Oh my God guys. I am SO overwhelmed by the response to this story. Thank you so much for the alerts and favourites and reviews. They make me smile so much and make my day so much brighter. Here's the next chapter, sorry it took so long, life sort of got in the way. Damn you. But here! Hope you enjoy it!
"Worthless."
The words came with a slap to the face, sending him flying, pain blooming in his jaw. He felt himself hit the ground hard but didn't dare get up or look up. He stifled the cry of pain, but obviously wasn't quiet enough. A fist grabbed his hair, making him sob, and he felt blows begin to rain down on his back. He desperately tried to get to his safe place in his mind, where he could ignore the beatings, pretend his father was still alive, that all was well…
"No!"
His own voice jolted him into sudden wakefulness, and Kurt Hummel sat bolt upright, tears streaming down his face. For a moment, he looked around wildly, his back burning, not remembering where he was or how he got into the neat, clean room, in the bed. Master was going to be so mad, he needed to make breakfast and coffee and –
Then he remembered.
The curly haired boy at the market.
Tender words.
Kind touches.
Slowly his body relaxed, though his eyes darted around the room. Sun was just filtering down through the window, and the room was empty. There was a rumpled pile of blankets on the floor where Master – Blaine – he reminded himself of the order, had obviously slept. That in itself confused him. Why was he in the bed and Blaine on the floor. He didn't buy the whole friendship spiel the boy had said last night – there was always something that they wanted. Normally he was good at figuring them out. The last Master had wanted sex. The Mistress before that, his singing voice.
What would Blaine want from him?
Part of him wanted to believe Blaine's words. He hadn't had a friend in such a long time… he could barely remember Mercedes or Rachel's faces anymore. And Blaine had been so tender, too, last night. He remembered how he had backed off immediately when Kurt flinched away at the offer to wash him – (dirty hands rubbing over him, touching, rubbing, pinching, hurting, never stopping) or how his amber eyes shone when he spoke. Another time, another place, he would've thought Blaine Anderson to be handsome. But now the idea of that filled him with panic.
The logical part of him told him that he needed to go back to his subspace. The only reason he wasn't totally shattered like the ones he had seen at the market was because of that. He would think of anything else in any given situation – often music. Reciting lyrics, chords, anything in his head to distract him from the pain. Blaine hadn't given him a set of duties yet – he could only pray that he was one of those masters that bought pretty things to look at, not to actually play with.
Kurt shook his head, an act that he immediately regretted, the world spinning about him. How many days had it been since he had eaten? Four? Five? He was surprised he hadn't passed out yet. The room was empty and after debating with himself for a couple of minutes, he forced his aching and burning body out of bed to find his master. The bath had done wonders, making him feel slightly more human, but everything hurt. After making the bed as neat as he could – his new master seemed to have an obsession with stuffed animals – he wandered down the hallway, following some clanging sounds, making his way to what looked like a chef's happy place but must be the kitchen, while his curly haired master slaved over the stove. He must've made a noise or something, because Blaine looked up.
"Oh! You're awake, I thought you'd sleep longer." Mas – Blaine – said with a frown. "Did you sleep all right?"
Kurt was at a loss of what to say. If he admitted that he hadn't, he'd admit to being weak, and masters didn't like that. But hadn't Blaine seen him at his weakest already? Luckily, he didn't have to answer because another voice, clearly irritated, interrupted. "Blaine, it is six in the morning, and I have other patients. Can we hurry up?" Kurt jumped when he noticed the small Latina girl in the corner, eyes widening when he saw the pin attached to her rather low cut shirt marking her as a medical intern.
Kurt flinched at the harsh tone, dropping his gaze, surprised when Blaine snapped, "Santana, you promised to do this favour without complaining. So. Stop complaining. You're scaring him. Kurt, come here."
Kurt's feet took him there automatically, head bowed, waiting for the reprimand or the blow. Instead, warm fingers tilted his head up and he was forced to meet amber eyes that looked… concerned? Kurt quickly dropped his gaze. He couldn't help but flinch when warm and slightly sticky fingers tilted his head up, forcing him to meet Blaine's eyes.
"Hey. Santana's a bit snappish and rude, but she won't hurt you. I meant what I said, Kurt. I won't let anyone hurt you."
What was this man playing at? Before being put into circulation, he would've found the earnestness endearing and would've trusted him immediately. But he had seen this before. The master would act all sweet and nice to earn your trust, and then turn around and use it against you. No. Not this time. Kurt would be prepared. It didn't matter if sincerity rolled off of him in waves, or how Kurt could easily see himself sinking into those amber eyes, or how the gentle way Blaine was stroking his cheek to calm him down. The moment he let down his guard would be the moment he sealed his fate.
"Excuse me. I am not rude. I am doing this out of the goodness of my heart, Anderson, so don't test me. Skinny white boy, get your slave ass over here."
Kurt loathed to break the connection with Blaine, but he found himself kneeling at Santana's feet. She heaved an impatient sigh. "How the hell am I going to check you out if you kneel? On your feet. Facing me and strip."
Kurt obeyed, tensing up when her hands touched his body, ready for the fondling or the hurting. Doctors were notorious for the mistreatment of slaves, claiming it was just medical practice. But despite her harsh words and fierce growls, her hands were gentle and firm as she checked him out. He couldn't bite back the pained noises as she touched over one of the slashes on his back, but she didn't seem to notice. After taking his temperature and pulse, she turned to Blaine.
"Damn, Anderson, you sure know how to pick them. I have no idea how the fuck he's still alive, from the way he's been treated. Are you sure he's worth it?"
Kurt flinched.
Worthless.
He waited for Blaine to affirm Santana, to agree, some desperate part of him wanting to hear –
"Yes. I couldn't just let him die, Tana. Tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."
…Fix it?
Fix… him?
Kurt stared at Blaine in shock as Santana rattled things off ("Severe starvation and dehydration – don't feed or water him too much at first or it'll make him sick. Liquids only for a couple days, then something easy for the stomach. Two cuts are infected, I'll leave antibiotics. He has a slight fever, probably from the infection, so keep him warm. One of his ribs is either cracked or bruised, either way, make sure he doesn't do any lifting or bending.") and Blaine nodded. Blaine actually was paying money to help him out. He wasn't throwing him out on the streets, he wasn't getting him euthanized. Actually paying good, hard earned money for him, Kurt Hummel, a slave.
Something inside of Kurt broken – or mended. He didn't know which. He hadn't had real medicine since his father had died. He hadn't had a bath unless it was out in the rain or he was bathing one of his maters. Real food was just a dream, he was usually left to eat the leftovers off his master's plates. And yet Blaine had given him clothes, bathed him, and now he was paying money to get medicine.
Kurt didn't realize he was crying and blubbering until Blaine's concern voice went, "Hey, hey, hey, calm down, what's wrong?"
Kurt couldn't articulate his thoughts. Blaine had ordered him earlier to speak freely, but he didn't know how to at the moment. So he settled for sobbing out, "T-thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Blaine's hand closed around his arm and tugged him forward and suddenly he was in a warm embrace. He blinked in shock, seeing over Blaine's shoulder Santana smile and leave, tensing. Blaine was touching him. Not even in a sexual way. Not in a healing way. Just a… hug. He hadn't been hugged… Kurt slowly, timidly, wrapped his arms around Blaine's solid, warm form.
"I promise you, Kurt. As long as you're mine, I'll take care of you. I won't hurt you, I won't beat you, I won't take away food or basic human necessities if I'm upset. You can trust me, there's no need for you to be scared anymore. I'll protect you."
His old master's voice was whispering in his ear, calling him worthless, useless, that no one would actually want him. But compared to the warmth of the boy holding him gently, compared to the touches, his old master was nothing. Not when the reality in front of him – oh, God, he hoped this wasn't a dream because if it was he wouldn't be able to stand it, it'd be the one thing that broke him forever – was so vivid.
He was going to give Blaine the one thing that could shatter him for the rest of his life, and it made his body shake harder, Blaine's gentle whispers and soothing words rolling over him in waves. Swallowing hard through the lump in the throat, the salve whispered the three words that he knew could spell out his end:
"I believe you."
