Disclaimer: I don't own Kurt's gorgeous little smile, or Glee. Probably for the best.
Thanks for the reviews. Even though many of them seemed to be submitted in order to threaten me with physical injury unless I updated soon XD Sorry about the cliffhanger. I almost expected to wake up to a crowd of angry Kurt-fans beating down my door with flaming torches and pitch forks...
This chapter was hard to write. Karofsky's difficult, because he seems to think one thing, get scared, and lash out before he can finish the thought. Hmmm...
Warning: includes strong language.
Karofsky's fist had clenched tightly in Kurt's Armani pyjama shirt, so tightly in fact that the pressure was beginning to choke him. Kurt clawed at his fingers with shaking hands, the horrible grip at his throat made even worse by the way his knees were buckling. He shut his eyes, but he could still feel Karofsky's blazing eyes boring into him like twin lasers. It was the kind of situation that had haunted his nightmares over the past few days, and even so all he could think was how stupid - how ridiculously stupid - he had been to even imagine that anything in his life could ever go right. How insane he must be to think of his own home as somewhere safe, as somewhere people couldn't get to him. What possible difference did the fact that this was 'home' make to people like Karofsky? The footballer pulled him close, and then slammed him back hard against the house again. His side exploded with agony and he heard himself let out a hoarse, short scream. Karofsky was talking, but Kurt couldn't see through the pain, couldn't hear him over the thunder of his heart beat. The footballer shoved him again, and something inside him snapped.
Before he knew what was happening, he had summoned the little strength he had and jerked his knee up and out, his leg connecting with something soft. He dimly heard Karofsky cry out, but all he was really aware of was the fact that the grip had vanished from his throat. He slid down the wall to the ground, both arms wrapped tightly around his chest, struggling to push breaths into his shrivelled lungs in between the heavy sobs that were tearing through him. He kept his eyes shut, fighting down the sick feeling in his stomach, trying to think while his skull throbbed violently... He became vaguely aware of Karofsky swearing somewhere nearby.
"... that? How dare you, what the hell are you doing, you little shit? Don't you ever touch me again!"
The garden swam into sight before him. Karofsky had whirled away from him, doubled over. Kurt had managed to drive his knee into the footballer's stomach. He wanted to get up and make a run for it while Karofsky threw his tantrum, but he couldn't move at all now. All he could do was sit there, slumped against the house, breathing hard. Karofsky span around to face him suddenly, those giant fists swinging at his sides, his face contorted with rage. He stormed forwards.
"You little fag, you'll pay for-"
"Get away from me!"
They both stopped in their tracks. Karofsky perhaps because he was shocked, alarmed that somebody had actually shouted at him like that. Kurt because he couldn't quite believe that a sound so twisted and raw had come from his own lips. They remained motionless, a thick silence stuck between them like ice, both suddenly scared to speak first. Karofsky's face had drained of colour, his lips suddenly thin and his body trembling like a leaf. Kurt let his head drop, the fury returning, rage pulsing hotly in his veins. This boy was the reason he was in so much pain. This Neanderthal was the person who had been ruining his life for so long that he couldn't remember the last time he had walked through the corridors of school without fear.
"You're pathetic, Lady," Karofsky snarled at last, finally daring to disturb the quiet. "I barely touched you."
Kurt lifted his head to fix the footballer with a smouldering glare. His voice was shrill when he spoke, wavering with tears and pain. "You broke my fucking ribs, you dickhead!"
Karofsky didn't answer. Kurt tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, the sobs in his chest. He put his head back, letting his eyes close again. He knew Karofsky was still watching him, but he didn't care any more. His lips felt strange. He didn't usually dignify jocks with using their kind of gutter language. Karofsky's words on his own tongue felt alien. He opened his eyes, squinted at the footballer. There was a strange emotion on his face, something Kurt had never seen before.
"What do you want?" he demanded tiredly. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk," Karofsky repeated, but his voice was smaller, thinner. He cleared his throat, pulled himself up to his full height. "You talked to the police yet? 'Cos someone's been talking to the school. My Dad got a phone call-"
"I haven't talked to anyone," Kurt muttered coldly. "I haven't spoken to the police yet."
"Well... good. You'd better not, or I'll-"
"You'll do what? What the hell more can you do to me? You've already destroyed me!"
Karofsky was staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion plastered over his face. His mouth opened and closed blankly, fish-like. "What... What's that supposed to mean?"
Kurt shook his head wordlessly. His head was still throbbing, pounding so hard that he was beginning to see dark spots flickering in his vision. He blinked hard, took a few steadying breaths. The damp grass was cold beneath him, the wall hard against his back. He felt exhausted, as if that small bout of fury had drawn every last ounce of power out of him. His gaze had slid out of focus again. When he had blinked his way back to normality again, he realized with a jolt that Karofsky had moved towards him and crouched down a few steps away, hands tangling uncertainly in the grass. Kurt looked him up and down, looked at the dirt on his football jacket and the bags under his eyes.
"You look awful," he said at last, his voice scathing.
"I haven't been home for a few days."
Karofsky's lip was still curled in that ugly, disdainful way it always was when he came face to face with Kurt. His bunched shoulders still tensed as if all he wanted to do was drive his fists into Kurt's body like knives into butter. But his voice sounded as if it wasn't really his at all, shrivelled into something small and thin. And what he had just said was so strange, so unexpected, that Kurt had no idea how to respond. So he didn't say anything at all. He sat in a stunned silence as Karofsky trailed his fingers through the dirt. He lifted his head suddenly, fixed Kurt with those bloodshot eyes.
"Have you told them about... about..."
The memory of Karofsky's hands on his belt flashed through Kurt's head, and his skin prickled unpleasantly. He shook his head again. Karofsky's jaw clenched and he looked away quickly.
"I didn't... I don't do... that. I... I got mad. Lost... control." It was as if he couldn't get the words out, as if his lips had turned to stone.
"Lost control?" Kurt repeated dryly. "How can you... Do you have any idea what you almost did to me?"
Karofsky twitched as if he was about to dive forwards, his hands jerking as if he wanted to return them to Kurt's neck. But he remained on his knees. His lips were quivering.
"You shut up," he snapped. "You don't understand. You have no idea what it's like-"
"What, being gay?"
He'd pushed it too far - Karofsky lurched forwards, fist cocked. Kurt flinched back against the wall, yelped as the motion sent another wave of agony through his side and head. Darkness swarmed in on him with a vengeance and he could hear his own whimpers shuddering through the air. Karofsky's knuckles never connected with his face. In fact, when he came back to earth, he could hear the other boy speaking.
"What've you done... shit, will you stop making that sound? I said shut up!"
"Get off me," Kurt hissed, abruptly becoming aware of Karofsky's hand in his pyjamas again. He pushed feebly at the other boy's arm, desperate to just get him off. Karofsky let go.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Wrong with me?" Kurt opened his eyes. "Thanks to you, might be a brain injury. What's wrong with you?"
Karofsky sat back on his heels. Perhaps it was just Kurt's wavering vision, but he could have sworn that he could see tears in the footballer's eyes. Which was ridiculous, because Karofsky was a monster, and monsters didn't feel emotions like that.
"Brain injury?"
"What do you care?"
A long pause. "I won't be a fag," Karofsky mumbled. "I won't let this happen to me." He stood up suddenly, towering over Kurt, nothing more than a shadow in the darkness. His voice grew louder. "You hear me? I won't let it happen!"
Kurt looked up at him, narrowing his eyes until the three footballers above flickered into one. "You and I are more alike than you think," he said, unable to bite back the words that slurred from his mouth. "We both like to play pretend."
It was as if he had just fired a bullet into the footballer's face - Karofsky gazed at him, eyes stretched wide, and then span around and sprinted away. Kurt heard his footsteps racing away, heard the thuds turn to slaps as Karofsky reached the road. He blinked at the place the footballer had vanished, felt a tiny rush of satisfaction mixed with the bitter taste of pity. He wondered where Karofsky was planning to sleep tonight. At a friend's house? Or just in some doorway somewhere?
Perhaps there was some solace in the knowledge that there was actually one other person out there in the night whose life might be just as bad as Kurt's at this moment.
Kurt drifted off for a while. The cold night ate into his bones and froze his breath in his lungs. The darkness of the garden plastered itself over his eyelids and stayed there, even in those flickering seconds when he opened his eyes. His body was too painful, too heavy to force into movement. His head was hurting. Hurting so much that he felt as if strips of barbed wire were being drawn through his brain. Every time he began to inch towards real consciousness the ground began to buck and heave, and his stomach started to roll. Dizziness and headaches. Two of the several symptoms that had flowed off Doctor Ansten's tongue.
He didn't doubt that he would have remained there on the floor all night if Finn hadn't appeared at the corner of his house, his voice loud and shrill with suppressed panic, his footsteps fast and sharp on the cool ground. He was only wearing his pyjama t-shirt and boxers, a pair of grubby trainers pulled on hastily, laces trailing in the dirt. Finn's voice came hurtling through the fog in Kurt's head like a steam train, all horns blazing.
"Kurt! Kurt!"
"Here…"
Kurt's voice was a croak, but Finn heard him. The taller boy span around, staggered towards him, his tone a mixture of relief and wild anger. Kurt couldn't make his eyes focus on Finn's face, even when his step-brother dropped to his knees beside him and grabbed him by the shoulders.
"What are you doing out here? You're freezing… Kurt, what the hell are you doing?"
Kurt blinked hazily. His tongue felt as if it didn't belong to him, or at least not enough to obey his brain's commands. Finn was still talking, speaking so quickly that Kurt couldn't understand a word he was saying. Something about being in bed. Kurt would like to be in bed at this moment.
"… woke up and you were just gone, do you know how terrified I was? You can't just walk out like that! How long've you been out here?"
Kurt thought he might have understood the last bit. He spoke again, feeling a twinge of despair at how thin and pathetic his voice sounded. "A while."
"Why?"
Kurt didn't say anything. His mind wasn't working well enough to put together an answer. He moved his arms for the first time in 'a while' and winced as his shoulders ached, his limbs cramped and stiff.
"Kurt? Hey, Kurt?"
"I want to go in."
Finn muttered something under his breath. Then he shifted forwards and slid a hand behind Kurt's back, pulled him away from the house. Kurt winced, tried to push his hands away, but there was nothing he could do. He was so weak by this time that Finn had to physically lift him off the ground. He fell against Finn, his legs as useful as pillars of jelly beneath him. The other boy was trying to hook an arm around his shoulders, but Kurt managed to force his legs to take some weight and began to move back towards the house alone. Finn sighed heavily but let him struggle, walking close beside him.
"Don't do that to me, man," he muttered. "I swear, I nearly had a heart attack."
Kurt stumbled on an uneven patch of ground; Finn's arm appeared around his shoulders in time to catch him. Kurt leant heavily on him for a few moments, his eyes drifting shut of their own accord. He wet his lips.
"How far?" he managed.
"Just here."
He nodded, took a few deep breaths. Then, allowing Finn to nudge him in the right direction, he began to move once more. He was beginning to feel dangerously detached from his own body, as if his mind was slowly sliding out through his ears. Finn's hand was growing tight on his arm. Or… no, he was beginning to sway, tugging against the other boy's grip.
"How far?"
"About the same."
He frowned at Finn's cryptic answer. The same? The same as what? He pushed his eyes open a crack, caught a glimpse of the front door. He felt a small flicker of hope – perhaps he would manage to remain conscious until he got there… it seemed that the thought had barely wriggled through his head than he was tripping again, this time on the stairs leading to the basement… he caught himself on the banister, blinking hard, staring around. He couldn't remember them going through the living room. Hell, he couldn't even remember entering the house.
"Almost there, come on."
Finn's voice. Finn was just behind him on the stairs. Kurt kept hold of the banister, refusing to move a single step. He didn't dare try in case he missed something again, in case his memory suddenly cut out like a faulty engine… He felt sick again. How was it even possible for him to have not noticed coming into the house when every step felt like a marathon? He clung to the metal pole, horribly aware of the nausea in his stomach. If he wasn't careful he was going to end up hurling right here in their bedroom…
"Kurt? Come on, man."
Finn again. Telling him to move. He really should move. The other boy was beginning to sound high-pitched again, that panicked tone which meant that he was a very short time away from doing something stupid like calling a hospital. Kurt lifted his head, squinted until the stairs swam into sight below him. Doubled over the banister as if he was imitating somebody who had just been stabbed, he continued his snail-progress towards the basement. He felt Finn's sigh of relief on the back of his neck when he finally made it to the ground. The taller boy half pulled, half carried him over to the blurred shape of his bed and sat him down. Kurt let himself drop down without bothering to pull back the duvet, his ribs searing and his head pounding, his mouth dry and scratchy. His hands felt like ice. He felt Finn pulling the duvet up over him, tugging the pillow straight. Kurt wanted to tell him to go away but felt that this might seem a little ungrateful considering that Finn had just rescued him from the stupor he had fallen into.
"Where'd you put your medication? Kurt? Hey, where'd you put it?"
Finn was shaking his arm. Kurt groaned irritably, swatted at his touch clumsily. "T'p drawer," he whispered. He heard Finn rummaging through said drawer and concentrated on forcing full words out. "I can't… have t'wait… four hours… in between…"
"It's been four hours."
Kurt shook his head. "Hasn'…"
"You had some at ten, right?"
"Yeah, have… t'wait… 'till morning."
Finn chuckled dryly. "Kurt, it is morning," he said, almost speaking to himself.
Kurt didn't believe him. But when Finn crouched down in front of him a little while later armed with a glass of water and two small white ovals, he didn't have the energy to argue. He managed to put the pills into his own mouth, but Finn had to lift the glass for him and help him drink. Kurt's eyes had fallen shut before Finn had lowered the glass. He let himself slump down onto the pillows again, felt Finn fussing over him, pulling the duvet up, patting it flat.
"You want me to stay with you today? You don't look so good… Kurt?"
"Mmmm."
"Okay. Listen, I'm leaving this here." The clink of glass on his bedside table. "See how you feel later. Maybe I could go in at lunch today." The squeak of trainers on the floor. Finn was standing up. Kurt felt like he should be thanking him. In the end, he decided his mind was too scrambled to come to any decent conclusion now. So, throwing caution to the winds, he relaxed and slept.
Thanks for reading. Reviews are welcome.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.
