"Kurt, you know you don't have to do this now."
Kurt sighed deeply, rolling the bottle of pain-pills between his hands. He knew he didn't have to. His professors at NYADA had all understood why he hadn't been attending class that week thanks to one Burt Hummel. Even Madame Tibideaux, tight turban and all, had given him permission to reschedule his mid-winter critique. But Kurt was tired. He was tired of running and hiding from the bullies and the fear that had held him back for so long. From the parts of his past that he always wished he could have changed – the parts where he could have stood up and refused to be the victim.
He was tired of the pain medication that made him drowsy on a good day – which is exactly why he refused to take it for this. He was tired of seeing the cuts and bruises. Not for what they represented, (he still secretly hoped one of them would scar). But it was because he was tired of the pity. Of the pure devastation that would fall on Blaine's face whenever he delicately traced a finger down the length of the cuts on their nights alone in the hospital. Of the guilt that remained in Rachel's eyes even after their heart-to-heart the night before. Of the unadulterated rage that still graced his dad's conversations.
But he was ready. He knew future fights were inevitable, whether they were fights in dark alleyways with homophobic strangers or verbal slays with Rachel after she inevitably did something ridiculous. It was time to start fighting.
"Yeah. Yeah I do." He muttered groggily. "I can't stop fighting now, especially when I've just learned to start fighting back. And at least no one in there will have a brick," he joked. He reached out for Blaine's hand and wrapped it around the bottle. Tears slowly trailed down Blaine's face as he pocketed it, a frown marring his face. Kurt tipped his chin up and kissed him lightly on the lips. "It's okay Blaine. I'm still here. I'm still here."