It's cute, at first, Kurt's reluctance toward PDA. He's all blushing cheeks and fumbling hands and "Blaine, stops" and Blaine chalks it up to the newness of it all. Kurt's nothing if not internal, and if he needs to parse everything out in his mind, admit to himself that it's all happening, then Blaine can give him that. So he concedes when Kurt rejects his attempt to hold hands; he doesn't stop trying, because he loves the wildness in his eyes that precedes the rejection, and because he wants to make sure Kurt knows that he's never going to stop trying to hold his hand.
Because when they're alone he is as affectionate as he is distant in public. They spend hours learning each other's mouths, bodies, the feel of skin under fingertips in the stolen hours of the afternoon, that strange, fluid time when adults are still off being adults and they are left to their own devices. Kurt hovers over him, the light filtering in from the window behind him framing him in a kind of glow and blinding Blaine to anything but the face he would gladly spend the rest of his life staring at, staring down with a kind of gentle hunger, like he's trying to memorize him, store him up for later. Blaine doesn't doubt Kurt's feelings for him; at least not at first.
But a week turns into two weeks, and then a month, and the novelty, the uncertainty, that should be gone; it is gone, judging by how their hands no longer shake when they touch each other. How they'll pause at the front door and Kurt will pull him in by a handful of shirt and kiss him hard and deep like he's been dying to do it all day even though they've been doing it for an hour already. And then just as quickly he'll let go, stand up a little straighter, and Blaine's chest will still be warm from Kurt's grip as they walk out onto the porch and toward one of their cars. How they'll go to a movie and not even hold brush arms across the armrest but he finds himself pressed against the wall as soon as they get back to the house, Kurt's hands running over his body like a blind man trying to see.
It strikes him a little after their month anniversary (a lovely, quiet dinner at Kurt's house, because he'd insisted that Blaine not fuss, even though he had made reservations at Kurt's favorite restaurant) that Kurt's friends don't seem to know about them. About them being them. He would've taken out a billboard; he called to get some prices, actually. But they don't greet him any differently, don't seem confused or interested or anything at all when Kurt doesn't sit next to him while they all watch movies, doesn't permit or even acknowledge it when Blaine leans across an empty chair to give him a quick kiss during game night. He's sitting, contemplating this, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Come over tonight? –Kurt
He looks up and Kurt's toying absentmindedly with his phone, eyes darting quickly around, locking with Blaine's only long enough to give him a short, predatory grin before darting around again, checking if anyone's noticed. Blaine raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to speak, but Kurt turns and starts talking to Mercedes.
Have you lost the ability to speak?—Blaine
Do you want to go? Get a head start and I'll be right behind you? I miss you.—Kurt
Blaine doesn't point out that they've been in the same room all night and it's Kurt's fault that he misses him because he's the one doing the ignoring. He doesn't ask why they can't leave together. But he thinks it, he thinks all of it, and it settles like a rock somewhere between his heart and his stomach.
He makes his excuses, goes through the motions of goodbyes, and pretends he doesn't see the infinitesimal wink Kurt shoots him along with the casual wave goodbye. He takes the stairs slowly, waiting for the familiar sound of Kurt's boots as he catches up, but he only hears the ringing laugh he has memorized.
Somewhere between Rachel's house and Kurt's, the weight in his chest starts to burn. He briefly considers turning around, driving home, but he knows he never will; he'll never refuse Kurt anything, and that fact scares him, makes the burn start to twist, and he can feel the edges of it, sharp and piercing through his heart, his lungs, until he's gasping for breath.
He's reduced to glowing embers when he hears Kurt's car in the driveway, sees the boots enter his field of vision from the porch, where he's slid down against the brick wall because that's all he could think to do.
"Hey," Kurt says happily, smile bright as he unlocks the door. He doesn't offer a hand to help Blaine up, eyes darting again as he sees the old lady from next door letting her cat out. He waves and walks through the door, leaving it open, and Blaine sighs as he stands and follows him inside.
Blaine is barely through the door when he's being pushed against it, again, and Kurt's lips have only been on his for a moment before he ducks away, leaving Kurt confused and rubbing his nose where it hit the door.
"What's wrong?" he asks, and he sounds irritated.
"Ah, so it's ok to talk to me now, is it?" Blaine asks, and he mentally thanks his years of performing for pulling a petulant voice out of him, anything that doesn't betray the sobbing that's been flowing through every thought he's had since he started driving.
"What are you talking about?" Kurt bites back, never one to give an inch in battle, but his eyes flash in that way that say he knows he's been caught. "We were together all night."
"In the loosest sense," Blaine drawls, steeling himself to say what's coming next, because he knows that as soon as he does, they're in this. "Why haven't you told them about us?"
Kurt's mouth falls open, just a little, before he closes it too loudly, and Blaine sees his eyes dart again, seemingly sweeping the dark, empty living room for signs of danger. He takes a deep breath, then another, and opens his mouth to speak.
And he lies.
"Of course I told them about us," he says with a too sharp to be casual shake of his head, as if Blaine's the silliest thing he's ever seen. His voice is just a little too high, the way it sounds when he's lying to his dad about why his bedroom door was shut.
"No," Blaine says simply. "No, you didn't. You haven't." And something about the lie fires the embers again, but they're not taking his breath away this time; he wants to spit them out, to use them to break through whatever this is that Kurt's doing. "You haven't," he repeats. "You won't, will you?"
"Blaine," Kurt tries to interrupt, reaches out a hand but lets it fall after they both just watch it dangle uselessly in the suddenly cavernous space between them. But everything suddenly makes sense to Blaine now, and he's not going to let Kurt talk him out of it.
"You're embarrassed by me," he says, all revelations, like he's reading the answer key to a riddle that's stumped him. He nods as he talks, the pieces all falling into place. "You're ashamed. Of me – of us. Of what we are. Which – what are, we, Kurt? Because no one knows, and no one sees. If a tree falls in the forest…" he trails off, laughing bitterly, ignoring Kurt's next attempt to speak. "If you were just looking for someone to practice on, you should've told me."
"That's not what this is, Blaine," Kurt argues, finding his voice enough to avoid being drowned out. "You know that."
"Then why won't you let me touch you? When we're out?" Blaine challenges, taking a step forward. "Why won't you tell your friends?" Another step. "Why won't you tell anyone?" He feels justified and vindicated and so sick that he's sure he's about to pass out, fall right over, but he takes one last step, standing defiantly in Kurt's space. It's silent in the room apart from their breathing, which makes Kurt's scream even more terrifying.
"Because they'll take you, too!"
His voice breaks on the last word just as his knees appear to give out, and Blaine only barely catches him around the waist, lowering him gently to the ground and feeling himself getting pulled down by Kurt's hands, desperate on his chest, his arm, anything he can reach. Kurt sobs for what feels like hours, deep, wheezing inhalations giving way to wracking screams. His eyes are wild again and it's like he's being tortured; Blaine is sure he can't hear the soothing words he's trying his best to spit out, frowning at how they tangle on his tongue in his confusion.
"Kurt," he tries again, louder this time, bringing his hands up to frame the boy's face, hold him still. "Kurt! Kurt, what's wrong? Who's taking me? Kurt, talk to me!"
"They," Kurt gasps, half yelling again, flailing his hands vaguely around them. "All of them. They took my voice and they took my life and they're not taking YOU!" He burrows into Blaine's shoulder and Blaine lets him, no longer feeling the fire, the embers, anything but fear for what's happening right now, gathering Kurt as best as he can in his arms and resting his forehead against his hair, pulling Kurt's hand to his chest.
"Like me," Blaine says gently, taking a deep, steady breath. "Breathe like me." Kurt shudders out a huff of air and he's so red and he's shaking and Blaine can feel his heart racing. "C'mon, baby, in. Out. Just like me, yeah? Focus on my heartbeat. In. Out." He keeps taking exaggerated breaths, muttering encouragements, until Kurt's breathing is closer to normal, or as close as it's going to get when he's still crying like this, just silent tears streaming down his face.
"My dad has lived and worked here his entire life," Kurt says quietly, voice hoarse from crying, from that scream that had finally broken through everything he'd been trying to hide. "But that didn't stop them from calling the second I wanted to sing a 'girl' song. From calling me – and him – every awful thing they could think of. From taking their business to other mechanics."
"Kurt," Blaine tightens his grip, but Kurt's still talking, so low that Blaine can almost feel the vibrations better than he can hear.
"They let Karofsky back in school. They shove me into lockers and slushy Mercedes and harass Finn for living with the f-fag," he stutters a little on the epithet and his breath hitches before Blaine covers his hand with his palm and takes another steadying breath, nodding encouragingly when Kurt matches it. "They stopped me from singing that song and they drove me out of my school and away from my friends and they took my whole life away from me. I don't want them to take you, too."
"They won't," Blaine says immediately, starts again at the skepticism in Kurt's eyes when he looks up. "I've dealt with my share of hate; they can't touch me."
"You don't know," Kurt breathes. "You – you can blend. You can talk about sports and wink at girls and be charming and polite and nonthreatening. Everything – every single thing about me – scares them. They lash out."
"That's why you won't let me touch you," Blaine says, eyes closing, and he feels Kurt nod.
"If they don't know, there's no reason to…" he trails off, not really knowing how to finish. "It's so hard, Blaine. Because I want to hold your hand and kiss you and scream it from the rooftops that I love Blaine Anderson and he seems to love me back. But they're going to take it. They're going to push, and push, and they're going to take you away like they took everything else from me."
"Kurt," Blaine starts again, leaning back and pulling Kurt into more of a sitting position. They sit facing each other for a minute, breathing, and Blaine gives him a small smile before he continues.
"First of all, you just said you love me, so I'd be remiss not to tell you that I'm so completely in love with you that I can't see straight most of the time." Kurt laughs a little when he crosses his eyes for emphasis before his face grows serious again and he takes both of Kurt's hands in his own.
"Second of all. You can't protect everyone," he sighs. "Not your friends and not your dad and not me. You don't have to. We're here. I'm here. We're together."
"They're going to—" Kurt starts again, but Blaine leans forward, pressing their lips together gently, briefly, before pulling back, squeezing his hands.
"Let them. They're not taking anything else away from you."