Chapter 8

(BLAINE'S POV)

Kurt looks pinned against the wall, and my insides turn to ice when I think for a moment that he's being attacked. But a second later, Kurt flips them around-- and, with their roles reversed, grabs the guy by his jacket, pulls him forward, and then slams his bulky frame against the wall, the guy's cap-covered head connecting with the bricks, making an audible whack! sound. He goes cross-eyed and that's when I run forward.

"Hey! Easy, easy!" I shout, coming up behind Kurt. I shove my hands through the space beneath his underarms and loop them up and around so that my palms come to rest on the back of his neck, effectively incapacitating him. (Which is not an easy feat, given that he's got a few inches on me.) "What are you doing?!" I yell as I pull him back, his legs flailing. The other man slumps to the ground, conscious but disoriented.

"Blaine, get off me!" Kurt struggles to free himself, but all it results in is him wiggling his arms around in a ridiculous manner.

"No." I say stubbornly.

"You're making me look stupid!"

"Well you're being stupid!" I say harshly, Kurt hyperventilating.

I said there, immobile, just waiting for him to relax.

It takes a little while longer, but eventually Kurt's efforts begin to die down. The small crowd starts to disperse, and by the time the last spectator has left, Kurt is no longer putting up any resistance. He turns his head to the side slightly, and says quietly, resigned, "I'm good, I'm good."

I feel his back expanding at a slower, even rate against my chest with every breath he takes, and the one eye I can see at this angle seems to have lost its fire.

"Okay." I mutter, unclasping my hands and slipping them from under his arms, back to my sides. I want to shove my hands into my pockets-- it's freezing out and I don't have gloves-- but I leave them where they are, just in case.

Kurt straightens his clothes, and runs his hands through his hair a couple times.

"Sorry." He mutters to the guy leaning on the wall.

"Yeah, fuck you." He spits.

"Shut up." Kurt snarls, taking a step towards him.

"Hey." I move in front of Kurt. "Who hit first?" I ask. All the witnesses have left already and I have no idea how long this had been going on or which one of them could claim self-defense.

"The twink did." The guy says, glaring daggers at Kurt.

Kurt points at him. "I said shut up-"

"Kurt!" I look him in the eye, waiting. I'm starting to get really pissed off and he can tell.

"I did." He says angrily.

"Shit." I murmur. I turn to the guy still leaning on the wall. "You gonna call the cops?"

He rolls his eyes. "I'm on parole, so no." Of course you are.

I sigh in relief.

"So you better not either." The guy attempts to threaten.

"Okay. Can you stand up?" I ask him.

He looks insulted for some reason, pushing himself up off the ground and getting to his feet. He sways a bit and has to grab the wall for support, but he looks like he can make it.

"Okay, we're leaving." I grab Kurt's arm and haul him along, starting to make my way back home. About 20 feet later, I turn back to make sure the man's not following us. However, when my eyes find him, he's walking (albeit, somewhat difficultly) in the other direction, lighting a cigarette.

I look back at Kurt, who won't meet my eye.

"So you wanna tell me what the hell that was about?" I ask.

"No."

"Kurt--" My words die in my throat when I see tears shining in his eyes, reflecting the light from the street lamps. He sees me staring, and turns his head away.

"Damn it, stop looking at me. You're always looking at me. Everyone is always looking at me." He rubs his eyes with his (my) sleeves.

"I-I just... don't understand you." I murmur cautiously.

"Yeah, nobody does."

I roll my eyes.

"Oh, don't give me that crap. I bet you lots of people do. Or they would... You kinda strike me as the type who doesn't let people get to know you."

"No, I'm more of the type who's learned to live with the fact that people won't want to."

"Well how do you know if you don't try?"

"I can't try."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about."

Silence.

"How much longer till we're back at the apartment?" Kurt asks.

"A few blocks. Don't worry, I took the long way." I say, knowing full well that we're taking the exact same route as before.

He huffs. "Thanks. That's what was worrying me."

"Are you all right, but the way? No broken bones or concussions or anything?"

"I feel fine."

"Do you?"

"Physically? Yes."

"Mentally?"

"... I feel like I normally do."

"Which is...?"

"Fine."

"Well, now I know that's bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"You always beat up strangers when you're 'fine'?"

"... Yes."

"Really?" I deadpan.

"Really."

"Kurt, I'm being serious here."

"I don't wanna talk about this with you."

Ouch.

"Well if you won't talk about it with me then who will you talk about it with?"

"Why do I have to? Like you said, it was stupid." He replies curtly.

"Well I didn't mean it like that--"

"Can we not? I'm starting to cry again..." Kurt tips his head back and blinks really hard.

"Kurt--"

"He called me a faggot." Kurt says, rushed and uncomfortably.

I stop walking and so does he. I wait for the rest of the story but it doesn't come.

"Wait-- that's all?"

His eyes narrow.

"What do you mean 'that's all'?" He asks angrily.

"Sorry, it's just... I hear that all the time." I shrugged.

"Well, I don't."

We start walking again.

My heart begins to ache softly. Have I really heard that hateful word so often that it doesn't even bother me anymore?

I look over at Kurt, whose face is all hard lines and anguish and glistening tears, and try to sift through my memories. I try to think of the one of the first times I'd been called that, back before Dalton and sheltered lifestyles and no-bullying policies. I try to remember how it had felt. How degraded and humiliated I had been.

Suddenly I get it.

I grab Kurt's arm and stop him again. We're only about 30 feet from our apartment.

I make eye contact and say, "I'm really sorry that happened to you."

"I'm not gay." He responds immediately, eyes looking around as though he's afraid someone else might hear us.

"Okay." I nod.

"I'm not." He defends for no reason.

"No one's saying you are." I tilt my head down to catch his eyes. When they finally meet mine, his face crumples unexpectedly. I grasp his shoulders and step forward, embracing him tightly. A moment later I feel him arms snake around my back, his fingers digging into my skin. His chest starts spasming violently with each breath, moving mine with it in it's tenacity.

(KURT'S POV)

I can't. Stop. Crying.

"Oh great, now I'm ruining two of your shirts." I can barely hear my own voice, muffled by Blaine's shoulder as my tears spill onto the fabric. The one I'm wearing is dirty and wrinkled (and also tear-stained) and it's just awful.

I can't stop bringing up this goddamn shirt and it's not even a thing and it shouldn't even matter but for some reason it does.

Clearly I should just stick to Finn-type shirts because it's all I can handle.

"Kurt, just forget about the shirt, alright?"

But I can't stop because now a fucking dam has broken and everything around me is a crisis.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." I chant into his shoulder, my voice sounding all high-pitched like it always does when I let myself really cry. It's cracking again from disuse and that thought just makes me cry harder.

"It's okay," He sighs empathetically, rubbing my back in a soothing circle. "It's okay, Kurt."

And for a moment I let myself believe him.

It takes nearly ten minutes for my cries to subside, and another twenty for my face to start returning to its normal color. Not long after that, we decide to go inside, a calm quietness settling over us.

I zip up my jacket to cover the rumpled clothing, and pat my hair down as best I can, before turning to Blaine.

"Did he get my face?" I ask, the cold air combined with my now too-tight-skin making my face too numb to tell if he'd hit me.

"Doesn't look like it." Blaine replies somewhat solemnly.

We step inside the building, and soon enough I open the door to the apartment to find an anxious Finn and Rachel sitting on the couch, both of whom stand up upon our arrival.

"Kurt! Where were you?" Finn asks.

"What?"

"Blaine said he couldn't find you." Rachel states.

"And you weren't answering your phone..." Finn adds, clutching his own in his hand.

I reach into my pocket to take mine out to see 4 missed calls from Finn.

"I had my phone on silent..." I murmur absentmindedly.

"Dude, I was so worried, we didn't know where you'd run off to..."

"Well, I'm a big boy, Finn, I can take care of myself." I don't dare look at Blaine as I say this, because obviously our little rendezvous outside proved otherwise.

"I know that, man, but we're like-- the two amigos. I thought you'd just disappeared without telling anyone and-- I don't know, I just started freaking out... It seems kinda dumb now, but..." He shrugs.

I don't know what makes me do it (perhaps I hadn't gotten it all out of my system outside, or maybe I'm just human-contact-deficient, or maybe I've just been spurred on by the idea that he was worried about me-- he was worried about me?!-- ) but my legs move of my own volition and I hug Finn.

It's a very short, tight hug, full of testosterone-filled slaps on the back, but for some reason I feel like crying again afterward. I've never initiated anything like that and although a hug is not a big deal, it certainly feels like one.

"I'm all right, Finn. I was just..." I can't think of a good excuse. I turn to Blaine, who's smiling softly, my eyes pleading.

The smile wipes off his face instantly, and a fraction of a second later he says, "He'd just gone back to find Mercedes again before her band went home."

"Yeah," I say. "I thought I'd remember how to get to the other bar, but I didn't, so I just walked back to Scandals." Well, Kurt, you just took a perfectly good set up for a fake story and butchered it. "I forgot to tell Blaine you guys already left."

Luckily for me, Finn sometimes can be as gullible as he is tall.

"Aw, that sucks, bro. Next time."

"Yeah, next time." I say, relieved. "Look, I'm gonna go take a shower." I announce to the room at large. I know I took one earlier today but I feel grimy and I need one again.

Finn nods, so, without further adieu, I make a beeline for the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

(BLAINE'S POV)

"Okay, I think I'm gonna go to bed. It's late." Finn turns to Rachel.

"I'll be there in a minute." She smiles at him.

"Alright. Night, Blaine." Finn says to me before heading to their room and closing the door.

Rachel instantly turns to me.

"You know, Finn might have believed that, but Kurt is a terrible liar." Rachel states bluntly.

"No. He isn't." I say. Tonight has only confirmed my theory that Kurt hides way more than any of us know about. This only peaks my curiosity. Is Kurt gay or was it just the stress of the night that made him break down like that?

He flirts with that girl Mercedes, then flips out in the face of homophobia. He tries to convince me he's straight, then starts sobbing when I don't question him.

God, Nick was right about the whole 'King Oblivious' thing. I can barely interpret regular signs, how am I supposed to decipher mixed ones?

"What aren't you telling me?" Rachel asks skeptically.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean what do I mean?"

"What do you think I mean?"

"I'm serious, Blaine. Something happened and I'd like to know what."

"Nothing happened. I found him and we went home." I hate keeping things from her. I hate it so much but this isn't my news to share. If Kurt had wanted everyone to know then he would have told them himself, instead of blatantly lying to his own brother, however weak that lie was.

"A whole hour and a half after you called me?"

She's exaggerating a little but I nod anyway.

She sighs, defeated. "Do I have anything to worry about?"

"Not that I know of, no."

With one last piercing look, she shrugs slightly. "Okay... Well, goodnight, Blaine."

"Night." I smile sadly.

We both part ways, going to our respective room in awkward silence.

Well, tonight was a disaster.

(KURT'S POV)

Well, tonight was a disaster.

Standing in my boxers in front of the mirror, I turn from side to side, examining my body.

I've already lost about 3 pounds in stress weight since I moved in, but you can't really tell.

I look down at my legs. Now that I'm inside and the adrenaline has worn off, my shins are sore and aching, and now I know why. There's an array of bruises forming on the tender flesh, ugly black and blue splotches dotting my skin.

That asshole was a major kicker. I'm just glad he wasn't wearing steel-toed boots, otherwise I'd be in real trouble.

My spine also hurts, as well as the back of my neck, which had also been scraped a little on the bricks.

But the worst part of it all, the spot that I can barely look at for more than a few seconds, is the skin above my collarbone and the nasty, purple hickey that's formed there. A stomach-churning, horrifying reminder of what I've done. What I gave into.

Sure we didn't kiss on the mouth but somehow that's only worse. I let a man put his lips on my skin. I almost got intimate with a stranger I hadn't known for a day. I let him lick my neck in a back alley and I didn't even like him.

I let a "him" do that!

Disgusted, I turn toward the shower.

What is wrong with me? Being with a girl doesn't feel right, being with a guy doesn't feel right...

I remove my underwear and turn the shower nozzles on, not even bothering to punish myself with the temperature. I just want to wash Peter's dried saliva off me. I want to stop feeling so tarnished.

I shampoo and condition my hair, but no matter how much I scrub my body, I just can't get clean.