He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe.

The most pathetic thing was, he didn't really want to. He didn't want to think, because thinking about what he'd done, about the hurt on Kurt's face, the betrayal, when he told him what he'd done…it made him feel like nothing. Worse than nothing. He was despicable. The lowest of the low, and he hated himself.

He didn't want to speak, because there was nothing he could say. No words could make up for what he'd done. They couldn't wipe away the filth, the guilt that felt like it was rotting him away from the inside out. They couldn't take away the pain he'd seen in Kurt's, or the monster he saw staring back at him every time he saw his reflection.

He didn't want to breathe, because it hurt. Everything hurt, and he couldn't bear it. But at the same time, he didn't want it to stop, because he deserved it. For what he'd done, he deserved every ounce of pain, every stinging tear, every regret. He deserved every moment of it, and it scared him, because he didn't think it would ever stop.

He ruined everything. He always ruined everything. His mom, his dad. Even his own brother knew he was a screw up; he'd just never wanted to believe it. But there was no denying it now, not after what he'd done.

The flight back was a blur. He hadn't slept the night before, hadn't been able to choke down even the single piece of toast Rachel had tried to push on him before he'd left. Kurt hadn't wanted to see him.

Blaine couldn't blame him; he didn't even want to see himself.

His bags got lost. He didn't care. It took an hour of standing there, watching people come and go as their flights landed, grabbing bags up off the conveyor belt, to realize his own wasn't coming, and another half an hour to remember how to move.

He didn't make it very far. A few steps, over to the wall. He slumped down, carry-on bag still tugging at his shoulder and hard tile cold against his ass. His eyes burned with fatigue or tears or some combination of the two, but they didn't fall. He just pulled his knees up to his chest a little tighter and tried to make himself small. Maybe if they didn't look at him, he wouldn't feel like they were judging him. And maybe if they didn't judge him, he wouldn't hate himself so much.

Not likely.

It was pathetic; he knew it was. He was the one that had screwed up. He didn't deserve to be the one sitting there, wallowing. He didn't deserve to feel sorry for himself, and he didn't, not really. He didn't feel sorry for himself. He felt sorry for Kurt, for ever thinking he was a decent guy. For trusting him. For loving him. He deserved every ounce of anger he'd seen flushing those alabaster cheeks.

"Excuse me."

Blaine dragged his sore eyes up from the seemingly-random tile arrangement and up past a pair of comfort-over-fashion heels, some buy-in-bulk hose, a uniform skirt, and a size-too-small shirt and blazer combo that would've had the late Anna Elisabeth Jane Claiborne rolling in her coff—

He blanched. The voice in his head sounded too much like Kurt's, and it felt like there was a knife in between his ribs, just twisting and twisting. He choked back the sob that threatened to bubble up, fisting his fingers in his pants as he finally forced himself to look up to the woman's face. She was wearing one of those smiles that look like she put it on as part of her morning makeup routine, but it was probably better than the one Blaine tried to put on. It felt like he was carving his on his cheeks with shards of broken glass.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

No, he thought. "Yes," he said.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

He shook his head, because he couldn't muster up another word. No, he wasn't waiting on anyone. The person he'd been waiting his whole life for, he'd screwed things up with. He'd cheated on. He'd lied to. He'd broken the trust he'd never deserved in the first place, and there would never, never be anyone like that again. He was alone. Well and truly alone. Even his closest friends wouldn't stand by him after they found out what he'd done. He was the good guy. The kind guy. When they found out what he did to Kurt, what would he be? The liar? The cheat? The monster? They all felt more like a fit than anything he used to be, and God, oh God, it hurt so bad.

No, there was no-one coming for him.

The poor attendant seemed at a loss. "Did your bag not come through?"

"No, ma'am," he managed to say. A mantra of it's karma, and I deserve it, warred with a counter voice of please stop talking to me, please God, just leave me alone. It was the latter that won out, though, when her painted-on smile got wider and she slapped her hands on the fronts of her thighs.

"Well why don't you follow me, and we'll see what we can do to get you sorted out."

He wanted to tell her that there was nothing she could do. A lost bag was the least of his problems. And unless she could track down his morals, his pride, and his conscience in the process, there was no sorting him out.

He followed her anyway, though, if only because he had nothing better to do. He filled out paperwork with an unsteady hand, signed on all the right lines. They found his luggage. Left in New York. He couldn't even laugh at the irony.

He left a lot of things behind in New York.

And then it was over. His bags would be in tomorrow, shipped to his house. Did he have a ride? He drove. Did he have a valet? No. Could he fill out a comment card? Yes. If only because it meant another ten minutes of mindlessness, and it was pouring down rain outside, and he really didn't want to go home. His dad…God, his dad. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. It echoed in his head, his dad's rough voice rough and mocking, and it churned his stomach.

First you can't be straight, then you can't even be gay. What can you do?

He nearly stumbled away from the desk, walking on shaky legs towards the bathrooms. He felt sick. His stomach tossed and turned. His head felt fuzzy. His eyes were blurry. His chest felt tight.

Oh God.

He fell into the bathroom stall, doubling over the toilet just in time to throw up the two or three bites of toast he'd managed to choke down. He tasted acid and sawdust. His insides heaved. His chest wrenched. His eyes burned, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe.

He didn't want to.