Summary: Kurt Hummel finds himself in the ICU after an ambush from a group of bullies — which wouldn't be a problem, except that it happens to be on the same night of a freak highway accident that leaves the hospital understaffed, and he happens to be in critical condition. Responding to a Code Orange, med student Blaine Anderson rushes meet his brother, Dr. Cooper Anderson, in the emergency ward. For Kurt, this could be the end or the beginning... and he's not even awake for it. Klaine

Warnings: descriptions of violence, homophobia, non-graphic sexual assault, language and mature themes. Age difference — Kurt is 18, Blaine is 25.

Note: This story is cross-posted on Archive of Our Own under the same title. My account name there is NayaWarbler. See author profile for more information

Chapter One: Sleep Tight

They always made him go first.

He hated it.

Not only because they called him "lady," but also because it meant that there was always someone behind him. For people like Kurt, for the prey, for the victims, the fools, the suckers and the chumps, having someone behind you is always the worst thing.

Really, it was Survival Instincts 101 — maybe that was a course that should have been taught at McKinley High, if they weren't going to make any effort to change things for the better. Teach the children how to survive instead of fixing the flawed system.

So maybe Kurt had some anger in there somewhere that wasn't so hard to find. Could you blame him? His entire existence had been founded on anger: ignorance, homophobia, stereotyping. All this before he was even old enough to know what — or who — he liked. All because of the way he looked, or the way he sounded, or, yes, which sex appealed to him.

He liked to think that he was a good person, despite what they said. However, to be fair, the vile things they spewed at him had less to do with his virtue and more to do with pointing out obvious truths (for example, the word he liked to not say). At least in this way, he could pretend that they were complimenting him — that they could find nothing wrong with his heart and instead had to settle for tearing down his being.

Think about this for a moment, and let it break your heart, if you want to truly understand Kurt Hummel.

As each second of his life ticked away where he was hidden fearfully away in one place or another, Kurt had lots of time to think about his circumstances. However, none of these revelations stopped him from crying himself to sleep at night, or from keeping a first-aid kit in his locker, or from frequenting the nurse's office with a plethora of excuses in his back pocket like a normal teen his age would frequent a club or a bar.

It's why he was trapped in the locker room, hiding in one of the shower stalls with his knees tucked into his body and his head down, not wishing or praying because he was far past that point. His bloody hand itched to turn on the warm spray, and his aching shoulder screamed in agreement, but he knew he couldn't risk it. Not for another — he checked the clock above the doorway — twelve minutes. Everyone was usually gone by six o'clock.

At least, he damn well hoped so.

He watched the hands move until his eyes grew blurry from staring at the same spot for too long. Time was slow, but it was plentiful. Either that, or it was the opposite — he wasn't sure which he preferred, to be honest.

When the clock finally chimed, Kurt gave in and turned on the shower. Then he waited a moment, then two, three. The only sounds that could be heard were the broken hum of the humidifier and the eerie buzz of fluorescent lights. It seemed that today was one of the lucky days…

Not that Kurt believed in luck.

"Where have you been?" Burt screeched the second he walked through the door. Rolling his eyes, he hung up his (thrifted) designer coat, making sure to keep his hand out of sight before tucking it casually in his pocket.

"I'm a teenager, dad. Teenagers stay out late," he retorted in his far-from-rebellious manner. It was the first thing he'd said since history class when Mr. Schue had picked on him — note the choice wording — for an answer he clearly didn't know.

"Not this teenager," Burt replied. "Who were you with? Rachel? Mercedes? Or was it… a boy?"

"In Lima?" Kurt snorted. "Fat chance of that. The only boys my age around here are brainless jocks who…" He trailed off, clearing his throat. Confessions tended to slip out a little too easily around his father.

Burt eyed him carefully, and Kurt straightened his back, averting his eyes and digging his hand further into his pocket; unfortunately for him, fashion and deep jean pockets don't mix well.

Earlier that day, Karofsky had knocked him into his locker — hence the bruised shoulder — and stepped on his hand when he tried to pick up his books. Damn boot crevasses, and damn that giant-footed neanderthal with a lot of body mass to rest on his tiny hand.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that!" Finn called from the living room, preceding a loud crash from his game console and an equally loud curse. Burt shook his head, signaling for his son to head inside. Kurt smiled, following the reprimands from Carole into the kitchen where he was ambushed — in the good way — by a combination of scents.

His father strolled into the kitchen as well, pecking Carole's lips. He eyed the pot happily, taking in a lungful through his nose. "What's cookin', good lookin'?"

She shook her head, giggling quietly before whacking his hand away from the handle. "Italian, and no, it's not ready yet."

He grumbled playfully, and Kurt rolled his eyes again, holding back a grin at his father's antics. No matter how his day went, he could always come home to this. Yet still, sometimes he couldn't… sometimes, when Karofsky left a mark on his face that he knew he couldn't cover up until the next day, he had to lie to his father and tell him that he was staying with Rachel or Mercedes when really he would cut class and stay overnight in his car in the school parking lot, sometimes laying on the floor so he wouldn't be seen until class was over.

"Hey, buddy, you in there?" He was brought out of his thoughts by Burt waving a hand in his face. He startled, nodding his head aggressively.

"What? Yeah, just spacey. Thinking about our Glee assignment this week."

Carole's ears perked; she loved to hear about Glee because it was one of the things that bonded her two sons. "Well, sweetie, how about you and Finn tell me all about it while we finish up dinner?"

"What about me?" Burt protested half-heartedly, sent off by just one glance from Carole.

"Honey, I love you, but your cooking skills leave much to be desired." He didn't even pretend to be offended for that one, just grinned and pecked her lips once more before grabbing a beer and heading for the living room.

"And me?" Finn said, coming to sit at the stool propped in front of the island.

"How about you just sit there and talk, hon?" He nodded enthusiastically in that way that only Finn could, grinning with all his teeth when Kurt slid him a hunk of spare cheese.

"You're the best, bro," he said — or at least, that's what Kurt construed — through a mouthful of cheddar.

Carole returned from the sink with a handful of washed vegetables. "Kurt, sweetie, could you dice the onions and peel the garlic?"

About to agree, Kurt remembered his injured hand, his heart sinking into his chest. Cooking dinner with his stepmother was one of his favourite parts of the day. He leaned against the countertop, sticking his other hand into his pockets as well, and said, "Um, I think I'm going to opt out today. Sorry, Carole."

She stopped, shocked, and her eyebrows furrowed. "Is something the matter? You love cooking, Kurt."

"Yeah, I'm just… tired, you know? Long day at school. Lots of homework to do."

Carole nodded, concern etched into her features, and didn't protest. "Sure, honey. Get some rest. I'll call you when dinner's done."

Kurt smiled weakly, waving goodbye to Finn before heading slowly up the stairs. On the way up, he heard his brother launch into a spiel about their Glee assignment… and he wanted nothing more than to go down there and join him.

Too bad the world wouldn't be satisfied until it drained every last bit of joy out of Kurt Hummel's soul.

Changed into his baggiest sweater that had far-too-long sleeves — in fact, he was almost certain it was his brother's and had found its way into his closet, as nothing he owned would be this… Finn — Kurt settled back onto his bed after a long and interrogative dinner, resting his freshly bandaged hand against the warmth of his laptop. His facebook was open from the night before, and he refreshed the page despite his absolute lack of interest. There was Rachel's post about the competition for sectionals — the Garglers or something — followed by some kind of internet feud between his friends that Kurt probably should have paid attention to but really couldn't be bothered.

The first time he saw his name, he shut down his computer and pushed it to the other side of his bed, eyes stinging from pain and anger. Kurt hated that damn word they used to describe him. Hated it.

They'd found him.

They were everywhere.

Kurt was so, so tired.

He never went to sleep that night.

"I mean, it's clearly obvious," she declared, standing from her chair as though she were in a soap. "I deserve that solo at sectionals."

Mercedes rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "Rachel, clearly obvious is almost as redundant as your melodramatics."

"You know what's more redundant?" Mr. Schue interjected. "You two fighting over this when I've clearly said I already have someone chosen for the solo!"

Kurt forced himself to stay upright in his chair, already feeling himself doze off — not onlybecause he was bored of seeing the same thing happen again that literally happened every day, but also because he was just so tired. He could practically feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness, and his eyes fluttered shut against his will. Not that he was upset about losing the darling visual of Rachel and Mercedes battling to the death like gladiators or anything.

Of course, it didn't matter that he was half-asleep, anyway; no one in the club would notice. With this comfort at the front of his mind, Kurt allowed himself to drift off…

He was, however, woken by an enraged shout from Rachel. "What?" she cried, marching up to Mr. Schue and poking an accusing finger at him. "This is heresy! How dare you chose-"

"Rachel, I think he's perfectly capable-"

"What about me-"

"I respect you, Mr. Schue, but-"

"Are you sure this is a good-"

"He's half-asleep, for God's sake!"

That one caught Kurt's attention.

"Rachel, I'm sure he's just tired from a long day," Mr. Schue defended. Kurt's eyes widened — could he be hearing right? Man, he'd chosen the wrong moment to fall asleep in Glee.

Finn nodded, chiming in. "Yeah, he was like this yesterday after school, too."

Mr. Schue's eyebrows furrowed. "Really? You do seem distant lately, Kurt. Are you feeling alright?"

Kurt just sat there, in his usual back row seat, staring at the well-meaning teacher with incredulous eyes. Now he noticed something was wrong? He didn't want to be angry at the teacher — he could see in his eyes that he wanted the best for all his students. It's just… sometimes Kurt felt like that didn't extend to him.

But a solo? At sectionals? It seemed too good to be true, and so Kurt didn't trust it. That was the standard he lived by, so it seemed. That was the rule he used to protect himself the way he couldn't physically.

"Kurt?"

In response, he just shook his head. He didn't want a pity solo, or a hand-out, or anything really. "I don't want it. Give it to someone else. Like Brittany or Santana, or maybe Tina or Artie."

Rachel glared at him, but Finn just looked concerned. "I thought you wanted this, bro?"

"Kurt, what's this about?" Mr. Schue asked. They locked eyes, and Kurt saw the worry in his. He breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled, shaking his head.

"I have a headache."

"It'll be gone by sectionals."

A pause, and a flash of emotion passed through his teacher's eyes. "Please, Kurt."

He hesitated but nodded nevertheless. "Okay."

Only once the meeting was over and everyone was leaving for their homes, when he caught Mr. Schue's grin as he locked the doors to their haven did Kurt finally allow himself to believe it, and a matching grin slowly spread across his face.

He was going to sing, and he was going to be damn good.

"Finn? Where are you?" Kurt stumbled in the dark, staying close to the school's walls that were lit by small, circular, moth-attracting lights that illuminated the dust in the chilly air. He gripped his cell phone close to his ear, listening for his brother's comforting voice.

It came, but the words were not comforting. "Dude, I'm so sorry but Rachel literally dragged me off with her. Can you drive yourself home?"

"You drove us this morning," he whispered, pressing his back against the wall. There could be no one behind him if there was a wall of bricks. "I don't have the Navigator."

"Shit. Um, my car's in the lot. Take it home."

"Please tell me that this is not the one time you happened to remember your keys and that they are not in your jacket pocket." He heard fumbling on the other end of the line, followed by a relieved sigh.

"They aren't. Which means they're in the locker room. You know my combo?"

Kurt sighed. "I do, but chances are you probably forgot to lock it."

"True," Finn replied. "Well, Rachel's on my ass again. I'm really sorry about this, bro. Drive safe. I'll see you at home for Friday night family dinner?"

"Of course you will. It's family dinner after all." He rubbed his temples. "Don't let Rachel drive you mad. Goodbye, Finn."

"See ya, Kurt. Love you, little brother."

His frown softened, and he smiled gently. "I love you too, Finn. And I'm older than y-" The line died, and Kurt rolled his eyes. Goofball.

He pushed his bag higher up his shoulder and held the strap, taking a deep breath before entering the building again. The halls were brightly lit by fluorescent lights (which did no good for his skin, mind you), but in the light, he could neither see nor hear a soul. He checked his watch; it was past six o'clock, and the only people in the building now would be the cleaning crew, which consisted of Larry, the one-eyed janitor; Gertrude, the one who smokes more than she cleans; and at times, oddly enough, Principal Figgins — don't ask, because Kurt couldn't tell you.

Just to be safe, he took off his favourite high-heeled boots that clacked when they hit the floor and tucked them away behind a fake plant (which somehow seemed to be dying, and that was a whole other realm of impossible).

As his socked feet hit the ground, they barely made a patter; Kurt was, really and truly, quiet as a mouse. He slipped into the locker room, making a bee-line for his brother's locker — as far as he knew, there was no one here he needed to look out for. However, as he opened the unlocked locker, he felt shadows dancing across his skin and froze.

"What are you doing here, squirt?"

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Just getting my brother's keys to drive home, Coach. Glee just let out."

Beiste nodded, still looking apprehensive. "Alright, kid. Although you guys sure are staying late these days."

"You know, prepping for sectionals."

A smile lit up her face, making her seem more pretty than scary. "Will was telling me at lunch about how he'd chosen a certain blue-eyed someone with impeccable skin for the solo. Congratulations, buddy."

"Thanks, Coach. I'm really excited," he replied, very much telling the truth. The light in his eyes as he talked about singing made that much abundantly clear to the football coach.

She pounded his shoulder lightly, missing his tiny flinch. "As you should be. I hear sectionals is a big deal."

"I'd try to equate them to some football performance or something, but we all know how that would turn out."

"Match, Kurt. It's a football match."

"Right. Of course." He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. "I was on the football team once, which means I should probably know this. Although I did used to say 'audition' instead of 'try out,' so I guess I'm improving."

"You were on the team? What position?" Beiste asked, looking genuinely interested. Kurt loved how sincere she was.

"Kicker, and that's a story for another day."

"It's probably a long one, too," she joked, locking the door to her office. "Well, I'll hold you to that. For now, you should get home. Goodnight, Kurt."

"Night, Coach." As she turned to leave, a question popped into Kurt's mind, important. "Wait, Coach?"

She turned. "Yes? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, it's just… did you have a late practice today?" he asked, trying to keep his fear from manifesting on his face. If Beiste was here…

"No, we finished up an hour or two ago. Why?" She looked concerned, and Kurt waved her off, abated.

"No reason, just wondering how much Finn missed today."

She smiled, but the worry hadn't yet disappeared from her features. "I try to keep the workload low when you guys have Glee practice, considering how many of my guys are doing both."

"They really appreciate it, Coach. We all do." It was left unsaid, but the name Sue Sylvester weighed down the metaphorical balance.

"I know you do. Night, Kurt. Drive safe."

"You too, Coach. Night." Then she was gone, and the safety net that had settled over Kurt rose like the hair on a frightened cat.

The hum of the humidifier suddenly seemed like the backtrack to a horror film, and he knew he was practically alone in a cold school filled with the ghosts of his past. All he wanted was to get out of there before his so-called luck finally caught up to him, after all the good things that had happened to him today.

As the universe had shown him in the past, Kurt Hummel doesn't deserve to be happy.

Desperate to leave, he quickly grabbed the jacket from his brother's locker, making a mental note to remind him more to lock it, before turning and…

Coming face to face with Karofsky and his goons.

"Coach just left. She's probably still here," Kurt defended, shoving the jacket back into the locker to free his hands before shutting the door and backing up against it.

"She's in the parking lot. She can't hear nothing," Azimio sneered, leaning in close. "There's gonna be a lot to hear, too.

"Why are you even here? Coach said your practice was let out hours ago. Do you really have nothing better to do on a Friday night than wait for someone to come along who you can beat down?"

Karofsky's face contorted, screwing up so that all his features drew closer together. "There is nothing better," he retorted, breaking a fragmented metal pipe from the ceiling and smacking it against his hand, muscles bulging menacingly.

"Why are you doing this?" he cried hysterically. "I've done nothing to you. You can't punch the gay out of me any more than I can punch the ignoramus out of you."

"Calm down, fairy," Karofsky breathed, settling for one of his tamer nicknames. This sent a chill of dread down Kurt's spine; he'd be making up for that in other ways. "We haven't even started yet and you're already crying. Maybe we're just trying to toughen you up, make you less of a-" Kurt tried to block out the awful swears coming from his lips, but they forced their way into his mind, stinging, burning, destroying.

Then the first blow came, and the words were like a paper cut.

He keeled over, dropping to the floor and clutching his stomach. Of course, they used this opportunity to kick him while he was down. After a while, Kurt could no longer distinguish between punches and kicks and hits from the metal pipe that he was almost certain snapped one of his ribs in two. Each one was the same heart-stopping pain that made the same, single thought in his head scream, though it would be no louder than if he were whispering.

Was this how he was going to die, surrounded by homophobes in a stinky locker room? If one's greatness is measured by their last moments, their last words, their last thoughts, Kurt was about as great as that dumpster they would throw him into.

And, to be honest, Kurt wasn't really sure when it ended. He knew at some point it did because he was no longer crowded by sweat and skin and flesh, but those blows became phantom blows and continued on and on and on and on until it seemed like they would never end. Only one thing broke through his blocked mind, and that was the moment he was certain the rest of them were gone.

That was the moment that Karofsky's lips met his.

He couldn't hear well through the ringing in his ears, but he could make out parts of what he was saying and try to guess the rest. "You taste like blood," he thought Karofsky said. "God, those sounds you were making while we beat you up were really…" He stopped trying to guess then, throat filling with bile that spilled weakly over the side of his mouth. Disgusting. Vile. Horrid. There were no words.

"I'm sorry about this, I really am," Karofsky whispered, clear as day. How close was he? "But I can't let you tell anyone about this. Sleep tight, Hummel."

The last things he felt before he blacked out were the coldness of metal against his skull and a big, sweaty hand against his stomach.