The tightness was building in Kurt’s shoulders. He threw cushions across the living room, not caring that it made yet more mess on the floor. It couldn’t really make much of a difference now, anyway. He needed it. The picture in his mind was fading and being replaced by the wrong one. He just needed to look at it. He grabbed his coffee and took a gulp, savouring the burn as it spilled over his wrist. He paused to stare as it dripped down his arm, which he tilted up so it would fall from his fingertips instead. He shook it, not even bothering to dry it properly and took a deep breath before returning to his room to confront the man in his bed. He made a stab in the dark at his name on the way.

“Um, Jason? Have you seen my phone anywhere?”

“It’s Adam,” not even close, “and yeah, I’ve got it. I’m just… making a couple of changes.”

This was why he never brought them here. If he’d followed his normal routine he could have left by now, but here he was, stuck with an intrusive moron in his way.

“Changes? What the fuck gives you the right? Give it back!” He leapt onto the bed, reaching for his phone, eyes huge with panic.

“Relax! I’m just making sure you have my number. Don’t worry; I’m putting a picture in so you can’t forget me.” He stretched his face into a grin, wide to the point where it was almost obscene. Click. “I don’t get why you don’t have photos for any of your contacts. Not Santana, not Rachel, not your dad-”

“How do you know those names? Stop going through my phone! Give it to me!”

“Would you calm down? Santana was with you last night, Rachel’s sent you six messages this morning – none of which I have read – and your dad’s labelled as ‘Dad’. You don’t have to be a detective.”

Kurt wanted to slap himself. He had a way of doing things for a reason. He went out alone, fucked either at the club or their place, got the hell out as quickly as possible. Nobody else involved. He could usually ignore Rachel for a couple of days, but he’d definitely have to answer to Santana. The guy in the bed kept scrolling.

“So, how come this guy gets a picture and nobody else does?” He showed Kurt the phone, but he didn’t need to. Kurt knew who it was going to be. It was the picture he’d spent years burning into his brain to bore the other ones out, so that it was this one that flashed in front of him when he closed his eyes. So that the other images couldn’t drive him insane. “Who’s Blaine anyway?” Kurt took the phone. He fought his instinct to snatch it violently and plucked it gently from the hand in front of him. His own hand was weak around it, like he was scared of hurting the boy on the screen.

“He’s nobody.”

“Doesn’t look like nobody. I don’t blame you for keeping the picture; he’s prettier than me.”

Kurt couldn’t stop his mouth from curving up into a smile.

“In all fairness, he’s only seventeen here.”

“Woah. You’re having an illicit affair with a minor and taking your frustrations out on me. Are his parents threatening to shoot you? Are you his teacher or something?” Kurt ignored that comment. He may not have looked his best, but he was still only twenty-one. “Is that why - why you were so… weird? Angry? Because you can’t be with him?” Kurt’s body seized up again. The softness disappeared from his eyes and his smile faded.

“Stop it. I said it doesn’t matter. You should go.”

“Wow. You didn’t strike me as the one-night-stand type. Are you OK?”

“I’ll be fine the second you get out of my bed and out of my house. Leave. I don’t even know why you’re here. Why are we here? Why didn’t we go back to yours?”

He climbed out of bed and Kurt couldn’t even look at him.

“My place is right across town; you were so far gone I just thought you needed to get home. And if I’m not very much mistaken, you weren’t complaining at the time. Kurt, what’s wrong? I mean, I might not be your best friend, but you obviously need to talk to someone-”

“No. I don’t need anything. Just go.”

“I- I don’t want to leave you like this. Do you want me to call somebody? Santana maybe?”

Kurt paused. He could feel his eyes prickling when they didn’t deserve to. Andrew, or whatever his name was, looked like he knew. Or he was dangerously close to understanding.

“OK. Maybe you don’t have to go. Maybe, if we’re both free today, we could… you know…”

“Excuse me? Now?”

Kurt grabbed his wrist, pulled him up close and started kissing his neck furiously. He started to pull away, but Kurt knew what he was doing and he submitted quickly, letting out a groan. He moved his head to try and catch Kurt’s lips with his, but he felt him bite down on his neck. He jumped back.

“What was that?”

“Who cares? Just do it back to me!”

“Bite you?”

“Hurt me.”

“I don’t understand-”

“Jesus… bite me, hit me, fuck me until I scream. Smash my face into this wall. I don’t care. I just want you to hurt me.” He frowned in confusion. Kurt didn’t exactly look turned on. He looked scared and angry and desperate, his eyes wide and watering. His hands were trembling as they clawed at his hair. Adam took a big step back, leaving Kurt leaning against the wall, shaking and panting, his fingernails digging into the plaster.

Adam extended an open palm to the quivering wreck facing him. He moved slowly, as if Kurt were an injured bird he didn’t want to scare away.

“Listen… Kurt… I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t want to.”

“Then get the fuck out.”

“No.”

“Didn’t you hear me? This is my apartment! If I want you out, you have to go!”

“I told you, not like this. I know something’s wrong, Kurt.” He reached out slowly, but the second his finger touched Kurt’s wrist, Kurt slapped him away.

“Why do you care? You don’t even know me!”

“Sometimes it can help, you know, talking to someone impartial-”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why? Why are you so interested? Why do you want to help me so badly?”

“I don’t know! Last night - there was just something about you.”

“Oh, really? Let me guess; was it my ass? My hips? My tongue? What changed your mind?”

“No, God, Kurt, it was your voice.” Kurt flinched, as if someone had made a grab for him and accidentally wrenched out his intestines. It had been years since anyone had said anything like that to him. “You kept drinking and screaming and dancing, but every now and then when you didn’t think anyone was looking you sang along. You sang and you closed your eyes, and you looked so sad, I couldn’t bear the thought of you going home alone. I was just scared for you. Do you even realise nothing happened last night?” Kurt shook his head.

“You’re lying. You’re trying to mess with me.”

“I’m trying to help you. I wanted to sleep on the couch but you wouldn’t let me go. You kept saying his name. Blaine.”

It was one thing to screw some random guy. That was mindless and angry and it didn’t mean anything and Blaine would know that. That was just the pain and punishment that he had coming. But just to lie with someone all night, to hold them and whisper to them and not let them leave – to do any of that with someone else was wrong.

“Stop it. You don’t get to say his name. You can’t. You’re not allowed. Stop it.”

“Who is he, Kurt? Who is he, and why do you want me to hurt you?”

“Maybe I deserve to be hurt!”

Kurt launched himself at Adam, raising a fist only for him to catch it. He repeated the action with his other hand. He struggled against Adam’s hold but he stood firm. It was hard to be angry with him. He felt strong and safe, like his dad was holding him, like… No. He couldn’t feel safe.

“Get off me!” He kept writhing awkwardly, but Adam somehow managed to twist them both around so Kurt’s back was against his chest. Kurt was almost helpless, with two strong arms around him and his breath sticking in his throat. He couldn’t tell if that lump was because he was about to cry or vomit. His stomach churned and every muscle in his body groaned as if he’d been pushing like this, pushing against everything outside him for years, and he couldn’t push any more. His breaths heaved against the warm body behind him, still trying to squirm away. It wasn’t supposed to be him doing this. All Kurt had was that body to hold him, a flimsy shield against everything, a shield that would be gone soon, that he didn’t deserve to have there anyway. The only person that should have been wrapped around him couldn’t be there, and Kurt only had himself to blame.

“It’s OK, Kurt. You’re not alone.”

He snapped again. It was like he could hear Blaine saying it, as if Blaine could see him there with someone else, like he’d seen him every other time, he’d been there every night, watching, knowing. Kurt could always feel him over his shoulder, whether he was writing a script or designing a headpiece or being pinned against a wall by some sweating, grunting stranger. He was always with him, and the worst part was that he was never angry. He wasn’t even sad. He was blank, just a blank, empty face hovering behind Kurt in everything he did. And no matter how much he drank, whatever pills he popped, however hard each man yanked his hair and plunged into him, no matter how much anything hurt, it was never enough. It didn’t beat the pain he was already in. It definitely didn’t compare to the pain he’d caused. He convulsed beneath the heavy weight on his back, wriggling an arm free. His hand reached out, blindly grabbed the first thing he could find and swung with it. And the weight was gone. The silence, although momentary, was enough to send Kurt’s head spinning and make his whole body freeze.

“Jesus, Kurt! What the hell did I do to you? I was just… I just wanted to help!” He shook his head, his mouth hanging open, rubbing his crown. “Fuck! What did you hit me with?” Kurt dropped the candlestick, making a loud bang and smearing blood on the floor. Adam looked at his hand and the red smudges were unmistakable. “Holy shit. You’re insane. I’m going, OK, just don’t hit me again.” Kurt didn’t even turn to watch him leave. “You need help, Kurt. Maybe you don’t want it from me, but you do want it. Whoever Blaine is, he wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Kurt didn’t move as he heard the door close. He stayed frozen to the spot, his breath and his fingers shaking. He grabbed the foot of the bed to steady himself, but his hand was clammy and he slipped. He let himself collapse on the floor, feeling the cold metal of the bedframe against the back of his neck. He gently thumped his head against the rail, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. Eventually his skull was throbbing like it was supposed to, and he reached just under the bed for the bottle of vodka he knew was there. It was one of the few items he always knew the location of. There was just enough left for a few gulps, enough to burn through the lump in his throat for a while before helping him go back to sleep. He didn’t even get into bed. He just let himself slump against it, the blood on the floor rubbing into his shirt.

*

Kurt stared at himself in the mirror. He was barely recognisable these days. His torso was bruised and scraped from being shoved against walls and he could still make out purple lines on his hips from where they’d been grabbed and abused. His body was half in darkness, half dusted with silver traces of moonlight. His ribs had always been visible through his skin, but they never used to stick out like that. There were actually shadows under them. He turned, one hand hanging limp at his side, barely holding onto his cigarette which wasn’t much thinner than his fingers, while the other traced along the marks across his hipbone. He pressed his hand over the imprint on his skin, left by a variety of different hands, but his own was noticeably smaller. He winced as he grazed over the tender skin, but then pressed harder the second he started to feel sorry for himself. He grabbed himself the way so many others had, squeezing harder until he was forced to remember. He felt different bodies against his back, different sets of teeth on his neck, different men pounding into him, each one further, rougher, more unfeeling than the last. He heard his own voice begging for more and felt tears slipping messily down his cheeks.

Pain started brewing in his stomach, squeezing his insides as he kept remembering, but as it spread up towards his chest he took another drag on the cigarette, ignoring the tremors in his weak fingers. He let the smoke seep down slowly into his lungs until it collided with the burn that was already there. He let it envelop him until his whole body, every inch of his skin, was smouldering. He shook slightly as the force of the heat and the pain swallowed him, dropping his head back and opening his mouth to let out a groan and the remaining stream of smoke.

He kept pushing on the bruise covering up the hip bone that used to be so pale and elegant until his body flinched and turned instinctively, as if it were trying to get away from the thing that was hurting it, but Kurt wouldn’t let it escape that easily. He pinched hard on the least bruised section of skin, pulling it away from the bone. He squeezed it tightly between his finger and thumb, forcing his body to twist and contort in a reflexive attempt to ease the pain. As he turned, he caught sight of black in the mirror. He stopped pinching and rubbed his thumb against the base of his spine, where the writing ended. He’d never shown it to anyone. It was distorted by the bumps of his vertebrae, which stuck out more than they used to, and so tiny that it was barely legible, but it didn’t need to be.

‘I heard your heart beating; you were in the darkness too, so I stayed in the darkness with you’

The calligraphy was intricate, and the artist had tried hard not to roll his eyes when Kurt told him what he wanted. Another nineteen-year-old, probably out of it, getting pretentious song lyrics scrawled onto his body only to regret it a minute later. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He’d tried to be out of it. He’d lost track of what he’d taken that night but it was never enough. He could still feel and hear too much. As he’d felt the needle burning into his skin, searing across his nerves harder with every tiny detail, he didn’t even gasp. He barely made a sound, but couldn’t stop the tears from falling onto his wrist. He bit into it hard, breaking the skin so that traces of blood and saliva mingled with the salty drops and stuck in the faint hairs on his arm. All he wanted was darkness. Darkness was all Blaine had, so that was all Kurt deserved, and it was where he wanted to be. If he could put himself there, maybe Blaine could see him again.

Stop that. You don’t get to do that. You can’t feel sorry for yourself, Kurt. You don’t deserve it.

He grabbed the new but already half empty bottle of vodka from the floor, choking a swig down. He glared at the bruises on his skin, the filthy marks on his hips from where a hundred hands had pulled him around night after night, where a thousand fingers had dug into him, and suddenly it wasn’t enough. How could he keep getting away with just bruises? He slammed the bottle back down in front of him and took the cigarette with his right hand, spilling ash on his leg, and drove it into his flesh. The skin that had once been so perfect turned from purple to dark red as he twisted his hand to screw it in harder, so that every ember scorched his skin, making his whole body convulse and twitch. The trail of smoke that had been rising steadily thinned out as the spark left the cigarette, completely transferred to his body.

He let what was left of the cigarette drop to the floor, having absorbed every degree of heat from it, and picked up the bottle again. He clumsily poured some onto his palm, letting it spill over his trousers and onto the floor and took a couple of short, sharp breaths before slapping his hand onto the wound. His mouth opened to scream, but he blocked the sound out by pressing the bottle to his lips. He took a long, drawn-out gulp and pressed hard on the burn with his fingertips, pushing the skin apart and letting the alcohol saturate every nerve. His dark jeans were stained even darker as a mixture of blood and alcohol soaked into them.

He finally let his hand drop to his side, momentarily easing the pain as he downed as much vodka as he could without throwing up. He grabbed a tight black shirt from the floor, ignoring the sprinkling of ash on the sleeve and pulled it on, tucking it in so the fabric rubbed against the exposed flesh underneath it. His vision was blurred, whether from pain or alcohol or from the tears filling his eyes, but it didn’t matter. He ran a hand through his hair and took a final swig from the bottle. His shirt rode up as he tipped his head back to swallow, tearing it from the wound it was covering up. He shouted in pain, having forgotten about it for a second, and threw the bottle at the wall in frustration, still screaming as the liquid spread across the floor. He stood for a minute, exhausted, staring at the scattered fragments of glass and seeing his own icy eyes looking back at him. His breaths were jerky and his chest hurt. He was shivering. As the vodka reached his boots, he lifted one foot and brought it down to crunch in the shards. He wanted to scratch himself the way the glass was digging into the wood. He knew the only way to get that feeling against his skin was for someone else to do it. This wasn’t enough anymore.

He turned, eyes glazed over, and walked out into just another night.

*

Kurt let the wind blast his face, whipping various flecks of dirt and debris from the street across his skin. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, steadying himself as the alcohol and the freezing, crisp air made him sway back and forth. He stared at the club across the street. He rarely went in. It drowned out the screeching in his head, and tonight he needed to hear it. Tonight he wanted it to tear him apart. He slowly edged away from the wall that was supporting him, walking in a less-than-straight line over the road. His eyes were heavy, but he kept staring ahead at the shapes emerging from the doors. He heard squealing and singing and laughing all around, dozens of thin, bouncy, happy men and he groaned with disgust. How dare they be so excited? He tried to focus, and his eyes landed on one specific lump out of the crowd. He couldn’t make out a face, just someone big and quiet. He was exactly what Kurt needed.

Kurt slunk towards the figure, but someone crashed into him, sending him spinning to the ground.

“Oh sweetie, are you OK? I can’t believe I did that; I’m the biggest klutz!”

Kurt tried to shrug off the feather and glitter-clad drag queen as she hauled him to his feet.

“Whatever. Fine.”

“Wow, honey, you look awful… do you want to sit down?”

“No. Get off.” She remained relentlessly cheerful.

“Alright. How about something to perk you up?” She plucked a vial from her impressively convincing cleavage and popped it open. She took Kurt’s hand as if she wanted to kiss it, but instead tapped a tiny pile of white powder onto it from the tube. She smiled broadly at him. He clearly wasn’t depriving her of anything. He pushed his right nostril closed and used the other to suck up every speck from his hand expertly. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, pressing the heel of his hand against his nose to make sure everything stayed up there. He held himself like that for a few seconds, sliding his wrist up to feel the cool skin of it on his forehead. He slowly pushed his fingers through his hair, his head tilting down and his eyes opening until he was staring back at the creature before him. Her fuchsia lips were suddenly against his in a surprisingly chaste kiss. He was too dizzy to fight it.

“See? You look better already. Gorgeous!” She lifted him up and spun on the spot, dropping him abruptly and running off, heels clicking and corset sparkling down the street. Kurt was reeling, trying to figure out which way he was facing, when he spotted the figure he’d been aiming for walking towards him. This was even easier than normal.

“Kurt? Hummel, is that you?”

Kurt felt a shiver up his spine as big hands landed on his shoulders and a warm, heavy frame was suddenly right behind him. He knew that voice.

“No; not you. I don’t want you.”

“Jesus, what have you taken?”

“No, Dave, get off me. I don’t want you.” He tried to move away, but stumbled, falling back into Karofsky’s arms. “Stop it!”

“I didn’t do anything! I just thought you needed help… Christ, your pupils… seriously, what the fuck have you had?”

“Nothing. None of your business. Getoffme.” He swung an arm at him and missed. Dave eased him up so he was standing as straight as possible.

“Fine. Look, I’m not touching you. I just think you should call it a night. Let me get you a cab.”

Kurt’s eyes darkened as he stared at Karofsky. Since when was he so responsible? He couldn’t help remembering all those times he’d shoved him, glared at him, made him so terrified… it was almost exhilarating.

“No; I’m not ready to leave. We’re not done.”

“What? Two seconds ago you were trying to run away-”

“Well, now I’m not. I’m not running anywhere without you.”

“Kurt, stop-”

“You stop. Stop talking. Don’t you remember when you liked me?”

“I don’t understand. What are you doing?”

“I bet there was stuff you wanted to do to me. I bet you still think about it.”

“No! I mean, I guess, I… Why are you doing this? I haven’t even seen you in years-”

Kurt made his fingers hop, one after the other, up Dave’s chest, looking up at him with a coy smirk.

“Well you’re seeing me now. Can you honestly tell me you don’t still want to? Haven’t you always wondered?” Dave paused. Of course he’d wondered, but Kurt was obviously in no fit state.

“Oh God, this is too weird; what’s wrong with you-” he turned to walk away, but Kurt hooked a finger through his belt loop and yanked him back, slinging his arms up around his neck and kissing him fiercely, sucking hard down his jaw, sliding his tongue across his neck and up to his earlobe. Dave was about to prize him off, but as he felt a soft, wet flick inside his ear it became impossible to say no. He gasped, laying his hands on Kurt’s waist tentatively. Kurt groaned with frustration. Why the fuck was he being so gentle?

“You know, you’re not going to break me. I’m a grown up.”

Kurt kissed his neck harder, scraping his teeth down towards his collarbone. Dave’s grip tightened, pulling Kurt closer and dragging him down a side street away from the noise. It didn’t take much dragging. As soon as he started inching in the direction of the alley, Kurt jumped up, wrapping his legs around his waist. Dave lost his balance and leaned against a wall, knocking the wind out of Kurt. Kurt gasped as he finally felt some kind of release that he hadn’t had to cause himself. Just the pressure against the bruises that were already there, the scraping of the brick on his back, it was enough to make him feel something again. He stretched up to whisper in Dave’s ear:

“Fuck me.”

Dave was confused and terrified; Kurt felt so thin and fragile and his eyes were glowing and he could feel the anger radiating through his fragile body and his tender skin, but there was that throaty whisper and those gasps and this had always been the thing he couldn’t have, the thing he’d thought about for so long and he couldn’t bring himself to say no. He started to lower Kurt to the ground so they could both get their bearings, but his feet had barely touched the concrete before he’d spun around and was tugging at his belt.

Dave slid his thumb under the top of Kurt’s jeans, pulling his shirt up to reveal the bruises and to rip the seal from the burn on his hip again. He sucked in a breath. It stung, no matter what was coursing through his system. Dave was reluctant to touch the trembling body beneath him, but Kurt grabbed his hands and pressed them to his hips. He kept trying to resist; anyone could see there was something wrong, but Kurt kept gasping and moaning, and before he knew what he was doing he was holding the wild, fragile man up against the wall. Even though it was dark, the few patches of Kurt’s skin that weren’t some shade of purple or green glowed. He wasn’t pale like he used to be. He was almost translucent, as if one touch could shatter him or tear him in half or make him crumble into ash on the spot, but he still looked so elegant. Kurt pushed back against him impatiently, and he slowly pushed forward to match, sliding gradually inside him. Kurt had done this so many times it had begun to stop hurting, but knowing who it was made it fresher. He remembered the fear this boy had made him feel, and it brought the look on Blaine’s face back to his mind, that mixture of overjoyed and petrified and knowing what was about to happen. He reached back, pulling Dave forward and backing onto him so that he filled him up completely.

He whimpered as his pain and disgust with himself finally started to overpower his flashbacks. His head was swimming somewhere in between drunk and high, between a dizzy stumble and a euphoric leap, and all that was keeping him here, literally pinning him to the spot was the man he couldn’t stand behind him, scraping him against the wall until his shirt ripped, grazing his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He hated the hot breath on his neck, the desperate grunting in his ear, the tongue and lips sucking on the top of his spine. It all made him feel even sicker than he already did. Dave’s hands started to creep up under his shirt, one gliding across his stomach and pulling them closer together while the other settled between his shoulder blades. He felt his nails scrape gently over the tattoo and panicked. That was Blaine. He was only supposed to be touching him, but his hand was on Blaine, tracing along the lines that nobody was meant to see. He reached back over his shoulder, losing focus with every slow thrust. He twisted his head around, his voice strained.

“Dave, higher.” He started to thrust harder, making Kurt gasp, but he reached his arm further. “No. Your hand. Put it… put it…” Dave finally understood what he meant, sliding his hand out from underneath the tight fabric and laying it across Kurt’s windpipe instead. He pulled him back so their bodies were fully pressed together, rutting and panting and Kurt’s chest continued to grind against the stone. The friction pulled his shirt open, exposing his skin to the grain of the bricks.

His head was now next to Karofsky’s and he shuddered as he felt stubble and sweat being rubbed into his cheek, but he put up no resistance as Dave sucked on his jaw in time with the bucking of his hips, slapping brutally against Kurt, drawing out and slamming back inside him again and again, faster and faster. With every push, Kurt felt a surge in his stomach, as if something was trying to escape until it was trapped by the fingers wrapped around his trachea. Dave’s thrusts were getting faster and harder as he started to lose control, and his grip tightened on Kurt’s neck, his nails almost breaking the skin.

“Fuck, fuck, ah…” he kept muttering under his breath, still in disbelief that he was finally doing this, and Kurt was so wild and vulnerable that it somehow felt even better. His initial uncertainty disappeared, overpowered by how long he’d been imagining how this would feel and how much more intense it was than he ever could’ve thought. After so long wanting control and seeing this boy have it, he was finally the one in charge. He’d hate himself for enjoying it, but it was too late to think it through now.

Kurt could feel the drug, whatever concoction it had been, vibrating across his frame, as if his veins were glowing as it rushed through his bloodstream, heightening every sensation. From the hot, throbbing, sliding movement inside him, stretching him until he thought he would tear apart, to the bruises all over his body being refreshed, covered with new ones, to the beads of sweat coursing over his scathing hot skin, everything had become more colourful, more forceful, more agonising.

His entire body tightened as his lungs went into spasm, reaching for any oxygen they could suck in. His hands were clawing, one at Dave’s knuckles and one at the wall he was pushed against, bending his nails back until his fingertips were stained red. His eyes stung as Dave’s hand grabbed onto his hip, one finger pushing directly on his burn, the nail digging into his flesh.

“Fuck…” Dave whispered, hot on Kurt’s ear, his head drifting down to kiss and bite Kurt’s shoulder, in his haze confusing the stiffening of Kurt’s body for a climax. He didn’t feel the nails pulling at his hand. He thrust his hips upwards, faster and faster, moving his lips down Kurt’s upper arm until he finally opened his eyes. He saw red on his fingertips, on Kurt’s clothes, all over his hip. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He pulled back, out of and away from Kurt and there was more blood, flecks across Kurt’s back, his shirt, spots everywhere.

“Kurt, I think you’re bleeding…”

He let go of Kurt’s neck and stepped back. Kurt swallowed gulps of air, his throat still convulsing through his shouts that kept catching.

“It’s nothing, Jesus, I burnt myself before… What are you doing?”

Dave hurriedly zipped his jeans back up, looking horrified and disgusted. His hands and the crotch of his pants were splattered with delicate but messy red marks.

“I’m so sorry, Kurt, I think I just, I must’ve got carried away…”

Kurt coughed and spluttered, trying hard not to vomit.

“It’s a tiny burn, Karofsky! It’s fine!”

“No, it’s not. It’s not just that. It’s… you. You’re. Bleeding. I, I’ve never…”

Kurt twisted his aching neck and saw the blood on his hip, more than could have come from that insignificant wound. Now that the rapid rocking motion had stopped, now that he could breathe, everything fell into focus, including the debilitating pain where Dave had been buried inside him. He shook violently, leaning his back against the wall. His eyes were streaming. He swallowed hard, his lips trembling, and god, it was almost enough. All he could feel, all he could see was pain. He saw Dave’s face and he needed more before Blaine came back into his mind. He needed to push himself further over the edge into oblivion.

He needed to become fearless, even though his entire body was composed of fear.

He’d never taken it this far before.

“I don’t care,” he whimpered unconvincingly, “it… it feels good. You feel good, Dave. I… I want more. I want you. Come back-” he tried to reach out, but his body wouldn’t move from the wall. He shifted with discomfort, his fingers slipping as he awkwardly fastened his trousers with embarrassment. He wasn’t fooling anyone. Dave shook his head, his mouth hanging open to try and offer words of comfort that didn’t exist.

“I don’t know what to do, Kurt. I’m scared. Do you want me to take you to the hospital? Let me help, let me do something…” The sympathy made everything worse. Kurt wanted something harsh and cold, but he was being treated like a human being. Dave was worried for him. It was as if he was a scared, lost child, and a kind stranger was offering to help him find his parents. He wasn’t some innocent kid. He didn’t deserve any of this. He felt himself start to soften and melt, wanting to fall into Dave’s arms, into that big warm creature in front of him, and he knew he had to freeze again.

Dave tentatively reached for Kurt’s arm, but his wrist was grabbed. Kurt yanked him down, licking and biting his ear. He jumped back.

Kurt glared at him furiously, salty tears still dripping from his chin onto what was left of his shirt.

“Well? I thought this was what you wanted, Dave! What are you scared of?”

Dave blinked, his mouth still open.

“You.”

“What? Two years ago, you wouldn’t have thought twice about shoving me into a wall. Now you finally get to do it with your dick and you’re afraid of me? I thought I was just some fairy!”

“That’s not fair! I’ve changed, and so have you. Kurt, are you even eating? You’re like a skeleton, and you’re shaking and cold, and you’re hurt, you’re bleeding, Kurt, and you just want it to hurt more? What’s wrong with you?”

“Me? What’s wrong with you? You think you’re better than me now you’re all adjusted? I’m telling you I want it, I want you, and suddenly you don’t fucking want to? Well maybe it’s too fucking late for that!”

Dave looked helpless. He was way out of his depth.

“Kurt, stop-”

He took Kurt’s arm firmly to try to calm him down. Kurt tried to shake him off, but he laid his other hand on his shoulder.

“No, Karofsky! We’re not at school anymore; you don’t get to push me around!” He started struggling, his whole torso squirming and fighting him. His leg flailed out to kick Dave hard in the shin, making him double over in pain and shock. Kurt took advantage of his momentary release and tried to run away. Dave stuck an arm out, hoping to catch him gently and maybe keep him still for a second, maybe talk to him, maybe find out what was going on, but Kurt saw it as an attack. He lashed out, kicking, clawing at the arm across his stomach.

“Kurt, please-”

“No!”

Kurt raked his fingers through Dave’s hair, clamping down hard.

He felt a surge of strength.

He heaved with Dave’s head under his control.

He swung.

There was a smack.

There was silence.

“Dave?” The arms slid gently away from him as his body flopped onto the floor. “Dave?” The ground was quickly covered with the thick stream slowly oozing from the side of Dave’s head. Kurt peered down at him, blinking slowly as he saw the expressionless face staring back. It was too familiar. Kurt tried to suck in a breath but his throat had closed up. He swallowed again and again, hauling in any air his tongue could find. He reached for his phone and tried to stab at the buttons, but as he lingered on the ‘1’ he stopped. He couldn’t move. The image in front of him was falling into place behind the one he’d spent so, so long trying to forget. He saw the eyes glazing over and the hair soaking up the blood, the ankle twitching, the fingers curling in spasms and his insides turned to stone.

The blur of sounds over his head came screaming into focus as people rushed across, having heard the shouting. Kurt was numb and twisted up with pain all at once. He felt like he was crumbling and the world was crashing on top of the dust that he was leaving behind. He was dragged away roughly from the body on the floor and ten different voices were blaring in his ears.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Shit, what’s he had? His eyes are shot.”

“How did he even – I swear that guy was twice his size-”

“Has somebody called an ambulance?”

“More importantly, has someone called the police?”

“Can you even hear us? Are you listening? You could’ve just killed someone!”

Another voice, further away, cut through the rabble.

“He’s not breathing. He’s not fucking breathing!”

It wasn’t the first time Kurt had heard that. He scrambled to his feet, pushing the throng of strangers out of his way, and emptied the limited contents of his stomach on the street. It was mostly bile and alcohol, and as it splashed on the wall and his trousers and his bare chest, his head spun and everything gradually went dark. He was vaguely aware of people manhandling him, the acidic, metallic taste in his mouth, followed quickly by more shouting and sirens.

He exhaled slowly, letting his eyes fall closed as he was manoeuvred into a police van, swimming in the throbbing and aching that enveloped him, that coursed through every part of him as he wretched and jerked in the hard, silent cell. His head and stomach were spinning as fast as the wheels.

*

Kurt was trying hard not to lose it. He was so late, and he was exhausted and his suit was rumpled. He’d been laughed out of every gas station he’d passed through, but now that he still hadn’t arrived he was glad he’d worn his suit for the trip. He didn’t really blame people for laughing at him, but he knew the outfit was perfect. Even if the white knight concept was cheesy. Blaine had been e-mailing him photos of his tuxedo for months, desperate to get his opinion, wanting to make sure he’d got the right one, because prom was special for them even he if he had to go it alone. He thought that if he involved Kurt in every aspect of the planning, it would be as if he was there. It was a bigger deal for them than it was for other couples. It was symbolic. It reminded them of how much they’d overcome, and Kurt couldn’t wait to hold him again, to feel Blaine’s head resting on his shoulder, to see Blaine’s smile when he arrived in his white suit that he’d picked especially to compliment Blaine’s black one, that he’d spent a month customising until it was perfect.

He’d been hunched over his sewing machine every night, embroidering the lapels, decorating the shoulders with silky white feathers, making one adjustment after another. It had become a testament to how much he loved Blaine, how much he missed him and wanted to make their reunion spectacular. Maybe he wouldn’t look quite as fabulous as he’d planned to after the day he’d had, but he knew Blaine wouldn’t care. He’d been smiling the whole journey, just picturing his face. He had to ignore his call the night before, knowing he’d wreck the surprise. He’d been infuriating all week; Rachel had to keep pinching him to get him to listen to her instead of daydreaming about the weekend and the dancing and the Blaine.

Now, he just had to keep his cool with Tina after the longest car ride of his life.

“Well, why didn’t you just tell him?”

“You told me not to! Kurt, you should have seen him, all alone in his tux… he looked heartbroken. Where the hell are you?”

“I’m, I don’t know, ten minutes away? Tina, I look such a mess, my hypothetically nine-hour journey has taken eleven, I can barely see through this rain, and you couldn’t stall Blaine for another ten minutes?”

“Kurt, you don’t have to yell at me; this whole surprise prom thing was your idea. He doesn’t want to hang around here staring at all the couples, and I don’t blame him. He said you were ignoring his calls…”

“I ignored one! Just so I could keep this a secret… look, I’m sorry for yelling, but you don’t know how big a deal this is. If he really thinks I’ve forgotten, I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me-”

“Kurt. It’s Blaine. Of course he’ll forgive you. Look, Mike and I are going to go look for him and bring him back, just get your butt over here!”

“Oh, what a great idea, maybe I should try driving more quickly-”

Tina paused. Kurt could practically hear her raising an eyebrow through the phone. She was putting her hair and her dress at risk for him and he was giving her attitude.
“Right. That was uncalled for. Sorry. Thank you both, I’ll be there as soon as I can, OK? Thank you.”

It was alright for her. Mike had made it back.

He dropped his phone under the passenger seat as he tried to hang up. He bobbed down, just for a second, to grab it and when he came up again there was a lump hunched over in his headlights. At first it was just a dripping figure in black and white. Then it was a figure in a tux. Then it was Blaine.

Those next ten seconds had been replaying in Kurt’s mind for two years.

He slammed on the brakes. Blaine heard the screech of tyres and turned to look at him. His face gradually lit up – of course it happened in an instant, but time had slowed down and was torturing them both – and his expression went from panic to recognition to realisation to elation. He saw that it was Kurt, and he didn’t have time to get back to fear. His eyes were bright and glowing in the beams and his mouth had broken into an open, uninhibited grin. He was like a child staring at a Christmas tree. As the car was inches away from him, his face was showing nothing but pure euphoria that Kurt had come all this way to be with him, to make his senior prom a night he would remember, and instead it became a night Kurt had spent the next two years punishing himself for, wishing he could forget.

“Blaine!”

Thud-thud-thud.

Silence.

He sat in the car, frozen, his hands stuck in a death-grip on the steering wheel. He was deafened by the rain hammering on the all-but-shattered windscreen and his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He tried to stare straight ahead, but his eyes were dragged down to the wing mirror, where a hand lay on the road, the fingertips curling spasmodically. He wanted to move, he wanted to rush to his side and pick him up and feel for a pulse, but he was so terrified that he wouldn’t find one that he stayed where he was. He shook his head, unable to blink, stuck staring at that hand, praying for it to turn over, for Blaine to push himself up on it, but no matter how hard he wished it stayed there, twitching, raindrops bouncing off his nails.

Kurt didn’t move until an ear-splitting scream tore through the darkness, and Tina darted across the street to the unconscious figure behind the car. Mike was running behind her, turning when he spotted Kurt and aiming for his door. As he blocked Kurt’s already limited view of Blaine, banging on his window in a panic, Kurt finally shifted his gaze.

“Kurt! Kurt, are you OK? Open the door, come on, you shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now. I’ll… uh, I’ll take you inside, and we’ll call an ambulance.” He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, pulling on the door handle. As soon as it clicked, Kurt was up like a shot, struggling with his seatbelt, slipping past Mike, and then bolting from the car to the body behind it.

Tina was shaking and sobbing next to Blaine, whipping off her shawl and draping it over him. As Kurt knelt next to her he reached to haul Blaine up, to try and hug him back to life, but she pushed him away.

“You can’t, Kurt. You can’t move him. He could have a neck injury or something; you’re supposed to leave people alone until the ambulance arrives. Mike? Mike, are you calling them?”

Kurt could barely hear her. The rain soaked into his clothes, weighing him down, pushing him towards Blaine. His face was covered in scratches and the rain was making the blood run faster, trickling onto Kurt’s hands as they lay flat on the ground on either side of his boyfriend’s face. It was everywhere, staining his pristine white suit scarlet, and instead of washing it away the rain was just spreading it out, covering the road with a thin, dark layer of red. He still looked so handsome, despite the red lines across his cheek and forehead, despite the red, watery fluid slipping through his sopping wet curls. It was washed away as fast as it was coming out. Kurt cradled his head carefully in his hands, making sure he didn’t move it, just desperately trying to keep it warm at the very least. The blood kept trickling over his knuckles and between his fingers. He curled his body around Blaine, his knees nudging against his crown and pressing a kiss to his inanimate lips. They felt cold already. He couldn’t bear to move away from his face. He tried to kid himself that maybe he was just asleep, maybe they were back at his house, in his bed, dry and warm and fine, but every cold drop on his head snapped him out of it. He shifted back, terrified of hurting Blaine any more than he already had, kissing his forehead, his lips lingering and their noses rubbing together.
Tina gingerly lifted up Blaine’s hand. It had stopped twitching. She peeled back the wet sleeve to press her fingers to his wrist. Her own hands were shaking. She looked up at Kurt. He was spattered all over with red splotches, the fabric, the feathers, the embroidery, his skin, and she reached out to touch his shoulder. He looked up, his eyes almost as red as the flecks covering him.

“Well?”

*

He woke with a start, to see Santana kneeling next to his small, hard bed. For once, she wasn’t perfectly turned-out. No make-up, no heels, and dark circles under her eyes. She was gently stroking her thumb over the scar forming on his hip. She’d laid a sweater over him and rolled a pair of grey jeans under his head to act as a pillow. Even though her eyes were fixed on the burn, she was holding his hand to her lips, kissing the bony knuckles gently. She noticed him coming round.

“Who did this to you, Kurt?”

“What are you doing here?” He was groggy, but if anything the searing pain in his head helped him focus. He felt strange without it. He glanced at the pale, grubby walls around him and the bars opposite him. He felt the stiff surface beneath him, felt his ribs jabbing against it and shifted until he was sitting, facing his friend. “Where is here?”

“Kurt, you’re in prison.” Even he couldn’t help showing some surprise. This was a new low. “Do you remember what happened last night?” She couldn’t have been referring to what he’d been dreaming about. That happened every night.
“Yes.”

“Don’t you care? I know you’re not his biggest fan, but you almost killed him, Kurt.”

“I guess I’m good at that.” He pulled his shirt off, gasping as it came unstuck from the various cuts all over his chest. He slid the jumper on, but it hung limply off him, his shoulder still exposed. Santana’s eyes watered as she saw the bruises around his throat forming a handprint. “How did you get this, anyway? Did you break into my apartment?”

“I figured people who do this rarely lock their doors. I was right. I guess now I know why you never let me in there.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Stop it. I’m your friend. Giving a shit and intruding are two different things. I spoke to Dave. Yes, he’s awake, and I stopped him from pressing charges. I don’t think he was going to anyway; he still thinks he owes you from school. Even he seemed scared for you; even he could tell you were messed up.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’? Is that it? How about ‘thank you, Tana, you’re such a great friend, now let’s go home because jail is creepy’?” He stared at the concrete floor. She stood up and sat next to him, then reached up to cup his face with both hands. He flinched a little at how gentle she was. He’d forgotten how soft people’s hands could be. She let one hand drift down, her fingernails tracing along the dark marks on his neck. “Kurt… I don’t understand. How do you think he’d feel if he saw you like this? Do you think this is what he’d want?” He almost found the courage to stare straight back into her eyes, but he gazed back down at his knees.

“He can’t see me though, and it’s my fault. We don’t know what he would want.”

“I do. He loves you, Kurt.”

“Loved.”

“No. What happened doesn’t change it. He’ll never stop loving you.”

“You think he’d love this?” He shrugged, nodding to his battered, quivering frame as it slumped against the wall behind him.

“Yes. He loves every molecule of you. Fuck, Kurt, I love you. I love you too much to let you keep doing this to yourself, and at the rate you’re going, I won’t have to for much longer. Honestly, I don’t see how you’ve survived until now.”

“I have to.”

“What do you mean? You want to keep going with this?”

He blinked faster, still afraid to make eye contact with her. His voice was a whisper. Had they been anywhere but a cold, silent prison cell she wouldn’t have heard him.

“If I’m dead... I can’t feel it anymore.”

That was the moment. That was when Santana realised just how close he’d come. She saw that he’d held the knife, the pills or whatever, an inch away, stopping every time to deny himself the release he wanted. He’d been forcing himself to stay just about alive so he could keep hurting for Blaine. Her jaw trembled and she shook her head slightly. She kept holding his face with her right hand, as her left dropped from his neck to his chest. She felt the pronounced bumps of his ribs, the vibrations of his muscles as they shivered and twitched to generate some heat. She shook her head.

“No, Kurt… tell me you wouldn’t…”

Kurt’s breaths were short and kept hitching in his throat. As his windpipe twitched, the bruises on his neck moved up and down over his Adam’s apple. He finally looked up at her, unblinking, a single tear falling from each of his wide, unblinking eyes.

“I just… God, Tana, I just miss him so much, and I don’t have any right to miss him because it’s my fault he’s not here-”

“No, Kurt, you didn’t mean to, everyone knows that-”

“Stop it. I’ve heard it a million times, that it was just an accident, but that doesn’t mean anything. You didn’t see his face. He didn’t even look scared. I’d let him down already and I was about to hit him with my fucking car and he still looked happy to see me. He didn’t have time to look scared or to move out of the way, because I was driving in the rain and in the dark on my phone, even though I knew he was out there, and he still looked at me like I was there to save him, like he still trusted me with his fucking life, and now I’m fine and he’s not and I…” he swallowed hard and tried to take a deep breath but before he could fill his lungs he broke into weak sobs, “I miss him, I really fucking miss him…”

She pulled him gently into a hug, careful not to press too hard on his skin and felt him shaking as his head slotted in between her shoulder and her neck. She kissed and stroked his hair and tried to absorb some of what he was feeling as if she could take some of the pain for him, make him hurt less. She didn’t make a sound as a tear fell from her eyelashes straight into his hair.

“Kurt?” He looked up at her again. “I think you should go and see him.” He pulled back immediately.

“No. No, you can’t make me, it’ll make everything worse.” She took his hands.

“Really? You think it can get any worse than this? You almost killed someone right after fucking them in an alleyway, you’re practically see-through, you’re in a jail cell… and they got someone to check you out last night. Apparently you’ve cracked two ribs, I can see your body’s bruised all over and you’re… you… Kurt, there was blood on your clothes. There was blood where there really shouldn’t have been.” He looked down at his hands ashamedly, but she kept holding them and rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles. “I’ll be with you the whole time, I swear. Do it for him. You could even do it for me. Call it a thank you for getting you out of here.”

He kept his head bowed but nodded it slightly.

“But… Santana?”

“Mmm?” She ducked her head to try and finally get eye contact with him, which he just about allowed.

“Can we go home first? I don’t want him to see – I just want to get cleaned up.”

She nodded, and pulled his head closer to her to kiss it softly. He was right. Not like this.

“Of course we can - as long as you don’t spend hours grooming. I haven’t got all day.” They smiled weakly at each other, and she helped him stand up before walking to the bars of the cell, still holding his hand. “Excuse me, Warden? We’re ready to go.”

*

Santana took Kurt to her apartment instead of his. Now that she’d seen the state of it, she couldn’t imagine a more toxic environment: vodka and broken glass on the floor, dirty coffee cups, endless sheets of paper covered in writing and drawings, magazines, cigarette ends; the mess was everywhere she looked. There were bloodstains on the floor; she had no way of knowing exactly whose they were, and the scribbles had even started to encroach on the walls. They were filthy enough from mugs of coffee being thrown at them and smashed, leaving shards on the floor, but he’d obviously started drawing and writing on them in a frenzy. It could have been fuelled by drugs, alcohol or blind rage; she didn’t want to know. She just grabbed enough clothes for a few days and got out.

Almost all of Kurt’s weight was on her, what little there was, but his legs still kept buckling underneath him. She kept an arm wrapped around his waist as she lowered him onto the sofa and watched as he curled his legs up and laid his head on the arm, staring blankly ahead. He wasn’t sullen or angry like he’d been two nights ago or for a minute in the cell. He was just exhausted. He was so tired of fighting last night, fighting for the last two years, and now he was drained. All the energy he’d pretended to have for so long was gone and he was running on less than empty. She made him tea and toast, leaving it in front of him while she went to run him a bath.

She went back to sit with him a minute later, waiting for the water to run. He felt her staring and reluctantly picked up the toast, gnawing on a corner. That was something, even though she doubted he’d be able to keep it down for long. She kept running back to check on the water, making sure it was hot enough for him to feel clean but not enough to scald him. She stopped herself from adding any salts or oils, realising hot water against cuts and burns would be bad enough without weird chemicals in it. She lit a couple of candles. She wasn’t really sure why she did it, but she wanted everything to feel as gentle and comfortable as possible even though he would probably be too exhausted to notice. She padded back to the balled-up person on the couch and leaned over the arm to lay a hand on his side. His arm was dangling from the sofa, a crust hanging between his limp fingers. It seemed to be too heavy for them. She was relieved that he’d eaten and was tempted to leave him here to sleep, but she knew this was what he wanted. The sooner he was clean, the sooner he could go and see Blaine.

“Come on, sleepy,” she swept his hair from his eyes, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

She couldn’t help talking to him like a child, because folded up on her sofa that was exactly what he looked like. Not a beaten-up, hungover twenty-one-year-old who had just come out of jail for smashing a man’s head into the wall, but a tired, scared, lost little boy who missed his best friend. She wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and let him sleep for months and nurse him back to health, and she’d never exactly been the nurturing type. Kurt had always brought this out in her to some extent but today she couldn’t suppress it. He looked up at her, his eyes bluer than they had been earlier but his skin still deathly pale apart from the cuts and bruises.

She reached down behind him and lifted him by the waist. He heaved himself up, swaying and draping an arm over her shoulders. She kept cooing over him, ‘that’s it, almost there,’ as she led him to the bathroom. She held his hand, linking her fingers between his. She glanced at his face worriedly, but his eyes stayed on the ground. They were finally standing next to the tub and he didn’t move; he just let the steam wrap him up as droplets condensed on his cheekbones. Santana began lifting the sweater over his head. She had to angle his arms so she could pull the sleeves off, but thankfully it was far too big for him now so it slipped off without too much manipulation. She continued to help him undress, removing his boots, jeans, underwear, her heart breaking more with each inch of skin she uncovered, each one either revealing a protruding bone or a purple bruise or skin so pale it was almost ghostly. Eventually she was holding her friend, naked and shivering, and helping lift his legs to get him into the water.

He barely reacted as his freezing feet were submerged, turning pink immediately in the sudden heat. His arms trembled as they gripped onto the sides of the bath to keep lowering his body in, but Santana’s hands never left him. She was gripping, gently but firmly, onto his torso to make sure he didn’t slip and add yet another bump to his body. He continued to ease himself in, wincing as water lapped against the burn on his hip and seeped towards the sore spot just past the base of his spine. He gasped as the pain from the night before was refreshed, except this time there was no alcohol in his system to numb it. It was like Dave was there again, burning straight through him, that screaming agony deeper than anything he’d ever felt, as if no amount of water could wash it away. The memory rushed up his spine, making him lurch forward to the point when he was almost retching. Santana moved her hand down his back, stroking it tentatively. As his skin finally touched the bottom, he let go of the bath and grabbed Santana’s hand instead. He took one jerky breath after another and looked at her pleadingly with tears in his eyes. He wanted her to take away the pain. He’d been adding more and more for two years, building a shell for himself, but now the hot water was stripping it away, leaving him raw and exposed.

She reached up to kiss his forehead silently, and as he closed his eyes she kissed his eyelids too.

Santana took a sponge and plunged it into the water, lifting it up to wring it out over Kurt’s back, causing him to tense up. She rubbed in small, faint circles, making each bruise glisten as if it were new. He pressed her hand, still firmly linked with his, against his forehead, hiding behind it as if her seeing his face was more embarrassing than her bathing him. Of course, she didn’t feel any kind of awkwardness. She just saw how badly he needed someone, and she was the only one who was there. She kept dabbing the sponge across his quaking, wet frame as he clung to her hand.

She stood up so she could sit on the edge of the bathtub, then soaked more water up and carefully squeezed it over Kurt’s head, a few drips inevitably falling down his face. It felt odd for him to have water running down his cheeks that wasn’t tears. He let go of Santana’s hand and splashed a handful of water onto his face. He wiped his eyes and cheeks with his fingers slowly, tilting his head back as Santana washed his hair. She massaged the liquid into soft foam, her fingers navigating the contours of his head lightly as he leaned back into her. She ignored the drips on the floor and didn’t even notice when they soaked into her jeans. Kurt wrapped his arms around his knees, bringing them up to his chest, closing his eyes as Santana kept skilfully kneading his skull, firmly but without hurting him a bit.

After a minute she unhooked the showerhead to rinse the bubbles away, making Kurt shudder as his body was coated in warm water. It felt almost baptismal, and he took a deep breath in despite the water spilling into his mouth as if his mistakes were being washed away. As Santana watched the suds fall down his back and over the pronounced bumps of his spine and his shoulder blades that seemed to want to tear through his skin and could easily succeed, she noticed the black writing running down the centre. It was hidden under bruises, but the writing was unmistakable. She washed the bubbles away from Kurt’s tattoo, put the showerhead back on its hook, and traced the words delicately with her finger. She looked more closely so she could read it. He let his head fall forwards, trembling under her touch. It was more loving, more intimate than anything he’d felt for two years.

“Kurt?” She whispered, reluctant to break the silence. The only sounds for the last ten minutes had been small splashes and hitched breathing. “Is this for him?” He looked at her, almost apologetically, as if he’d let her down by having it. She cupped his face, running her thumb along the dark line under his eyes again. His cheeks had the vaguest tinge of pink in them again now that he’d started to warm up. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t have to. Who else would it be for? She wanted to say something, some magical words that would make him smile and make everything better, but she couldn’t find any. There weren’t any. She bit her lip because she knew she had to be strong and look after Kurt, but she couldn’t help feeling heartbroken as she found out about every bit of pain this fragile boy had inflicted on himself, when just being without Blaine was more than enough punishment for anything he’d done. “It’s…” her voice caught in her throat but she fought through it, “it’s beautiful.”

Kurt grabbed her waist and pulled her close, burying his face in her sweater and leaning on her stomach. She stopped washing him and looking at the tattoo and the bruises and just closed her eyes and held him. She stroked his wet hair and bent down and kissed it and wrapped her arms around him, trying to cover every bit of him, to become a shield to protect him from the world, from the sadness, from himself. She was soaked in seconds, her clothes sticking to her, water spilling all over the floor and wet handprints on her back, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t tell if Kurt was crying or just shaking and she tried not to think about the bumps under her hands – the shoulders, the vertebrae, the ribs that stuck out as her arms reached all the way around him so easily, and she focused on his heartbeat. She could feel it all over him, pulsating through his entire skeleton. He didn’t have much, but at least she could cling onto that bit of hope. His heart was still beating, and she could still feel warm breath against her chest, and the grip on her wrist wasn’t strong but it was definitely there. Right now it was just enough to give her a whisper of faith.

Santana didn’t tell Kurt that the water had a tinge of red when she let it go. She didn’t let him see the blood-stained clothes she threw away.

*

She wrapped him in the softest towel she could find, and helped him get dressed, practically hugging the clothes onto him: the grey jeans from earlier that morning and a flannel shirt she’d found in his apartment that was far too big for him. The jeans probably used to be perfectly form-fitting, but now they are almost slipping off. She knew that shirt was his dad’s. She could picture him wearing it when he was alone at night, trying to smell home and feel safe. It was hanging off him, making him look tiny and even more vulnerable than before. His scarred hip was covered but nothing was touching it. She knew he wouldn’t want it on display, especially if they were going to see Blaine, but she couldn’t bear the thought of it being rubbed against. She found a dark brown scarf and draped it over him in case he wanted to hide the bruises on his neck.

“Tana, I’m fine. I can do it. I’m not a child.”

“Nope. I can’t wait all day for you. And judging by what you were wearing this morning, I can’t leave you to do this by yourself.” He let out a weak laugh. “Besides, I’ve finally got you all to myself,” she rubbed his arm, barely hiding her alarm at how much space there was between the fabric and his skin, despite having just seen him completely naked, “maybe I just don’t feel like letting you go.”

He hugged her again. It was her turn to snuggle into him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “thank you so much.”

Kurt threw up before they left Santana’s apartment. It could have been the hangover, it could have been eating for the first time in days, but he was pretty sure it was nerves. Just being in the car made him jumpy. He avoided them when he could. He also tried to steer clear of hospitals, but it looked like once again he didn’t have a choice.

He still knew the way. The nurses didn’t recognise him anymore; it had been a long time since he’d been here. For a week he’d barely left, but as months passed and his hope faded it got harder to be there. Now over a year had gone without him coming within a mile of the building.
His hand was clammy as it gripped onto Santana’s. She stroked his back reassuringly and leaned up to kiss his cheek. He suddenly stopped walking, but now it wasn’t because he was tired; it was because they were nearly there, just a few steps away from that dim, quiet corridor and the small room full of machines beeping away and the bed and the sleeping boy in it. ‘Coma’ had always felt too clinical. Blaine was beautiful when he slept. Kurt just wished he could see how beautiful he was when he was awake again, because it was getting too hard to remember. He had photos and memories but they weren’t the same as a living, breathing smile in front of him. Memories couldn’t wrap their arms around him or sing him to sleep.

“Kurt?” Santana whispered, and shook his arm gently, trying to pull him back to life. Maybe she’d pushed him too hard. “Honey, can you do this? Do you still want me to come with you?” His eyes widened as he looked at her. His breathing sped up and his chest tightened. The thought of going in alone was terrifying, and she understood. “OK, don’t worry, I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to. I’m here.” His body relaxed again, apart from his hand which still wouldn’t let go of hers. He breathed deeply and looked ahead. He took a hesitant step forwards. He felt Santana’s hand still on his back, not pushing him but just ready to catch him if it needed to. They kept walking together, treading lightly, afraid of making a sound. They paused again at the door.

Of course he had a private room. No expense was spared on Blaine’s care, and his family kept weekly appointments to see him. They brought fresh flowers, different ones each time in case a new smell triggered something and woke him up. The cards standing around the room were all faded to a different degree, apart from one from Cooper. He sent one to his parents every week, insisting that they put it up when they saw him. It had become a routine. It usually didn’t even hurt that much to see him there anymore; the hospital was just where he lived. Visiting him was like going for lunch, the same restaurant every time, having their usual conversation, keeping him up to date with their lives. He just happened to be wearing pyjamas. Every couple of months it would hit them again, that emptiness where Blaine should have been, his energy and spark and earnest grin, and they would sit in silence next to his bed, staring at his face just like Kurt was staring at it now.

Santana gently reached towards the doorknob, twisting it and looking to Kurt for permission to open it. He nodded and she pushed. It swung open and she stepped inside, careful not to pull Kurt after her; every movement needed to come from him. Bringing him here was all she could do. She looked back at him. His eyes were fixed on Blaine.

There wasn’t a scratch on him. He looked peaceful and handsome, as handsome as the day they met, and that night on the road in the rain. His hair was loose but tidy; Kurt could picture his mother trimming it and carefully tucking strands behind his ear and his father clenching his jaw as his eyes stung and he held his wife’s hand. Kurt was squeezing hard on Santana’s hand now. His bones dug into her fingers, but she didn’t make a sound. Even though they both wanted him to wake up more than anything, they couldn’t help tip-toeing around him like a sleeping baby.

At last, Kurt walked in slowly, not stopping until he was right next to the bed, looking down at Blaine. He slid his free hand over Blaine’s, wrapping his fingers around the cold ones on the bed. He finally let go of Santana so he could use both hands to hold Blaine, and she quickly swept behind him to grab a chair. He sat slowly, as if any sudden moves would snap Blaine’s hand off. Santana stood behind him, laying a hand on his back as he leaned forward to bring Blaine’s knuckles to his lips. He held his hand there and closed his eyes, breathing in the smell that was unmistakably there, unmistakably him, gently lacing the odour of the hospital. Kurt’s head was swimming in all the Blaine. A tear dropped from his eyelashes onto Blaine’s hand and soaked into the skin, catching between hairs on his wrist. As soon as he was touching Blaine again, he didn’t feel scared and lost anymore; he felt like he was home, and Santana smiled as she saw his shoulders lowering when the tension left them.

“Kurt?” He looked up at her. “I might go and get a coffee, seeing as how you’ve deprived me of my beauty sleep.” He gave her a weak smile and nodded. She bent down to kiss his head and whispered “love you,” - she thought he probably needed to hear it a lot today.

The door clicked closed behind her. Kurt stared at every contour of skin as he moved his hand up to feel Blaine’s arm. It was different. The weight and tone of it had changed through being stationary for so long, and everything about him had become distorted in Kurt’s mind. He’d convinced himself that Blaine’s face would still be covered in deeper cuts than were ever there, that his leg would still be bent the wrong way, that he’d still be wet and bleeding everywhere. Of course he wasn’t. His skin had healed, his hair had grown back over the stitches on his head; his lips were still smooth and pink. Kurt could imagine Blaine’s father tentatively rubbing ice chips over his mouth just like the nurse had shown him, desperate to feel like he was helping. Kurt actually could kid himself that he was just asleep.

“I’m so sorry, Blaine,” he whispered.

He stood up to look at him properly, cradling Blaine’s arm in his own, pressing Blaine’s hand to his cheek, letting his other hand drag up Blaine’s stomach to his chest. He felt Blaine’s heartbeat. It was strong and regular and resolute. It was stronger than his. He lingered over that steady rhythm, closing his eyes so he could feel it vibrating against his palm as Blaine’s hand seemed to cup his cheek. Without opening them, he sat on the bed. The tiny amount of heat radiating from Blaine was enough to send a shiver up his spine. As the tension poured from his body, he felt exhausted again. Without thinking, he laid next to Blaine, resting his head on his chest, letting the soft thud of his heartbeat lull him to sleep as he held onto Blaine’s hand. It was as if he was holding him again. Nothing could keep him as warm and happy as those arms. It almost felt like he was squeezing back.

“Oh my god!”

Santana’s yell woke Kurt up from the first peaceful sleep he’d had since the accident. He didn’t appreciate it.

“What? What happened? Are you OK?”

“Kurt… Kurt… look! He’s – look – look behind you!” She stuttered, dropping her plastic cup of coffee on the floor. Kurt blinked the sleep from his eyes, still not entirely sure what was going on. He heard the faintest whisper behind him.

“Sorry… I didn’t want to wake you up.”

Kurt froze. It couldn’t be. He was still asleep or there was still something stuck in his veins from last night messing with his head or maybe he’d died and gone to heaven – even though it only flashed through his brain for a second, that sounded unbearably cheesy. It was like something Blaine would say. Blaine.

Shaking, he squeezed the hand that was pulled around him. It squeezed back.

“No. No, it can’t, you…”

He finally forced himself to turn his head slowly. He couldn’t bear to be wrong. His mind was whirring as he tried to imagine how he could’ve gotten confused. Maybe he just heard the wind in the trees and he was either still out of it or enough of a ridiculous romantic to think it was Blaine’s voice. Maybe there was a murderer behind him that sounded like Blaine and he was squeezing his hand to lull him into a false sense of security. What if Blaine had been replaced with a Blaine robot while he was sleeping? Every theory seemed more likely than what he saw when he finally, after what felt like hours, turned his head around to see Blaine. Blaine, with his eyes open, his head lifted from the pillow, smiling sleepily at Kurt.

“Hi.”

He stretched forward to kiss Kurt on the forehead, and then laid his head back on the pillow just enough to keep looking at him. He’d gone too long without seeing him to look away now. Kurt’s vision blurred instantly. He blinked hard to clear the tears away so he could see every inch of Blaine clearly. He pushed himself up so he was leaning on Blaine’s chest and staring at him. He was eighteen again, waking up with his boyfriend, seeing his smile and his eyes and feeling his lungs rise and fall of their own accord.

Santana tried to collect herself.

“Oh my… should I call someone? I mean, do you feel… how long have you been awake?”

“A few minutes? Does it matter?”

She shrugged.

“I guess not. Do you need a doctor or something?”

“Santana, right now I just need Kurt.”

She nodded, her surprise fading away to reveal a smile. She suddenly ran over to the bed, hugging Blaine until he coughed and spluttered and Kurt almost fell off the bed.

“Sorry, I just… oh!” she grabbed him again, leaving one hand free to stroke Kurt’s wrist. Eventually she let go and plumped up Blaine’s pillows so he could sit up properly. He folded his legs and Kurt slid further onto the bed and mirrored him. No time had passed. They were boyfriends sitting together on a bed, staring at each other. They should have been smiling, but they both looked deadly serious. “I’ll… give you a minute. It’s good to have you back, Blaine.” She attempted a smile. They didn’t notice.

As soon as she was gone, Blaine took Kurt’s hands. He wanted to touch his face, his neck, his shoulders, he wanted to remember Kurt’s body again, but he couldn’t see a part of him that didn’t look like it hurt. He stared at the marks all over him, all different shades of purple and yellow, before finally making his way back to his eyes. They seemed to hurt the most.

“Kurt? What… how did this happen? Who-”

“I’m so sorry, Blaine. It was at your prom, you probably don’t remember but I was late and you left and I, you, it was an accident…”

“What? No, Kurt, not… it doesn’t matter what happened to me. I think I know. I remember your face, and the car… I don’t care. What happened to you?”

Kurt blinked helplessly and squeezed Blaine’s hands. He’d lost two years of his life because of him. He’d just woken up in hospital and all he cared about was Kurt.

“I don’t really know, Blaine.” He had no idea what had happened to him. It was hard enough breathing as his throat twitched in dry sobs, without trying to explain everything.

“Who did this to you?”

He reached out to trace Kurt’s bruised jaw and cheek. He barely touched him, terrified of causing more damage, but it was enough to make Kurt shiver and let out the faintest whimper. Blaine recoiled, thinking he’d hurt him, but Kurt took his hand and laid his palm flat against his cheek. They both closed their eyes, absorbing the sensation of finally feeling each other again. They sat like that for a while in silence. They could each hear the other’s heartbeat as it pulsated through their fingertips. They could practically feel the grain in each other’s skin. Blaine stroked his finger across Kurt’s cheekbone, simultaneously worried about how little flesh there was covering it and remembering how beautiful it was without even looking. Eventually Kurt decided to try to explain.

“I guess… I kind of did it to myself. I mean, a lot of people did stuff to me. I made them.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I know. Nobody does. I don’t. I wanted to hurt. I had to hurt myself like I hurt you.”

Blaine’s face almost crumbled. He shook his head.

“Kurt, I… what do you mean, that you made people hurt you? Which people? How?”

Kurt glared at his own hands, his eyes filling with tears. As much as he wanted to stare at Blaine and take all of him in, he was too ashamed to look at his face. He had flashbacks of hundreds of nights without Blaine, with a thousand strangers but in total isolation.

“Everyone. Anyone. Men. I… Blaine, I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry, I just couldn’t stop. I would just,” he swallowed hard, “find them wherever I could, and… I’m sorry, Blaine, I don’t know why-”

Blaine pulled him up close. Their noses and foreheads were touching, and he kissed him so softly it was like a ghost tracing over his lips. With that slightest of touches, he let Kurt know he didn’t have to apologise. They were both shaking and struggling to breathe because it was all too much, because after all this time he’d just woken up, something so simple and small, and the last twenty four hours had been so wild and intense that it had made Kurt almost numb. And now here he was, with the boy he’d been holding on for, barely touching him but feeling that a part of him had finally come back to life. The softness of Blaine’s skin brushing against his own was overwhelming and all he could do was hold onto the hand on his cheek and grip onto Blaine’s knee so he couldn’t slip away again while tears spilled down both of their faces.

They kissed again, longer and deeper this time, and Blaine moved down Kurt’s jaw, kissing each inch of bruised skin and nudging the scarf from his neck. Kurt leaned into him, not trying to hide the marks, letting him pull the scarf away and drop it on the floor. A breath fell out of Blaine as he saw the dark lines on Kurt’s neck.

“Oh my god, Kurt…”

He didn’t have any words to try and heal him. They’d stopped needing words a long time ago and it hadn’t changed. He traced the marks with his fingertips, so softly it made Kurt shiver, and pulled gently at the collar of the shirt he was swimming in. The bruises didn’t seem to end, and his collarbone was jutting out. It scared Blaine how ill he seemed and how much pain he must have been in, but he just kept kissing him. Kurt kneeled up to press his body against Blaine’s with minimal pressure, just enough for their hearts to beat together, and they smoothly shifted to lie next to each other on the small hospital bed. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t much room; they didn’t want to be apart. Blaine didn’t take his lips away from Kurt’s skin and as he laid him down he carefully unbuttoned the shirt, sliding his warm hand in to stroke the cool, delicate skin underneath. He slowly rediscovered Kurt’s body, quivering and broken, and kept kissing him, moving from his collarbone down to his chest, lingering over every bruise, loving his body now every bit as much as he had before and stroking over his ribs, worried he would be cold with so little flesh covering him.

Kurt pulled the shirt back over himself. Blaine moved back up to his face and wrapped an arm around his waist, feeling his body trembling and his heart fluttering under the flannel.

“Are you OK? Are you warm enough?”

Kurt couldn’t look into his eyes. He stared at his mouth instead, where that warm, gentle voice was coming from.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.

“Why? Was I hurting you?”

“No, no, that was… that was perfect, you’re perfect, and I’m… this. I look awful. You’ve been asleep for two years, and you have to wake up to this, and I’m so… Look at me.”

Blaine kissed him again, still softly, cupping his face to keep him as close as possible, and Kurt finally looked into his eyes.

“I am looking at you. I’ve been dreaming about you since the accident and now here you are. Kurt, you’re just as beautiful now as you’ve always been.” Kurt tried to look down again, but Blaine ducked his head to keep eye contact. “I wish I’d been here to stop you hurting, baby, but I’m here now. I don’t ever want you to hurt like that again.”

Kurt sniffed and blinked at him, letting his tears soak straight into the pillow.

“I missed you so much, Blaine.”

Blaine smiled and kissed him again and pulled Kurt in even closer, tucking him under his chin and wrapping his arms around him. He kissed his hair, burying his nose in it. He soaked up that smell, the unmistakable smell of Kurt that two years couldn’t change. The smell that had sparked something in his olfactory nerve when he breathed it in. The smell that had woken him up. Kurt nuzzled against his chest, closing his eyes while Blaine’s strong hands held him as if they couldn’t let him go. He hoped they never would.

*

A couple of days later, Blaine was allowed home. The entropy wasn’t too bad – no wiggling of big toes necessary – and after speaking to Santana, Blaine’s parents invited Kurt to stay with them. They knew Blaine couldn’t recover properly without having him there, and it was obvious Kurt needed Blaine just as much. They’d been apart long enough, and if he hadn’t gone to see him that day he might still have been asleep. They barely left Blaine’s room for a week, except to eat, and despite being interrupted by countless visitors anxious to see Blaine awake and to see Kurt smiling again, they stayed either in or on his bed. They didn’t even have sex; they just sat together, wrapped around each other, whispering and giggling and kissing and breathing together. Blaine worked hard to get the callouses back on his fingertips, strumming away on his guitar while Kurt tried to work on designs but ended up drawing Blaine instead. He would spend hours drawing his eyes, just so glad to see them open again that they were all he could think about.

Tonight, they were exhausted. Rachel had come that morning. She gabbled excitedly about school and New York and how great it was to see them and ‘I bought you guys a pie, we tried to bake one but the apples went weird and it got burnt, but this one looks nicer anyway, and is there anything I can do, do you need me to clean anything or bring you anything, I could make us all some tea if you want…’ for hours, until Blaine’s father finally told her that was enough for today, but then Santana showed up with a bottle of wine and Chinese food, so the four of them kept eating and drinking by the fire until 2am. Santana eventually realised that Kurt and Blaine were falling asleep on each other and levered Rachel up off the floor and called them a cab. They could come back for their cars tomorrow. They both kissed the boys on the head on their way out, Rachel crying on Santana’s shoulder about how adorable they were – she still couldn’t really handle her drink – and they staggered back to bed. They pulled their clothes off, dropping them on the floor, and fell asleep almost instantly, breathing in sync, Kurt draped over Blaine’s chest and Blaine dozily stroking Kurt’s hair.

“Blaine!”

Kurt woke up with a start when it was still dark outside. He was sweating. His mouth was dry. He was panting as if he’s just run a marathon. He’d been having the dream again – the one he hadn’t had since Blaine had woken up.

“Blaine? Blaine, are you there?”

He scrambled to his knees and searched frantically around the room as it suddenly seemed unfamiliar, not realising Blaine’s arm was still on his waist.

“Kurt, it’s fine, I’m right here. What happened?” He was groggy, but hearing Kurt this frantic jolted him back to life.

“I don’t – it was that night and you were, you, and the blood, and the car…”

His breathing was laboured and Blaine knelt up and pulled him close, pressing soft kisses all over his face and into his hair.

“It’s OK, Kurt, I’m here. I’m fine, baby, everything’s fine.”

“It was just – I thought that was real. I thought this was the dream and I’d woken up and it was happening again and you were still-”

“I know, shh, look. Look at me Kurt. This is real, I promise. We’re here, and I’m alive, and I’m awake,” he kept kissing his face between words so Kurt could feel how real he was. “Can you feel my hands, Kurt? They’re real. Feel right here,” he placed Kurt’s palm against his chest, “feel my heart beating. It’s beating because I’m fine and because you’re here.”

Kurt was still gasping for breath, but much more slowly. He looked at Blaine, his eyes full of concern and his mouth whispering to him, making sure he wasn’t scared. He kept staring at him, feeling his heartbeat, absorbing it and breathing in time with it. It calmed him down. He reached up with his other hand to cup Blaine’s face, his real, solid face, and ran his thumb across his forehead, which was creased with worry. He could just make out the outline of his face in the moonlight that filtered in. He didn’t need to see anything; he knew every contour by heart. He leaned in close, so close that they could practically feel each other’s lips without touching, just breathing into each other’s mouths for a moment, then kissed him. He didn’t even have to move his head - they were already as good as there, and he felt’s Blaine’s heart start to beat faster. His breath trembled as they both felt a clear shift in the atmosphere. All week they’d been so chaste and calm, just trying to get their strength back, but now they were so close, and Kurt’s skin was burning, and his breathlessness was contagious as Blaine started to gasp for air between kisses. He let out a moan, but Kurt caught him in another kiss to keep him quiet. He smiled. He’d missed the fear of getting caught, even though he knew nobody would object. It sent a tingle up his spine, and made it all feel so new and innocent, like they were teenagers again.

They kept kissing, just as slowly and gently, but allowing their tongues to meet and pressing their bodies together. Their gasps and the slight creaks of the mattress and the sounds of their lips meeting were the only noises in the house.

They gradually rediscovered each other’s bodies, taking everything an inch at a time and savouring the silence so they could hear and feel each other breathing. They stayed kneeling on the bed, kissing each other’s shoulders and necks and arms, using the very tips of their fingers to map every curve and swell. Each touch was so delicate that it made them shiver, and when Blaine ran his hand up Kurt’s chest, over his ribs which were already protruding less after a week of his mother’s cooking and a night of gorging himself on chow mein, then up into his hair and back to trace down his spine, Kurt couldn’t help bucking into him, and he was doing the same as he felt Kurt’s hands on the small of his back and his lips on his ear. As Kurt’s teeth grazed against his earlobe, Blaine dropped his head forward to pant on Kurt’s neck and pull him closer. He cautiously lowered him onto the bed, being careful not to press on any bruises and making sure their bodies stayed in constant contact. They both trembled as every bit of them from their cheeks to their chests to their thighs was ground together, their sweat mingling and their breathing synchronised.

Each kiss was softer, but more intense than the last. Kurt’s breath caught in his throat as Blaine’s hips thrust against his involuntarily and the friction between them, although delicate, was enough to send his mind spinning. Blaine wrapped his arm around Kurt’s waist, moving faster with him, desperate to hold onto him, to protect him and make sure nobody could hurt him.

“Are you-” he whispered between gasps and kisses, still scared of hurting Kurt, scared of him flashing back to whatever pain he’d been through while Blaine had been gone.

Kurt nodded and kissed him again, keeping their mouths locked. He knew Blaine would be asking if he was OK. He was more than OK. Every sordid encounter, every violent shove and painful night, all the anger and heartbreak faded away with every touch. The delicacy, the softness and intimacy was more powerful than anything he’d felt in a long time and as his breaths got shorter and his vision, already limited by darkness, began to blur, he whispered to Blaine without disconnecting their lips:

“I love you, I love you, I love you…”, and Blaine seemed to swallow the words, breathe them in as he tensed up against Kurt, pulling their bodies flush together and gasping against his mouth, “I love you too, baby, I love you so much, oh…” his voice disappeared as weak breaths spilled from his lips and the tension between them built up until it was unbearable.

Neither of them took a breath for a few seconds. They were frozen together, jaws tensed and trembling against each other, legs tangled, fingers clinging desperately, Blaine’s around Kurt’s waist and Kurt’s on Blaine’s shoulders, their eyes locked. Kurt felt a tear fall across the bridge of his nose and onto the pillow just as one slipped from Blaine’s eye, only for Kurt to catch it with his thumb and pull him in for another kiss. Their lips barely touched; they were both still shaking too much and struggling to get their breath back. Two years of angry, mindless sex had made him numb, but after just a week with Blaine he was feeling again. He started to think he’d been the one in the coma. He’d almost forgotten how to feel anything, but something about this, the way Blaine’s fingertips were ghosting across his skin, woke his body up. The hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stood on end and Blaine’s breath against his cheek made his skin prickle, as all the sensations that had been slipping away from him, beaten out of him, every single one flooded back, hitting him harder with every touch and every movement and every glance at Blaine. He wasn’t just a photo or a memory anymore. He was right here, holding him, forgiving him, loving him.

The bright blur in front of Kurt’s eyes faded as slowly as it had appeared. They relaxed again into the darkness, still clutching at each other with their eyes closed, falling back into their natural way of lying together, Blaine’s chest pressed against Kurt’s back. He kept kissing his neck, and slowly moved down over the bumps at the top of his spine. He could see some kind of marks there with the slivers of moonlight that reached his skin, and he pulled back, squinting to try and see what they were. He paused, thinking he might be uncomfortable. Kurt turned his head to face Blaine and their noses rubbed together.

“I meant to tell you… you can look at it, Blaine. It’s fine.”

“Why did you- I thought you didn’t-”

“I know. I just… I needed something. This way it always felt like you were there.”

Kurt kissed Blaine again. He had to keep reminding himself he was back, even when he was staring right at him.

Blaine read the tattoo, kissing every bump on his way down to the small of Kurt’s back. Kurt lay on his front, resting his head on his forearms, watching Blaine as he took everything in. He wondered if he should try to explain it, but Blaine rested his cheek against Kurt’s back, feeling his pulse as it continued to radiate across his skin. He laid his hand on the back of Kurt’s thigh and stroked upwards, moving to lie next to him until his hand grazed across the ink and stopped between Kurt’s shoulder blades. Nothing needed to be explained.

“It’s beautiful, Kurt.”

No matter what Kurt had done to himself in the last two years, nothing would ever stop him from being beautiful to Blaine. Their bodies linked together again, Blaine’s chin hooked over Kurt’s shoulder and his arms wrapped around his chest, their cheeks touching, their legs and fingers entwined. He kept pressing soft, reassuring kisses to his neck, and they could each feel the other’s heartbeat on their wrists. Their pulses were synchronized, and they were both stronger for it. They stayed there, their bodies locked together in the darkness for hours until the curtains began to glow with the early sparks of sunlight.

They weren’t in darkness anymore.

But their hearts kept beating together.