Burt looks at the boy lying in the bed across the room from his son - face bloodied, eye blackened, holding a cold pack pressed to the bridge of his nose. He's wearing what looks like a tuxedo – probably some dude-bro who got into a fight at a high school dance. Some of the other public high schools in town were having beginning-of-the-school-year things going on, dances and stuff that Kurt usually didn't go to. Burt shakes his head at the boy moaning into his cold pack, slurring underneath his breath about Tylenol. The last thing his son needs is to spend the next however many hours in the same room as some drunk, babbling idiot.

“Can't my son have a private room?” Burt asks the nurse as she starts taking his son's vitals. The gash over Kurt's right eye, which he said he got when he smacked his head into the corner of his gym locker, and being held closed by butterfly bandages, will probably need stitches; the eye itself has mostly swollen shut. This is the third time Kurt's father has had to bring him to the emergency room to get various injuries looked at, and the second time he's getting stitches. After this, Burt's seriously going to consider discussing with Kurt whether or not he should really stay on the team.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the nurse says, glancing at Burt as she slides a blood pressure cuff around Kurt's upper arm, “but we're packed tonight. There's not a single room to be found. But don't worry. I don't think you guys will be here long.”

The nurse smiles at Kurt, and Kurt smiles back, but his father blows out a long, irritated breath.

“Great,” he says, pulling off his baseball cap to run a hand over his head. “That's just…that's just great.”

“It's alright, dad,” Kurt says, turning his head to peek at the boy in the tux. “I'll be okay in here. He's not going to bother me.” Kurt briefly glances over the boy's obvious injuries. “I don't think he can even stand up.”

The nurse takes off the cuff and puts the monitor away. She writes Kurt's blood pressure and the time she took it on a dry erase board on the wall near the door.

“A doctor will be with you guys soon,” she assures them, and heads out the door.

“Sure, okay,” Burt says, paying only partial attention. “Look, I'm gonna go down to that machine in the lobby and get a coffee. You want anything?”

“No, thanks,” Kurt says. His stomach's twisted into so many knots, he doesn't think he could eat something even if he were hungry. And besides - food from a vending machine? Eww. “I'm good.”

Burt's eyes dart one final time over his son's shoulder to the boy lying in the bed. “Will you be okay here with…” Burt doesn't finish his question, gesturing with his chin.

“Yes, dad,” Kurt says, lowering his voice in embarrassment. “I'll be fine.”

“Okay,” his dad says, resting a hand on Kurt's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I won't be long.”

Kurt waits until he hears his father walk down the hall, then he starts shifting on the bed, scooching back and switching sides to get a better look at the boy behind him. He can't tell if the boy is unconscious or not. He seems to drift in and out from time to time, evident by when he starts moaning in pain, and when he stops. Trying not to be too brazen, Kurt looks him over again, this time taking a good long look. It seems like he's in way worse condition than Kurt, his face from below his nose to under his chin covered in dried blood, and down his cheek from a cut on his cheekbone. He, too, has a black eye, but he also has a brace on his left wrist. As Kurt's eyes travel down his body, he notices a brace on his right ankle as well. Jesus Christ! What happened to him?

But aside from all that, and the fact that he shouldn't be thinking of it, not right here and not right now, he's probably the most handsome boy that Kurt's ever seen.

With his gaze focused on the bulky brace on his ankle, Kurt doesn't notice the boy peek over at him from beneath his cold pack.

“What's wrong?” the boy grumbles, sounding positively miserable. “Whatcha looking at?”

“Nothing,” Kurt says, eyes snapping up. Kurt scoots to the far edge of his own bed, blushing fiercely. “It's just…well, I thought…”

“Yeah?” the boy asks after Kurt stalls. “Thought what?”

Kurt's about to backpedal and quickly (again, not the time or the place) but he realizes, as the boy stares at him with eyes soulful and sad, that he sounds the way he does because his throat is raw, not because he's trying to be intimidating. He probably screamed it hoarse in the middle of whatever fight he got into.

Kurt takes a chance and hopes for the best.

“I thought that you, uh, look very nice…in your suit,” Kurt says. “That's all.”

The boy lifts his head an inch and looks at him oddly, but then his lips lift at the corner.

“Really?” he says. “You think so?”

Kurt smiles back in relief. “Really,” he says.

The boy squints, focusing in on Kurt's face.

“What happened to you?” he asks.

“I slammed my head into my locker,” Kurt answers, quick like a whip crack, but he feels bad right after for telling this boy a half-truth. Not as bad as he felt lying to his father, but lying to parents is sometimes a necessary evil. Kurt feels like he owes this boy, who looks like the universe stepped a foot down from the heavens and stomped him in the face, an honest answer. “Actually, someone slammed my head into my locker.” Kurt sighs. “I told my dad that I got these bruises playing football, but the truth is I'm not on the team. There's this guy at school, and he's made it his mission to make my life a living hell.”

“Why would he do that?” the boy asks. Kurt's sure he shouldn't tell him, but he seems unusually interested, and besides, he most likely has a concussion. If he turns out to be a bigot, or an asshole, Kurt can still outrun him with his two good legs and one working eye.

Kurt takes a deep breath and swallows. “It's because…I'm gay.”

The boy's eyes widen as far as they can. He struggles to get up, sitting upright with a strained grunt.

“My name's Blaine,” the boy says, introducing himself kind of suddenly. “Blaine Anderson.”

“Kurt,” Kurt says. “Kurt Hummel.”

“It's nice to meet you, Kurt,” Blaine says.

“Likewise,” Kurt replies. “So, how did you get here? It looks like you were at a wedding or something.”

“I was at a school dance,” Blaine says.

“Don't tell me,” Kurt cuts in with an amused smile. “You were involved in a tragic slow dance accident? What? Did they put on Journey or something, and you accidentally got trampled in the mad dash to change the song?”

“No,” Blaine smiles, not even hissing when his lip splits. “Actually, I'm here for the same reason you are.”

“Oh,” Kurt says, not understanding at first. Then, “Oh my God! Oh, I'm so sorry.” Kurt looks around, then out the door, expecting someone to rush in, maybe another guy in a tuxedo. “What…where's your boyfriend?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Blaine clarifies. “My date. He only had a few scratches. They let him go home with his folks a couple of hours ago.”

Kurt nods. “Where are your parents?”

“I…I haven't called them yet,” Blaine admits. “I called my brother instead, but he's running late.”

“Do your parents not know that you're gay?” Kurt asks slowly, trying the question out, feeling like he's most likely overstepping. But Blaine looks like he needs to talk, and sometimes, it's easier to talk the important things out with a stranger.

“They do,” Blaine says. “My mom, she's really supportive, but my dad, not as much. Anyway, my mom was worried that going to this dance with another boy was a bad idea to begin with so…” Blaine's sentence ends in a sigh.

“You don't want to upset her,” Kurt deduces.

“Yeah,” Blaine says. “I know she'll rush down here to see me and start crying, and I…I know it sounds selfish, but I can't handle that right now.”

“That's perfectly alright,” Kurt says, knowing that Blaine needs that affirmation. There are many health benefits to being selfish. Kurt needs to remember that for himself sometimes. “It's okay to focus on your own pain. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“Thank you,” Blaine says softly.

“Did you…know that this might happen?”

“I knew there was a possibility, but I didn't actually think…at a school dance.”

“Aren't schools supposed to be safe?” Kurt asks, strictly rhetorical. “Aren't they supposed to take care of us there? Aren't they the ones who are supposed to notice when we get picked on this badly and do something about it?”

“I always thought so,” Blaine says. “I thought that people might not like me for coming out, but they really couldn't touch me - not at school, anyway. But after, when I was being questioned by the police and looked at by the EMTs, I told them the whole story, everything that happened. And you could tell that they sympathized, but they said their hands were tied. They said” - Blaine stares into Kurt's eyes as best he can when he speaks - “it's something that we're going to have to put up with if we want to be gay.”

“Right,” Kurt huffs. “Because we would choose this - choose to be the outcasts, choose to be picked on, beaten up, have our lives threatened, our rights denied, and have it all be socially acceptable. Because, I'll tell you, if someone came to me tomorrow and told me that I actually did have a choice, I…” Kurt stops himself. It doesn't seem right to say he'd choose not to be gay. It's part of who he is. He's spent a good deal of time coming to terms with it, and what it means for him. Throwing all of that away seems wrong - throwing a part of him away seems wrong - even if it would make his life easier. “I don't know which one I'd pick, but I'd definitely think long and hard about it.”

“All part of being a minority,” Blaine says, bending over slightly to lean his elbows on his knees.

“I guess the only thing we can do is stick together,” Kurt says. “Look out for one another if no one else will, and remember there's safety in numbers.”

Blaine watches Kurt's gaze roll thoughtfully down to his knees, his body sinking in with a deep sigh.

“I'm glad I met you tonight, Kurt,” Blaine says. “It's nice to know that I'm not the only person stuck riding in this boat.”

“You mean, it's nice to know there are other people in Ohio being bullied by ignorant idiots?” Kurt asks, not sure whether or not he should be offended.

“No,” Blaine chuckles. “It's nice to know that I'm not as different as I feel sometimes - that I'm not alone.”

Kurt raises his eyes. “Is that how you feel?” he asks. “Alone?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, examining the scuffs in the shine on his brand new shoes, ruined along with his rental tux. “I mean, I have friends at school, a few who get bullied for being a little out of shape or wearing glasses, stuff like that, but they don't get this. And even if they try to sympathize with me, they're not going to truly understand what it's like. As long as they can go to a school dance without fear of being beaten senseless, then they don't understand. So, yeah, I feel alone. I feel alone every day.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says. “So do I.”

Blaine doesn't look back up, but he hears Kurt hop down from his bed and walk toward him. When he looks again, he sees Kurt holding his phone out to him. Blaine puts down his cold pack and takes it, looking at it curiously.

“Give me your number,” Kurt explains, “and I'll give you mine. Then you won't ever have to feel alone again. When you feel alone or scared, you can text me, and I'll answer. I promise.”

Blaine stares at Kurt's phone, looking at his reflection in the screen, a little worse for the wear but still him underneath. He'll get over this. He'll make it. He smiles.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, inputting his information in, and then sending himself a text to get Kurt's number as well. “Yeah, and you can do the same. Text me when you need me, and I'll text you back.”

“Deal,” Kurt says, watching Blaine dial his own number and hit send. “And Blaine?”

“Hmm…” Blaine hands Kurt back his phone with his phone number and email safely inside.

“I wouldn't wish this on anyone, but…I'm glad I met you, too.”