“You’re looking very spiffy this morning.”


Kurt can’t help the small smile that crosses him face as he whirls around to face the newcomer. He knows who it is before he turns around; by this point, it’s almost normal to see Blaine Anderson leaning casually against his locker with a bright smile. It’s such a change from just a few months ago that Kurt finds himself returning Blaine’s smile before he even turns around.


“Spiffy? Please. You may act like you’re from the fifties, but you must remember that you’re not,” Kurt rolls his eyes playfully, leaning against the locker beside his own so he can properly watch Blaine stutter through a response that’s almost flirtation. Kurt takes pity on him, as he does most mornings, when Blaine’s eyes widen at Kurt’s sass, “I believe sinfully brilliant is what you actually meant. Fashion does not come easy for most people.” He gestures at Blaine’s ensemble—a pair of navy highwaters and an off-white polo with a silky blue bowtie in mockery but his smile is a mile wild and gentle, “The things I would do to you if I could take you on a shopping spree.”


Blaine blushes, pink flooding his cheeks as he shakes himself from the remark. He’s clearly taking it on a far more sexual level than Kurt had intended, but Kurt can’t find it in himself to care when Blaine’s swallowing roughly, and blinking long lashes at him in astonishment. His voice is a little squeaky when he answers, “I—well, I think—I would, uh—“


“Don’t strain yourself,” Kurt teases with an easy laugh, watching Blaine pull himself together to finally give Kurt that embarrassed, affectionate smile that always seems to wear when he’s around Kurt. The other boy is still fidgeting, tugging almost unconsciously at the blue bowtie, but it seems less embarrassed and more flustered.


“We should go,” Blaine finally spits out, excited eyes glinting a caramel color in the light of the hallway. He leans against the locker next to Kurt, trying and failing to look nonchalant, “I love my clothes, but if you want to take me out I’m all for it.”


“Caleb won’t let me shop for him, and all I really want to do is dress him up. He has such a fantastic shape,” Kurt pouts, startling when the bell rings for first period. He curses quietly, whipping around to gather rest of his books for the day, but he keeps talking, “All he wears are sweatshirts and old sports shirts. I understand his bizarre need to keep up the straight stereotype, but it’s such a waste. He would look fabulous in a pair of tight jeans and a knit sweater.”


“I would happily allow you to dress me.” Blaine offers graciously, with a small, hopeful smile.


Kurt turns around, looking him up and down, and gestures for Blaine to spin in place. If his eyes linger a little too long on the way the tailored pants stretch across Blaine’s perfectly rounded bottom, well, Kurt has always held the belief that it’s perfectly alright to look and not touch. Even still, he turns back with a shake of his head and tries to ignore the little voice in his head that keeps pointing out that if the shopping trip works out he’ll be able to oogle Blaine all day. He clears his throat, “So Saturday morning, then?”


Blaine laughs, but strangely enough it sounds grainy and forced. Kurt looks up, trying to catch his eye, but Blaine’s staring down the hall. Kurt turns too, catching nothing out of the ordinary. The bell has already rung, so most people are gone, and the corridor is practically empty. There are three band geeks with their instrument cases putting up posters, and there are two Cheerios that wave as they walk passed Kurt toward their morning biology class. Kurt turns back, absolutely baffled, but Blaine’s eyes are focused on something Kurt can’t see. He doesn’t understand why Blaine looks so angry; if anything he would have expected to see a monster or, from what’s he heard, Mr. Anderson himself. “Blaine? Are you alright? What’s going on?”


He doesn’t answer, and Kurt turns back again to see that three smug-looking football players have appeared around the stairwell. Their arms are behind their back, with laser pointed focus on Blaine’s figure. Kurt narrows his eyes at them, hazarding a guess as to what they intend to do.


Blaine takes a step away from Kurt—apparently, ever the gentlemen even in the face of a slushy—and braces himself for the blow. Kurt’s just kind of staring at him in shock, face screwed up, even as the footballers begin to sprint down the hall with the slushies held aloft and taunting smiles on their faces.


Blaine’s eyes slam shut just as a flood of blue, purple, red and orange splashes spectacularly on his face. The jocks are screeching around them, laughing hysterically at Blaine’s colorfully wet new style. He’s covered from head to toe in a rainbow of frozen ice. His face is dyed and covered in tiny ice pieces and his white shirt is now a disastrous mess.


Kurt launches into action just as the laughing football players loop back around them, slowing to a crawl so they can admire their handiwork. Even though it looks like they’ve done enough, one of them shoves him. Blaine slips on the wet ground, and slams so hard into the locker just a foot from Kurt that he falls to the ground with a wounded noise. They laugh, and Kurt springs into motion, “Lechmann, I have your girlfriend lined up for a facial on Friday! One more slushy and she’ll dump your sorry ass! You better watch your back!”


The big footballer turns in surprise, freezing on spot at the look of fury on Kurt’s face. He sputters angrily, “I didn’t even touch you, Hummel! We completely avoided you, and only hit the loser. Why do you care?”


Kurt doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, wondering how his status as a Cheerio is strong enough to protect him from the harassment of being an openly gay member of the glee club. Apparently, Lechmann anticipates his next comment and takes another generous step back, stuttering, “Just don’t tell Cassandra, okay? I won’t throw anymore.” Another player—a slightly slimmer upperclassmen—cuffs him across the back of the head; they all nod cautiously at Kurt—each of them has a Cheerio girlfriend, of course—before all three turn and lope off toward the classrooms at the far end of the hall.


Kurt doesn’t take his eyes off of them until the three disappear into the same classroom. He wonders what excuse they’re using, but he immediately refocuses when Blaine finally moves from his slumped position on the floor and wipes at his face. Kurt crouches down beside the smaller boy. Blaine is covered from head to toe in a colorful array of slushy—in red, purple, blue, orange and purple—and he’s shivering violently, face still screwed up even as his hands wiped at his eyes and nose.


Kurt’s reaches forward to touch his shoulder, but Blaine flinches wildly when Kurt comes closer to him. “Blaine?”


Blaine, the sodden miserable puddle of slushy, turns him with a wounded, defeated look. He wipes at his eyes some more but nods with certainty, “I’m fine, Kurt. You should go to class.”


“But—“


“Please, just go. It doesn’t matter if I’m late, I’m pulling 90’s in all of my classes. I swear I’m fine.” Blaine takes a breath, reaching up with a hand to hold onto the latch of a locker and pulls himself gingerly to his feet. There’s a thunk or two as solid slushy pieces fall to the floor around him. Kurt holds out a hand to help him walk across the floor without slipping, but Blaine ignores it and steadily makes his way, still dripping, toward his messenger bag and then to the nearest bathroom.


“Blaine, let me help you—“


“No,” he answers with feeling, turning deliberately away from Kurt and delicately walking toward the bathroom in squishy, wet shoes. Kurt follows him closely, slipping into the bathroom behind him and leaning against the wall as he watches Blaine slump over the sink. It takes more than a minute for Blaine to realize that he’s not alone in the bathroom. “Why are you still here?”


The thinly controlled voice is such a change from his normal playful tone that it throws Kurt off. He meets Blaine’s tired eyes in the mirror and gestures vaguely, “I just want to help you.”


“You can’t,” Blaine mutters, touching his hair gently and wincing at the slick gooey consistency that was layered thickly over his curls. He pokes at the back of his head, the area that had smashed into the locker, and winces painfully at the touch. He seems satisfied though, and glances back to Kurt who still hasn’t moved from his perch on the wall. In the artificial light, the stains on Blaine’s face are gruesome and a little bit terrifying. His eyes are hard, “Just leave, Kurt, please. I’ll be fine, I promise.”


“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Kurt asks, as Blaine retrieves an extra set of clothes from his bag. He takes a step forward, grabbing a handful of paper towels. He douses them under warm water, rings them until their damp. He waits patiently for Blaine, leaning against the sink until Blaine moves slowly toward him, “I can help you, Blaine. I use to do this freshman year.”


“I just really want you to leave,” Blaine whispers, closing his eyes again and yanking off the horribly stained blue bowtie. He places it primly on the sink ledge and swallows convulsively. “I can handle it, Kurt, I’ve done it many times before. You don’t need to feel obligated.”


“Are we seriously bringing this up again?” Kurt asks sharply, glaring at Blaine. He reaches for the younger boy, cradling his face deliberately in one hand as the other wipes at Blaine’s face with the warm, wet paper towels. He wipes a stripe across Blaine’s nose and mouth, dabbing gently at the eyes and the sticky redness that’s on his eyebrow. “I don’t know how many times I’m going to have to tell you. I am friends with you, Blaine. I am not just being nice to you, I genuinely think that you’re funny and that you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t have invited you shopping with me unless we were friends. So, I’m going to help you; this is what friends do for each other,” He stops his ministrations, and watches Blaine’s face for a minute, feeling something stir in his gut at the sight of Blaine looking so anguished. He may not have been friends with Blaine before, but he’s certainly not blind and he knows what the other football have always done. Blaine opens sad looking tea-colored eyes and stares at Kurt unblinkingly until Kurt continues to speak, “You’re my friend, Blaine. I’m sorry I was so stupid before.”


Blaine doesn’t answer, but his lips part ever so slightly and Kurt realizes abruptly, with a weird tingle in his stomach, that they’re having a moment. He tears away from Blaine with a sharp exhale and launches himself toward the garbage can to throw away the paper towels. He treats Blaine better than his own boyfriend sometimes, and it really hits him just how awful this could end up. He wants to disappear, he wants to leave Blaine to his own cleanup, but he just can’t. Blaine’s rinsing his hair off in the sink, and he’s shivering so violently that Kurt knows that he can’t just leave him.


Kurt inhales tightly, even as he rings out more paper towels. He wants to help Blaine. The younger boy needs his approval almost as badly as Kurt is willing to give it. From what he’s learned from Mike and Tina, Blaine doesn’t get much love from home, and Kurt’s heart aches to think that all Blaine needs is some acceptance and he would be so much stronger.


“Kurt? You all right?”


Kurt meets Blaine’s eyes in the mirror, spotting a faint affectionate look, “I should be asking you that,” Kurt finally says with a smile, “How’s your head? You hit the locker really hard.”


Blaine shrugs, with a surprisingly wry smile, “No concussion.” He prods his head again, “I should change before the stains set on my clothes.”


“If you give them to me now, we can save them,” Kurt says, taking the blue bowtie in his hands and turning on the sink, “Go on and trade for your other clothes.”


Blaine disappears quickly with his extra clothes, and Kurt takes the minute to regroup, stretching and taking some deep breaths while leaning over the rapidly filling sink. It startles him sometimes to think about how much he likes Blaine as a friend. He wants him to be happy. He wants him to smile and laugh at his jokes. He wants him to have the entire world in his hands. Kurt knows that he’s drifting into dangerous territory, but it’s difficult when Kurt can count on one hand the amount of times that he’s had moments with Caleb that don’t consist of accidentally making awkward eye contact while making out.


Now that he can finally see Blaine, it’s hard not to notice him.


He’ll spot him in the hallway with Tina, gesticulating wildly about some reality TV show they both watch, or he’ll stumble across him during Blaine’s study hall and creepily watch him from the choir room doorway as he plunks out a Coldplay song or some sweet Adele piece on the piano. It blows his mind sometimes to think that Blaine wasn’t even a blip on his radar before he sang that damn song in glee club.


He wonders sometimes how different his life would be if Blaine had remained anonymous and shy.


“Ow.” There’s a rustle behind him and a quiet hiss of pain that immediately halts his wandering thoughts.


“Blaine? Are you alright?”


There’s silence as Blaine seems to gather his breath and finally the door swings open to reveal Blaine half naked with only his shirt held up to cover his naked chest. Kurt can’t help but stare at the smooth tan skin, tight around surprisingly muscular biceps. His eyes slide down, and if he squints just slightly he can kind of see a little defining edge of abs to Blaine’s belly. Blaine clears his throat, forcing a blushing Kurt’s attention upward. His cheeks are pink with embarrassment and he licks his lips before sighing regretfully in a slightly higher voice, “I need your help.”


Kurt’s on edge once again, and this time, not even the expanse of skin—that must feel awesome to the touch—can deter his attention. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”


“I’ll just show you,” Blaine sighs, resigned, “It’s easier.” He turns around slowly and deliberately, closing his eyes and holding himself steady as he shows Kurt his back. Crisscrossed along his finely muscled back are discolored bruises outlined by deep indentations. A few of them are old scars, particularly those by his sides, but nevertheless, they all look painful. One, in almost the center of his back, is most likely from today; it’s reddened and sore looking with a ragged cut that’s already stopped bleeding.


“Blaine? What are these from? How can you—I don’t understand.”


“I just need you to apply some topical cream to the cut. It’s stinging like mad from the slushy and I just really want to change.”


“But these bruises?” Kurt asks faintly, reaching to gingerly touch a faded yellow and green expanse that stretches across his lower back. His skin is warm to the touch, and Blaine immediately jolts forward in alarm. Kurt pulls back, embarrassed, but not intimidated, “How did you get all these bruises, Blaine?”


“It’s not a big deal,” Blaine answers flippantly, urgently holding out a small tube of cream for Kurt to use. He turns around, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sometimes, they push me into lockers. It’s not a big deal, really.”


Kurt holds the cream, critically casting his eyes over the stretch of Blaine’s marred back. He feels vaguely sick. He had been a loser in freshman year; he had been thrown into dumpsters and pushed so roughly into lockers that he had marks for weeks. There’s a welt—a welt!—on Blaine’s side that makes him shudder. He touches it gingerly, brushing lightly over the puckered skin with a fingertip. Blaine jumps immediately, the skin extra sensitive. He already knows the answer before he asks, “How did you get this one?”


Blaine bites his lip, “Locker.”


Lie. Kurt huffs out a sigh, intoning, “Really? It doesn’t look the same.”


“Just leave it alone, Kurt,” Blaine spits out, leaning out of Kurt’s touch until he’s by the sink. He holds out his hand for the cream, “I can do it myself.”


Kurt doesn’t answer, because he can’t. Blaine’s shirt had fallen from his place against his chest, and Kurt’s eyes are glued to the skin. Kurt wishes it was because Blaine was just so attractive, but it’s not. Across Blaine’s chest, are striped painful-looking bruises. His mouth his agape, and Blaine curses when he realizes that Kurt can see everything and knows that the slushy instance isn’t the only thing that happens at school. “It’s not as bad as it looks. It really doesn’t hurt anymore and I can move just fine.”


“And if I were to slam you that hard into a locker again, you’d bounce right back, huh?” Kurt snaps, his voice tight and controlled. Kurt doesn’t understand why these things happen at their school. As much as he’d like to think that he made many of the footballers change their mind about gays, just seeing the way they treat Blaine makes him want to grind his teeth. Kurt made himself untouchable through his relations with the Cheerios, not because the footballers grew a conscious. It makes him feel sick to think about what they do every day to Blaine.


“It’s not a big deal, Kurt,” Blaine tears himself away from Kurt, propelling himself into the far corner and wrapping his arms around his chest. “Please, just drop it okay. I need your help with the cream, okay? It’s fine.”


Kurt’s still angry, but he grabs the tube and gestures Blaine over silently. He coats a little piece of paper towel with the cream and holds Blaine close. It’s a slow process, but he does it diligently and silently, simmering still but knowing better than to say something else yet. When he’s done, and Blaine is regretfully clothed in a new shirt, he gently turns Blaine toward him, “You need to tell someone.”


“I don’t—“


“You do,” Kurt intones, his voice firm but concerned. His hand is planted on Blaine’s cheek. He can feel the younger boy shaking in his grasp and it’s all he can do to stop himself from hugging Blaine to his chest and petting his cheek. “This isn’t healthy, Blaine, and it isn’t safe for you. How has no one noticed how badly their hurting you?”


“The boys know,” Blaine confesses in a quiet voice. He leans into Kurt’s warm touch as he speaks, “But I haven’t told them how bad; they think it’s just some shoving and insults. I don’t want to tell them. It really isn’t that bad,” He mumbles something, his eyes dropping to the floor in shame.


Kurt blinks, “What was that?”


Blaine licks his lips, shrugging a little as he meets Kurt’s eyes with unwarranted casualness. “I’ve had worse.”


“You’ve had worse what?” Kurt asks uncertainly, eyes growing wide.


Blaine seems to know that he’s said something dam shattering, and winces. His cheeks are turning faintly pink. “I’ve had worse bullying.”


There’s a pain in Kurt’s stomach. If the marks and scratches on Blaine’s skin are any indication of the normal abuse he suffers, Kurt can only imagine the emotional trauma. Kurt knows; he’s been there. He’s been flung into lockers and thrown in dumpsters, covered in a rainbow of slushies and left so miserable that it doesn’t seem like anything could help. He can’t imagine how Blaine can deal with it day after day. And he’s had worse. Kurt can only picture tiny, preteen Blaine—he’s only fifteen now—fighting with bullies half his size, and getting hurt because no one will accept who he is.


Blaine clears his throat and pulls away from Kurt, swallowing hard at admitting something so personal and walks away toward the sink with his old shirt in hand. Kurt takes a deep breath, “You need to tell someone, Blaine, or I will.”


“Just leave it alone,” Blaine says, shaking his head as he runs water over the shirt. It’s not working, so Kurt rolls his eyes and gently walks up beside him. He hip-checks him lightly with a smile and tugs the shirt out of his hands, “Please, Kurt it’s fine, I promise.”


“No, this isn’t right, Blaine. You’re getting hurt. You’re bleeding and bruised from these jocks that probably won’t even graduate from college.” Kurt turns to him, away from the sink even as he keeps scrubbing with the unhelpful bathroom soap and gives him a long look. “It’s not right, and I can’t let you stay at the mercy of these Neanderthals. You’re important, Blaine; you need to fight back. You can’t just let them defeat you.”


“I’m not letting them win,” Blaine argues, “I’m just trying to survive high school.”


“And it’s not working,” Kurt cries.


He wants to think that they’re at a standstill, that if he tries a little bit harder he’ll win this battle, but Blaine’s answer is written all over his face. Kurt knows he’ll never admit anything. He knows how desperately Blaine needs to be protected, but he won’t force his opinion on Blaine—at least, not today.


“You need to be safe, Blaine,” Kurt murmurs, taking a step closer to Blaine so they’re within six inches of each other, he hesitantly steps forward and wraps his arms around Blaine nice and snug. Blaine, apparently a cuddlewhore, immediately burrows into Kurt’s neck for comfort. Kurt can practically feel the tension leaving Blaine, “You’re not safe here.”


“I’ll be fine, Kurt,” Blaine whispers quietly, his face pressed suspiciously close to Kurt’s neck. Their bodies are pressed together so close that Kurt can feel his heart beat, and smell the sweet artificial slushie dye. He doesn’t want to let go. “I’m doing the best I can, Kurt.”


“Do better,” Kurt answers with a faint smile, finally pulling himself completely out of Blaine’s hold. He swallows the emptiness he feels and reaches for his bag to grab one of the small plastic bags he still brings with him for this exact reason. Kurt gingerly picks up Blaine’s wet clothes to deposit them in the bag. “I’ll treat them when I get home and they’ll be good as new.”


“Thank you.”


Kurt can only flash him a helpless smile, lips creeping into a half-smirk, “You’re welcome, Blaine.”


They’re having another moment. Somehow, this always seems to happen, and Kurt just can’t help but stare at Blaine. The other boy, although with an easy half-smile, looks physically exhausted and far too pale even with the faded red dye on his cheeks. Kurt’s heart aches to think that Blaine is feeling as lost and desperate as Kurt had been in freshman year. He never wants anyone to feel that way. He wants Blaine to feel loved and accepted. He never thought it would be this hard. “Please, let me help you, Blaine. This isn’t something you can take care of on your own.”


The younger boy doesn’t answer, eyes falling to the floor before he gives a quick succinct nod of agreement. He doesn’t need to admit anything to Kurt and they’re right back at square one. One day Kurt will do something about it.


“We should get to class,” Kurt says, instead.


They leave the bathroom together, strides matching, and Kurt feels a little better just knowing that Blaine wants help too. Wheels are turning in Kurt’s head, and his fingers are itching to write a letter of complaint to the Board of Ed, but he stops when Blaine lays a hand on his forearm and tugs him to a stop right at the corner of the hallway near the English department.


“Thank you, Kurt,“ Blaine licks his lips in anxiousness, attempting to rub his fingers against the phantom bowtie that had been nestled against his Adam’s apple. He shrugs and meets Kurt’s eyes with unease, “I know that it’s a lot to handle and I promise that it’s not as bad as you think. I just wanted to say thank you for being so helpful. You skipped class for me, and you’re going to try clean my clothes—“


“Try isn’t an option. They’re going to be perfectly clean.”


Blaine smiles slightly at him, “You’re incredible.”


Kurt’s stomach is tingling again, and his own smile is blinding, but his voice is perfectly refined when he speaks, “I couldn’t agree more.”


Blaine’s practically dissolved into a pile of goo by this point, his eyes so wide and fond, but he shakes himself out of it long enough to smile shyly up at Kurt and nod, “Thank you,” He presses himself close to Kurt, leaning toward him and taking a deep breath before hesitantly pressing a quick peck to his cheek, “Bye, Kurt. See you in glee.”


Kurt doesn’t get a chance to answer, doesn’t even get a chance to tell Blaine off for flirting so deliberately when he has a boyfriend. He watches a little open-mouthed as Blaine waves and flounces off down the hall to his psychology class with his book bag tottering behind him.


It’s purely platonic, of course, Kurt finally concludes when he wakes up long enough to make his way to his classroom. It doesn’t mean anything, Kurt decides. Nothing at all.


He tries not to focus on the feeling of Blaine’s lips on his cheek, or how it felt when his soft curls brushed his earlobe. It doesn’t work well, and if his stomach quivers the rest of the morning, every time he thinks of a certain curly-headed boy, then well, he’ll blame it on poor breakfast choices.