Heya! So warning: this chapter is pretty... angsty. And weepy. So, you have been warned. Physical violence and crying, guys.

There's also some French, which we all have to praise loulouclochette from tumblr for writing for us, because seriously; before it was not nice. I'm not sure if it even counted as French. :) So thanks SO MUCH to her, and as always to my beta! XD


CHAPTER THREE

For a moment Kurt couldn't breathe, couldn't think past anything other than the sudden, wracking pain radiating from his gut.

He vaguely felt the fist draw back as he gasped, doubling over, struggling to get his lungs to work past the shock and pain to get oxygen into his system, before the fist crashed back again.

This time the impact sent him back, reeling, as he tried to collect his thoughts. He saw the other fist coming towards him, and suddenly the world snapped into painful clarity, with no time for thinking, or speaking, just simple, pure movement.

He ducked, slipped to the side, and the man stumbled, the scent of liquor heavy on his breath as he whirled around, trying to locate Kurt with bloodshot eyes. Kurt was tense, his whole body thrumming with energy, the pain of the hits he has already taken momentarily pushed aside.

"You…" The man squinted, and Kurt felt his muscles clenching in anticipation. The man frowned, finally seeming to see him. "Where have you been, you little shit?" He exploded, and dove for him again.

"School." He answered, even if it's futile, and understanding dawnes in the man's eyes as Kurt caught his wavering arm with two hands, feeling his feet slip backwards slightly as his arms shook with the effort of holding back his drunken force.

"School?" The man slurred, frowning, before fury descended like a cloud in his eyes. "Don't lie to me! You're late! I bet you were out fucking all your little faggot friends!" The shouts exploded, fists and flying limbs accompanying each and every syllable as Kurt ducked and wove, being driven back into the kitchen and skirting around the island counter.

"There was traffic!" He cried, but now the man is beyond reason. He grabbed a glass and threw it, and Kurt felt it shatter against the wall right next to his head, but there was no time, no time to react or think or feel or scream it was just move move move move

He was never sure how it happens. It has happened so many times, so, so many times, and he could never figure out how he ended up in these positions, blows raining down. One minute he'd be on his feet, defending himself as much as he could, and then he'd be in his room, back pressed against the door while he pounded upon the thin wood. Or he'd be curled up on the stairs, sometimes at the top, sometimes at the bottom, with tears leaking from his eyes as a foot connected with his body over and over again.

Or like now, he'd find himself against the wall, sliding down it only for another kick or slap or punch to push him up it again, one hand bracing itself against the door as he struggled to protect his face and all he could do was take it and take it and take it and pray that it would stop before he died.

"Don't you ever, ever lie to me again! You go to school, you come home and that's it, alright? That. Is. It!" The screams seemed to echo in his ears, and he nodded frantically, sobbing now and hating himself for it but it hurt and all he could do was nod and agree and cry and please let it stop soon please please please.

His vision was darkening at the edges before his father finally backed off, his fist connecting with the wall as Kurt finally collapsed. This seemed to momentarily stump him for a while, and he stared uncomprehendingly at the yellow paint before glaring at Kurt's shaking, tiny, curled up form for a minute before stumbling off, muttering combinations of threats and pleas for more alcohol.

For several long minutes all Kurt could do was breathe. Slowly, he sat up, wincing as his body immediately thrummed with agony, insistently letting him know that it was injured, and it took several dizzy, throbbing moments before Kurt shakily breathed out again.

He could hear the flickering noise of the TV as he got to his feet, achingly slowly, and he caught a glimpse of the back of his father's head as he began to creep up the stairs as quietly as he could.

Kurt's legs gave out once more as soon as he had reached his bedroom, and for a while he just sat there, back against the door, his fingers spidering around on the desk next to him until they found the familiar box, the one that brings sweet relief to the pain.

He leant his head back, the shrieking, twisting, hurtful knife-like pain fading to dull, pulsing aches.

He cried.

And he remembered exactly why he couldn't join Glee. Why he couldn't let Mercedes, or Tina, or Sam, or Mike or even Rachel in.

Why Blaine couldn't get close.


Kurt didn't know how long he'd been asleep when he suddenly jerked awake, head lifting from the wood of his still closed bedroom door.

Instantly, his body protested, and he clenched his teeth, tears stinging in his eyes as air whistled between his lips in a hiss of pain. He stilled for a moment, grimacing as he reached for the box of ibuprofen that was still lying by his side on the thinning blue carpet.

He had no idea whether enough time has passed to take another dose, but he really didn't care with pain slamming through his body afresh with every beat of his heart. When he opened his mouth to slip the pills in, swallowing them dry with practised ease, he felt that uniquely odd stiffness on his cheeks from dried tears.

He sat as still as he could, trying to ignore the ache he was getting from breathing, waiting for the medication to dull the pain back into bearable territory. He let out a long breath when he felt it beginning to fade slightly, and with a small grunt he clambered ungracefully to his feet.

He was shaking and breathing hard by the time he got to his en suite bathroom, but he got there, and it felt like a small victory. He stripped, purposely ignoring the mirror that spanned the space above the sink, pretending obliviousness to himself about the pain.

It hadn't been this bad for a while. It hadn't exactly gotten better, but it hadn't been this bad. The last time this had happened was last year, when a slushie from Karofsky at the end of the day had taken longer than anticipated to wash out, causing him to be late.

Kurt didn't understand his father. He didn't understand what he did wrong, or why Kurt makes him so angry. He didn't understand why his father hates him. He didn't understand how he drinks so much he can barely stand.

He didn't understand how the man who used to be half of Kurt's entire world could change so much after the other half died. It was hard. It has been eight years, but thinking about his mother still hurt sometimes.

But he didn't understand how Elizabeth's death could turn the man he used to love so much into a complete stranger.

And most of all he didn't understand how he can make it better.

With another sigh, he finally raised his eyes to the mirror, wincing at the sight of the crusted blood on his lower neck and right collarbone. He let his eyes trace the layers of bruises along his abdomen, the fresh, ugly reddish ones that discolour his stomach standing out prominently over the others, which were of varying degrees of age and were displaying an impressive range of colours.

His left shoulder was still slightly bigger than the other one, flushed an unhealthy red from being shoved into a doorframe last week. There was a particularly oddly shaped bruise on his right shoulder, which he couldn't remember getting. Underneath the bandage around his arm was a jagged, half-healed cut from when he wasn't quite quick enough to avoid a shattered beer bottle.

His face was thankfully mostly clear; the only signs being the dark shadows under his eyes and the blotchy quality of his skin from crying so much earlier. He continued to survey the damage as he reached for his moisturising products. His dedication to his skincare regimen came from several things.

For one thing, he did enjoy having beautiful skin that he knew more than one of the Cheerio's envied. For another, his mother always used to tell him how important to take care of himself, and he held on to anything he could remember of her.

And lastly, if his face was put together, people didn't tend to look closer. Except for certain people like Rachel, but then she was insane. And she only wanted him because he'd look pretty swaying in the background behind her, not because she particularly cares.

He was not thinking about the other exception.

It took him over an hour to get through the shower, first aid and skin care that he needed, but finally he emerged from the bathroom, dressed in soft, silken pyjamas, bare feet padding softly over the floor.

He surveyed his room for a moment, lingering on the crisply made bed, but he couldn't stay there. A glance at the clock told him it was 11pm, so he was probably safe.

Very, very quietly he shuffled out of the door, his legs in surprisingly good shape compared to the rest of him, and softly made his way along the corridor of their two-storey house and into his parent's bedroom.

His mother's bedroom. He knew for a fact that his father hasn't set foot in here since the time long ago when he had to retrieve his clothes and pack away Elizabeth's things, not allowing his son to keep even the smallest memento of his mother.

But one advantage of him being drunk most of the time was the opportunities for exploration it gave Kurt.

Mostly in the early hours of the morning, he would creep around the house, searching with terrified nine-year old eyes. He knew that his father hadn't thrown them out, the boxes. He knew they were still hidden in his house somewhere.

It had taken a year to find the loft, and another three months after that until he worked out how to get up there, but now Kurt pulled down the ladder with practised ease, hauling himself up and pulling the ladder after him, sealing himself inside.

This was his haven. This was his safe place, the only safe place. There was one window, but at this time of night it didn't provide any light. It wasn't a problem though, because Elizabeth's tasselled, floral print lamp was up there.

He switched it on, and a warm, rosy golden light filled the area. It was small, it was cramped, but it was clean thanks to him, arranged cosily, and it smelt of her.

He perched his battered body down on her ottoman, sighing softly as it sent a cloud of her perfume wafting around him. She used to experiment with perfume, so sometimes she smelt very strange, but this smell, this fresh, clean, cookies-and-flowers-and-sunshine smell, that smell was always there, under whatever cloud of scent she had decided to immerse herself in that day.

It was her smell. It was the smell of home, of comfort.

He closed his eyes, breathing in, and he didn't try to stop his tears despite the fact that he'd probably have to spend another half an hour when he got downstairs cleaning it up again.

"Bonsoir, Maman. Père était encore fâché aujourd'hui. Je ne comprends pas ce que j'ai fait pour le mettre autant en colère, mais j'essaye. Je te jure que j'essaye, Maman."He always speaks to her in French. She taught him the rudimentary basics of the language, and it's another piece of her, another piece that nobody will ever, ever be able to take away from him. She always said that she loved the language, that is was more beautiful than English because it sounded like a song.

(Good evening, mama. Father was angry again today. I still don't understand what I did to make him so angry, but I'm trying. I promise I am, mama.)

"J'ai rencontré quelqu'un aujourd'hui. C'est un nouvel étudiant à l'école. Son nom est Blaine, et il est plus petit que moi, avec les cheveux noirs. Je pense qu'ils sont frisés, ses cheveux, mais je ne suis pas sûr parce qu'il met beaucoup trop de gel. Je crois que tu l'aimerais bien, Maman, malgré le gel."

(I met someone today. He's a new student at school. His name's Blaine, and he's shorter than I am, with black hair. I think it's curly, but I'm not sure because he gels it so much. You would like him, I think, mama, despite the gel.)

"Il a des yeux magnifiques, et un très beau sourire. Je l'aime beaucoup, mais… je sais que je dois le repousser, Maman, mais je crois que ça lui ferait mal, et je ne veux pas ça. Ça me fait mal à moi aussi." He closed his eyes again; breathing in her scent deeply as if he could somehow contain it, keep it inside him forever.

(He has beautiful eyes, and the biggest smile. I really like him, but… you know. I know that I have to keep him away, mama, but I think it would hurt him, and I don't want to do that. It would hurt me too.)

"Tu me manques." The words left his lips as they always did, before he could stop them, because they were the truest words he could think to say to her. He glanced at the antique clock on the dresser, which was perfectly in synch despite its age. Kurt wasn't sure who it belonged to, but he thought it may have been from his grandmother.

(I miss you.)

It was nearly midnight, and he should really get to sleep, give his body at least a vague chance to recuperate. He could still feel the aches, but it seemed unimportant, as it always did, when he was there, so close to his mother. He stood, flicked off the light, and wiped his eyes.

"Je t'aime, maman. Bonne nuit."

(Love you, mama. Good night.)


So, here it is, Chapter 3, and I think I can honestly say I haven't updated something this fast in like... ever.

But anyway, I didn't have a chance last chapter to say THANK YOU SO FREAKING MUCH to everyone who read and reviewed, and special thanks to my beta's friends - I know you guys only read cause she asked you to, so the fact that you liked it makes me really happy!

Thanks again to loulouclochette for literally SAVING the French from the depths of despair and horrible things (seriously; google translate. Not pretty.) and my amazingly fantastic slightly insane beta! :) Kisses for both of you guys! XD

I hope everybody enjoyed it, despite the weepiness, and please review! XD