So in this AU, Blaine and Kurt meet at NYADA (similar to how Adam and Kurt met.) Sebastian is Kurt's salty ex.
I always wanted to write a story about DID. I'm sorry if it's faulty; I did some research, though am by no means a professional. Trigger warnings for angst, mental illness, implied violence and murder.
The story name comes from the song "Taller Children," by Elizabeth & The Catapult.
So you think you know
Think you know, think you know better?
Is it just because, just because
You're older and wiser?
Don't you know, Don't you know
You don't get smarter?
You're the same as you started
You just jump a little higher
-O-
(In the end, we're all just taller children
Just taller children
When Blaine wakes, there's a brown-red glare of sunlight beneath closed eyes.
Even with this prodding he only he turns over, inhaling the familiar scents of sandalwood and gardenia: Kurt's cologne. His arms reflexively reach out to pull a sculpted body closer to him, but there's only empty air, and a slightly-still warm place on the bed. Blaine's brown eyes open, and he slowly props himself up on an elbow, frowning blearily. Despite the fact that he's perfectly comfortable, there's an innate sense of wrongness permeating him and he's not certain why.
He hears faint crackling and sizzling from the kitchen stove, smells the warm, smoky drafts of pancakes and the more acrid coffee scents. There's also the comforting wum, wum, wum emanating from the laundry machine.
Still half-asleep, clad in boxers and a white shirt, Blaine stumbles out of bed to the kitchen with a sigh. Sure enough, there's Kurt's smaller and paler form, carefully turning over two pancakes before stirring a frying pan filled with egg whites.
He smiles, eyes warm as they narrow at the ends; the apartment smells like a home. For a moment he leans against the doorway to watch, and then pads behind Kurt to wrap his arms around his waist. Kurt seizes up, drops his spatula and whirs around with wide eyes. Blaine steps back apologetically, though his hands frame Kurt's hips. "Morning, lovely." He smiles sheepishly. "I'm sorry; I know I said I'd cook today. But I'll handle lunch."
Still stiff, Kurt stares at him like a star-struck deer. To Blaine's surprise, there are shadows ghosting underneath his large eyes. The pink lips form a smile, albeit a tremulous one, and he sizes his boyfriend up carefully.
"Blaine?" It's a question and suddenly Blaine's dark brows disappear into his hairline; his hands fly for Kurt's shoulders. He backs Kurt away from the stove.
"What happened." It's not a question; it's a plea.
Kurt looks away. Blaine shakes his shoulders, his self-consuming mind clouding dark and hot with fear. "Honey. Please, tell me. Whom was it?"
Kurt still can't meet his gaze and Adam Blaine tilts his chin up. Most unwillingly, green eyes meet intently fixed brown.
"I don't…remember going to bed." His brow furrows as he desperately racks his brains for memories of the previous day. "I don't remember anything past…past three." He had been running errands in the city and was trotting briskly down the subway steps, trying to think of that day's revision of a musical number and instead remembering the night before at the bar, when a tearful Sebastian staggered towards them…
"What happened." It's still coming out as a statement.
Kurt drapes his arms around him and Blaine clutches him for dear life. Kurt pulls back with a weary smile, looking pointedly over his shoulder at the stove.
"Why don't you eat first and then we'll talk."
"Kurt, please." Blaine begs, and he's wonders wildly if he should drop to his knees and grovel. The idea has its merits.
"It was nothing bad, I promise."
"Then why won't you tell me? Was it the same as last time?" Blaine seldom swore, but he did under his breath. "Oh my God, did he—please," the plea comes out in a dry sob. Kurt quietly switches the stove dials to off, and the sympathy and pain in his eyes is almost more than Blaine can stand, so much more than he deserves, not when Kurt in all likelihood should be glowering daggers and broken glass at him before racing out of the apartment. And burning it down behind him.
"Sit down, lovey. I'll get us some coffee."
Blaine doesn't quite have feeling in his legs, so Kurt gently steers him to the table and pushes him down into a seat. Kurt pours into chipped mugs for them both—adding a generous dallop of creamer and honey in Blaine's as always and a lump swells so painfully his windpipe he can scarcely breathe.
Kurt sits down and pushes the hot drink across the table. Blaine's fingers wrap around it and while they ought to be burning, he's lost all feeling in them.
"Was it like last time?"
-O-
Two months earlier
The rain was pattering on the roof like so many marching feet, the world applauding your decision to stay inside.
Scrunching up his face unhappily at his phone's alarm, Blaine turned it off and shifted over in bed, finding Kurt already awake and looking at him, a faint blush coloring his face. "Hey," he said softly. Blaine grinned broadly.
"Hey yourself." He pecked Kurt's nose and the latter snorted affectionately, propping his cheek in his hand.
"Last night, you…" He shook his head incredulously. "I've never seen that side of you before. Not that I mind, I definitely didn't mind, but…" He trailed off and shrugged, eyes twinkling. "You never yet fail to surprise me, Blaine Anderson."
Blaine's smile dimmed a little, and he looked a bit puzzled. Suddenly he went very hot, than very cold, mind churning. He sat up at once, covers tumbling off. "Oh no.
"What happened?" he inquired sharply. "I don't remember—I was at the library—did I hurt you?"
"Hey," Kurt said gently, sitting up and gripping his boyfriend's arm. "What do you…"
"I don't remember," Blaine said lowly, voice escalating, panic brightening his eyes. "I don't remember, Kurt, no—"The younger man looked bemused as Adam fumbled for the time he'd fell from. "I was at the NYADA library, looking for videos…what time was it? I think it was around four, and you'd texted me, and then…" He looked down at Kurt, and his chest began heaving. "I don't remember anything."
"….nothing? Blaine, were you drunk? I thought you said you didn't like drinking."
"I don't." Blaine hugged his knees, staring at the wall without really seeing it. "It's too risky."
"Risky why?" Kurt demanded, sitting up with a frown. "You've…you've never had a drinking problem, have you?"
"NO!"
Kurt jerked away as if he'd been stung; Blaine seldom raised his voice, and that was a cry. Still breathing rapidly, Blaine shook his head frantically.
"I swear to you, I've never liked the taste of alcohol and I've never even been drunk." A bitter laugh. "It would almost be better if I were a drunk, that you can fix, but I can't remember and I was with you—
"Oh," Blaine's fingers curled in his darkish wavy hair. "I hurt you, didn't I?"
"Shhh." Kurt's bare arms wrapped around Blaine's mid-section. "You didn't have to force me, I promise. Even if you were a bit…" He tilted his head back and forth. "Friskier than usual, it was fun.
"Wait." He drew back, Blaine gaping at him with a wild, hunted look. "You say you don't remember." His hands clutched the comforter. "If you weren't drinking, and you didn't smell like it, were you…were you on anything?"
"No. Never. I promise you. The hardest drug I've ever been on is chocolate." The smallest twitch at the corner of his lips. "And you."
"But I still don't understand why you wouldn't—"
"Get your clothes," Blaine said abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed before striding over to the large closet (something Kurt insisted upon when they'd looked for a home together.) "We have to go."
"What?" Kurt squawked as Adam flung on a t-shirt and small jacket, buttoning it unevenly. "What is this about? It's eight in the morning!"
"I have to explain something to you." Blaine said, pulling on a pair of dark jeans. "And if I try explaining here, I promise you won't believe me. You'll think me loony if you don't already." He threw an imploring look over at Kurt as the shorter man gawked at him. "And something could happen if I tell you here, and I don't want that, Kurt. I don't. We have to head into the city now. Please come with me."
Kurt had clearly been about to argue about his early morning showering and skin-care routine, but Blaine's expression muted him for a moment. When he spoke, it was low. "Sweetie? Sweetheart, you're scaring me."
"I know. I'm sorry. You might not be nearly scared enough. But I owe this to you. I owed it to you a long time ago." Blaine ran a few careless brush-swipes through his hair. "Do you trust me?"
Kurt tentatively got out of bed, pulling creamy blankets with him. "Of course." Blaine was already squeezing on his shoes, nearly putting them on the wrong feet in his haste. "But whatever it is you have to tell me you can say it here. I promise I'll hear you out, unless you're about to tell me you were abducted by aliens. I'll make coffee. Or we can go out for breakfast if you want."
Blaine shook his head, and when he spoke again sounded exhausted.
"I'd love to, dear heart, there's nothing I'd like more, and that's another problem. If I don't do this now, I'm not going to want to later, not when I have time to consider, and I don't trust myself not to give into temptation."
"Is it…something I did?"
"No." A sad attempt at a smile as Blaine shoved his beanie on, strode across the room and took Blaine's hands in his, kissed one. "I promise you." He closed his eyes. "Kurt, I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry. I thought I had everything under control, I swear."
"Blaine, what you did last night wasn't assault!" Kurt exclaimed, voice spiked with exasperation. "Okay, maybe it would've been if I couldn't give consent or I told you to knock it off. But that wasn't the case."
"That's not what I mean. Well, not just that.
"If you trust me," he said, and he cupped Kurt's face. Blaine's normally warm, soft eyes were now actively drilling holes into Kurt's.
"Come with me right now. If not," He hesitated. "It could happen again, and you won't understand, and I may not be able to tell you. Not for a long, long time, even if I wanted to." Blaine's voice cracked and he sounded very near tears.
A statue where he stood, Kurt stared at him uncomprehendingly, and at last, against all his better judgment, nodded fervently.
He could not have been more shocked if a burglar broke in and struck him over the head with a machete; this was so utterly unlike Blaine he wondered if he'd stumbled into a nightmare. But Blaine's trembling hands were all too solid.
Blaine inhaled, let out his breath in a short puff as he pressed his forehead against Kurt's. He kissed him hard, and at last let him go. "Get changed; I hate to rush you, but I'm going to have to ask you to pick something easy to slip on today. I'll go toast bagels for us to eat on the way." He rushed to the door, and then came to an abrupt halt, turning on his heel like a dervish.
"Love, I adore you." His voice was so small and tender it made Kurt's heart ache. "So much. That's why I'll let them help explain."
"Wha—here's an idea: Why not tell me who 'they' are? This is like the start of some…weird, fucking spy movie, Blaine!" It was beginning to feel like a horror flick, and there was no script to be had.
"More like a tragicomedy. We're going to meet my doctors. That I can tell you."
He drooped against the wall. "But while I know in all likelihood you're going to leave me today, I want you to at least be able to believe me." He turned his sober face to the floor, crossing his arms. "I deserve it, I absolutely had this coming, but I can't bear to have you think of me as a liar. Not—"
"Enough," Kurt snapped, though there was a frantic and painful chord just the same. "Stop martyring yourself for now and let me be the judge of this. Although if you try leading me to some abandoned building or…or secret lair—or scientology center…do not drag me to a Catholic church and tell me you need an exorcist—"
The corner of Blaine's mouth twisted, and he seemed downright ironical. "No, dear. We're visiting an office in a skyscraper in the heart of Manhattan. Very reputable, I promise you—the most of its kind in New York, as a matter of fact. "
Kurt hesitated. "Now this sounds like one of the Avengers movies Sam and Finn made me watch. Please tell me that you're not actively on the run from some evil government."
"I wish," said Blaine ruefully. "That at least makes me look cool. But we should be in time to catch the 8:45 if we hurry. Just let me make a quick phone call."
And he left the room, leaving Kurt blinking stupidly in his wake.
Heart hammering, mouth like cotton, he slowly sank onto the bed, pressed his fingers against his lips. He and Adam always liked easing into their day; it was part of their routine ever since they'd moved in together a year ago. Transitioning to the next phase of lesbianhood, Santana had teased before gifting them with a blender.
A junior at NYADA, Kurt had classes during the day but he and Blaine worked well into the night. Upon graduating Blaine had received a paid internship on Broadway as a choreographer for Wicked, and Kurt had snagged a leading role in a revised Hamilton performance.
When they staggered back home at night tired but happy neither of them were very talkative. And so they basked in the pleasure of being quiet with each other while cuddling on the sofa reading or watching TV. But mornings were full of gentle jokes, and they enjoyed a home-cooked meal together (they were normally too tired to cook much at night) and chattered about their work that day. Kurt fell back against the bed.
Of course, that was the least of his problems right now. The love of his life was acting erratic and possibly insane—how could he not remember anything? If not on drugs or alcohol, and Kurt knew innately Blaine wasn't, what in the world was the problem and why didn't Adam confide in him earlier? The fact that Blaine felt that he'd had to hide something from him smarted harshly.
Maybe Adam was…schizophrenic? No, he was fairly certain that didn't involve amnesia, and Kurt would've noticed by now. The only other possibility was…short-term memory loss? Well, that had been something in Finding Dory, but he sorely doubted that was an actual thing.
But Blaine could not be deranged or dangerous. Kurt wasn't certain if that were his heart or head talking. It felt rather as if the affirmations came from his gut. That's the organ you gotta trust the most, kiddo, his father had always advised.
He hurried to the wardrobe, and tugged on a long sweater, one of the few he'd allowed himself to keep after…after that whole mess had started, but Blaine said he had nothing to do with that, and Kurt believed him.
After he pulled on a pair of leggings and boots, mourning the loss of his skin care routine and shower (though he had the night before) he rapidly brushed his hair and teeth. He grabbed his bag and made a beeline for the door, sliding to a stop and pricking his ears when he heard the muffled sound of Blaine talking:
"—so—" Unintelligible. "Yes. I…your giving me your home phone….yes." Kurt opened the door just a crack, easing into the hall. Blaine was in the kitchen.
"No harm done, at least not that I know of, but he might….no…..yes. Um," he said awkwardly, and Kurt could picture him placing a hand behind his head, the way he did when Blaine was sheepish or embarrassed. "S-some….no, I don't….some behavior. Um, y-yes. No details." A pause. "No." Kurt silently approached the kitchen, saw Blaine's back turned toward him.
"No again. I know—" He gripped his hair. "But things had been going so well, I bought…" A sigh, and his shoulders sagged. "I just wanted so badly to believe this was done and that I could move on, that all of us could move on—"
Blaine suddenly turned, glimpsed Kurt staring at him. Hangdog, his eyes flickered.
"If you don't mind opening early…we'll be there. I'm sorry again." He listened, and his mouth twitched again. "Still. But we'll see you soon. Thank you. Bye."
Avoiding eye contact, Blaine hung up, grabbed the two bagels which popped from the toaster, and messily smeared them both with more peanut butter than he necessary needed to. He wrapped a napkin around one and thrust it into Kurt's hand, pouring them both coffee—Kurt was profoundly relieved he'd set the machine to brew the night before.
Blaine hissed and cursed as he spilled some on his hand. As he dumped creamer in them both, Kurt frowned and put his hands on his hips.
"You do know I have History of Modern and Post-Modern Theater at ten today, right? Are we going to make it back in time?"
"You're sick today," said Blaine, attempting to sound flippant as he pushed a mug in Kurt's hands, which he reluctantly took. "Very sick. Just email your professor for the assignment, and ask Rachel for notes."
Kurt looked down into his coffee. Only the fact that he was utterly nonfunctioning without coffee in the morning made him take a few sips, though his stomach was turning itself over in somersaults. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't alarmed."
"I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't too," said Blaine apologetically, taking a few swigs of coffee. "You should eat now, love."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know if you'll feel like it later on and you need something in your stomach."
That didn't sound reassuring in the least, and Kurt wasn't the least bit hungry now, but he reluctantly obeyed, murmuring "You need to, too." Blaine silently complied, and it was terribly awkward, both of them forcing down something that seemed tasteless.
When they'd finished—how Kurt hated eating fast, it seemed like a solid method to tear your intestines apart— Blaine took his hand, and in a moment was kissing him passionately, their gentle touch quickly devolving into a much rougher tempo as Kurt clutched him and kissed back hard, as much from anxiety as from affection.
Blaine pulled back just as Kurt's eyes slipped shut, their lips separating with a slight pop. Adam smiled, sweet and a little bit sad. "I wanted to do that one last time.
"Here," he said, pressing his phone into Kurt's hand. "If you notice me start acting…strangely on the way, just call the first number on my dial history. Tell them I need help. They'll know what to do."
That wasn't at all perturbing.
Then he pulled Kurt out the door, and it was all the latter could do to lock it before they thundered down the stairs.
-O-
Kurt considered his boyfriend as the metro sped through graffiti-covered tunnels, dirty windows reflecting Blaine Blaine's most-uncharacteristically gaunt expression. The two were standing, and Kurt didn't even need to clutch one of the rings swinging from the ceiling— Blaine had a death-grip on one and one arm looped around Kurt's waist to hold him steady. Part of Kurt was now so irritated that he'd like to push it away, but he was ultimately grateful, because his head whirred in sickening loops. He had to choke his bagel back down.
Blaine's hold on him was gentle, but there was an ominous note of finality in the air that had Kurt keeping a hand over Adam's to keep it there.
Earlier Blaine had offered his seat to a pregnant woman and Kurt stood with him, listening to the grateful lady calling them sweet boys as she put her feet up. Criminals or criminally-insane people couldn't be sweet boys.
Could they? Kurt let his head droop against Blaine's shoulder. Do you trust me? He had asked, and while this seemed a prelude to a murder mystery television special, the answer was still an unequivocal yes.
But what was so terrible that Blaine was afraid to tell Kurt without witnesses first?
They ascended from the subway, and walked a few blocks uptown until Blaine led Kurt to a colossal skyscraper, showing a pass to the doorman at the glass doors. "Haven't seen you around in a while," the man remarked airily, jerking a thumb at the glossy lobby. Blaine dipped his head and gave Kurt a reassuring look, although Kurt wasn't very reassured.
"So…this is a hospital?" He asked skeptically as the woman at the front desk waved Blaine along as they headed to the elevators, passing large ferns and a bubbling fountain. "You said we were going to meet doctors."
"They are, but this particular building is sublet by specialists, mainly."
"In….?"
The doors slid open, and the two boarded Kurt not without tasting his heart.
"All sorts of things: Child psychiatry, autism, cancer, diabetes, sickle-cell anemia, heart disease, post-traumatic stress disorder, osteoporosis….these people are considered authorities in their specific fields with what they've contributed with research. These are people whom normally have waiting lists the size of books with the demand they get."
"….and one of these 'authorities' just happened to give you their number and seemed basically on-call for you?"
"Well, two, actually, there are two people we're meeting today. No, dear, I'm nothing and no one really…special, just abnormal. This field is still budding, and I'm…one of very few confirmed cases." Blaine scuffed at the carpet. "Considering how much skepticism and ridicule their department is subject to, they've been more than happy to work with me." Blaine's tone suggested the feeling wasn't mutual. Kurt automatically hugged him.
"You are something. You are special. In a good way. Whatever happens today, I want you to know I love you."
"I love you too," Blaine said, punctuating the words with a kiss on Kurt's head. He looked wistful.
"I'm going to yell at you if I find out this is an over-reaction of a lifetime, but I can't pretend I won't be relieved."
"I think you're going to yell at me regardless. And I can't say I won't deserve it."
The doors neatly slid open with a chime, and Blaine slowly set out, face set. Kurt tentatively followed him down a hall of doors with numbers and surnames, but nothing else.
At last they stopped at a door marked Katz, Roberts and of course it was marked 13. What an auspicious start to the day. Kurt had never missed a day on Broadway, but now he was wondering if it might be worth letting his understudy take over for the evening.
Blaine opened the door to a comfortable-looking sitting room, where two people with coffee mugs were sitting on a sofa, in the middle of discussion. They looked up as they entered and smiled, standing to greet them. One was a short, balding man with a prominent, crooked nose and gentle eyes, and the other was a pleasant-faced young woman with long dark hair tied back into a braid.
"Hello, Blaine." The man offered his hand. "How are you?"
"About the same as I usually am when I need your help," Blaine said apologetically, and the man nodded sympathetically. He turned to Kurt.
"I'm Dr. Roberts. And you must be Mr. Hummel." Kurt nearly turned reflexively as they shook hands, half-expecting his father. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Blaine dotes on you like the last grace of the earth." Kurt blinked, trying to think of something to say that was both honest and not-stupid. Reddening, Blaine gestured to the woman, whom shook Kurt's hand enthusiastically. "Dr. Katz. Thank you for meeting so early in the morning. "
"Just Katz is fine," she assured him, flashing a brilliant smile at Kurt. "And this is Kurt! It's so good to finally meet you. Blaine speaks of you all the time, and so highly!"
"I—thank you so, so much, um—"
"I watched a YouTube video of your performance at the NYADA winter showcase," She shook her head, eyes alight with playful envy. "Utterly remarkable. Do you know how many hits that clip has?"
Kurt smiled in spite of himself. "It's very nice to meet you, too. Um." He shuffled his feet and looked back at Blaine. "I've never heard of you before today."
Dr. Katz didn't say 'I told you so' directly, but the glance she gave Blaine said it for her. Blaine colored more darkly from his roots to his chin, looking as if he were mentally attempting to vanish.
"Blaine asked me to come along with him this morning. I'm not entirely sure why, but he says he can't remember last night and seems really scared. Okay, now can someone please explain to me what's going on? I'm on the verge of tearing my hair out, and I spend a long, long time on it."
The doctors hesitated; Blaine spoke up, voice dull:
"You have my permission to tell him everything." He met Kurt's gaze. "I wanted to tell you myself, I wanted to, but I was afraid…just speaking of it might trigger it again, and I just wanted it to go away. And I was terrified you'd run away thinking I'm a lunatic." He snorted depreciatively. "It's not terribly-far off, really."
"Blaine," said Dr. Roberts reprovingly. "We've talked about this. You're a good, intelligent, loving man. This is not your fault. What happened to you is not your fault."
Blaine's hands curled into shaking fists. Dr. Roberts sighed, produced a stress ball from his pocket and handed it to Blaine, whom took it reluctantly. "Easy on those palms now.
"Please sit down," he gently encouraged, and Kurt and Blaine slowly obeyed, settling into the sofa together. Dr. Roberts and Katz settled themselves into plush armchairs.
"Now we've been working with Blaine for a few years now—ever since he left Romania to attend school here. His former specialists reviewed his case intensively with us." He gestured to a fat binder on the coffee table with Anderson, Blaine written on its spine.
"You see Kurt, Blaine has what the psychiatric community calls dissociative identity disorder." Said Katz calmly, previous humor drained from her face. "Previously known as multiple personality disorder.
"This condition develops when a young mind creates different personas in order to cope in…difficult situations. These constructed beings often have drastically different temperaments than the primary individual, often reactive personalities to a certain environment." Kurt couldn't breathe. "When a character takes over, it's essentially as if someone else is in control in Blaine's body. Blaine himself loses his agency and lapses into an unconscious state, unable to recall his actions until his other personalities give him back control and consciousness.
"How we verified that this was a genuine case was when Blaine was hooked up to an Electroencephalography machine—triple point word in Scrabble, by the way—or EEG. This method uses electrodes from the brain to create visual wavelength patterns." She looked at Kurt's face, waited a long moment. No recovery. "And when we induced his other personalities, the length charts created each time were drastically apposite. Essentially belonging to different people."
Blaine was staring at his entwined hands. Kurt's mouth was moving silently, but at last came out the words, "Oh God. Oh God."
"Kurt." Said Dr. Roberts, half-rising from his seat. "Do you need some water? Do you need help?"
Kurt shook his head, but not in response to Dr. Roberts. Eyes tearing, still not breathing, he turned to Blaine, vision hazing. His voice came out ridiculously small. "Blaine ….?"
"I know you didn't sign up to be in a relationship with more than one person," Blaine said, voice pierced with emotion. "I am so sorry. I truly thought it was gone and I never wanted anything as badly as I wanted to be with you." His face screwed up and he put his fist to his lips, trying to bite back sobs. "But it's no excuse." He looked so ashamed; it was good this room did not have windows, else Blaine would likely be tossing himself out one.
Stunned, Kurt sank back against the sofa. Dimly he thought he should be angry, he really ought to be, but he was so utterly unprepared he couldn't understand how to think, or what to feel. In all the preposterous explanations he had imagined, this hadn't been one of them.
"I've heard of…Sybil, in my high school psychiatry class," Kurt faltered. "We watched the movie. But I wasn't certain this was actually real or not."
"It is. What's incredible about young children is their survival instinct is so…" Dr. Roberts tilted his head and thought a moment. "Intensive. Primal. Young children don't have fully-developed moral compasses that keep this instinct in check. The budding subconscious really only has survival in mind, and when dealt trauma that it's unprepared to deal with, defense mechanisms are employed. Sometimes it can suppress threatening memories altogether."
"A child's mind is much more versatile than an adult's." Katz added. "And it can create other beings prepared to bear burdens a child couldn't handle himself, or serve other purposes.
"The problem is, early childhood development is a decisive, very critical period for a person's future mental and emotional growth. When raised in a volatile environment, children can suffer problems that can be intractable in adulthood. And while Blaine may no longer require what his alter egos were created for, it's too late now." Katz threw Blaine a concerned glance as the boy hugged his knees, eyes screwed shut with misery. "That isn't to say we haven't tried integrating his multifaceted personalities."
"And that was…that was another personality last night." Said Kurt cautiously, blushing again slightly as he remembered.
"It hasn't happened for months." Blaine murmured, opening his eyes. "I don't know what triggered it. But I don't remember anything past four," He said, looking at Dr. Roberts as the man made a note on a nearby clipboard. "And when I woke up at our home…I couldn't recall going there." He hunched over in his seat like a child at the principal's office. "And Kurt said I'd…acted differently last night." He sighed. "I think I can guess whom that was."
"…how many personalities do you have?"
"Just two others." Said Dr. Roberts. Kurt had to avoid flinching. 'Just' two? Wasn't having one extra intrusive enough? "Other people with DID have had many, many more personalities at hand, so we see this as a good sign. There were actually three at some point, but we don't really see Viktor appear any more. We believe he more or less merged with Emily—"
One of Blaine's personalities is a girl?
"—and both of them served more or less as Blaine's 'secret-keepers.' Memory suppression, mainly."
Suddenly Kurt remembered Sybil's mother, and nearly sank to his knees. "It's trauma that causes this, isn't it?" he asked Blaine frantically, and the young man began to look quite sick. "Serious trauma? Something…something along the lines of torture, right?"
Blaine pressed his lips so tightly they were white. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. Kurt seized his rigid form and shook him.
"Babe, stop that! Please. Who hurt you?"
Katz spoke up gently: "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you not to probe the circumstances any further, Kurt. Alek is fiercely protective of Blaine and Emily, and when you probe too deeply, he comes with claws out."
"…Alek?"
"Trust me, I know Alek," said Dr. Roberts ruefully, gesturing at his crooked nose. "I am still talking to Blaine, right?"
"Yes," Adam choked out, burying his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry."
Blaine uneasily drew away from Kurt, and he desperately wanted to embrace him, but Blaine didn't look like he welcomed contact at the moment.
"What is…Alek like?" he asked hesitantly, looking at the physicians. "I saw…a glimpse of him last night." He wrung his hands. "Um, this doesn't count as cheating, does it? You know how I feel about that."
"No," Blaine choked out in a strangled laugh. "No, I promise you it doesn't."
"Well, we know Blaine s other personalities are fond of you, Kurt." Said Roberts kindly. "Though Alek has made it quite clear he'd like to strangle me with my own stethoscope." He flicked his eyes to the ceiling. "Though I'm not that kind of doctor. And when I get too close he often appears to tell me where I can shove it in no uncertain terms. He's not particularly delighted by Katz either; the fact that she's a woman doesn't deter him from shooting his dirty mouth off."
Kurt's jaw dropped. The most Blaine normally came to cussing was 'Oh dear.'
"What does…Emily say about me?" It was ridiculous, but he suddenly remembered meeting Blaine's relatives for the first time that summer they'd spent in Romania; he'd felt the same eagerness to make a good impression then as he did now. Which was utterly ridiculous, but true nonetheless.
"Emily is a bit shy, with emotional development of about five years of age. She likes to change her name quite a lot, but always forgets the new one. I think she has a bit of a school girl crush on you. She usually prefers talking to me over Roberts, because 'boys are yuck,'" quoted Katz with a small smile. "When I asked her about you, she got quite fidgety and said, 'Well, Kurt isn't yuck, because he smells nice and sings.'"
She opened the file and to Kurt's surprise there were crayon-scribbled pictures inside. Katz offered some of them to Kurt, whom took them as carefully as if they might explode any moment. Blaine groaned, likely watching from beneath his fingers.
To Kurt's relief there were no pictures of gore or dead animals. There were towering rectangles, filled with boxes—skyscrapers, rainbows, lots of those—lots of trees surrounding a…bench, yes, that was a bench, smiling suns, music notes and very blocky, awkward pictures of unicorns judging by the sticks protruding from their heads, animals, mostly smiling cats. There were numerous drawings of a little blond girl dressed in white with a stethoscope and a box with a red cross on it. Kurt flipped through them to find a picture of a smiling brown-haired young man sitting beside a little girl at a little table. There were clumsy music notes and hearts drawn overhead, and as Kurt studied the figures carefully, he recognized the outfit—one of his silvery-blue go-to winter compositions.
"…..me? And….who…the girl…."
"This is how she sees herself," said Katz quietly. "She cannot be convinced otherwise. And she's frozen in time; she's never aged emotionally."
Swallowing, Kurt uneasily considered Blaine. "I never did… anything inappropriate to Emily, did I?" Even though Blaine was of age, the idea that he could've harmed a very young part facet of his mind was profoundly disturbing.
"No. You'd know if she were there, and she never shows her face during…adult moments," Blaine murmured, wearily drawing his hands down. "This was the first time I couldn't remember…making love to you." Kurt slipped a little deeper in his seat. Did they have to discuss in front of other people?
"When we question her about the trio's past, she gets very nervous the moment you mention…anything of a sexual nature," said Roberts heavily. "These are things she'll only discuss with Katz. I believed she worried I was making advances because I'm a man."
"Or a facsimile of one," said Blaine, his voice dropping to a much lower register. "Seriously, your wife has more dick in her personality than you ever did in your pants. My guess is that you're both lesbians."
Appalled, Kurt felt his nails sink deeper into his palms; Roberts warily considered the olive-skinned man, tensing in his seat.
"Whom am I talking to now?" he asked, though it seemed as if he already had a fairly good idea.
"The president, you fuckhole fucktwit."
He crossed his legs and thrust his arms over the sofa top, smirking. He turned to Kurt and winked; the boy automatically scooted farther away, eyes overlarge. Roberts crossed his arms.
"Alek."
"'Alek,'" mocked the young man. "No 'hello' or 'top of the day to you, Robbie my boy?' I'm so hurt. Just because your lezzie household must suck fuck doesn't mean you have to take your marital problems out on me."
Roberts cringed, looking as if he'd been asked to drink poison. "I pushed too far."
"'I pushed too far,' Alek simpered, batting his eyes coquettishly. "Bet your dad said that when he pissed in your mom." He frowned as he looked around the room, shaking his head. "Fuck me slowly with a chainsaw, but the décor in here is still shit. Roberts, you should consider borrowing some money from your Mom's bedside table for a decorator—every john leaves a buck, after all."
He leered at a thunderstruck Kurt, sliding over to him.
"Don't listen to him, darling. He basically got a degree in advanced coloring because his rich father played tennis with another rich father. I should've taken over earlier so we could've avoided this shit shack whorehouse altogether, but I was curious to see what you'd do when old sphincter socket and fuck noodle told you the truth. Can you guess who is who?"
"…Alek." The unfamiliar name started at the front of Kurt's mouth, and the ended at the back of his throat. "…ah. Um. Can you….I don't…can you please…switch back to Blaine?"
Alek's cold eyes—how could Blaine's eyes be reduced to a pair of dark electric marbles stuffed into sockets?—narrowed. "What's wrong with me?"
"N-nothing. But Blaine is my—"
Kurt could say no more; Blaine seized his chin in a tight hold, thumb gripping his jaw tightly. Kurt immediately thrust a hand on the man's chest, but Alek's hand chased his and grasped Kurt's tightly, keeping it planted over Blaine's heart. Katz and Roberts scrambled up immediately.
"Alek, let go."
"Ah-ah-ah, Little Miss Carnation Instant Bitch," said Alek, wagging his finger at Katz and tsking disapprovingly. He turned back to Kurt, lip curling like smoke.
"We're a package deal, Kurt, and the sooner you accept that, the better." Kurt's eyes near-dilated as the fingers sank deeper into his flesh. "Blaine was all for letting you go, but I'm not dealing with the fallout shit. I have enough to worry about as it is."
Smirking, eyes glittering like a threat, he yanked Kurt onto his lap, slipping his lips to whisper hotly into his ear:
"Hello, kurty." His fingertips wandered to a hickey beneath Kurt's turtleneck, circling it. "Remember me?"
Kurt immediately shoved at him, but Alek seized his wrists, hands wrapping around them like manacles.
"Alek, you have until the count of three to let him go," warned Dr. Roberts, slowly withdrawing an injector from his pocket. "We reserve the right to sedate you if you don't release him.
"And I reserve the right to cut you if you don't shut up," Alek spat, but Kurt did manage to wrestle his way free, scurrying to the opposite side of the room as he rubbed his wrists. Alek rounded on him.
"Why so cold now, little bird? You seemed to like me plenty last night, when I heaved you over my shoulder, threw you against the bed, held you down, and licked my way down to your—"
"Stop." Kurt pleaded, pressing his hands over his ears. "Stop—"
"Didn't recall you saying that last night, lovely." Alek drawled, sneering as Kurt drew further back, looking pointedly away. "Well, you did add a 'don't' in front of it."
Kurt thought he felt all his blood rush to his heart, draining his face of any color. And he might've tasted his heart again as he swayed, and Katz put a careful hand on his arm to steady him.
"Alek, I had really hoped I wouldn't have to bring you in today," Roberts said warningly. Alek rolled his eyes.
"I really hoped I wouldn't have to shatter your jaw. Alas that things cannot be precisely what we hoped."
Kurt remained frozen. He was looking at his boyfriend's body, but it was as if it'd become a marionette, puppetered by a complete stranger. That stranger addressed him again: "Blaine's such a fucking pansy, I'm surprised he doesn't have a cunt. He is one, judging by the fact that he's so fucking scared to actually do anything he doesn't realize he'd like to do to you." Alek tsked again, lips curling into a-near sadistic smile.
He tapped his head teasingly. "Then again, it's my job to eat everything he's afraid of, which is a considerable amount, I'll tell you, I'll have to go on Atkins—but something I don't particularly mind swallowing are all his repressed little fantasies. Blaine always learned in Jesus school and camp that sex is bad, which is funny considering what—" Alek made a face and started over. "He's so ashamed of himself the only thing he likes to do is missionary, which is all well and good if you're a good little Puritan—"
"Alek," said Katz disapprovingly. "You're being inappropriate."
"And you're being a fuckstick," said Alek impatiently, flipping her the bird. "Fuck off, fuckstick. Blaine was so worried lately that he hadn't been giving old Kurty-Q what he wanted, so I stepped in. I take care of everyone. You ought to be grateful," he said, staring at Kurt with coldheartedness carved in every line in his hard features. Nothing like Blaine's warm expression—he always had a smile for Kurt, even at the end of an abysmal day.
"I've taken care of you plenty of times." He grinned saucily. "Remember all those little 'gifts' I kept leaving you? And to think you never sent me a thank-you card."
At first Kurt looked at him blankly, and then there was a hot, dark surge of realization. His mind automatically wiped itself clean, as if attempting to spare him.
And then came the panic. He almost fled then and there.
"The…the things on my doorstep…my st-stalker….that was…"
Alek smiled. It was not a nice smile. When he spoke again, the words had teeth.
"Yes, lovey. That was me."
-O-
When Kurt and Rachel still lived together, parcels began appearing neatly on their doormat. And none of these were ever post-marked.
To Kurt's amazement, there were designer hats, flowing scarves in every color of the rainbow, cashmere sweaters, Marc Jacob turtlenecks that cost more than what he'd make at a week in the diner. Broaches that sparkled, sunglasses in Michael Kors cases, once even a pair of Yves St. Laurent leather boots in his size. All of these were left with only notes reading 'K.'
Kurt closed his eyes, and Katz patted his hand mumbling "It's okay, honey, it's okay," and other such lies. He had to sit down into Roberts' vacant seat and put his head between his knees, brow glistening in a cold sweat.
"You didn't tell me Blaine was rich!" Rachel squealed in excitement as Kurt lifted a knee-length Ann Taylor sweater from the tissue-paper with near-reverence. "And look at how much he adores you! I'm so jealous."
"But he isn't wealthy," Kurt said bewilderedly, turning over the sweater and shivering. He'd squealed with delight upon opening the gift, but the initial high was wearing off into confusion. "Have you seen his apartment? There's literally only enough room in his bedroom for his bed. And ramen noodles and frozen vegetables are entire sections on his food pyramid." He turned over the sweater, watching sequins gleam like fish scales in the sunlight. "But it looks familiar. I know it does—I was practically swooning over this when I went window-shopping with Blaine."
"Well, then it must be from him."
"Again: If Blaine could afford this, he'd have a nicer wardrobe. I'd make sure of it."
When Adam came by later that evening Kurt showed him the sweater. Blaine's brows disappeared into his bangs. "How in the world did you ever afford this? Don't get me wrong; you absolutely deserve something nice, Kurt. But the price made me die a little inside; please don't tell me you're forgoing food for fashion."
"First of all, death before bad fashion." Kurt said crisply as Blaine laughed. He crossed his legs on the sofa and looked at Blaine closely. "But I swear to God, or to Gaga my goddess, it just appeared outside my door today. Did you…?"
Blaine shook his head ruefully. "No. I wish I could have gotten it for you. But that's half my rent."
He pressed his cheek against his palm, biting his lower lip. Blaine was a rotten liar; he'd only ever tried once, when unsuccessfully trying to convince his boyfriend no, there wasn't anyone inside the Bushwick loft waiting to surprise him for his twentieth birthday. His boyish excitement had been palpable even as Blaine attempted a solemn expression. It'd been a deeply-amused Kurt put his key in the lock, bracing himself for the inevitable shrieks that awaited him.
"If not you, then…" Suddenly his eyes widened, and he groaned.
"Oh, no." He would have to give up the garment now, as a matter of principle. Kurt smacked his knee, bitterly disappointed. "Sebastian strikes again."
"Are you sure?"
His mouth twisted as he rolled his eyes. "Yes. Sebastian sent all kinds of gifts for weeks after he cheated on me. And he remembers what I like, but I sent everything back." He sighed, placing the sweater back in his box. "I guess he's taking it up again, now that he's enrolled in NYADA."
Shortly after their breakup Sebastian 'happened' to transfer from NYU to NYADA, appearing in four of Kurt's five classes, much to the latter's supreme discomfort. He'd dearly like to believe Sebastian's knowing his class picks was a coincidence, but while Rachel pleaded innocence, the way she had avoided meeting Kurt's gaze when he confronted her suggested otherwise.
Sebastian claimed he was happy to remain friends with Kurt, but very frequently Kurt had felt his stare in class. When he whirred to give the boy a filthy look Seb's dark brown eyes usually swiveled away. But sometimes Sebastian only held his fixed gaze, which was worse. The intent behind those eyes was like a buck looking at a deer, and it was so profoundly annoying Kurt wondered if you could sue for sexual harassment by someone mentally undressing you.
Now Kurt tried ignoring him altogether, but no amount of hissed demands as Sebastian casually sidled up to him in the halls in-between courses would make him stop: "I'm not looking at all. You're deflecting, Kurt—you're the one who seems to want to keep looking at me."
He was forever asking Kurt out for drinks—"Just drinks, Kurt, I swear,"—suggesting they check out a chic new tapas restaurant or jazz bar together. The one time Kurt agreed to meet him was at a club, and he'd brought Blaine along. There was maybe a little savage pleasure on Kurt's part as he and Blaine grinded together on the dance floor to Bad Romance, and Sebastian watched from the bar, looking as if he'd been force-fed curdled milk.
"Why don't you keep it?" Blaine asked as Kurt carelessly tossed the sweater on the table. "I know how much you wanted it. If Sebastian wants to run his account dry for you, that doesn't mean you owe him anything."
Kurt shook his head as he rejoined Blaine on the sofa, snuggling into the latter's neck as Blaine craned his head against his. "No, you don't know Seb. If I show up to class wearing that he's going to be smug, and if I give an inch he'll take a mile and insinuate that I owe him. It's disappointing; I thought the sweater was classy. But if he bought it for me, then I don't want it anymore."
Blaine took his hand and hummed. "Would it be selfish of me to say that I'm glad? I want you to have nice things, because you are a nice thing—" He laughed and kissed Kurt's hair as Kurt poked him in the ribs reprovingly. "—but I'd sooner they not come from that…"
"Tool?"
"That's putting it very kindly."
The next day before Theater History Kurt thrust the sweater box into Sebastian's hands and snapped, "Keep it. And for the record, if you're stalking me, stop. You can't buy me."
Sebastian blinked, looking baffled as he opened the box. "But I didn't buy you anything. Did you want me to…?"
"What did I just say?" Kurt demanded as he flounced back to his desk.
"But I didn't. I really didn't, Kurt." Sebastian sounded incredulous as he opened the box and poked the sweater. "Believe me."
Kurt swung around, eyes flashing dangerously.
"Funnily enough, that's what you said when you promised you wouldn't shack up with anyone else. I couldn't take your word then, and I don't take it now."
Thankfully Sebastian said nothing after that, though Kurt's back felt the boy's burning gaze as he strode out the door the moment their teacher dismissed everyone.
But another beautiful sweater was waiting three mornings later when Rachel went out to get the mail.
"Kurt," Sebastian pleaded when Kurt later thrust the bag onto the desk without so much as looking at him. "Why would I give you things if I didn't at least try to claim credit? If I bought either of these fancy-ass sweaters with a five-figure price tag, you'd better believe I'd claim responsibility." Bitterness erupted like spiders spilling from Sebastian's throat. "What, is your Romanian boytoy not rich enough for you? Need a sugar daddy?"
Slowly, very slowly, Kurt turned around, and his expression left Sebastian looking at least a little abashed as he became very interested in his A Streetcar Named Desire playbook.
"Blaine," said Kurt softly, and he was mortified that there were tears in his voice. "Is poor. The fact that he's a foreign exchange student doesn't make him rich. It's just the opposite; he qualifies for food stamps with how little he earns. And he's still more infinitely worthwhile than you will ever be, Smythe, even if you won the lottery."
He sat down, turned around. Kurt almost thought he could hear Sebastian press his forehead against his folded arms, but it wasn't his problem. Scrubbing at smarting eyes, he opened his book and exhaled, not noticing the book was upside down.
The presents kept arriving, and Sebastian's roommates—their fellow classmates—pleaded his innocence. "Kurt, he hasn't been shopping. And nothing's come online for him, not recently. He didn't mail-order anything for you. I looked at his bank statements. Lots and lots of transactions like you wouldn't believe, but mo fancy designer stuff." Suddenly she hooted with glee. "Looks like you got yourself a secret admirer! Blaine better watch out!"
That hadn't been exactly reassuring to Kurt, considering the last time he had a secret admirer it had literally been a stalker in a gorilla suit whom followed him everywhere and had once threatened to murder him.
To his growing concern torrents of lovely and expensive items kept coming, Louboutin boots to a Chanel handbag and Alexander McQueen sweaters so soft they felt like lambskin. It would be sweet, incredibly so if it weren't so frightening.
"Maybe some rich person at NYADA fell in love with Kurt," Rachel suggested one afternoon as Santana clamored through the growing pile of stuff, impatiently flinging merchandise in all directions. "And they're too shy to tell him so directly, so they keep leaving him presents! I think it's romantic."
Santana's glare was deepening by the moment as she dug through the growing mound of Kurt's gifts. While her expression softened slightly as she picked up a Coco Chanel bag and turned the glossy leather over in her hands, she impatiently tossed it over to Kurt, whom just barely caught it in his fingertips in his surprise. Santana stood up, hands on her hips. Her frown looked only contained the slightest bit of grudging jealousy; when she looked up at Kurt she almost seemed concerned—if Santana Lopez were capable of being concerned.
"Okay, Hummel-bee, you're going to want to toss these in the dumpster stat." She cast a longing look at the Chanel bag, and turned her head away as quickly as if it were the Apple of Eden.
Kurt started in surprise; Rachel squawked: "What?! But these are all so nice. You don't just toss thousands of dollars of presents away. You don't throw a gift away in any case."
"You do if it's a ticking time bomb," said Santana darkly. "Something is rotten in the state of New York, Hummelberry, and it's these creepy gifts. I'm detecting the same stink-waves emanating off this stuff that I did from Rachel's gigolo beau."
Rachel opened her mouth, closed it, looked at the floor. Kurt bit his lip. How much he wanted her to be wrong, but this had certainly crossed over the line from flattering to unnerving.
"How do you know?"
"My bullshit radar is second to none, twinkletoes. And right now it's so loud that you're gonna give me some aspirin when I go; I'll have a killer migraine. Rachel, don't you think it's just the slightest bit weird that this guy knows where you live?"
"…maybe?"
Santana flicked her eyes to the ceiling. "It's one thing to leave presents or valentines at someone's locker in high school. It's another thing entirely when someone is following you home, leaving you crap at your door, and probably breaking into Kurt's bedroom to smell his pillowcases, spritz his fairy-dust cologne, and lie underneath his bed, listening to him breathe."
"Well, no sleep tonight," muttered Kurt, feeling increasingly-jumpy. Now Rachel looked similarly nervous; after all, the Bushwick loft was her home, too. She looked around the loft, as if expecting someone to leap out any moment.
"My dads bought me a Hello Kitty revolver when they started teaching me to shoot at the Lima range. I wonder if they'd ship it to me?"
Kurt had thrown her a strange look as Santana continued: "My Abuela always told me it's the nasty things wrapped up in pretty packages that you really have to watch out for. Brody seemed like quite the charmer on the outside, but open him up and all that's there is a slut-pig." She rounded on Kurt, ponytail swinging. "Maybe all these things are coming from a would-be sugar daddy fifty years your senior waiting to offer you candy from the back of his van. You'll never be seen ever again."
Sickened, Kurt squeezed now-glistening palms together. Rachel exclaimed, "Yes, yes, definitely getting the forty-five."
"I thought the worst I had to worry about coming to New York was some random guy pick-pocketing or mugging me. Not…some stalker specifically fixated on me!"
"I don't recognize the handwriting," said Santana, looking at one of the cards. "And Auntie Snixx went through Captain Carebear's things when you and Blainers became a thing."
"Hey!"
" Not his handwriting, and he checked out clean," she said begrudgingly. "I hate everyone, but I hate your boy a little less, and if that's not a stamp of approval from me, I don't know what is."
Kurt decided to test his stalker theory by going window-shopping with Blaine again, pausing to admire and stroke a black pea-coat with glossy silver buttons. Not two days later it had followed Kurt home, waiting expectantly for him when Kurt wearily trudged home from an insufferably-long business-meeting at Vogue.
Who had this kind of money? Or this kind of interest in him?
When he called his father, Burt sounded worried enough that he told Kurt to get another lock (he bought two) and gave him needless admonitions to always keep his pepper spray on him and to avoid being alone when not in public. The police had sounded amused when Kurt contacted them—oh, look, you're receiving fancy gifts, likely the worst crime in New York City—and told him to only contact them again if someone started sending illicit items. Kurt didn't like to think what they had meant by that, exactly.
He stayed more and more frequently at Blaine's place, spending long mornings and evenings entwined in Blaine's arms as the latter absently smoothed his hand up and down Kurt's long bare back. One morning when Kurt was being particularly quiet, Blaine tilted his chin up gently, meeting Kurt's eyes with his own.
"I don't think anyone means you any harm, Kurt. At least they aren't leaving you boxes full of lingerie and dead animals."
Kurt abruptly rolled away. "That's not funny. That's not the least bit funny."
"No, love. It's not." He exhaled with a short puff through his nose. "I'm sorry. I must admit I was jealous that someone could give you all these things—but I'm getting more than a little concerned, too. If you feel unsafe, you should move in with me."
"Your place is too small," Kurt murmured against Blaine's skin as the smaller boy trailed warm lips over Kurt's collarbone.
"Then we'll get another one. We've been together for over a year now, and you're here most nights anyway." Blaine chuckled, chest vibrating. "I know you would miss Rachel terribly, but somehow perhaps you could go on…"
Kurt flung a pillow at him and laughed, as much as out of relief as out of joy. "My heart will go on, I promise you. As for if I'll move in with you, does James Brown get down?"
"I don't know whom James Brown is, or if he does indeed get down, but the excellent rhyme leaves me hopeful."
"Yes. Yes. Yes."
Several weeks later, Kurt woke up in the home he and Blaine were building together. He'd leaned over and kissed his still-snoozing boyfriend, and rose to head downstairs to check the mailbox.
When he opened the door, there had been a Goldman & Sachs box waiting for him, with a diamond-studded musical note pin.
His stalker had followed him.
-O-