Kurt is in the library helping Blaine with research when he gets the call. Before he even says hello he hears sobbing so broken that the person on the other end sounds as though they're trying desperately to catch their breath.

“Santana, is that you?”

“K-Kurt.” She sobs again and it's like a shard of ice to his heart.

He stands from his seat and looks around wildly. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Will you c-ome? Please?” Blaine places a hand on Kurt's arm. He has already packed up their books and is now standing next to Kurt, his eyes round and terrified. Kurt watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows his nervousness.

“Of course. Where are you?” Kurt is aware that he is beginning to sound slightly panicked and tries to calm his breathing. Blaine looks ready to bolt from the room as he slings both his and Kurt's bags across his body and the last thing Kurt wants is to freak him out, let alone freak out Santana.

“G-girl's room,” she answers after a beat, her teeth chattering. “English wing.”

Kurt grabs Blaine by the arm and all but drags him along as he begins to jog out of the library – fast enough to make it to the English wing quickly, but slow enough not to be accosted by well-meaning teachers and told off for running. Well-meaning teachers, a dying breed though they may be, are the last thing that Santana needs right now. “Stay on the phone,” he tells her as he and Blaine hurry down the corridor.

There is a sticky, all too familiar trail guiding their way into the girls' washroom. “Is that...?” Blaine is regarding the colourful slush with distaste, not needing to see Kurt's nod to figure out what has happened. Kurt looks both ways to check if the coast is clear before pushing open the door and pulling Blaine in after him.

Santana is sitting on the floor in the corner between the sinks and the radiator. She looks tiny, curled in on herself as she quakes. By the myriad colours staining the white sections of her Cheerios uniform, it appears as though she has been hit with every shade in the slushie rainbow. Kurt kneels down in front of her to survey the damage.

“You're shaking. Let's get you cleaned up.” He is relieved that his voice remains so level when inside he is screaming. How can people be so cruel? Santana can be vicious, but she doesn't deserve this, and no one has ever slushied her for being sharp-tongued. This is an act of unadulterated homophobia. He is used to it by now. It's responsible for the dull ache in his chest, the tiny bit of fear he can feel lurking just under the surface whenever he walks the halls of this school. But when it's someone else, seeing someone else suffering in front of him – it tears him apart in much more blatant ways. A niggling thought at the back of his mind – at least it wasn't Blaine – makes him angry with himself and also terrified, because if they've begun it all again then Blaine could be next. And it would be Kurt's fault for coaxing him here with smiles and guilt and the fluttering of eyelashes.

“Monroe and Johnson called me a dyke,” Santana says, her voice breaking over the last word. Kurt can do nothing but watch her, his eyes prickling with tears as she stares at him. He pushes away the hair that has fallen out of her ponytail and is sticking to her forehead. “I'm so sorry, Kurt. For everything I've ever said to you.”

“I know.”

“I guess I deserve this.”

He shakes his head, cupping her elbow and helping her up out of the pool of melted slush she's been shivering in. “No one deserves this.”

“Azimio said that maybe his dick could cure me, then Johnny Monroe said he'd already fucked me in sophomore year and I'm still a fucking dyke.”

Kurt bit his lip to hold back the tears that were threatening and held her firmly by the shoulders. “They're not worth your tears, Santana. They're a bunch of meathead pigs who are going to be stuck in this town for the rest of their miserable lives. Don't think about them.”

“I feel disgusting.” Kurt is almost positive that she is not talking about the slushie covering her, but just repeats that he knows and helps her over to the sinks. Blaine has turned over the trash can and Kurt settles her down on top of it, helping her lay back so he can rinse the stickiness out of her hair.

He glances over at Blaine and sees his own helpless misery reflected back at him. “Can I do anything?” Blaine asks, his voice cracking in a wholly uncharacteristic way.

“Wet some paper towel? I don't have any supplies here.” Blaine nods and gets to work while Kurt takes the elastic out of Santana's hair and begins cleaning it as best he can without shampoo. He wipes her face and neck with the paper towel, taking extra time to remove the tear and mascara tracks from her cheeks.

They leave the washroom with her fit snugly between them dressed in an odd mix of Blaine's gym shorts and Kurt's blazer and head out to Blaine's car without making eye contact with a single person.

Kurt sits with her in the back as Blaine gets in behind the wheel. “Do you want us to take you home or...?”

Santana begins crying again and Blaine looks on guiltily. “We'll go to my place,” Kurt says and she snuggles into his side. She smells of liquid sugar and the cheap school paper products. Kurt pets her wet hair and hums quietly as Blaine pulls out of the McKinley parking lot.

When Santana is in the shower Blaine loses it.

Kurt has never actually seen Blaine cry before. There have been a few moments when he has choked up and gotten a little teary-eyed, but full-on sobbing with his face pressed into Kurt's neck, both of their bodies shaking with the force of it – this is something that Kurt isn't sure that he's prepared for. It's killing him slowly, tear by tear, ripping the heart right out of his chest.

“Shhh, Blaine, shh. It's okay now.” He tries to soothe him amidst his own tears.

“When you were on the phone asking where she was and you looked so scared, I thought...”

Of course that's where his mind had gone, to his own past terrors; of course he had expected the worst. “God, I'm so sorry Blaine. So sorry.”

“Why? You didn't do anything.”

“I should have left you where you were. You were safe there. I can't...”

Blaine wipes a hand over his eyes, shaking his head adamantly. “No, Kurt. That was my decision. Do you think I want you to be alone in that place without me? No way. We will look out for each other. And for her, too.” He motions toward the bathroom where the steady stream of water has just turned off. “It's just like you said in your speech – this can't happen anymore. We have to do something.”

“Well we can start by telling Coach Sylvester that those troglodytes slushied a Cheerios uniform. She will tar and feather them.”

“Good,” Blaine says. His voice sounds strange laced with so much venom.

Santana appears then, wrapped in a too-large hoodie and Kurt's sole pair of sweats. She looks tiny, diminished this way, without her uniform or her skintight dresses, her face bare of cosmetics. Kurt feels sad seeing her like this, without that perfectly constructed facade. He does the same thing, after all, with all of his designer clothes, and knows exactly how vulnerable she must feel without the mask.

“Can I be the little spoon?” Even her voice is lacking its usual fierce quality.

Tucked into bed curled behind Santana with Blaine's warm body wrapped around him from the back, Kurt begins to feel some measure of peace. It has been silent in the room but for their rhythmic breathing and the neighbour's dog barking two yards over. Blaine is stroking his fingers up and down Kurt's arm and kissing him on the top of the head. The ugly things have flown from his mind.

Kurt is almost asleep, one hand in a vice grip between both of Santana's when she murmurs quietly, “I told my parents last night. My mom said I was going to Hell.”

“Santana, you know that isn't true, right?” Blaine sounds so sweet and earnest and Kurt reaches back to lazily run his free hand over his hip.

“I know,” she replies. “We're already in Hell. Now we just need to find some way to claw our way out.”

~*~

Kurt feels the warm weight of a hand on his calf and opens heavy eyes to see his father looking down at him. “Dad?” His tongue feels wrong, the word slurred with sleep.

“Everything okay, kiddo?” Burt whispers, gesturing to Blaine and Santana and their little row of spoons.

Kurt shakes his head, his eyes tearing up as they always do when he discusses the difficult things with his dad. “Today, at school... Santana. They were so cruel.”

Burt's chin quivers a bit and he looks down to where his hand is still resting on his son's leg. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I wish there was something...”

“You do, Dad. You do everything.”

Burt nods, patting Kurt's leg. “If anything else goes down you let me know. I'll be right in at that school if I gotta be.”

“I know you will.”

“And if she needs a place to stay, we got a guest room down the hall.”

Kurt nods his head, though his father isn't looking at him. He's watching Blaine, limbs tangled with Kurt's as his chest rises and falls with his breathing. “Him too. You know that right, Kurt?”

“I know, Dad. I love you.”

“Make sure he knows, alright? And I love you, too.” He gives Kurt's leg one final pat and gets up to leave. “I'll bring you all dinner in bed in a couple hours,” he says.

~*~

They walk into school the next day all in a row with their arms linked, eyes cold and tongues sharpened just in case. They are dressed to kill. No one says a word.