Title: Let the Right One In
Media: Fic
Ratings: R
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine
Warnings: gore, angst, violence
Summary: AU, based on movie with the same name. Blaine is a lonely boy looking for a friend. Kurt hasn't had a friend in a long, long time.
Blaine knows things about himself. He knows he's gay, and has been since he was twelve. He knows that January nights in Ohio are cold and dark and long. He knows if he doesn't practice pulling the switchblade out of his pocket fluidly, if he doesn't stop his hand from shaking, if he doesn't repeat his threat in an even tone, Dave Karofsky will never back off and leave him alone.
So, he practices.
He practices long into the night, the playground around him silent, as he half-heartedly scrapes his blade into a streetlight and murmurs the threats and retaliations he's been saving up for this final confrontation. Eventually his hands go numb in the cold, his coat pocket vibrates with worried texts from his mother, and he starts jumbling around the speech he worked so hard on perfecting. So Blaine stops, and feels the tiny grooves in the pole, and let's out a despaired sigh. This isn't going to cut it. This pole is nowhere as intimidating as the hulking, scowling mass that is Dave Karofsky, and tomorrow will just be another day of hiding in bathroom stalls and ducking around corners. Blaine puts his knife away and straightens up, turning towards home.
Courage, he thinks to himself, all I need is courage.
His day is typically depressing. Blaine walks home with a limp, crushed downward by gravity and his schoolbag as he walks home from McKinley High. He fell the wrong way that morning, when Karofsky (sidled with a guilty looking Finn Hudson and gleeful Noah Puckerman) tossed him into a frozen dumpster. There was a slushie after 5th period, which made him late for glee rehearsal. Mr. Schuester hmmed and hawwed, but in the end did nothing substantial to help with his predicament. He merely clapped Finn and Puck and told them to look out for the perpetrators. (No one mentioned that it had been Puck in the first place.) Blaine remained silent, strumming his guitar, and picked up the song selections with the rest of the band. He kept his eyes on the floor, though. Sometimes it was overbearing to watch others sing, and it pained him that he could never be apart of it.
Blaine spent the rest of the afternoon consoling himself in his room, strumming his ukulele and watching the sun rapidly disappear. He could hear his mother bustling from room to room in their tiny townhouse, closing curtains and preparing dinner. The house phone rang, and his mother talked in a way that got progressively angrier-his father must be on the phone again. It ended
with an angry slam to the wall and the sound of dishware shattering. He must not be coming home for dinner. Blaine dropped the instrument on his bedspread, and turned to fully view his window. The sky was black already, and a lazy sprinkling of snow was falling. Every once in a while, a car would meander down his street, causing the pavement to glisten. The only other light source was across the street, the single streetlight amidst the abandoned playground, a lonely beacon in the dark. After a long while, a car pulled into the driveway next door. This surprised Blaine.
The townhouse next door had been unoccupied for a couple of months now, and he was sure he would have heard something from his mother if someone was moving in. But the car, a sleet gray Navigator with heavily tinted windows, didn't back out of the driveway. It stayed parked, running, with the full headlights on. After a beat, a man got out of the diver's side. He wasn't anything extraordinary; mid-forties, nondescript trucker cap and flannel shirt, faded jeans, splotchy work boots. He walks with a purpose, opening the front door before heading back to the SUV. He brings in several boxes, methodical and careful on the unshoveled snow. It's not until after the man closes the trunk and turns off the ignition, and opens the door to the passenger side that Blaine realizes there's another person with him.
It's a boy, a teenage boy.
The man holds open the door, and the boy gets out slowly, gracefully. The man says something, hesitating, before putting a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder.
They exchanged a few more words before the man goes inside. The boy stands out there for minutes, unmoving, and Blaine can't help but stare down at the figure. He's hard to see in the dim light, but Blaine can make out chestnut hair and pale, pale skin. He can tell from here that the other boy is wearing pants that are practically adhered to his legs, and a trenchcoat that couldn't possibly be keeping out the cold. But he doesn't look cold. He just stands still, frozen in the silent night.
And then the boy turns, and looks straight at him.
Blaine can't see his eyes, he's too far away and too hidden in the darkness, but he knows those eyes must be hypnotizing him or something, because he as absolutely no will to move. He is paralyzed, and the fact alone terrifies Blaine.
And maybe it's a little exciting, too.
And then his mother is shouting that it's time to eat dinner, and Blaine blinks, startled at the noise.
And the boy is gone.