His eyes blinked rapidly for a few seconds as he adjusted to his surroundings. Glancing around, he tried to find something to focus on; something to give him a clue as to where he was. There was nothing.

Everything was dark, completely and utterly dark. He could discern nothing from the inky blackness threatening to swallow him. Even the surface beneath his feet was a mystery to him. He knelt down and made contact with the surface. It was solid beneath his fingers, but smooth like the floor tiles in a school. His fingers slid forward until…

There it was. He felt the groove where the tile ended and traced his fingertips along the edge, trying to get a measure of how large it was. He stretched his body out as he searched for the corner. He was unwilling to move very far when he didn't know what exactly he was standing on.

As he leaned forward farther, he watched his finger sliding along the edge of the indention, and he began to grow despaired when he felt no change in the surface. He wished that he could see something, anything to break up this unnatural obscurity and give him a clue as to wear he was. As he pulled his hand back, his body having reached the extent of its flexibility, he realized something and gasped audibly.

His hand; he could see his hand. If it were truly dark in here his skin should have blended into his surroundings like everything else. But his pale skin stood out in stark contrast against the shady environment.

Weird, he thought dreamily.

Muscles shifted beneath his skin as he stretched his arm out and twisted it around, almost as if he was seeing it for the first time. In the middle of his discovery, he looked up suddenly. He had heard something moving around.

He was barely breathing while he waited to see if he would hear it again...

There! A dull slap followed by a shuffling noise echoed around him. Kurt thought it sounded like footsteps. He couldn't be sure, but as quickly as the sound had come, it was gone again. He waited an agonizing minute in the darkness. Nothing happened. His shoulders sagged as they released tension and he relaxed.

Something shifted in his peripheral vision at the same time he heard the slap again, not two steps from where he was standing.

He jumped away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to put some distance between himself and that noise. He righted himself and glanced around wildly like a cornered animal. His skin, only moments ago seeming like a blessing as it kept him from total darkness, now felt like a lantern as it guided whatever lurked in the shadows to him. His eyes were limited to seeing nothing more than the flesh on his body. Whatever was lurking near him obviously didn't share the same limitations.

Fear and panic, a desperation to put distance between himself, and that thing – those were the only emotions he felt as he turned and sprinted in the abyss enveloping him.

Forward, backward, up, down – it didn't matter where he went as long as he kept moving. His focus was on two things; his heartbeat pounding a rhythmic cadence in his head and the relentless pursuit of footsteps close behind him.

Suddenly, a loud voice pierced the air around him, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

He jumped, startled by the noise, and felt his feet tangle beneath him. This time he knew he was going to fall. He was going to hit the ground hard and there was nothing he could do to save himself.

Falling seemed to take far longer than it should have, as if everything was moving in slow motion. He was acutely aware of the voice still wailing around him and of the footsteps, louder and faster in his ears as the predator closed in.

He hit the ground with a jolt. The instinct for self-preservation screamed at his body to keep moving, to keep putting distance between himself and his pursuer; so he rolled. He rolled –

Until his forehead cracked against something hard and his eyes snapped open. Kurt was momentarily disoriented as he stared at the spindly legs of his nightstand. Sleep still clouded his mind, but as the wailing around him reached an intolerable level, he shook like a dog to rid himself of his stupor.

He was lying on the floor, wedged between his bed and his nightstand. Painful throbs were shooting up his right arm which was pinned beneath his body at an awkward angle. Twisting around, he relieved the pressure and gingerly stretched the limb. It was sore and Kurt knew he had probably landed on it when he tumbled from the bed.

Sitting up, he fumbled around on the nightstand for his alarm clock, desperate to quiet the obnoxious song. He found his target and smashed down on the off button. The song ended on a high note that slowly faded into silence.

Kurt shivered; it sounded too reminiscent of the wail in his dream. Not a dream, a nightmare, he thought.

It had been awhile since his last nightmare, at least one that he remembered. The last one had probably been towards the end of his sophomore year; the bullying at McKinley had reached a peak. His shoulders were covered in bruises from his almost daily attacks by the jocks who took every available opportunity to slam him into the cold metal lockers. Nightmares then had been full of darkness, of wandering alone through an endless void as his voice cried out over and over for someone to help him. No one ever did.

His dream tonight had shared that same theme, but never before had there been anything else in the dream with him. It was always just him lost in the dark. Those footsteps had been a new, and rather unwelcome, addition. And the scream. That was another new aspect he could have done without. Thinking of that voice, the shrill and almost feral scream, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

It could have just been the song on the radio. Kurt wanted desperately to believe that tiny voice in the back of his mind. It was possible that the footsteps could have been the percussion and the wail could have easily been that atrocious lead singer. The more he thought about it, the more he reassured himself. Call it denial, but Kurt was happy to accept any option other than the truth. His nightmares were back because his daily torment at McKinley was already on pace with last year, and it was only going to get worse.

Water hissed from the tap when he stumbled into the bathroom and twisted the shower knobs. Steam was pouring from the shower and steadily filling up the room when Kurt stripped down and climbed in. The hot water rushed over his skin, turning it a shocking shade of scarlet.

Rachel had told him a story once about what her two dads did for her when she was feeling upset. They would bring her a cup of cold water every time, to the point that she couldn't tell anymore whether she was sad or just thirsty. Well, a blistering hot shower was Kurt's cup of water. Not exactly the same thing, but it always made him feel better if he imagined the remnants of the nightmare mixing with his shampoo and swirling away down the drain.

He felt a bit better when he finally turned off the tap. Water dripped from his skin in a steady stream, leaving a large pool on the floor, but he ignored it. He might love the hot shower and its ability to cleanse more than just his body, but he hated the aftermath. His moisture deprived skin made him feel like he was wearing a spandex body suit.

He plopped down in front of his mirror and set to work picking out various lotions and moisturizers. Moisturizing took twice the usual amount of time as he worked to rectify the damage the water had done. Eventually, he deemed his efforts satisfactory and set to work planning his outfit.

Every moment of your life is an opportunity for fashion. That was the mantra he lived by, the reason he spent twice as long as any girl debating on coordinating colors and picking just the right accessories to compliment his ensemble. It didn't matter that the only audience he had were the culturally deprived and close-minded people of Lima. One day he would move to New York, where fashion and appearance were a way of life. He was going to be a star once he finally escaped this dead-end town, so why not practice for his inevitable future every chance he got?

He eyed himself in the mirror, appraising his choice of clothing; a pair of tight white pants, a light blue button-up shirt with elbow length sleeves and a shiny silver belt. He was debating adding a scarf as an added accessory and his eye caught on one in particular.

An Alexander McQueen pashmina with a peppered print was neatly folded near the bottom of the stack; not as flamboyant as some of his other pieces, but it had a story attached to it. Kurt had been wearing it when he and Mercedes had finally gotten close to one another.

He had already gotten his weekly social status reminder earlier that week. Puckerman had decided to spice up his wardrobe – not that his outfits ever needed help looking fabulous – by showering him in an icy mixture of sugar and red dye number four. It had been particularly painful compared to his previous slushie experiences. The dye had splashed into his eyes and, try as he might, no amount of rubbing would stop the burning.

He had stumbled blindly to the bathroom – only later realizing that he had used the girls' restroom by mistake – and had spent a quarter of an hour rinsing his corneas. His eyes were still stinging three days later, although he knew he would have endured it longer if his outfit could have been spared. The clothes, a light Alexander McQueen knee length sweater and a pair of dark pants had been ruined, forever stained with the cherry flavored beverage. Stinging in your eyes stopped after awhile, but stinging from the loss of an essential part of his wardrobe rotation would sting for quite a while longer.

Grumbling, he shut his locker with a loud bang and turned around to a strange sight. A girl was walking towards him, wet hair plastered to her face as water dripped off her chin. Her clothes were a mess, covered as they were with a mixture of red and purple dyes. Not water, Kurt realized, but a mixture of slushies. Probably those Neanderthals I just passed, Kurt thought. Kurt glanced at her face and felt his jaw drop; it was Mercedes. He had been so distracted by her hair and clothes he hadn't even recognized her.

She walked by him without saying anything, not that he blamed her. The two of them barely talked and most of their exchanges had ended with Kurt criticizing her fashion choices. He had once gone so far as to compare her to a 'Technicolor zebra', a description he still felt applied to that horrid striped jacket.

Her locker was close to his and Kurt watched as she fumbled with the combination. Her eyes were as red as her stained clothes and she was blinking furiously. Kurt saw more liquid running down her face and he glanced at her hair, confused. It was damp, yes, but not wet enough to still be dripping like that. And then Kurt realized what that liquid was. Her tears were washing tracks through the sugar coating her face, leaving glistening trails across her skin.

Kurt just watched her. Anyone could see how upset she was by the way her mouth was set in a tight line and the way her hand, trembling ever so slightly, finally got the combination right and reached into her locker. It was the look in her eyes, though, that nearly broke Kurt's heart. She looked…exhausted. It was the kind of look people get in their eyes after years of constant hardship, when the stress and overwhelming sadness chip away pieces of their soul and leave them defeated and weak.

Of course, he had been through his own share of hardship over the years. He knew what it felt like and he knew that, despite the fact that he and Mercedes didn't quite see eye-to-eye, he had to do something for her.

Easier said than done, he thought as he walked over. He stood beside her and waited for some sort of acknowledgment, but none came. She seemed perfectly content to ignore him, or maybe the slushie was blurring her vision so badly she didn't know he was beside her. He groaned internally. He was going to have to make the first move.

"Mercedes," he said quietly.

She didn't acknowledge him, but again he had suspected as much.

He didn't know what to say to her. I'm sure it was just an accident. Don't worry, nobody noticed it. When the Glee club is popular, they'll be begging us for forgiveness. Those were definitely lies, and ones that were not even the slightest bit believable. Coddling someone wasn't the way to handle this situation. The last thing you wanted when you were hurting and feeling humiliated was to have someone patronize you.

He took one look at her face, her bloodshot and obviously painful eyes, and made his move. He unwound the scarf from his neck, an Alexander McQueen pashmina with a peppered print, and wordlessly passed it to her.

She finally turned to face him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Everyone in the school knew that Kurt's love for clothes was second to none and yet here he was, handing her one of his scarves to clean up slushie? It didn't add up.

"It helps the stinging if you get it out of your eyes quickly," he said with a shrug. He gave her a slight nod and turned to head to class. The thought of his scarf being used as a common rag was killing him… literally. But she needed a friend and Kurt considered his offering a waving of the proverbial peace flag and, possibly, a sign of friendship.

He didn't see Mercedes again until the following morning.

She was waiting for him outside in the parking lot. After waving him over, she opened her passenger door and leaned inside, emerging a second later with his scarf folded into a neat little square. She passed it over silently and he accepted it, grateful to feel the soft fabric against his fingers.

"Thank you," she said. She reached behind her and grabbed a cup of coffee off of the hood of the car that Kurt hadn't noticed was there.

"You're welcome," Kurt replied. Mercedes offered him a small smile and her attention shifted as she pulled out her cell phone.

Kurt took that as a dismissal and walked away, feeling a bit down. Maybe there had been too much animosity between them for this friendship to ever work out.

Sighing, Kurt unfolded the scarf. He expected to see a mess of faded stains, but it was perfect.

"How did you get all of that dye out?" He asked the question before he could stop himself.

Turning around, he saw Mercedes eyeing him curiously.

"I'm really good at getting stains out," she said. She shrugged and then added, "Lots of practice."

"Tell me about it," Kurt muttered, thinking of his soiled clothes from earlier in the week. "You'll have to share your secrets with me sometime."

"You like coffee?" The question caught Kurt so off-guard he could only nod. Mercedes turned around and opened her car door, reaching for a second cup of coffee sitting in the cup holder. "Hope you like mocha lattes. It's sort of my coffee of choice and it felt like a two cup sort of morning." She offered it to him and he took it, grateful.

Before he had even taken the first sip, Mercedes was chattering away. Her topics ranged from Glee club meetings, to their mutual dislike of Rachel, to possible songs they should get a chance to solo in.

Kurt nodded at first, worried he would say something bitchy and make her angry and ruining any progress they had made. He quickly found himself unable to resist joining in on some of the juicier gossip, however. They chatted for the next half hour until the first warning bell rang.

Mercedes sighed and grabbed her backpack off the ground. She started to walk into the school, but stopped and stared at Kurt.

"Same time next week?" she asked, giving him a hesitant smile.

Kurt walked up to her and looped their arms together, leading the two of them through the front doors. "Sure, but I'm buying."

Mercedes laughed and Kurt joined in, feeling the happiest he had been in a long time.

Hey, we still on for Friday morning coffee?

The reply was swift in coming.

I wondered if you would remember. – Mercedes

Kurt grinned; he almost had forgotten, but there was no need to share that little detail with Mercedes.

Of course I remembered. You'd think my body would be up this early without the promise of coffee?

Give me five minutes and I'll head out then. I'm buying, so you best not stand me up! –Mercedes

Wouldn't miss it for the world, Mercedes. See you soon!

Kurt slid his phone into his pocket and made one more quick dash to the bathroom. He would hate to show up looking anything less than fabulous. Mercedes had come a long way from her 'zebra' days and wouldn't hesitate to call Kurt out if his outfit was imperfect in some way. Once satisfied, he grabbed his bag from the desk and headed upstairs.

Opening the door, he stepped into the kitchen. He didn't hear Finn's thunderous footfalls until it was too late. The quarterback slammed into the basement door, causing Kurt to stumble backwards and nearly topple down the stairs as the door slammed in his face.

"Geez! Sorry, Kurt," cried Finn as he opened the door. He took one look at Kurt's angry facial expression and backed off, mumbling a few more apologies as he disappeared.

Kurt stood on the steps, working hard to keep his breathing under control. His self-control was fragile on a good day, but testing him this early in the morning without his coffee…

He must not kill Finn. Glee club needed him. The football team needed him. Carole might miss him.

Kurt repeated the mantra in his head and slowly he calmed down. If he stopped to deal with Finn now, he would be late meeting Mercedes.

Speaking of Mercedes, Kurt pulled out his phone to send her a quick text.

Definitely a two cup kind of morning.