"Kurt? Are you there?" It was Blaine.

Shitshitshitshitshit

Kurt tore a trail of toilet paper from the holder, twisting it into a makeshift bandage around his arm. He swiped the tears from underneath his eyes, jerked his sleeve down over the damage, and, without bothering to clean up the mess he had left behind, slammed his bathroom door shut and turned off the light. His unsteady hands flattened down the flyaway strands of hair as he jumped down the stairs two at a time, arriving at the front door and calmly pulling it open.

"H...Hey," Kurt smiled breathlessly.

"Hey. Sorry, I... I know this is unexpected – I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. I was wondering if I could borrow your homework sheet for English to scan. I need it for tonight and I forgot mine at school," he said sheepishly.

"Uh yeah, yeah that's fine," Kurt replied, contorting his face into what he desperately hoped resembled a smile. "Uh, my bag's upstairs let me get it. You can come in."
Blaine obliged, and stepped inside the Hummel household, shuffling his feet on the doormat so as not to track in dirt. Kurt hurried upstairs, and was rifling through his bag when he heard footsteps behind him. Unaware that he had been followed, Kurt started slightly and opened his mouth to say something but Blaine interrupted.

"Are you okay? You seemed kind of... off today, and I just wanted to make sure Karofsky wasn't giving you shit or anything like that," he offered meekly.

"No, I've just been really tired lately. Haven't been getting enough sleep I guess, my dad's been really on me about getting my grades up. Oh, uh, here's the homework," Kurt replied, handing over the sheet they'd been given in class.
"Thank… Jesus Christ, Kurt –" Blaine looked down in horror at the sheet, as did Kurt, and only after several seconds did he realize that Blaine's shock wasn't directed at the homework, but instead at the patches of blood that were slowly soaking through Kurt's sleeve.

"No, I—" Kurt stammered, but he realized it was no use. Blaine's eyes were accusing and piercing as they tried to penetrate his sleeve, but upon failing searched for the answer in his eyes instead.

"Show me your arm, please, Kurt."
"No. No, it's nothing, I didn't— no. No," he protested, hoping to come off as forceful, but he knew Blaine could sense the undertone of hysteria laced in his voice. Blaine moved towards him, but with every step he took towards Kurt, Kurt took one back until he was pressed against his bedroom wall, Blaine's body mere inches from his.

Although Blaine was a bit taller than him, Kurt was still able to count every eyelash that adorned his eyes, study every freckle that speckled the bridge of his nose, and in any other situation wouldn't have minded this position one bit. Given the circumstances however, he silently pleaded for an escape.

Everything seemed to be happening at an impossibly sluggish speed. Gradually, as if trying not to frighten a stray dog, Blaine's right hand found Kurt's left. Kurt simply stood there, unable to move, paralyzed – by what he didn't know, fear? terror? the fact that this was the closest he had ever been to Blaine? – and watched in mounting trepidation as Blaine raised his arm. Normally Kurt would have fought back, obscuring his arm behind him, but something was mesmerizing him and rendering his entire body limp.

Instead, his morbid anticipation was holding him spellbound as Blaine gently pushed the sleeve away from Kurt's wrist. Upon finding his arm hastily covered in the improvised wrap, his eyes flickered briefly to Kurt's, and Kurt held his breath. Blaine pinched the corner of the toilet paper, unraveling it deliberately. Once the crude bandage had fallen to the ground, Blaine turned over Kurt's arm.

Never before had Kurt realized how severe the damage he had done was until he considered what is must have looked like from an outsider's perspective. His skin had once been a flawless, pallid canvas, blank of any disturbances. But eventually it began to reflect the mental damage that incessantly tormented him, until Kurt was just as wounded on the outside as he was on the inside. White, purple, pink, red – a myriad of colors and marks were littered across his arm, each one physical evidence of a time when Kurt had fallen prey to the demons in his mind.

From the very bottom of his palm to the crook in his elbow, slice after slice, mark after mark, scar after scar – to count them would have taken an endless amount of time. Blood was leaking from the fresh cuts, but he made no effort to clean himself up for fear of breaking the silence that held Blaine rapt. As Blaine studied his arm, Kurt studied Blaine. His brows were furrowed, his eyes were moving rapidly up and down, taking in every single wound, his lips were slightly slack in awe – or was it horror at the sight that lay before him?