Blaine isn't going to call him. Kurt isn't stupid, isn't blind: he's seen Blaine, has heard the monotone resignation in his voice. But he'd wanted to give Blaine the option to be in control of something, even if it's just a simple phone call, because he knows that it's what Blaine needs right now.

Kurt cries at Blaine's house, but it isn't until he and his dad get home and he goes to his room, locking the door behind him, that he finally crumples, falling to the floor with his fingers raked through his hair and his forehead resting on his knees. His body heaves, shudders, and the tears are an endless, ceaseless tide as they slide down his cheeks, down his lips.

He's still haunted by the look on Blaine's face, the terror that had been there when he'd seen Burt and the lack of anything that had been there when it had just been them at last. Kurt doesn't remember what he'd been expecting to see, but it hadn't been that and it had thrown him for a loop. He'd thought that maybe he could handle this, that he could try to make things okay, but he'd been so wrong. And that might be what bothers him the most: not the unnecessary anger, or the terrifying reaction to his dad, but the sudden, rug-pulled-from-under-his-feet feeling that Kurt has no idea what he's doing.

He doesn't know how to deal with victims like Blaine. He hadn't even researched anything. He'd had this stupid, white-knight vision from the moment he'd decided to come back to Lima. He'd planned to swoop in and cradle Blaine, make all of his hurt and his pain go away, because he'd thought that it might be that easy. They're best friends, after all, and Kurt still loves Blaine with all of his heart, so shouldn't that work?

But it doesn't, and now Kurt feels like he's being ripped slowly in two, can feel each and every tiny fissure in his heart as it cracks, splinters, shatters everything he's built up. He can't help Blaine.

Kurt cries until his head throbs and breathing through his nose is difficult and almost painful. He stands up on shaky legs, wobbling towards the nightstand to grab the box of tissues, and takes a step back in surprise when he sees that it's nearly ten-thirty at night. He hasn't paid attention once to time since he'd gotten home, and now that he thinks about it the sky had been growing dark on the drive to Blaine's.

He throws the tissues in the trashcan and sits heavily on his bed, running his hand absently over the comforter. He thinks that his bag might be downstairs with his dad and realizes that he isn't even sure what he's packed, if it's useful, practical clothing or stuff Kurt would never normally let see the light of day.

(He's trying not to think of all the times Blaine's bed on this bed, of all the times they've been on this bed.)

There's a knock at the door seconds after a fresh wave of tears begins to prickle and sting behind Kurt's eyes, and Kurt quickly runs the feel of his palm over them, though he knows he must already look awful from his first bout of crying, and says, hoarse, "Come in."

The door creaks open and Burt steps in, a cautious look on his face as he holds out Kurt's duffel bag. "You left this downstairs, kid."

Kurt nods, ducking his head to avoid his father's eyes. "Just, um, put it here." He pats the bed to show him where.

Burt sets the bag down, but he doesn't leave. He stands, hovering, for a few more seconds before he pushes the bag out of the way and sits down. The bed dips under his weight, and the warmth of his strong, solid body next to Kurt's brings back memories of the desolate, painful months after his mom's death, when neither of them could cope very well. It's enough to bring back the tears alone, and before Kurt knows it he's wrapping his arms around Burt's neck and crying into his shoulder, inhaling between shuddering sobs the smell of cologne and motor oil.

Kurt can't stop crying. It's all of his frustration, all of his anger, all of his sadness and loneliness and hatred for the man that's done this, that has broken Blaine so horribly. He hiccups when the tears finally slow, but he doesn't move, too reluctant to leave the warm, comforting embrace of his father's arms. It's safe here, like it's always been.

"I'm going to stay until next weekend," Kurt says after a minute, his voice thick. He finally pulls back, then, wipes his eyes and looks up to see his father's reaction. "I'll call the dean tomorrow and say that I've had a family emergency."

Burt nods. "I can't say that I like you jeopardizing your education, but I'm...real glad you're sticking around. I know yesterday didn't go over so well, but there's still hope, right?"

Kurt's sure that hope is a four-letter lie, but he nods anyway, just to appease his dad. He smiles, too, but it's forced, painful, and his lips don't seem to want to cooperate just right. But Burt takes it anyway, giving Kurt a smile of his own and a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. It's his silent way of saying things will work out, but Kurt finds it hard to believe him.

----

Sam falls asleep for exactly one hour that night before he wakes, screaming. Or—he thinks he does, but no one rushes into his room, no lights turn on. Nothing stirs at all in his house, and there is no noise except the harsh pounding of his heart and his deep, gasping breaths.

As he stares into the inky blackness, his mind pieces together the sharp bits of dream that remain, and as much as Sam tries not to remember it he does, can see flashes of Blaine's terrified face, can hear his screams, his pleas. It had been the scene in the choir room that afternoon, but this time the gunman hadn't pushed his gun out of the way, had kept it to Blaine's head, and when he was done he had looked out at them all and laughed and pulled the trigger and—

Sam presses his palms to his eyes, shaking his head. Nausea swirls hot and sour in his stomach, and it's an effort to successfully swallow it down. He never wants to set foot in the choir room ever again, but school will resume on Monday and glee club has nowhere else to practice but there.

He hasn't heard from Blaine all night, and he hadn't heard from Kurt since he'd called him. The temptation to pick up his phone is nearly overwhelming, but whenever he tries to make himself do it, he can't. He's scared, though he doesn't necessarily understand why. Maybe with Kurt here Blaine will heal faster, but even Sam is aware that that's a long shot, and, knowing Blaine, probably won't work.

But Blaine is alive, and that's all that matters. Sam collapses back onto his pillows, his sheets slumped to his waist. He doesn't pull them back up, and he doesn't fall back asleep.

----

"McKinley became the site of unexpected tragedy on Wednesday when an unidentified man broke into the school and brandished a gun. Thankfully no one was killed, though injuries were reported. None of these injuries were as serious, however, as Blaine Anderson's (senior). Sources tell me that the gunman (who is now in custody) spent most of his time in the choir room where the resident glee club practices, and that—brace yourselves, faint of heart—Blaine was his unfortunate victim. And no, it did not involve a weapon of any kind. No word on his condition, but it is said that, after being taken to Lima Memorial, he is currently recovering at home."

It's there.

It's there, and everyone can see it.

Everyone has seen it.

Blaine thinks he might throw up as he stares in horror at the page in the paper until the tiny black words blur. The floor sways under his feet, like it's caught in an earthquake, and suddenly everything seems surreal, not quite tangible and there. Jacob had made the article discreet in its bluntness, but there is no mistaking its true identity and purpose: to tell the whole school that Blaine couldn't even defend himself. That he's weak, a target, a failure.

It's Monday, and school is back in session. His mom had offered the night before to let him stay home, that he could rest, recover, recoup before going back, but Blaine knows that all of the rest and recovery in the world wouldn't help him. Like pulling off a band-aid, Blaine had needed to go back with everyone else, prove to the glee club—and to himself—that he's strong, that he can keep his head up and do this. He may be on HIV antivirals for the next six months just to be safe with testing once a month for the next three, and he may have a reluctant therapy session twice a week, but he's still Blaine Anderson. He's kept his head up though hardships before.

He just hadn't counted on the school newspaper or Jacob's nosy reporter skills. He didn't count on dozens of pairs of eyes staring at him as he walks down the hall, judging and scrutinizing as whispers follow him, hissing and hushed and overwhelming. Look, there's Blaine Anderson, the boy who was raped.

The paper flutters to the floor, and Blaine keeps his eyes down as he walks, faster and faster, towards the bathroom. It seems to stretch out endlessly, the hallway lengthening each time he seems to get closer, and by the time he pushes the door open he's hyperventilating and unable to draw in deep, satisfying breaths. It's warm outside, but Blaine has on a cardigan that he keeps tugging down over his wrists. He does it now as he shuts the door, tries to compose himself but ultimately fails.

His sobs echo in the empty room, and he drops to his knees, palms flat on the chilly linoleum. It's not even an hour into the day and already Blaine can't deal with this. He can't handle it. He hasn't seen any of the glee club, and he hasn't even heard from Sam since last week. Kurt hasn't called, but he'd given Blaine instructions to call him if he'd needed to. Blaine had refused, had wanted desperately to prove that he didn't need to hang onto his ex-boyfriend for support, no matter how they've patched things up since October.

He can't go back out there, not with everyone knowing, not with everyone having seen him all but run to the bathroom and slam the door. Blaine just wants things to be normal again. He doesn't want people to stare at him, to whisper about him. He doesn't want this, he hadn't asked for it. He hasn't even had a chance yet to go to Coach Sylvester and tell her that he's quitting the Cheerios, that just the thought of wearing that uniform again makes him ill.

On autopilot Blaine finds himself taking out his phone and unlocking the screen. He goes to Kurt's contact, presses the number and brings his phone to his ear. He lets it ring. And ring. And ri—

"Blaine?" Kurt, so concerned, so worried. "Are you all right?"

Blaine opens his mouth to answer, but he begins sobbing instead, loud and echoing, and he doesn't care. In between sobs he manages to gasp it out, Jacob printed it out in the school newspaper and now everyone knows, and saying it aloud makes the compressing, suffocating feeling even stronger.

"Blaine," Kurt says. "Blaine, calm down, okay? I can hardly understand you."

It's difficult to calm down. Blaine tries, but his body doesn't want to cooperate. God, this is why he'd never wanted to call Kurt. He's this pathetic, sniveling mess who can barely hold himself together. Kurt is always so in-control, always knows what to do. Blaine doesn't deserve him.

Gradually his sobs subside, then his breathing returns to normal. He listens to the drip of the faucet, stares at the beige stall doors. He sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and says, "J-Jacob somehow found out about wh—what happened to me, and he published it in the s-school newspaper."

Kurt swears, says, "That bastard. Where are you now?"

"The bathroom. I thought I could do this but I was wrong, Kurt. I'm sorry. I'm so pathetic."

"No, you're not, Blaine. You had the courage to come back to school in the first place despite what happened. That's not pathetic."

Blaine begins crying again, whether it's from the tenderness in Kurt's voice or the situation as a whole Blaine doesn't know, but he presses the phone tighter to his ear, curls in on himself and says, "I don't even know who I am anymore."

"You're my Blaine," Kurt replies immediately. His voice is firm, and it leaves no room for argument. Blaine hangs onto it like he's always hung on to everything Kurt says. "You're brave, and strong, and so, so smart and I know you can make it through this day. Do you want me to come pick you up?"

Blaine hesitates, mulling the offer over, before ultimately shaking his head. "No."

It's tempting, to leave now and avoid everyone, but he also knows in the long run, that it's going to make everything worse. The school knows now what's happened, and they've seen Blaine just days later. Unintentionally he'd shown them that he's stronger than they may think.

So why doesn't he feel like it? Why does he feel like he's a breeze away from being a collapsing house of cards? Why can he still not sleep at night, and why do the fading aches and bruises drive him to hunch over the toilet bowl every time he thinks about them, sees them?

Blaine isn't okay. He isn't brave. Kurt is wrong. But he also isn't going to give up already. He wants to go back to being normal Blaine, senior class president and male glee club lead. The past is the past, and Blaine's going to try and do everything he can to return to who he was before last Wednesday afternoon.

"I'll be fine," he adds, and he hangs up. Because Kurt is too good for him, has done too much already. Blaine doesn't deserve to listen to Kurt's praises anymore, not when they're not true.

There are deep bags under his eyes when he looks at the mirror over the sink. His hair is barely held down with gel, and the waves are bumpy and visible, but he doesn't care. He tries to hide the fear that swells up whenever someone brushes past him or comes from around the corner of behind him or from a hallway. He tries to hide how much he's falling apart, how much he hates himself and thinks I deserve this whenever possible. It's hard to get better, but you have to start somewhere, right?

Blaine makes it to fourth period before someone rushes down the adjacent hallway just as Blaine is rounding the corner. They collide, Blaine falling to the floor, and it's like his mind shuts off as he huddles in on himself, makes his body smaller and smaller as he pleads with the boy, no, no, don't hurt me, please don't, not again, no, please. Someone touches his shoulder and he screams.

It's Tina and Sam who take him to the nurse. It's Sam who calls his mom, Tina who pets his hair and holds his hand until she arrives. It's both William and Stella who arrive to take him to the car, and it's William who drives while Stella sits in the back with him, tells him through jumbled, distant words that he's having a panic attack, that he needs to calm down. That he's okay, she's here, nothing is going to hurt him.

After this, Blaine lets himself stop thinking at all.