Author's Note: Inspired by recent spoilers.
Pick up. Please pick up.
"Hi, you've reached Kurt Hummel. Please leave a—"
He hangs up and dials again, the fourth time in the last five minutes. His lungs have been caving in ever since Sam mentioned the words.
"That dance where the girls ask the guys. Sadie Hawkins Dance?"
Blaine held his breath and nodded throughout the remainder of the brief meeting, watching the walls close in around him and gripping his phone tightly in his pocket so he could pull it out as soon as they were finished. The panic attack started as soon as he left the room, phone to his ear and Sam's voice at his back. Everyone else around him melded into one uniform blur of activity while he sloppily weaved his way through the halls.
"Hey, Blaine" Kurt finally answers on the fifth call.
"Kurt," Blaine chokes out, already undone at the loosely held seams. "I need to talk to you—"
"No, no don't go. This will only take a minute, it's just a friend of mine," Blaine hears Kurt murmur, probably under the intention that he's properly shielding the speaker of the phone. "Sorry, what did you say, Blaine?"
"Is that? Are you on a—" Blaine's eyes sting terribly as he leans against a row of lockers, his chest thumping wildly.
"Er, yeah. But I was worried when you kept calling so—"
Blaine's heart sinks. All the way down to the very bottom of his meager stature. He'd let himself build up too much hope, let himself fall prey to the idea that they were actually on the mend, on their way back to Kurt and Blaine. And he let himself rely on Kurt far too much again. It's all too much for him and he slides down against the locker; his cardigan catches on a hinge and a two inch hole results—it's nothing compared to the widening gap in his chest. He covers his eyes with his hand and a trembling gasp escapes him before he can hold it back.
"Blaine? What's wrong? Did something happen?"
"Hold his arms!"
"Not so brave now, are you?"
"You fucking faggot, maybe this will teach you not to prance around with your little boyfriend."
"I'm so sorry, I'll be right back, Paul."
The world around Blaine literally dissolves before him, all of the colours melting into a pool of asphalt until… he recognizes this parking lot, and suddenly his chest isn't the only part of his body that aches and burns anymore. Bruises, familiar ugly splotches of purple and yellow, sprout all over his arms; he remembers this pain and how it never seemed to end, heightening until the only sounds he's making anymore are almost inhuman.
"Blaine? You're scaring me. What's—"
He hangs up and coils his arms around his knees, pulling them up to his chest, and tries to remember the breathing exercise Kurt would walk him through whenever—
Kurt. And Paul. Who's Paul? He's replaced you. You're alone.
Kurt's ringtone catches his attention and he slams his head back against the locker.
You don't deserve him. You don't deserve anyone.
The ringing suddenly stops and then starts up again. Blaine buries his face in his knees, forgetting everything about breathing exercises and mental projections because it all leads back to Kurt's lips on his and whispered comforts he doesn't think he'll ever be privy to again.
You've lost him, Anderson. They were right, you'll never amount to anything.