Title is from "The Ghost Of You" by My Chemical Romance.

Please heed the trigger warning: mentions of rape.

Tumblr is here (endofadream)


Mr. Schue holds rehearsal in the auditorium that afternoon. One by one the club members slowly gather and sit cross-legged on the floor. Everyone stares out into the darkness, not wanting to be the first one to speak. Being together like this reminds them too much. It is, eventually, Mr. Schue who speaks first.

"For the rest of the year, rehearsal will be held here," he says, standing up just outside the circle. He's trying to appear calm and collected, but it isn't hard to miss the deadened look in his eyes, the lack of enthusiasm or anything in his voice. He's like a robot, programmed to say these things without really feeling anything.

"Is it even worth it to rehearse anymore?" Kitty asks, sudden and sharp and challenging. "Does it even matter after what happened last week?"

Mr. Schue opens his mouth, but he closes it almost immediately, looks away. He doesn't have it in him anymore to argue. Kitty stands up, her jaw set, her eyes ablaze. It's similar to the look she'd had in the choir room—a mixture of anguish, hatred, fear. The room stays silent as she looks around. "Do any of you even care?"

"Of course we do," Marley says, but one glare and she's quieting down again, huddling up close to Ryder's side.

"None of you have any idea what Blaine is going through. We can rehearse all we want for this stupid competition, but even if we do win it won't matter." There is palpable surprise when a tear slides down Kitty's face. She doesn't bother to wipe it away, and there's an almost-noticeable fissure in her carefully-created demeanor. "Blaine isn't here today because he had a panic attack." She looks at Tina and Sam, who look down, avoiding her eyes. "He had a panic attack because some bastard ruined his life and took something from him last week. We were all there. We saw it happen."

A collective shudder runs through the room. It's been something that's been pushed out of minds, hidden away for the darkness of nightmares. No one wants to admit what they'd seen. No one wants to admit that they're just as changed, that whatever vision they'd had for themselves outside of high school is going to be different in some way now.

"Blaine did it for us." Kitty's voice trembles now. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides. "He kept the rest of us safe, and this is how you repay him, by trying to pretend that it didn't happen?"

Her voice cracks, thunderous in the auditorium like a sharp bolt of lightning. She doesn't sit, but she sways where she stands, her hands covering her face as her shoulders shake. There is silence again, but, slowly, Marley stands up. Then Tina, then Sam, Brittany and then Jake and Ryder with Artie wheeling behind him; silently, in perfect synchronicity, they come together in the middle as one.


Kurt isn't surprised when Stella Anderson calls him just after noon, her voice stressed but not necessarily frantic. Kurt wants to be mad at Blaine for lying, for being stubborn and going back even when both he and Kurt knew that he shouldn't, but it's impossible. Blaine is one of the most stubborn people Kurt knows, and forcing himself through something is his way of showing that he's okay—even when he's not.

Kurt hangs up and goes downstairs to tell his father. Burt is still stung by the way Blaine had reacted, but he understands, Kurt thinks. They'd sat down that night and through tears and hugs and toast they'd talked, they'd cried, and they'd wondered. It wasn't a matter of simply asking when, but asking how. Not when will Blaine be okay, but how will he be okay? How will he deal with this? How will everyone deal with this?

There isn't any way that they can move on with their lives and put this behind him. There's an entire group of kids who witnessed it, kids that Kurt knows, has talked to, has been friends with. Blaine isn't alone, but he's also pushing everyone away. And though Kurt won't admit it, it hurts.

He gets to Blaine's house faster than he'd care to admit, and Stella leads him upstairs. William is on the couch in the living room, and Kurt's eyebrows rise in surprise when he sees him. They both nod in acknowledgement before Kurt ascends the stairs, taking them slowly. His hand is gripped tight onto the banister.

Blaine's door is ajar, light spilling out onto the cream-colored hallway rug. He knocks, once, before pushing the door open and stepping in. Kurt holds his breath, unaware that he is, and realizes it only when his eyes finally land on Blaine in the center of his bed and he exhales, slow and uneven.

Blaine's wearing a sweater despite it being almost unseasonably warm outside, but Kurt doesn't say anything about it as he takes a seat in the chair against the wall. The silence drags on, broken only by the ticking of the clock on Blaine's vanity. Kurt's picture is still face down. He wonders if Blaine has really even noticed that he's here.

"Hey." Kurt whispers it softly as he runs his hand over the rough denim of his jeans. Blaine's hunched over, head bent down and legs crossed. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything. "Blaine, come on, talk to me."

Blaine shakes his head.

"Blaine, sweetheart, look at me."

Blaine finally looks up, then, and Kurt's already prepared for the flat look in his eyes. It doesn't make it any less scary, but it makes it a little more bearable.

(He tries not to think about how those eyes have haunted his dreams.)

"Don't call me that."

Kurt raises an eyebrow. "What do you want me to call you, then?"

Blaine squeezes his eyes shut, his face lined in pain. He uncrosses his legs and presses them close to his chest. His arms wrap around his shins and he shakes his head. "Don't do that, Kurt. Just. Please. Don't."

"Don't do what?"

"You—you know what you're doing. Treating me like I'm normal. Like I—I'm okay. Like we're still dating."

"We're still best friends," Kurt replies. His chest tightens painfully even as he reminds himself that this isn't Blaine, that he's just lashing out because he has too much going on and no outlet to let it off in. everything is messy and confusing and painful and it's getting harder and harder every day. "You're still normal, Blaine. You are."

"No." Blaine shakes his head, pressing his palms to his temples. He buries his face in his knees, shakes his head again. Kurt gets the urge to rush over to the bed, to take Blaine into his arms and tell him it's all going to be okay. That he's here now and that's all that matters.

But he can't. There's so much different, so much gone wrong, and it's all completely and utterly unfixable. Even when it's okay it's never going to be okay. There's always going to be a thin wall now, something that no one is going to be able to get past. This is Blaine in front of him, but yet…it isn't Blaine. It's a broken, terrified boy.

Kurt tries again, desperate now. He rises from the chair, wrings his hands together in an uncharacteristic display of anxiety, of fear and hopelessness. "Blaine, listen to me. I know it seems hard, but it's going to be—"

"Don't you dare tell me that it's all going to be okay." Blaine is off the bed in a flash, and it's so fast that Kurt has no time to react. The blank stare is gone, replaced with cold fury and heated rage. There is still pain, fresh even after all these days, and Blaine's fingers tremble only slightly as he undoes the buttons of his sweater, rips it off and tosses it to the floor. He has on a simple button-up underneath, and he yanks it from the waistband of his pants, tugs it up until the hem is high up on his abdomen.

Kurt's eyes trail down, and he wishes immediately that they hadn't. The gasp that leaves his mouth is loud and almost theatrical, and he immediately brings his hand over to cover his mouth.

On Blaine's hips, bold and purple and beginning to yellow at the edges from age, are bruises, huge and menacing. They're in the shape of cruel hands, and Kurt stares like it's a trainwreck. He stares, feels the bile rise up in his throat, feels his world spinning rapidly out of control. He wants to speak, wants to offer something, but he can't make his throat work.

"Does this look normal to you?!" Blaine yells. His eyes are welling rapidly, shimmering with the crystals of tears. He lets his shirt fall but the image stays in Kurt's mind, branded there. The hips that he himself has touched countless times, that he's gripped onto in the throes of passion, that he's worshipped with tongue and teeth, are now marred with something dark, something that surpasses skin deep and bruises the soul, leaving an ugly scar there forever.

The tears brim over; fall in rapid succession as they streak down Blaine's red-cheeked face. He stands his full height, but he still seems smaller, more fragile.

Kurt unglues his tongue, drops his shaking hand and says, weak, "Blaine—"

"I was raped, Kurt! Is that what you wanted to hear?" Blaine shouts. His voice cracks, but his eyes are like the flames of hell as they flicker with his bottled-up fury. "Or how about how he got me off, huh? I came when he was fucking me against my will in front of my friends. I bet that's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? I am disgusting, Kurt. I'm fucking disgusting and I deserved it!"

Kurt isn't aware of his own tears until one slides down his face to his lips and into the crease of his mouth. He tongues away the salt, Blaine's words ringing in his ears like a ceaseless slap. This had all been a mistake. Blaine's right—he doesn't deserve Kurt. But not for the reasons he thinks. He doesn't deserve Kurt because he deserves someone better, someone who will know how to handle this.

"I—I don't know what you want me to say," Kurt sobs. He can feel himself breaking, crumbling like an old mountain succumbing to the force of Mother Nature. For once he's the one who buries his face in his hands, lets himself go as wave after wave of anguish rolls over him, drowns him, suffocates him. "Blaine, god, I still love you."

"Do me a favor and don't." Blaine's eyes are still hard, but Kurt catches what he thinks may be a flicker of something else. He sags, his entire body caving in, and collapses onto the bed. He rests his elbows on his thighs, drags the heels of his palms across his forehead. His voice is muffled, weary, when he says, "Please leave."

Kurt doesn't have it in him to argue anymore. His seams are unraveling and he's powerless to stop them.

He runs into William and Stella in the living room, standing side-by-side and looking towards the stairs with worried faces. Kurt sighs, wipes his eyes with his palm and says, "You heard."

"Hard not to," William says, his lips thin. He's always been the spitting image of Cooper with his tall, lean build and bright blue eyes. His hair is grayer, kept shorter, but he carries the same commanding presence that Blaine's brother does.

Stella is Blaine through and through. Her dark hair is wavy, not curling, and is kept gorgeously long. She's just barely taller than Rachel, and is slightly stockier, but there is no denying that she is beautiful.

"I'm sorry," Kurt replies. It comes out as no more than a whisper. He hangs his head. He'd been hoping he could get out before Blaine's parents noticed how much he's screwed everything up. "I'll just—"

A gentle hand on his arm and Kurt looks up into William's graciously-lined eyes. "He still cares about you, you know."

"I'm just messing everything up. Even when I think I'm doing it right I'm…not, and I can't take it anymore. Blaine deserves better than me."

"To Blaine, there is no one better," Stella says. She offers a wan smile, but it brightens up the room like a bouquet of exotic flowers. "I know things aren't easy right now, but Blaine starts therapy this week, and, well, William and I were hoping you could be around."

"He needs you," William adds. It takes everything in Kurt not to laugh.

He bites back his retort, though, and studies the pair. They've both been far more accepting than Kurt's ever though possible, and surprisingly he feels just as at home here as he does at his actual house. He knows that William had struggled at first, remembers Blaine's stories about the car, but once he and Blaine had started dating William had warmed up.

They're asking for his help, and that in itself is surprising. Kurt doesn't know what to say—he wants to say no, wants to admit defeat and fly back to New York. But…he also knows that he can't give up on Blaine. Not like this. Stubborn as he may be, there is still a side of him that needs this, needs Kurt the way Kurt's always needed him, and it's just going to take time and patience and a lot more tact than he's been showing.

He'd researched over the weekend, found articles and articles about what to do, how to behave. He tries to follow it, but when he actually sees the aftermath, sees the real thing and not just some words written by a stranger, it all flies out of his head and leaves him running on autopilot—protect comfort love heal.

"Do you think it's a good idea?" Kurt asks.

"I think it's the best option we have," Stella says. The words aren't much, but they say everything that is going silent. It's hard to miss the flicker of worry across her face.


Kurt meets up with Sam at the Lima Bean the next day after school lets out. It's odd, and a little awkward, but Kurt is eternally grateful to this boy, because without him he wouldn't be here. Or maybe he would—it's impossible to tell, but it's because of Sam that Kurt even knew.

They take a seat by the window, and Kurt can't help but glance over at his and Blaine's usual seat—right now it's occupied by a group of teenage girls giggling over iced mochas and frappes. Kurt envies their ignorance and innocence and yearns for the carefree days of last year, when it was him and Blaine there, so young and naïve in their perception of love and the world; back when flirty touches were all it took and all that mattered because it was all new, the attention and admiration and friendship.

He drags his attention back to his own table only when Sam clears his throat and says, setting down his cup, "So."

Kurt blinks back the onslaught of tears and digs his nails into the hot cardboard around his cup. He has no desire to drink this, but it had been habit, something to do with his hands while they talk. It had been weird not to hear Blaine's smooth, boyish voice chiming in his usual medium drip. "Thank you, Sam. For calling me."

Sam nods, looks away. His eyes are distant, lips pursed, and Kurt wonders what's going through his mind. He'd been Blaine's tether, after all, and the only other detailed account given from the kids in the choir room. He'd seen everything, and Kurt can only guess how it must feel like there's something ugly and evil implanted permanently inside of him now. "No problem, dude."

"Are you…okay?"

Sam laughs, short and sharp, and shakes his head. It's not angry like Blaine's would have been, but resigned. "Not really. I still have nightmares, you know? We all do. We're never going to forget this."

Kurt winces and looks down at the wood grain of the table. He runs his fingers over it, watches the smears that they leave behind. A couple walks past them, hand in hand. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" Sam raises his brows, takes a drink of his coffee.

Kurt shrugs. He doesn't really know why he's apologizing, either, but he doesn't know what to say, and he's so sick of it, like his internal dictionary has been wiped clean and all he can say is I'm sorry, please be okay, I don't know what to do.

He says, instead, "Do you think Blaine's going to be okay?"

It's Sam's turn to wince, and Kurt almost regrets asking the question in the first place. "I don't know. I haven't been to see him since…then because I don't know what to say to him. I know he's still the same dude and all, but I…you didn't see him after, Kurt. He was like a robot. I know it was the shock and all, and he was still in pain and trying to process it, but…that wasn't the Blaine that I knew."

Kurt sees hollow eyes, a slumped figure, a beaten-down boy who had every right to be happy and healthy and enjoying the rest of his senior year. He hears the anger, feels the sharp barb of the words. "I know."

"He won't be the same."

It hits Kurt like a freight train to the chest. He takes a gulp of coffee, breathes past the scald and burn and new rawness on his tongue. He wishes that trauma could just be like burn on your tongue—it hurts, but only for a little while. Eventually that hurt sheds, disappears, and in its place is shiny newness. But life leaves scars, deep and impenetrable, and those scars keep the pain fresh. It never goes away. It becomes a part of you, no matter what you do.

All around them are teenagers, happy and talking and holding hands. There are adults reading the newspaper or typing away on their laptops. The baristas make the coffee and dole out the pastries. Everything is normal for them. There is laughter on their lips, in their eyes, etched onto their faces. There is happiness in their postures, their gestures, the smiles on their lips as they drink and eat and talk.

They're all happy on the outside, but Kurt finds himself wondering, as he and Sam drink and talk and sit in the occasional long silence, just how many of them are hiding those dark demons and heavy scars.