'd have flipped out and the last thing Kurt needed was Blaine getting thrown in juvie for attacking a police officer.

He doesn't know anything about Karofsky yet. He'd been alive in the locker room; rushed to the hospital in another ambulance. Kurt had watched them load him up over Blaine's shoulder. There was so much blood that they had to wipe his face clean to put the oxygen mask on. That pale face covered with the mask and surrounded by blood haunts Kurt. He'd done that. He'd hurt someone.

Over the years, Kurt was used to a lot of fear. But not like this.

He'd never been afraid of himself like this.

Before Blaine left, he'd hugged Kurt fiercely, banishing the thick scent of antiseptic and replacing it with Blaine, and told Kurt he'd be back as soon as possible. That the recording Jacob Ben Israel took would clear him. That everything would be okay.

Kurt's not sure if he believes his boyfriend.

The universe doesn't have a good track record with him.

A nurse comes in to check his bandages. Darla, her nametag says. The small, Hispanic woman wraps his ribs so tight he can barely take a deep breath and checks over the stitches in his head from the locker. She gives him some painkillers to take the edge off his ribs then she performs a few concussion tests, which Kurt apparently passes. Darla mentions something about how memory loss is a common side effect and Kurt just laughs bitterly because he remembers everything.

And he wishes he couldn't because underneath the smell of hospital is Karofsky and four showers later he still can't get the feeling of his bully's skin against his own off; the utter violation the came from Karofsky's mouth and dick. Kurt tries to turn away but the damn cuff holds his arm at a painful angle. Darla smiles sadly and leaves the father and son. Kurt scratches at his wrists. They're dark with bruises from where Karofsky held him against the floor. His body is even worse: a mess of deep purple and yellow blossoms across his torso and arms and neck and Kurt digs in harder; he can still feel the ghost of Karofsky's fingers and he just wants it gone.

"Hey, stop that." Burt frowns, taking Kurt's hand. Kurt tenses at the touch, but forces himself to relax. It's just his father. Guilt and fear and shame bubbles up so suddenly he feels like he's drowning and he's so drained and emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed because he'd been assaulted and then almost killed someone and Kurt had no idea he was capable of beating someone into unconsciousness and he's enjoyed smashing Karofsky's face in; it'd felt fucking fantastic, and he could have prevented the whole attack if he'd just told someone after the first time like Blaine wanted or if he'd stopped wearing his clothes, if he'd just blended in he would have been fine but he just had to be flamboyant and rub it in everyone's face so really this was all his fault, his fault and everything just builds and builds and he bursts into tears.

Christ.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Kurt whispers, grabbing for his father and crying into his shoulder. "'Sall my fault, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry…" Sorry for being weak. Sorry I couldn't defend myself. Sorry I lost control and hurt someone. Sorry I really wanted to kill him.

Sorry I'm too broken to fix.

Sorry…sorry…sorry…

Burt slips back into father mode and pulls Kurt into one his bear hugs, tight and safe and warm and smelling of stale coffee and engine grease and home. Kurt just cries harder as Burt rubs his back, almost like Blaine does. Every deep breath and choking sob hurts his ribs, but Kurt can't stop himself. It feels good, actually. To mourn himself and give in to fear. A piece of himself died in that locker room and Kurt will never get it back. Suddenly, his stupid fight with Rachel seems so childish. And oh God, he can't even think about facing the Glee club after all of this; can't deal with the pity and understanding.

Slowly, he gets his breathing under control and his eyes run dry. Kurt doesn't let go of his dad just yet though. In Burt's arms, he feels like a little boy, but he's protected. Safe.

"Kiddo, I ain't mad at you, alright?" Burt says wearily. Kurt just focuses on the scratchy sheets. It's doing weeks of damage to his skin. Burt nudges him until Kurt meets his eyes. "I'm not mad. You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault." Burt's voice is sure, so sure, and Kurt wonders how much he knows.

"Did you hear the tape?" Kurt whispers. He's not sure what he wants the answer to be. The thought of his own father seeing him as that kind of victim makes his stomach churn. Jacob Ben Israel turned the tape directly over to the police and they promised only those necessary would listen, but Kurt still felt fucking violated and now everyone was going to know exactly what happened and Kurt just wants to be left alone and not be that gay kid that almost got raped and killed the football star. The pity alone will kill him.

Burt hesitates and that's all Kurt needs to know. He pulls away and turns over, curling in on himself and wincing when his ribs shift. "Hey, stop that." His father puts his hand on Kurt's arm and Kurt jumps, thrown back into the locker room with "so fucking perfect, you fag, you slut" and he bursts into tears again, fuck.

"Oh, hell," Burt mutters, voice thick. Footsteps walk away from him and there's a faint murmur at the door, and then more footsteps and then leather-clad arms wrap around his middle and the bed dips when a familiar presence settles behind him. Kurt presses back into Blaine's embrace.

He should have known Blaine hadn't left.

The painkillers numb everything and Blaine's warm breath on the back of his neck and the overwhelming sense of safe and love help Kurt drift off to sleep.

He'll think about everything in the morning.

They discharge Kurt from the hospital the next day with wrapped ribs, a few stitches, more painkillers, and orders to be woken up every couple of hours in case the concussion is serious. The nurse says he might experience mood swings for awhile and Kurt rolls his eyes. He's been shifting between anger, depression, fear, and exhaustion for the past sixteen hours; he knows his emotions are fucking fragile at this point.

He's even made Finn nearly cry when they finally let him and Carole in his room. Finn said something stupid about hot nurses and Kurt ripped into him until Blaine glared and stopped him. Ashamed, Kurt refused to speak again for a few hours. Then he dissolved into tears again.

Fuck.

Karofsky is in a medically-induced coma and hasn't woken up yet. No one would tell Kurt how bad it was, but Detective Adler gave him a sad look and said "Just hope he recovers enough to talk." She didn't make Kurt feel any better.

Finn helps him into the house, though he still eyes Kurt warily. He's not sure if it's because of the outburst at the hospital or hearing how badly Kurt had beaten up Karofsky, but Finn's fear rolls off him in waves and Kurt's just tired. He takes the route of not talking to Finn at all, which actually makes Finn relax. Go figure.

Kurt's suspended from school and allowed to stay in the house with an ankle monitor. The judge works fast when it comes to hate crimes involving a potential murder and juveniles. Kurt wrinkles his nose at the bulky black device clinking shut around his ankle.

"I'm really sorry about this." Detective Adler says. Kurt likes her. She's fairly young, dresses professionally, and speaks to him frankly, like he's a person and not a china doll. It also helps that her face always darkens when she mentions Karofsky's name. She's on his side. "It's just for now. I'm going to talk to the DA and get this investigation wrapped up as soon as possible." Her partner stands up after checking the monitor. It's not coming off. Finn pokes at it until Kurt tries to kick him in his big stupid face.

"Are you guys going to charge Kurt?" Burt narrows his eyes and Carole rubs his arm gently. His heart hasn't been well these past months, and Kurt really hopes it holds up under all this stress. That was one of the biggest reasons he kept the bullying from Burt. To protect his father.

Fucking awesome plan, Hummel.

Detective Adler winces. "It depends on if David recovers." She says.

"Ohio self-defense laws are tricky," her partner explains. Kurt never got his name. He looks Italian and there's a gold cross around his neck, but he seems to like Kurt well enough. His voice is soothing. "In Ohio, you can execute lethal force if there's imminent danger to your life or body and you cannot retreat. Which we can prove pretty well." Kurt snorts. They'd better be able to prove it. There's video. "The real problem is instigation."

Kurt stares at him. "You…you think I led him on?" Nausea churns in his stomach. "You think I provoked him?"

"No, Kurt, of course not." Detective Adler shakes her head. "We know this is not your fault. You just…" She takes a deep breath. "I would get a decent lawyer just in case. Everything depends on how forceful the Karofsky's are at forcing charges. David is almost certainly going to plead guilty to assault. The tape is just too damning in regards to that."

"We're going to get this cleared up, Kurt." Her partner claps a hand on Kurt's should and Kurt fights to not jump. "You just focus on recovering. We'll be back in a few days to get a full interview, alright?"

Kurt nods numbly. He's going to have to talk about the bullying. And Karofsky. After the detectives leave, Kurt ignores his father and Finn's looks and stalks to his room and slams the door.

It's so fucking unfair.

Kurt takes a shaky breath and tries not to cry. He was defending himself; Karofsky was going to hurt him; why is he the one being treated like a common criminal here? God, he wants Blaine here. Blaine makes him feel safe. Blaine doesn't watch him like he's a ticking time bomb that could blow up at any time; like he's psychopath in a locker room covered in blood next to a hockey stick and a body.

But Principal Figgins had threatened Blaine with expulsion if he skipped school again, and Blaine couldn't risk getting sent away. Not now.

His father knocks on the door. "Kurt?"

No. He can't face his dad. Not yet. He ignores the second knock and Finn's loud whisper before he hears Burt send Finn to school. They leave him alone and Kurt falls back on his bed.

Blaine gave him his jacket the night before when they kicked him out after visiting hours. "I love you," he'd said. "Just—just wear the stupid thing, ok? It looks good on you." He'd smiled shakily, kissed Kurt, and left, cursing the nurses out on the way. Kurt slept with the ratty black leather over his hospital gown, muffling his tears in the sleeves. It could have been worse. The jacket kept Karofsky at bay.

In his room, away from the looks from his father and Carole and Finn, away from the judgment of random strangers, Kurt curls up on his bed and tugs the jacket around him. He hugs himself, breathing in the smell. It's like being surrounded by Blaine—smoke, sandalwood, and Blaine. He closes his eyes and tries not to cry.

The painkillers make everything hazy and Kurt drifts.

He's back in the locker room…pinned…can't move his arms or legs and he's there; he's on top of him and please no no not again…

"So fucking hot, such a fucking tease, want you so bad," and he's crying and trying to fight but his arms weigh five thousand pounds and then a thick unwanted hand is ON him and squeezing and unzipping his jeans and Kurt can't breathe, can't move, no, that's Blaine's job, JUST BLAINE, get off get off GET OFF!

HELP ME, he screams, but no one comes and Karofsky starts laughing and laughing and then Kurt's naked and flipped over on the cold tiles and then there's PAIN oh god so much pain, stop it STOP IT HELP ME and a warm liquid runs down his leg with every thrust and he just cries and cries and cries until—

Kurt jolts awake with a short scream. He's soaked in sweat and breathing like he just ran a marathon, but his stomach churns and he barely gets his trashcan under his face before he's throwing up every scrap of food he's eaten since the night before. Kurt coughs at the acidic bile, remembers Karofsky's hands rubbing up his sides and down his face, and throws up again. Somehow, his nightmare hadn't drawn his father's attention, and Kurt's infinitely thankful for that. Burt doesn't need to see his son having another breakdown.

Once Kurt's sure his stomach is calmed down enough he sets the trashcan on the floor and just tries to breathe. But then memories of the locker room flood back and Kurt's skin is too tight and crawls and Karofsky's smell is clogging his nose and suffocating him and he feels so disgusting he jumps off his bed and starts ripping off his clothes. Blaine's jacket gets folded neatly, but the rest of his designer chic is thrown across the floor. The white wraps around his chest hide the deep bruises, but Kurt takes them off, resolutely ignoring the way his skin changes from a pale cream to a sick yellow and dark purple across his ribs. Kurt grabs a towel and runs to the bathroom for the sixth shower in twenty-four hours.

He cries again in the shower, hoping that Blaine gets back soon. God, his mood swings are exhausting and Kurt just needs to be and not worry about fucking anything.

The water runs until it turns cold, but Kurt still doesn't move.

It hurts too much.

Last night they said the fire had spread
And we said our prayers
And now the flames are burning me in my bed,
But I just don't care

Kurt nods along faintly to the beat as he stares at his ceiling. D�j� vu. Three weeks ago, he studied those cracks and wanted to die.

He's not really sure what he wants now.

Next to him, his laptop is open to Jacob Ben Israel's blog. Somehow, the Jewish blogger kept a copy of the audio from the locker room from the police and he'd uploaded it for the world to see and mock and laugh at. His violation on display. Publically. Finn had texted him a warning. So had the rest of the club, but Kurt couldn't face them yet. The comments were…something. He read all of them, numb. All day long, the house phone had been ringing until Burt, fed up and pissed, unplugged every one. That didn't stop the media vans outside the house. Kurt turns up the music to drown out the shouts.

Well I wish that I was as good as you
Caring and trusting
And I wish that my condition was new but I'm old and rusting

Fuck them. None of them know him. Kurt punches his pillow, but groans at the strain on his ribs. God, he needed more painkillers.

"Brand New?" Kurt blinked to see Blaine leaning against the doorframe. School must be over. He didn't respond. Blaine sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his shoulders sagged, like he hadn't slept. Kurt wondered why. "They're kind of depressing, aren't they?" Blaine gestured at the iPod dock. Getting no answer, he flopped down next to Kurt, wisely ignoring Kurt's flinch at the sudden contact.

"No, seriously Kurt, don't they have that one song with a line about drowning babies or something?" Blaine poked at Kurt's shoulders.

"Handcuffs. Yes." Kurt swatted his arm away. "We're on You Stole right now."

Blaine just looks at him, but leaves it alone. The music continues, full of dark fury, anguish, and hurt. It feels familiar by now. Kurt likes it.

Now I know that you stole
Yeah, you stole
From the cradles they were rocked in
You took the first words that they spoke
Yeah you stole

"You're wearing my jacket," Blaine says happily. Kurt had put it back on after his hour-long shower. It still smelled like Blaine and Kurt just needed to be reminded he was loved by someone for a least a little while so…yeah. He's wearing Blaine's jacket. Though Blaine doesn't seem to mind. "Shut up. I just mean…" Blaine trails off and shifts in closer, his body pressing up next to Kurt's. "I just really like you wearing it." He tugs on the worn leather.

Sitting up, Kurt shrugs it off and hands the jacket back to Blaine. "It helped. Thanks." Kurt tries to smile, but it fades. He can't figure Blaine out. Why was he here? Aren't they over? They should be over, Blaine deserves so much better than Kurt "I-Almost-Got-Raped-and-Now-I'm-a-Violent-Psychopath" Hummel. Everyone else thinks he's crazy. Dangerous. Damned. Dirty. Why shouldn't his boyfriend as well? His heartbeat quickens and his stomach jumps into his throat at the thought of losing Blaine.

He's too full of too many emotions. When he turns his head, he sees the laptop. And the comments.

Hummel was fucking asking for it you see what he wears all the time?

dave probably got confused and thougt the fag was agirl

omg I can't believe kurt went crazy and killed dave wtf like really?

Always knew Hummel was a psycho poor karofksy

I will pray that both of these boys see the light and decide to turn to the Lord in these tough times to overcome their perverted preferences.

A tear slides down his cheek and Kurt wipes it away quickly, not wanting Blaine to see.

Nothing gets past Blaine though.

"You saw the blog?" Blaine asks when the track changes. Kurt just nods jerkily. He won't look at Blaine. Shame rolls over him in waves, followed by anger and depression. To the world, he's no longer Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson's boyfriend.

No, he's Kurt Hummel, that gay fag that got sexually assaulted and went crazy and practically killed a popular high school jock.

He's unstable. Tainted. Undesirable.

He doesn't deserve Blaine. He never really did.

"I listened to it." Kurt's hears how calm and toneless his voice is. It was the worst decision he's ever had; to hear himself trying to fight off Karofsky, hearing his screams and cries and pleas to let me go, please no, stop and Karofsky's soft whispers of so fucking hot, you whore, you slut, fag and then the sick sound of wood against skin and bone and Kurt's screams of fury and anger and Karofsky's pained whimpers and sobs. He was there; he knew what happened; but hearing it all over again made everything so much more real. He couldn't pretend it was just a dream. It happened. Kurt has to agree with most of the town. He does sound crazy on the tape. It doesn't sound like self-defense. Not after the third or fourth smack of stick against face and the rage-filled screams he barely recognizes as his own.

"I haven't." Blaine says. When Kurt's head snaps up, Blaine shrugs, though his face goes pale and he looks faintly sick. "I don't…I don't want to. Not unless you tell me it's okay." He takes a sharp breath. "You deserve that right, at least." Kurt's pretty sure he's never loved Blaine more. His throat closes up and Kurt garbs Blaine's hand and squeezes, hoping that at least some of the relief and gratitude he feels gets through the touch. Blaine squeezes back. "I'm not gonna lie. I heard about it. It's all over the school. Almost got in a couple fights when some of assholes in homeroom decided to make a joke about it." Blaine looks furious and his hands clench, like he's imagining punching the hell out of someone. He probably would. But the thought of his whole school listening to his attack and laughing reminds Kurt of Karofsky and violation and shame and embarrassment and Kurt turns away, chest starting to heave.

Karofsky's smell is all around him. Kurt wants to claw his skin off. All those showers; and he can still feel Karofsky's lips on his own, his fingers stroking his face, his body—

He doesn't notice he's in the beginnings of a panic attack, chest tight and lungs frozen until Blaine, panicked, pulls him in close and whispers soft endearments. How anyone thinks Blaine is anything less than perfect is a mystery. Kurt clutches Blaine to himself, tears soaking Blaine's shirt in seconds. How can he possibly still be crying; he hasn't stopped since yesterday; oh hell.

Kurt hates himself.

"Hey, come here." Blaine lets Kurt hide his face in his neck. "They don't know you. They don't know anything about you." His hand rubs Kurt's arm, gentle but firm. So different from Karofsky's rough grasp.

"They know enough." Kurt whispers. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess." Kurt says into Blaine's neck. Apologizing is second nature by now.

"You're a moron and need to stop apologizing." Blaine says grumpily. He hugs Kurt tighter. "Besides, if anyone should be apologizing, it's me." The words are small and choked and cuts right through Kurt's foggy depression.

No. "Blaine—"

"I should have been there." Blaine interrupts. He frowns, tugging on his earrings and glaring at Kurt. "I told you I'd protect you from him and I failed."

This wasn't okay. Blaine was fucking perfect; he's come when Kurt called, stayed with him during the ER and the police visit, held him when he breaks down again and again, and isn't leaving Kurt. At least not yet. He shouldn't feel like this. It's all Kurt's fault, why doesn't anyone get it? Kurt fixed Blaine with a steely gaze. "I lied to you about where I'd be. Are you psychic?" he growled out.

"Well, no, but—"

"So shut up about it and hold me. I don't want to talk about it anymore." Kurt pulls his stupid boyfriend back into his arms. Fuck it; he deserves cuddles after this shit day.

Blaine, sweet, perfect Blaine, obliges with a small smile. They stay on the bed for a long time, barely moving. All the worry and fear and shame and anger slip away and for the first time in a while, Kurt just breathes.

Maybe tomorrow would be better.

Kurt tugs Blaine closer.

He really hopes so.