Edit: As some of you who know me from tumblr are aware I'm not only bad at deadlines and commitment to projects but I've also had some major stuff going on in my offline life. Updates to this fic will likely continue to be few and far between. Regardless, this is a fic I intend to finish even if it takes an age. That being said, though, please keep in mind that updates will continue to be sporadic and far apart, so if that's not good for you best wait till I finish.
Enjoy~
The Things That We're Afraid Of
Chapter One
Pain.
That was all he could feel. In that moment, there seemed to be nothing else in the world but the pain that was pounding through his head. Originating from the side of his head, where the thick fist had connected with his skull.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to open his eyes. What sunlight was left, as night quickly fell around them, added a searing pain to his list of complaints that was rapidly becoming longer. He blinked his eyes blearily, trying to get them to focus.
Green. It took him a moment to work out that the greenness surrounding him was grass.
He wondered vaguely how he had ended up on the ground. He was relatively certain he had been standing when he had been punched in the face.
He was brought, abruptly, out of his musings when a boot connected with his side and pain exploded throughout his body. The first blow was followed by others. Boots and shoes rained blows down on him like a monsoon. The pain that flooded through Kurt's already battered body was less than welcome though. He struggled to make himself a small as possible, curling up, wrapping his arms around his head.
It hurt to move.
It hurt to breathe.
It hurt to exist.
Kurt vaguely wondered how he had got himself into this mess. It was hard to think as the blows continued to connect with his back and shoulders.
He remembered... Blaine. They were going to go on a date. See some movie. Why wasn't he with Blaine now? he wondered.
Gasping as a particularly hard blow sent pain shooting up his spine, Kurt remembered. Blaine had said... something. What had Blaine said? Kurt fought to remember but it felt more and more like he was swimming through molasses trying to remember anything.
It didn't really matter what Blaine had said Kurt supposed. He remembered that whatever it was, it had upset him, so he left. Blaine had offered him a ride home, but Kurt had turned him down. He hadn't cared that it was getting dark, his house wasn't too far away from the movie theater, and he had wanted... he wanted something.
What was it? Maybe he had wanted to clear his head a bit. That sounded like something he would have wanted.
He heard whimpers.
They sounded distant to him, but then again so did everything. He wondered if he was making those noises and just unaware of it, or if there was indeed some other poor soul getting beat up near by.
He wondered where they were, why there was no one around to make the pain, which by now had reached levels of excruciating that Kurt had previously not known existed.
He remembered walking.
He had passed that one bar, what was it called? He didn't know. He decided he didn't really care. They had poured out of the bar's front door as he was walking by on the opposite side of the street. A group of men, young and still in their work clothes. Kurt would probably guess construction based on the type of work boots that were pounding on his back. They had reeked so bad of alcohol and sweat that it had been overwhelming even for Kurt as he tried to walk quickly past on the other sidewalk.
It had started with a wolf whistle, and the words "Where ya offf too you faggot" slurred as they were hurled across the street at him from a man who seemed to be the ring leader of the group.
Things had gotten worse from there.
Kurt had tried to just ignore them, to keep walking, head down. He was proud of his sexuality, but something about the anger in that man's voice and the stench of alcohol had set off warning bells in his mind. He had just wanted to get home.
The men started following him. Insults began flying, no longer just from the leader, but from the group as a whole. Kurt fumbled with his shoulder bag, trying to find his phone, whishing he had worn something with pockets. If he could just find his phone he could call his dad, or Finn, or someone to come pick him up.
If he could just find his phone everything would be fine.
They had left the business are of town, and now they were making their way down residential streets. The men's words loud against the early evening quiet of the neighborhood around them. Kurt wished someone would come out of their house and help him. No doors opened.
The men decided to cross the street. Kurt decided it was time to run. His heart leapt erratically in his chest. He passed by an empty baseball field, and decided to cut through it. Knowing he would be fine if he could just make it to his house.
He only made it about halfway across the field before they surrounded him.
Oh Kurt thought, feeling increasingly sluggish, So that's where they were.
After a moment he realized that though the pain was still radiating through his body, the blows had stopped. When had that happened? He wondered.
He felt large strong hands force him out of his curled up position. He struggled weakly against the hands that held his arms down and forced him flat on his back, but he was also struggling to remain conscious and his resistance efforts, however valiant were futile against the heavy bodies of the men.
The man, who Kurt was now certain was the leader, kneeled down over him. The man's face was contorted into an ugly expression of disgust and hate. He gripped the collar of Kurt's expensive shirt. Then, he punched Kurt, again, this time landing a blow to the opposite side of his face. The man pulled his arm back and punched him again. And again and again. All the while him and his drunken comrades kept up a litany of insults.
It seemed that this part of the night lasted forever and at the same time it seemed to only last an instant. Kurt could feel the cool tendrils of unconsciousness creeping into his mind. His memory just kept getting worse, was that the fifth time he had been punched? or the sixth?
He knew, though, even then, that he would always remember that sound.
The sound of one solid powerful body colliding with another with all the force and anger of a rampaging beast. He knew that with that sound, the blows stopped coming, the insults were silenced, and he finally slipped into the blissful unawareness of unconsciousness, a cool spring found hidden in a desert of searing heat and pain.
AN: I hope you enjoyed. Reviewers get my love and adoration.