This class stresses Kurt Hummel out.

Every day, he reads dozens of pages, scouring each paragraph for pertinent information multiple times, unsure of what section a quiz could cover or if there’ll even be a quiz, a worry he never had at McKinley. And truly, the class would be fine if only the philosophy professor taught it. The literature professor, Dr. Stanley, sets his teeth on edge, unhelpful, unfunny, and expecting high school students to pick out too much from a work.

Stanley is having the class read The Handmaid’s Tale, a literary work that Kurt had been excited about reading and quite enjoyed—until he went to class today. Where, before class, he had blindly absorbed and admired the depth of the world he’d been thrust into, he now cringed away from that world. Now, he was being forced to acknowledge a world that placed blame on a group of people, regardless of whether or not they are truly to blame.

“It was Hummel’s fault! Spreading the fag everywhere.”

“If you don’t wanna get hit, Ladyboy, you’d better get out of the fuckin’ way.”

Today, he pointedly tries not to think about Karofsky being his “Commander”, forced to have sex with him. Instead, he remembers Mercedes’ immediate agreement to bear his future child at their last sleepover (“I’d be thrilled, use my uterus”) and Rachel’s reticence (“It’s not that I wouldn’t, Kurt; I just can’t make that promise right now”). He secretly thought that Rachel’s answer was probably wiser, but at the time, he couldn’t even imagine having someone with whom he’d want to share a child.

Getting over Blaine had proven itself an impossible task. It seemed that Blaine had wormed himself into every aspect of Kurt’s Dalton life. When Jeff pulled Kurt aside and began to tell him about this “great guy”, Daniel, in his Calculus class, Blaine sidled up and asks Kurt to help him with French oral presentation. Kurt was just thankful that his father made him come home on the weekends (beginning with mandatory Friday night dinners), grateful for the brief respite that days alone with his Dalton homework and his new family provided.

But as today was Wednesday, he saw no relief in sight from Quest. Deep analysis of the Handmaids’ oppression and Offred’s suicidal thoughts of alienation hit a little close and made him uncomfortable, skin prickling and too loose around his muscles. When the teacher dismisses them, he sighs in relief and rises immediately, his thoughts focused on getting far away from this room and the thoughts it provoked. His eyes are on the floor ahead of him, feet on auto-pilot.

When a hand slips into his, callused, warm, and newly familiar to his skin, he doesn’t startle as much as he would have thought. Blaine came out of nowhere in the hall—not unlike his declaration before Regionals almost a month ago—but Kurt is so glad he’s here, he can’t even care that Blaine came completely out of his way or wonder how he even knew to be here. The tension that had crept into his body begins to seep away at the simple touch. His skin tightens back into shape.

“Thank you,” Kurt whispers, forgetting the din of so many boys in the narrow corridor.

The hand in his squeezes gently and a tenor voice sounds from close to his ear. “Don’t mention it.” Blaine presses his lips into the sensitive skin right behind his ear. “Wanna get away for awhile?”

Kurt nods emphatically and Blaine leads him out of the building and toward the dorms.

-β-

Blaine doesn’t let go of his hand until they reach the door to his room, needing both hands to search his pockets for his key. When he procures it, they both enter the room, Blaine immediately turning off the overhead fluorescent light and heading for his desk to turn on his lamp, shedding soft orange light on the room. He turns to Kurt, smiling softly. “Much better.”

Kurt nods, trying not to wince, thoughts now swirling around oppression again. His eyes are starting to fill, and God, as if Blaine needs to see that again. While Blaine is distracted by taking off his blazer, Kurt tries to surreptitiously wipe his eyes, looking at his cork board on the opposite wall. But when he turns around, Blaine is looking at him sympathetically. Apparently he was not surreptitious enough. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now. Can I use your bathroom?”

“Yeah, of course,” Blaine says, stepping out of the way and allowing Kurt to enter the en suite bathroom.

Looking into the mirror, Kurt sees now how obviously emotional he is. His cheeks have gone mottled pink, the harbinger of tears. His eyes are halfway to bloodshot and the stress creases just inside of each of his eyebrow are pronounced.

That’s not the way to avoid wrinkles, Hummel, he reminds himself.

“Hummel, you’re faggin’ up the hall.”

“Queer! Watch where you’re going.”

He shakes his head, dabbing at his eyes with toilet paper soaked in cold water to clear up some of the redness and checking over the rest of his appearance. Everything’s in order, so he throws the wad of paper in the trash can and rolls back his shoulders.

When Kurt emerges from the bathroom, he finds Blaine at his iPod dock, tie draped over the back of his desk chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sound of a guitar spills from the speaker as Blaine turns around to smile. “I thought we could just listen to music for a while.”

One side of his mouth rises, closing the bathroom door with one hand behind him. “Barton Hollow?” he asks as the pair of voices joins the guitar.

Blaine grins. “It’s my mellow music.”

Kurt’s smile widens. “I used to listen to it all the time, when—” He suddenly stops, his mouth in the midst of telling Blaine how often he used to mope about him before his brain had authorized incriminating himself.

Blaine waits expectantly, eyes glittering.

“—when I was sad.”

“…that I wrote twenty years ago…”

Blaine’s smile fades slightly, but doesn’t completely dim as he lies down on his bed with his back against the wall. After getting settled, he gestures at the space next to him. Kurt raises an eyebrow, but lies down next to him regardless as the guitar riff begins again.

Kurt watches Blaine, expecting him to reveal his reasons for lying on the bed. When nothing seems forthcoming, Kurt says, “So…what do we do now?”, uncomfortable with not knowing.

Blaine’s brow furrows. “We listen to the album.”

Kurt cocks his head.

“You can talk about, you know, it, whatever’s upsetting you, or anything else you’d like whenever you want. I’m right here.”

When Kurt doesn’t show any sign of recognition, Blaine asks tentatively, “You’ve never had anyone just be ready to listen?”

Kurt shakes his head slowly.

Blaine sighs. “My brother and I used to just sit in his bedroom and listen.”

“…in the meantime I'll be waiting for twenty years, twenty more…”

A chortle escapes Kurt’s lips. “I can’t imagine Finn sitting still long enough to listen to an entire album, let alone to listen to me.”

Blaine’s smile all but flees from his face, and Kurt fears the listening might be over before it’s even begun. But he doesn’t say anything more or make any move to leave. Kurt waits for any sign, but none comes and then it goes to the next song.

“I’ve got this friend,” Blaine sings along, eyes not leaving Kurt’s. “I don’t think you know him. He’s not much for words—”

“I don’t know…you gave a pretty good speech over a bedazzled coffin.”

Blaine rolls his eyes, cheeks turning pink, and keeps singing. Kurt comes in with the high voice, changing pronouns along the way, not realizing how accurate the words are until he sings them.

When he cringes a little at “like it’s all he’s got to give”, Blaine says nothing but reaches for his hand, continuing to sing, smiling in an attempt to keep it light-hearted.

The next song makes that slightly difficult, so Kurt abandons his own embarrassment and says, “Do we have to look at each other?” He squirms under Blaine’s gaze.

Blaine’s eyebrows go up in response. “Kurt, I’m not here to judge; I just want to listen to anything you want to tell me.”

“…just don’t go without me…”

Kurt’s eyes fixate somewhere over Blaine’s shoulder until Blaine moves his face into Kurt’s line of sight. “And I think you’re beautiful, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Kurt takes a deep breath, reassuring himself that it’s safe to purge, that Blaine will understand. “The bullying. That’s what I was thinking about during Quest today. I was considering what it would be like to be a Handmaid and—and then I imagines having Karofsky as a Commander—” Blaine squeezed his hand. “—and then I was thinking about all the things that people had said to me and how I was being thrown in dumpsters weekly, and then, I was stuck, replaying everything and remembering how it felt to get frozen drinks tossed at me and then I just wanted to get out of there.”

“…heaven or hell or somewhere in between…”

Blaine nods in understanding. “The Handmaid’s Tale was a rough couple of days for me too.” But he says nothing else as the song comes to a close, not making the conversation about him at all, letting Kurt lead. It’s an odd sensation, being allowed to say whatever, not expecting Blaine to butt in at any moment and turn in the conversation in a direction he didn’t intend. He’s so used to opinionated Rachel Berry, guileless Finn Hudson, and determined Mercedes Jones.

When John Paul White begins singing again, Blaine smiles lopsidedly.

“What?”

Blaine shrugs. “I like this one. It’s how I used to feel, before I came here.”

“I know what you mean. I didn’t think I’d ever find someone like you. I mean, I lived in Lima, Ohio and was beaten verbally by Neanderthals daily. And then you came out of nowhere by that staircase and took my hand and I knew I must have hit my head. There was no way someone like you would ever be interested in holding my hand.” Kurt closed his eyes, stopping the self-deprecation before Blaine realized what he’d gotten himself into.

Blaine puts his free hand on Kurt’s arm and, as if reading his mind, says, “You can say anything. Really.”

Kurt shakes his head, eyes still closed.

“…the way your hand feels ‘round my waist...”

Blaine playfully takes his cue, draping his arm over Kurt’s hips, pulling him slightly closer and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Kurt’s eyes shoot open and he smirks. “You didn’t do that with your brother, did you?”

Blaine laughs. “No. That’s just for you.”

Kurt’s enjoying the feeling of Blaine’s warmth so close to his body when he remembers what the next song is and spends a precious few seconds trying to inconspicuously gather himself and keep his eyes on Blaine’s. He hasn’t listened to this song in a long time, his moping days behind him. Even in his moping days, it was for the truly terrible nights, like the night after Blaine confessed his love for the assistant manager at the GAP.

“…you think your dreams are the same as mine…”

By the time he gets to the chorus, his eyes are filling with tears. He remembers the night Blaine spent drunk in Kurt’s bed, when he vowed that he hated Blaine Anderson for doing this to him, for being so charming and caring and not in love with him.

“…your hands can heal, your hands can bruise…”

Blaine’s hands on his shoulders, telling him he isn’t sexy, isn’t attractive, isn’t a viable option.

By the second chorus, the tears have long since spilled over, ugly sounds coming from his mouth, choked sobs. “I’m sorry,” he hiccups, scrambling backwards to get out of Blaine’s bed.

Blaine holds fast to his hand, sitting up and using the other to grasp him at the elbow, eyes wide and desperate. “Please tell me what’s wrong. I’m listening and I—I care.” He pauses and when Kurt doesn’t try to pull away, releases his arm and says, “I’ve never had a boyfriend, but I hear they’re supposed to console.” His gaze is earnest, never breaking eye contact with Kurt. He shivers at the solemnity of the moment. “I want to fix this. I want to fix the tears. I want to stop whatever’s hurting you.”

Kurt looks at the carpet, dark blue. “This song—” he clears his throat and looks up, “—this song reminds me of Valentine’s Day.

Blaine’s face, hopeful when Kurt began to speak, falls. “Oh.”

Kurt nods. “And Rachel’s party and—and after ‘Animal.’”

Blaine looks heartbroken, hands between his knees, looking down at his feet. “I did this.”

“…but I always will…”

Kurt shrugs. “You never meant to. I mean, you told me at Valentine’s that you didn’t want to mess us up. I shouldn’t have taken everything so personally. I should’ve just been your friend.”

“…I always will…”

Blaine shakes his head. “No. Kurt, you had every right to feel that way. I was oblivious—” Kurt chokes out a laugh in the pause between songs. “—really oblivious. And I should’ve been more considerate of how you felt about me, even if I didn’t know how I felt about you yet.”

The “yet” makes Kurt take a step forward, placing his knee on the bed as the vocals begin again. Blaine smiles gently with relief and scoots back to leave room for Kurt on the bed. When they lay down facing each other, Blaine lays his hand on Kurt’s cheek, wiping away tears as Kurt allows the music to wash over him. “You can talk about that time whenever. I’m not going anywhere.”

Kurt nods, bracing himself for the abrasive “Barton Hollow” to ruin the moment. But he soon finds that Blaine has left it out of the playlist. Blaine pulls Kurt close during the instrumental track, foreheads pressed together. Kurt pulls Blaine’s face even closer with hands on his neck, and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

“Thank you for this,” Kurt says, fingers sliding up and working through Blaine’s gel helmet and massaging his scalp. His crying jag in conjunction with releasing the tension he’d been holding since Quest leaves him suddenly drained.

Blaine smiles. “I wanted to do it, honestly. You needed this.” His arm slides between Kurt’s body and the mattress, hand settling at the small of his back while his right hand scratches at the hair at the nape of his neck.

Kurt’s eyes droop closed, the warmth of Blaine’s eyes searching his face. He falls asleep somewhere in the midst of “Girl with the Red Balloon”, his last waking memory being lulled to sleep with Blaine whispering “so lovely, so lonely” and kissing his temple.

He dreams of Blaine singing that he doesn’t want Kurt in another’s arms.