"Teach me how to fight."

Kurt stands firm under Blaine's incredulous look. He'd been thinking about asking Blaine for a while, mulling the idea over in his head around and around until he was sure. Maybe bringing it up in the hallway before classes wasn't the best idea, but Kurt had to. Before he lost his nerve.

"You hate violence." Blaine raises an eyebrow and takes out a lighter. He flicks the flame on and off, on and off. A teacher walks by, but wisely stays silent. It's not like they care anyway.

The black eye is fading. The purple now a sick yellow. Kurt knows it still hurts; he saw Blaine pop a few Tylenol pills before parking next to Kurt's locker. A week later, and Mr. Anderson's marks are still all over Blaine. Kurt's possessive side snarls silently.

He shuts his locker, thinking. Explaining this had to be done right so Blaine understood. It wasn't about the violence. Kurt did hate violence; even the thought of blood makes him feel faint (how he didn't pass out at Blaine's was a miracle), but. But.

"I'll explain to you after school." Kurt forces his face into a half smile. He just needs to get it straight in his own head.

Blaine doesn't let Kurt go to his locker after their last class. Instead, he pulls Kurt along to the school's weight room. How he even had a key, Kurt can't even begin to imagine, but then Blaine guides him to the heavily taped punching bag and sits him down on a nearby bench while he runs into the locker room.

Kurt grips the strap of his bag with white fingers, trying not to panic. He forgot how the gym smells like sweat and boys and him. His legs tremble and Kurt fights the urge get the hell out of there, but he's with Blaine, I'm safe, I'm safe you fucking weakling.

Some days, he hates himself.

But Blaine is back, stripped down to a white tank top and gym shorts, his hands wrapped in tape. He sees Kurt's heavy breathing, Kurt knows he sees it, but Blaine doesn't comment. Kurt tries not to notice the muscles and the skin and holy hell, how were girls not throwing themselves at this god on earth?

Blood rushes up to his cheeks and Kurt curses himself silently. Blaine has a cocky grin on now, but he turns serious.

"Why do you want to fight, Kurt?"

Kurt blinks, looks into Blaine's eyes. They're cautious, worried, but…respectful? Kurt swallows, remembering the words that came to him in the middle of history class and how he wrote them down, over and over.

"It's easier to be angry than scared." Kurt whispers. He looks resolutely at a point over Blaine's shoulder. "I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of being weak. I don't…I don't want to attack anyone." A surge of pride rushes through his veins and he meets Blaine's eyes. "But. I want the courage to fight for myself."

It's the right thing to say. Blaine stares at him before chuckling.

"Well, let's get you changed and into a pair of gloves."

Blaine is a hard teacher. Kurt tries to wipe the sweat off his forehead, but his arm is just as wet so he gives up. He feels like he jumped in the pool. The thin tank top Blaine lent him is soaked through and sticks to his body as he pounds out set after set under Blaine's coaching.

Jab right, jab left, hook, cross, uppercut. Over and over for weeks.

"Again."

Kurt considers punching Blaine instead, but the boy eyes him with a challenging look, and Kurt won't back down. He sighs, shakes out his trembling arms, and takes his stance again.

It's been three weeks since Blaine started the lessons. Twice a week, after school and after all the club sports were done, Kurt and Blaine sneak in to use the punching bag. Blaine was intent on teaching Kurt everything he knew, and Kurt was surprised at how much he liked it.

Punching the bag is calming. Methodical. Kurt gets lost in the rhythmic thud, thuds and his harsh breaths. Again. Again. He takes out all of his anger and frustration on the heavy bag, and it leaves him too exhausted to feel. Just him, the bag, and Blaine's voice, urging him Harder, Kurt, make the bag feel it. Let your anger go.

Kurt hasn't cried in three weeks. His arms are more defined, and he knows he walks straighter. He thinks his dad has noticed, but Burt doesn't say anything.

But…

Karofsky still scares him. Every day, Kurt walks down the hall and flinches when he hears that voice, tensing up until Blaine bumps into him and smiles and banishes the fear.

It wouldn't be so bad, Kurt thinks; if he could just figure out what Karofsky wanted. Because he feels the locker shoves, the dumpster tosses, the slushies. But he also feels the lingering eyes, the subtle touches, the hungry smirks.

Kurt just punches the bag harder.

Blaine stays over almost every night.

At first, he sneaks in during the middle of the night and stays in Kurt's bed, slipping out again before the alarm.

Until Burt catches them.

He's angry until he sees Blaine's defiant face and bruise. With a deep sigh and a tired groan, Burt pulls out a spare blanket and pillow and sets up the couch.

"Now I want 'cha to know," Burt begins, "You always have a place to stay. But your butt stays on this couch 'til morning, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Blaine says wonderingly.

"None of that 'sir' crap. Name's Burt." Burt claps his hand on Blaine's shoulder and steers him to the couch.

"Thanks, Burt," Blaine grins, huge and happy and Kurt feels his heart swell.

Later, as he follows his father up the stairs, Kurt suddenly hugs him, squeezing tightly.

"Thanks, dad," he whispers.

Burt grunts, but Kurt sees the proud look on his dad's face when he pulls away. There's a twinge of guilt when Kurt thinks about how he should tell him about the bullying at school, but Kurt pushes it down.

"He's the one who's been teaching you to box?"

Kurt stiffens.

"I found your gym bag the other day. Gloves and wraps." Burt looks his son up and down. "You like it?"

"I…" Kurt thinks. "Yeah. It's nice. Blaine's a good teacher." He smiles a little. "I'm getting better."

Burt nods as if he knows something. "I'm not stupid, Kurt. I know something's been going on at school. I just wish you felt like you could tell me."

The blood drains from Kurt's face. This was not where he wanted this conversation heading. "Dad, I—"

Holding up a hand, Burt sighs. "Christ, kid. You don't have to protect me. I'm the parent, you know?" He looks so sad and Kurt kind of wants to smack himself because his dad should not look like that, like it was his fault, because it's not. It's Kurt's. Burt looks at Kurt hard. "Blaine's helping, isn't he?"

"I…" Kurt hugs himself and prays Blaine is asleep because sound carries in this house. "Yeah. He helps me be happy."

"Good. You guys…you guys are good for each other." With a bone-crushing hug and weak smile, Burt slips back into his room. Kurt stands in the hallway, dazed. Then he grabs the pillow and blanket off his bed and sneaks back downstairs.

"Mmmgh…Kurt…?" Blaine blinks when he hears Kurt steal back into the living room. He cracks an eye open when Kurt pushes the coffee table out of the way.

"Shh, go back to sleep, Blaine."

"Why are you on the floor?" Blaine sits up and helps spread the blankets on the floor next to the couch. They bunch the covers up into a makeshift bed. Kurt has a feeling Blaine heard most of the conversation with his dad, but maybe he'll let it be.

"I wasn't going to leave you alone." Kurt says. I don't want to be alone, he thinks.

Blaine gives him a look, like he knows what Kurt is thinking. But Kurt sees that slightly relieved smile. Then it fades and Blaine glances at the stairs nervously.

"Besides, Dad only said you had to stay down here; he didn't say anything about me." Kurt winks. He stacks the pillows and lays down, looking up at Blaine.

"Damn, Hummel, I think I must be rubbing off on you." Blaine grins over the edge of the couch.

"Quiet, you."

"My little rebel."

"I'm taller. And older."

"By a few months."

Kurt snorts and rolls over. Until he feels a tapping on his shoulder. Looking up, he sees Blaine with an outstretched hand. Kurt doesn't even think before grabbing it, letting their hands hang between them. A wave of contentment and comfort washes over him and Kurt feels almost relaxed enough to sleep.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice is small.

"Yeah?" He's almost drifted off, but Blaine brings him back.

"Your hands are really soft."

"That's what moisturizer is for."

"Kurt?"

"Hmmm?"

"Thank you."

Kurt smiles.

"Of course."

When Finn crashes through the house later that morning, Kurt bolts away with a blush, but he feels the ghost of Blaine's touch for the rest of the day.

One month into Kurt's training, Karofsky corners him before lunch. Kurt is standing at his locker, waiting for Blaine, when a thick hand grabs him and shoves him into the nearby boy's bathroom. Kurt doesn't have time to react before the lock clicks into place and he's alone with his bully in a small space.

Fear shoots down his spine but Kurt's had practice at standing tall so he does: head high, back straight, chin up. Only his white knuckles gripping his bag strap betray him. Karofsky just silently glares, and somehow, that's worse than when he yells insults and hateful names. The silence is unknown and frightening, and Kurt realizes the very worst thing about this situation is that no one knows where he is. Blaine would think to check the girl's bathroom, but not the boy's, never the boy's because he knows how much Kurt hates the smell and boys don't like to share this private place with gays anyway. Too much of a chance of their dicks being checked out. Like a glance would turn them gay, honestly.

The bathroom's tiles echo their breathing and Kurt is fairly certain Karofsky can hear how hard his heart is thud-thud-ing against his ribcage. He wonders what that look in Karofsky's eyes mean. It's hidden and cloudy but hungry, and Kurt shifts his feet into a defensive stance, readying himself.

Karofsky sees Kurt move and scoffs, chuckling at the sight of Kurt trying to defend himself and Kurt feels blood rush to his cheeks. Stupid complexion.

He can't take it anymore.

"Why am I in here?" Kurt bites out. He wants to leave, but Karofsky is in front of the only door and though Kurt is fast, he's not that fast. He thinks about how his bookbag has his physics textbook in it, and much it would hurt to get hit with it.

"I wanna talk to you."

Kurt blinks in surprise. Of all the things he expected, that wasn't one of them. Somehow, he forces his throat to move. "About what?"

Karofsky clears his throat and growls at Kurt's expression. "God, don't look at me like that. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Laughing probably isn't appropriate. "You hurt me on a daily basis, Karofsky. And now you've kidnapped me and locked me into a bathroom with you. How should I look at you?" Kurt manages to keep his voice calm, but only barely. What he wouldn't give to have Blaine here right now.

Karofsky's face flushes and he ducks his head. But only for a second, and then the football persona is back and the nervous little boy is gone.

He moves, too quickly for Kurt to register, and then Kurt's back slams against the wall and thick arm traps his chest. He brings his face close to Kurt's. "This is just a reminder," and Kurt gags at the smell of grease and sweat, "that if you ever tell about kissing me, I'll kill you. That goes for your fuckbuddy too."

Kurt can't breathe, not with his face so close and then Kurt realizes Karofsky isn't looking at his eyes anymore, oh no, they're glancing down at his lips and then one of Blaine's lessons pops up and Kurt brings his knee up hard.

Karofsky lets go of Kurt with a high-pitched yelp and doubles over, but Kurt's already brought up an arm and swings his fist directly into Karofsky's face. He hears something crack as pain explodes across his fist. Kurt doesn't stay to see Karofsky collapse to the floor with a bloody face; no, he just books it to the door and flies out once he manages to get his hands to stop shaking enough to turn the lock.

He takes deep, gulping breaths in the wide hallway, but it's not enough, he needs to be gone, like right now. Blaine is at his locker, leaning back with one boot on the door and a worried expression that gets even more scared when he sees Kurt. He opens his mouth, but Kurt walks quickly and grabs Blaine's leather jacket, tugging him along. They get outside and the air, the fresh air is wonderful. Kurt turns and buries his face in the crook of Blaine's neck, smelling leather and cigarettes and Blaine.

It smells safe.

"Jesus, Kurt, what's wrong? What happened?" Blaine finally pries Kurt from his body and holds him at arm's length. "Christ, you're still shaking. Was it Karofsky?" Kurt's voice fails him so he nods, and Blaine swears. Then Blaine notices Kurt's bloody knuckles. "Kurt?"

His hands are gentle, but Kurt can't hold back a hiss of pain. It hurts to moves his fingers. "Karofsky has a face made of iron." He whispers, and Blaine looks up sharply.

"You punched Karofsky?"

"After I kneed him in the balls."

Blaine stares at Kurt before letting out a loud laugh. "Damn, Kurt. I knew you were a fighter, but damn." He grins and Kurt can't help but feel a swell of pride because Blaine is proud of him.

He stood up for himself.

And damn, but it feels amazing.

Blaine is sobering up, though. "Kurt," he starts. "Why did you need to defend yourself against him?"

Kurt doesn't answer. He sets off for his Navigator. Fuck school. He can't look at Karofsky today. Not again.

But Blaine follows. "Kurt, did he do something? You have to tell someone."

"No I don't." Kurt's in front of his car and digs for his keys. Finn can find his own damn was home. And so can Blaine, because he is done talking about this, why can't anyone let him be?

He forgets how Blaine is like an annoyingly persistent puppy. When he hits the unlock button, Blaine slides into the passenger seat before Kurt can do a thing about it. With a growl, Kurt climbs into the driver's seat and glares at Blaine.

"Get out."

"No."

God, he's so fucking stubborn.

"Blaine. Get out of my car. I'm not telling my dad. We've had this discussion; he doesn't need the stress!" Kurt is yelling by the end.

"He's your father! He has the right to know if you're scared for your safety at school!"

"How the fuck would you know what a father's rights are, considering yours beats you on a daily basis and you won't go to the police? How would you know what a father is supposed to do?" Kurt explodes. He pales at Blaine's face. "No, shit, Blaine, I didn't mean it like that—"

Blaine's face is hard. "Yeah, you did. You meant that exactly how it sounded."

Kurt grips the steering wheel and blinks back tears. Deep breaths. In and out. "I didn't mean to sound like I blame you. Your situation is not your fault. It's your dad's."

"Yeah, just like yours." When Kurt looks over, Blaine is leaning back against the door. He's fingering his earrings and Kurt knows that means he's anxious and Kurt hates that it's his fault. But his eyes are strong and sure. "What David Karofsky does isn't in your control and it's not your fault. If you won't talk about him sexually assaulting you Kurt's stomach twists and he looks away,—then you need to talk about him physically assaulting you."

"It won't do anything."

"It might. And at least you've tried."

Kurt's knuckles are still caked in blood and he stares at the red. "I can handle this myself." Even the words sound empty and false. Blaine leans over and rubs his shoulder.

"You shouldn't have to."

He thinks. Thinks. Kurt hates asking for help. And maybe it will get better, now that Karofsky knows he's willing to fight back. Maybe he'll leave him alone and his dad won't ever find out what a pathetic weakling he has for a son.

"I'll think about it." Kurt lies. He ignores the guilt that flares up at Blaine's relieved grin. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

On the drive to his house, Kurt tells Blaine all about how he took down a 230-pound football player in two moves. By the time they are inside and Kurt begins making Blaine's favorite cookies, he thinks Blaine might forget their conversation.

Please let Blaine forget.