It's late at night on Blaine's familiar route home from the subway, no stars in the sky and his feet impacting softly with the pavement as he walks. His book bag is heavy on his shoulder, and the night air is fresh and dark and enveloping around him. The buzz and hum of the city is muted, turned down, everything more still and quiet than it should be.
There's something familiar about this. Like déjà vu but not quite; a word on the tip of his tongue, eager to be spoken aloud but not quite able to remember itself.
He's just turning the corner, feet following the path his body has committed to memory without being told, when a noise jumps out at him. The sounds of struggle just to his left, tucked into a dark space and calling out to him. Blaine turns sharply, and all at once there is an alley there where he could have sworn there wasn't one before. Dark and dank and not right, none of this quite right, but it doesn't matter because there are two figures struggling in the half-light of it.
And Blaine knows this part by heart, somehow. He's done it before.
Don't, he wills himself desperately, a sudden rush of clarity and focus and perspective bursting along his senses. Don't, no, stop it. This is where it starts, you don't have to – don't -!
But –
"Hey!" Blaine hears himself shouting, lips forming the words and sound flowing from his mouth like water he can't hold back. He isn't in control anymore, is screaming in his mind to run away as fast as he can, to getawaygetawaygetawaygetaway. But his body is acting out the scene without his permission; his consciousness with its sick knowledge of what comes next trapped inside the head of a puppet acting out a play. "Hey, stop it!"
Inside, Blaine frantically tries to clamp down on himself, to slam on the brakes of his own body – but it's no good. His feet are already speeding him into the alley, toward the two men with his hand ready squeezed tight around the strap of his book bag.
It is like watching dominoes crash into one another, toppling down and down and down around him. Blaine runs in, the two people separate, the burly man wrenches back with a sickly pale look on his face. Like stage directions, one after the other, and the man is giving him a terrified look and fleeing the alley as fast as his two feet will take him.
He's leaving me here, yells Blaine inside his mind in outrage, thrashing at the restraints of his physical body as proper awareness of the man's actions clicks in his mind for the first time. He knows what he is and he's fucking abandoning me –
But when Kurt turns to face him for the first time, the whole world shifts and jars and twists at the edges. Blaine's stomach lurches at the sensation, stumbling back with wide eyes at the change.
What should happen next, some distant part of head knows, is that smile. The sick, false twist of lips and the parade of deceit and trickery as Kurt puts on a show of being human for god knows what reason. To mess with Blaine's head, or get himself closer, he has no idea. Blaine remembers how this goes, has it memorized down to his core.
It doesn't happen, though.
Instead, Kurt's eyes narrow. With inhuman speed, he rushes forward and slams Blaine against the solid brick wall so hard his head snaps back against the bricks with an audible crack. Pain bursts in front of his eyelids, bright white and jagged and dizzy as his vision swims with stars. The book bag slides off and onto the ground as Kurt holds him there, pinned by the shoulders, and it hurts. The pain of it drags him back from the way the world is dimming and fading at the edges, and Blaine blinks hard to bring everything back into focus.
At once, he wishes he hadn't.
Kurt's face is inches away from his. Close, too close, with his beautiful features twisted up into something ugly and awful and ruthless. He looks as sharp and otherworldly and breath-taking as always, but the danger emanating off of him in waves makes it impossible for Blaine to feel anything other than stark terror. He thrashes hard, trying to buck Kurt off so he can run and hide and livepleasegodlive, but agony rips through his shoulders and he can only scream into the night.
Impossible pain is bursting where Kurt is gripping him, and Blaine howls as blood pours out of the wounds and soaks up into his shirt. It's hot and wet and slippery, and Kurt's hands are stretched and distorted and slicing into the flesh and sinew with sharp claws even as his face remains angelic and sweet and unmarred.
There isn't any point in struggling anymore. All Blaine can do is sob and twitch and flinch away as Kurt leans right up close, inclining his head and inhaling deeply at one of the two open wounds at Blaine's shoulder. Smelling the blood, dragging the scent up into his nose and eyes rolling back like it's some kind of grotesque drug.
"Oh, there you are," sneers Kurt, that beautifully high voice dancing on the night air as Blaine whimpers and trembles in front of him. The claws clench hard into Blaine's shoulders, excruciating and all-consuming, and Blaine cries out in agony. He blinks, and the innocent face is gone, replaced by the twisted features of the monster in front of him. Growling, Kurt (the monster is Kurt, Kurt is the monster, they're the same) moves in so that their faces are right up in front of each other, his lips ghosting over Blaine's as his hisses the next words. "I've been looking for you forever."
And then he's crashing his mouth into Blaine's neck, teeth shredding skin and ripping him open as Blaine convulses and sobs beneath him. He can feel his skin separating from his body, sinew and bone crunching as Kurt takes and takes and he's dying, Blaine is dying, everything blacking out and pain and terror and –
The sound of Blaine's ringtone, harsh and grating and set to full volume, wrenches him out of the dream with a gasping drag of air and a full body spasm that sends one hand crashing into the side table with enough force to almost topple the whole thing over. It cracks against the wood and makes him suck in a sharp breath of pain as he grabs at the edge to steady it.
The room pitch black and Blaine's whole body is shot through with adrenaline as he pushes himself up, frantically throwing himself sideways to grope semi-blindly for his phone. The lit screen and the loud, screaming ringtone in conjunction with how vital it is that he answers quickly allow him to find it even in a darkened room without his glasses on. He hits the 'accept call' button with shaking fingers, brings it up to his ear as quickly as he can.
"I'm here!" Blaine rushes out in desperation, whole body rigid with panic, trying to get the words out as quickly as he possibly can. Can't risk taking his time, has to let him know. He snags his glasses off the bedside table blindly, shoving them onto his face too quickly in order to reach out and turn on the lamp. The room floods with warm light; the glasses are still skewed on his face, and the all-consuming pounding of his heart in his ears is all he can hear. Which is terrifying because he has to talk to Kurt, Kurt has to be listening. "I'm here, I'm picking up, you don't have to do anything, please don't do anything –"
"Why, hello to you too."
Kurt's voice purrs at him smoothly over the line, vague sounds of traffic and life and the city and people around him in the background. It sounds as though he's walking somewhere, the always-slowness of his breathing edged up almost imperceptibly at the small exertion. He can hear the smug, pleased tone in Kurt's voice at the speed at which Blaine picked up; at how obviously frightened he was at what would happen if he didn't. When Kurt speaks again, there is faux-concern dripping from every syllable.
"Having a good sleep?" Just how innocent he sounds catches Blaine off-guard at first; young and sweet and genuine, almost. The slight twist to the words is the only hint at their underlying meaning.
In any case, there isn't anything Blaine can say to that. He doesn't say anything at all, instead; just breathes into the receiver in desperate gratitude, trying to calm his body down from high alert. The fog of sleep has been destroyed all at once; banished by the rush of fear he's been expecting for days now.
He runs a hand through his curls and straightens his glasses instead of trying to respond, and the hot pounding in his chest beginning to simmer down into something slower. Less fight-or-flight. Blaine is not relaxed, not by any stretch of the imagination. But the frantic terror of moments before is lessening; shifting into the state of ever-present anxiety and buzzing nerves that has become the normal state of being for him over the past few weeks.
It's been three days – three whole nights – since the heart was left outside his doorstep, and this is the first time that Kurt has made any move to contact him since then. Three nights without the tell-tale scrape of fingernails down wood, or the sing-song voice outside his door, or even another phone call.
His absence hasn't been a comfort. Instead, it had served to reduce Blaine to an utter mess in record time. Desperately searching news sites and watching local channels for hope of some news of the woman who was killed – and waiting. Staying up until all hours of the night waiting for to hear that unmistakable voice, staring at the phone and willing it to ring. Blaine has been on edge and desperate to hear from Kurt for so long now, because at least then he would know. The sudden withdrawal after such a gruesome message had been almost impossible to bear.
The worst part had been Blaine's uncomfortable realization on the second day of silence that Kurt was been treating him like a badly-behaved child with a time out. A way to say think about what you did, not a real chance at letting him escape. If he tried to run, Kurt would follow.
Kurt would always follow.
His absence has also made Blaine uncomfortably aware of the fact that, unless Kurt chooses to contact him, he has absolutely no way of reaching him whatsoever. Kurt is entirely, one hundred per cent in control of how and when they speak; even when Blaine had desperately wanted to yell, to scream, to find Kurt and ask him why, he'd had no power to do so. He had been left for three whole days, helpless and stranded in the cage of don'ts and can'ts that Kurt had made for him.
The sickest part is how much relief he feels now, hearing Kurt's voice in his ear. Because at least now Blaine knows for sure; isn't left floundering, not knowing what he can or can't do. It's all wrong, and backwards, and awful, and it makes shame and guilt coil feebly in his chest.
After a minute, Kurt continues on as though Blaine has responded, making a high, amused noise at the back of his throat.
"Are you pleased to hear from me, Blaine?" Kurt asks, voice high and curious and playful. More sounds in the background. The chime of keys. A door opening, closing. Street sounds gone. Inside now. "I'm definitely pleased to hear you. It's been so long, beautiful thing." There is a pause, followed by a small, self-satisfied noise. When he speaks again, the words are full of something darkly seductive: "Did you like my present?"
The memory of the woman's heart, tucked in a box and touted like a gift, hangs between them without being spoken aloud. The slick fat hanging off of it, the smell as he had opened the box. Blaine feels something tighten in his chest.
"Don't," Blaine murmurs quietly, shaking his head and breath hitching slightly in his throat.
He had got rid of the present as soon as the sun had risen; the whole box wiped free of his fingerprints and wrapped in three garbage bags, one inside the other inside the other like Babushka dolls. Taken down to the basement of the building and tucked under a pile of refuse in the large, industrial-sized garbage container. He'd scrubbed the floor of his apartment with watered down bleach for twenty minutes when he got back upstairs.
Blaine lets out a shuddery breath. "That... that wasn't fair," he says, and the words come out soft. Almost child-like.
"Are you feeling a little less stubborn now?" Kurt asks without heeding Blaine's words, and there is a hardness beneath the apparently casual question. Unrelenting and rigid at the core, much like the man himself. There is the barely audible bing of an automated noise in the background of the call. An elevator, perhaps. "Avoiding me only gets people hurt, pretty. I thought we'd established that already."
Blaine takes a deep breath. "Last time," he begins, hands twisting in the sheets at his sides. "Last time, when you... when you left it outside. I wasn't ignoring you. I was asleep, I wasn't ignoring you."
There is a pause.
"Hm." The single syllable is so terribly neutral that Blaine has no idea how to interpret it.
"Because I wouldn't do that," Blaine continues, keeping going because he needs to say it. Out loud, to someone who isn't himself. The words have been sitting, stewing inside of him for days and nights and they feel heavy and awful in his stomach."I'm not stupid, okay? I wasn't... burying my head in the sand, trying to hide. And I'm not what you said, I'm not – I'm not ruthless. I know what you're capable of, I wouldn't risk –"
"Do you, now?" asks Kurt sharply, and Blaine winces and presses his lips together. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, his mind is experiencing a resurgent struggle to make the shift from sleeping to waking; the dull fuzziness of the night is clinging to the edges of his head.
Blaine inhales carefully, running a hand through his sleep-tousled curls.
"It wasn't fair," he says again softly, staring down at the blue of his sheets and trying not to think about the woman whose heart he had held in his hands. She is an indistinct shape in his mind; voiceless, without any sort of appearance or even a name. And Blaine doesn't understand how the idea of her can hurt just as much as the officers whose information he'd desperately soaked up and horded close to his chest when he knows absolutely nothing about her. Who she was, or where she came from, or what her dreams were.
All he knows is that her life shouldn't have ended like that. Hard and painful and cruel, and because of some stupid kid she'd never even met before. It isn't fair, and it isn't right, and it makes him feel sick with himself for still existing.
Intellectually, Blaine knows that he is not responsible for Kurt's murders. He's doing everything he possibly can, and it isn't enough, no. But he isn't actively doing anything to hurt anyone.
That logic sits ineffectual and empty in his chest despite his own voice of reason.
There is another bing in the background, followed by the sound of doors sliding open. Almost certainly an elevator, and high up as well. A top floor of an apartment, maybe. A high-rise. But that isn't anywhere near enough information on its own for him to be able to track Kurt down, not in New York City of all places. He hears Kurt begin to move down the hallway.
"Well," Kurt says breezily, after a long pause. "My game, my rules. Maybe now you'll make an effort to be a little more alert when I try to get your attention."
A frustrated sound worms its way out of Blaine's throat, and he slams a hand ineffectually down on the mattress beside him. Ridiculously, he imagines throwing the phone across the room in a childish gesture of anger. He never would – there are too many lives on the line – but the temptation is very real.
"You don't even think about them at all, do you?" Blaine asks harshly, marvelling internally at the fact that he can feel something as simple and everyday as irritation with the kind of monster he's talking to. "It never even occurs to you to think about the people you kill."
"Of course not," Kurt says simply, and Blaine can hear the chime of keys as they turn in a lock on the other end of the line. "They don't matter, they're not anything, why should I care –?"
"I'm not worth it," Blaine insists, voice hitching in frustration and grief and self-hatred. There is a persistent stinging at his eyes, and he swipes the back of his hand over them. He blinks at the wall across from him, feeling very much small and alone even in this cramped space. "Please, just – I'm nothing, like them. I'm not worth chasing, please. I'm not worth killing for."
Nothing comes from the other end of the line for a long, long minute. Blaine can hear the sounds of a door closing in the background, movement, settling. The shuffle of what can only be a coat being removed. A noise that could perhaps be someone sitting, perhaps lying down; it's impossible to tell.
When Kurt finally speaks again, he sounds tense and stilted, with his voice drawn taught like a rope. "You might be like them," he admits, and there is something almost weighing about the word. "I'll admit that. But you are most certainly worth chasing, lover."
"I'm not your lover," Blaine mutters, shaking his head.
"I am in your dreams, though, aren't I?" Kurt responds immediately, with heat in his voice, and Blaine's breath catches in his throat. He pauses, fingers tingling and eyes wide in horror as the shock of the words resonates over the line. After a while, Kurt lets out a breath. "Now. Don't be stupid on purpose, and stop trying to trick me into feeling something for squishing bugs under my shoes."
"Why are y–?"
"Stop arguing about this, sweetheart, or I'll go out and kill another one," he says calmly, and Blaine's blood runs cold. He clenches his hand around the phone, fingers shaking from the effort of holding it steady. "You're being contrary, and it's annoying, so stop. Now."
Mouth dry, Blaine gapes as though struck across the face. He desperately searches around for words; tries to make sound come out from between his lips. A tiny noise escapes instead, so he gives his head a firm shake and tries again.
People are counting on you, and you're gambling with their lives. People are relying on you. Play his game. Do what he wants.
"Okay," babbles Blaine apologetically, raising his free hand in the air in a gesture of surrender despite the fact that Kurt cannot see him. "Okay, I'm stopping, I'm sorry. Please."
There is a pause.
"That's better," Kurt tells him after a minute, sounding almost rewarding, and it occurs to Blaine to wonder why on Earth Kurt is so desperate to talk to him anyways. It's not as though their conversations through the doorway have ever been particularly stimulating, for one thing, and he'd been under the impression that Kurt had no real interest in anything he had to say until the missed calls a few days ago.
It doesn't make sense, just the same way that nothing Kurt does makes any sense, and Blaine can feel his grasp at the world slipping with every passing hour.
Blaine grasps at something to say to fill the silence. "... how did you even get my phone number, anyways?" he asks, trying to make some other kind of conversation but sounding more than a little petulant in the process. Kurt lets out a sharp laugh that resonates harshly over the line.
"Oh, pretty," Kurt sighs, sounding amused and condescending at once. "Word of advice: when you have someone stalking you, you should probably double-check your Facebook security settings. And not have any personal information up on your profile. Your Aunt Amabel said hello on your wall, by the way."
There is a beat.
"What?" Blaine asks in disbelief, barely able to keep himself from spluttering. "But. You're not – you're a—" He shakes his head, feeling stupid and small and caught off-guard. "You use the internet? But. It's all... new. And stuff."
"I was around when television was new, silly, and I don't exactly eschew that either," Kurt laughs at him in an almost playful tone, and they're talking. Actually talking, having a conversation like normal human beings. It feels tremendously surreal. Somehow, the pull of Kurt's personality –his being—is still drawing him in, even when he's not physically close, and Blaine wants to talk with him like this.
It's discomfiting.
Strange.
Until it occurs to him what, exactly, Kurt said a few minutes ago.
Stop arguing about this, sweetheart, or I'll go out and kill another one.
It has taken far too long for Kurt's words to properly sink in, but when they do something cold and hard and awful clenches around Blaine's chest. He falls back against the pillows, feeling very much as though the breath has been knocked out of him.
"Wait," Blaine whispers, terrified to ask. "Another one?" He sounds horrified and stilted to his own ears, but he has to know. "Did you... did you just...?"
Kurt doesn't say anything for a drawn-out minute, but the silence isn't an angry one. It's charged, excited. Pleased. Eventually, Blaine hears a small sigh of pleasure on the other end of the line.
"I love hearing your voice, you know," murmurs Kurt approvingly, the wet lick of lips audible in Blaine's ear. "You said you used to sing, and I believe it. I very much want to make you sing, one day." He laughs, an amused little noise high up in the register – and the horrible duality of it always shakes Blaine to his core. That delicate voice, the beautiful face. The monster underneath.
"I've missed hearing your dulcet tones for the past few days, pretty," Kurt admits, and Blaine's heartbeat is thrumming along his skin. "But I figured you needed the space." There's a beat before he continues, voice twisted round and pleased with himself. "And...yes. To answer your question. I did."
Blaine sucks in a breath, eyes squeezing shut. The dull blow of devastation impacts his chest at the death of some nameless person he'll never meet. It hurts, he discovers, not only when he doesn't know the person's name or face, but even when Blaine himself isn't the cause. It still feels like a personal failure; for not being able to find a way to stop Kurt from doing what he wants. For not finding a way to kill him and stop all this before it could go any further.
"He was young," Kurt continues smoothly, and no. Nonononono, please no, Blaine doesn't want to hear this. Doesn't want to know, but he can't stop listening; is hanging on every word as though his life depends on it. "Well-dressed. Good-looking. Not as pretty as you, though, dear. Don't be jealous."
"Kurt..." Blaine implores quietly, squeezing his eyes shut and curling into himself on the bed.
"Shhh, beautiful, it's okay," murmurs Kurt softly, sweetly, and Blaine shakes his head wordlessly and bites down on his bottom lip. "He begged very nicely when he realized what was happening. It was a shame to shut him up, and oh, how he struggled. I got blood all over my new shirt, though, which was more than a little bit irksome."
Humming in a low tone, Kurt sounds much less flippant when he speaks again:
"He wasn't you, Blaine. I wanted it to be you. I want them all to be you."
"... please..." Blaine whispers, not caring that he's begging, not caring if it's pathetic if it will make Kurt stop talking about this.
His whole body tenses up, however, and the pleading words are cut off at the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled down. Blaine's fly open, wide and shocked and oh god oh god oh god.
"I've been thinking about you," Kurt's voice breathes into his ear, dark and heated and private. There is a rustle of fabric, a shift of movement; Blaine feels his face heat up with the uncomfortable flush of embarrassment at the realization of what, exactly, Kurt is doing. "There are so many things I want to do to you, Blaine. I think about it all the time, lovely. I linger."
"I can't—" Blaine chokes out, face red and hot and suddenly feeling sweaty with humiliation beneath the blankets. He wants to pull the phone away, turn it off, shut it down, but he can't. He's frozen like this, unable to move, unable to think but for the tiny noises he can hear Kurt making over the tininess of the line. Kurt should be the embarrassed one because people don't do this, it's not right, but Kurt isn't human and he sounds confident and sure and it makes Blaine's palms sweaty.
"Don't hang up," Kurt orders him firmly, but his voice is hitched with something that Blaine can't think about too closely without wanting to bury his face into the covers and hide. In the background, he can hear the muted slide of skin on skin.
But Blaine couldn't hang up if he wanted to. Against his will, pieces of the past few weeks' worth of dreams are slipping back across his vision, back into his mind like through cracks in a wall – like pressure points being touched. Stealing behind his eyelids and worming their way into his chest, making him shiver and close his eyes and hate himself for not being able to tune it all out.
—Kurt, seated on a grand winged armchair with Blaine on his lap impaled on his cock, his back to Kurt's chest as he rocks himself up and down in tiny movements as Kurt drinks from the side of his neck, languid-slow and lazy, the drag of the blood leaving his body making Blaine twitch and moan and squeeze around the hardness filling him up so perfectly as he does all the work and gives Kurt exactly what he wants –
"I can hear you breathing," Kurt whispers in his ear, and Blaine shivers as he tries to shake away the memory of the dream. Kurt's own breathing is growing heavier and quicker, fast for him, and Blaine squeezes his eyes shut against it. His whole body feels tense and coiled tight, and he licks his lips absently. "You can hear what you do to me, beautiful. How you make me feel."
—they're kids, only teenagers, rutting around in the back of a car with Kurt sprawled on top of him, sucking a hickey deep into the skin of Blaine's neck as Blaine groans and arches into the touch helplessly. Except then he keeps going, teeth slicing in and pinning Blaine down as he starts to whimper and scream soundlessly as Kurt keeps him pinned to the back seat and grinds their cocks together as he drinks –
"Would you believe," Kurt gasps, and Blaine tilts his head back and looks up determinedly toward the ceiling at the lewd noises Kurt is making over the phone, at the horrible dream-memories and noises that are going straight to his cock as much as he hates it, he hates it, doesn't want feel this way, why does he feel this way? "That I used to be all prim and proper about this? About sex. Back when I was human, I mean. I – nggh, fuck– used to be so awkward about it."
Kurt groans breathily into the phone, and when Blaine closes his eyes he can practically see him: that angelic face twisted up in pleasure like Blaine has seen it so many times in his dreams, graceful hand twisting around his cock and thrusting his hips up into his own touch in desperate little movements. Blaine's face is burning with humiliation and stupid arousal and it's like something is twinging inside his brain, bringing these feelings to the surface at the command of Kurt's voice.
"But I've lived long enough, now, to know that this is all there is. Sex and death, sex and death, all wrapped up in a –" he hisses, keening slightly, "— in a pretty bow, that's all life is, Blaine, god–"
—Kurt slides away from where he's feeding from a blissed-out Blaine's shoulder to slide up his body to kiss him, just kiss him, sliding their mouths together as the slick coppery wetness plays over their tongues and Blaine groans and opens his mouth wider, letting Kurt claim his mouth and smear their lips with his blood –
In his ear, Kurt's breath is coming hard and fast and ragged; he's keening slightly, voice high and strangled as he chokes out the tiny noises. Blaine can hear the quick slide of skin on skin, and Blaine's whole body is tensed up and flushed and he's going insane.
"Kurt," Blaine chokes out, hard and quiet and in tatters into the receiver, and apparently that's all it takes. In his ear, Kurt exclaims out a high, wanton noise of pleasure as Blaine squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his hand around the phone so hard his fingers go white.
The sound of laboured breathing lasts for a little while afterward as Kurt recovers, practically purring into Blaine's ear in satisfaction. Between his legs, Blaine's treacherous cock is hard and wanting and desperate to be touched, to find the same relief that he's just heard Kurt experience first hand, and his body is betraying him and Blaine can't understand why he has to feel this way. Why it can't just be simple, and easy, and black and white.
After a long minute, Kurt's voice makes a satisfied little noise into Blaine's ear.
"Mmm," he says happily, letting out a little contented sigh that makes Blaine shiver. "Thanks for that, lover. Sweet dreams."
And without any other warning, Kurt hangs up.
The empty noise of the disconnected call rings in Blaine's ears, shocking and incomprehensible as he pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at it in disbelief. He blinks. Bites down on his lips as he looks unthinkingly at the screen, barely able to believe what just took place.
Something awful is tugging at Blaine's chest; curling around his heart and pushing at his insides, making him cringe and the heat of arousal flee from his cheeks. His cock is still hard and wanting between his legs, but all Blaine can feel is used. Balled up and thrown away, discarded. He blinks hard, putting the phone and his glasses back on the bedside table and turning off the lamp unsteadily.
The room floods with darkness. Blaine rolls onto his side, tries to ignore the treacherous heat between his legs, and wishes he could hate Kurt as much as he hates himself.
A week after that first proper phone call, Blaine wakes up after a fitful night's sleep and shuffles his way out into the living room, rubbing at bloodshot eyes.
The previous night had been a long one. After a long wait, Kurt had finally arrived and scratched at the door. Had talked and talked in that sweet, cooing voice of his as he went over the details of a young architect he had killed the night before outside a club in Manhattan. Chatting animatedly about how the man had tasted, how he'd given up so much quicker than Kurt had expected. On and on and on as though conversing about the weather as Blaine had leant his head against the door and tried to block out the sound of his voice, eyes squeezes shut and details filtering into his mind despite the effort.
Last night had been the third time Kurt had described one of his kills to him. It's turning into a habit, now. One more thing to look forward to in the pathetic shell of Blaine's life: hearing the finer points of snapping necks and the nuances in the way people taste, or the things Kurt looks for in the people he hunts down and murders. Every single time, more than anything Blaine just wants to stick his fingers in his ears and cry.
He doesn't, though. Lets the words drone over him instead, sitting numbly at the door and waiting for him to get bored and leave so he can finally go to sleep, get some rest.
After Kurt had finally left him alone at four in the morning, though, it hadn't been the end. Instead, the rest of the night had been spent submerged in dreams so real they had made Blaine arch up and whine and almost sob from the happiness of them. Dreams of a Kurt who is caring, and shy, and loving, and kind taking Blaine to bed back in his bedroom back in the house he grew up in Westerville. Dreams of love-making so tender and careful and intimate and real, so real.
When he woke, shouting and practically crying from the intensity of it, Blain had pushed his face into his pillow and shuddered at the crushing disappointment of being back in the waking world. With a Kurt who wants to hurt and rip and kill him instead of love him and cherish him. At how unfair and awful and pointless the sick waiting game of his life is.
It had taken him almost ten whole minutes to calm down enough to breathe normally again, after that. And true sleep had been a long time coming. It is very fortunate that Blaine doesn't have class until eleven o'clock today.
Even with the late start, however, he's finding it almost impossible to find motivation to leave the apartment. A few days ago, he had received his first ever failing grade on an exam he hadn't been able to focus his revision for. He had tried his best during the actual test, he really had. But his mind had been so racked with images of pretty dead boys drained out and left sprawled over the sidewalks that he had barely been able to string two words together, let alone maintain the sufficient level of analysis.
The bad mark stings, even though he knows he deserves it. Blaine is doing poorly in all of his classes, now. No concentration, distracted during lectures, fitful and broken sleeps every night like clockwork. School is starting to slip away from him, and even if Kurt decided to leave him alone his very day Blaine isn't sure if he would be able to scrape through the year with a decent enough mark to move on to the second year of his post-grad.
Blaine tries his best to care; to get upset, to worry. To imagine his father, staring at him with that I'm so disappointed in you, I know you can do better expression embedded in the lines of his face. But even that is sliding out of his grasp more and more every day.
When Blaine turns on his computer after grabbing a granola bar for breakfast, however, there is a new e-mail in his inbox.
That in itself isn't anything particularly unusual; he's on the NYU Law mailing list, and receives frequent forwards with titles like [FW:] NYUL LEARNING EXPERIENCE OPPORTUNITY that he used to read and now deletes hastily, not bothering to even think about another opportunity he's missing out on. His mother sends him check-up messages that have been coming more and more frequently lately, and Wes and David still sometimes send him little updates. Spam mail isn't out of the ordinary, either.
However, when Blaine reads the subject heading, his breath catches in his throat. He scrabbles with the mouse to open it up as quickly as possible, stomach twisting and clenching in instant anxiety as his eyes speed over the contents of the message:
To:
From:
Subject: Re: A few questions about your work on folklore.
Hello Blaine,
I am so very sorry that it has taken me so long to get back to you. I've been retired for a few years now, and I don't check my university e-mail nearly as often as I should. It only occurred to me this morning to open it up for the first time in months, and of course your e-mail caught my eye right away.
If I am not outside my boundaries to say so, the nature of your questions and the tone of your message leads me to believe that you might have a very serious problem on your hands. I notice from your e-mail handle that you're a student at NYU; since my retirement I now live in New York City as well. If you are interested, I would very much like to meet with you in person to discuss this matter further. Perhaps you would like to meet for coffee some time this week if the circumstances are critical.
It is possible that I have misjudged the situation. If that is the case, excuse my ramblings as that of a dotty retiree with too much time on their hands.
Regards,
Dr. Williams
Formerly of the Department of Slavic Folklore
Princeton University
Blaine gorges himself on the e-mail's contents so quickly that his eyes fly over sentences and skip entire paragraphs. He has to re-read it in its entirety three full times in order for all the words to sink in, and once more to convince himself that he isn't imagining the underlying message concealed beneath the seemingly straightforward tone.
For a few absurd seconds after he finishes his fourth read of the text, Blaine honestly thinks he's having a heart attack. After he realizes how ridiculously stupid that notion is and discards it, he re-evaluates and decides that he might just be having a panic attack, which is even stupider because this is good news, the first good news he's had in weeks; the only person who has responded to any of his inquiries with more than flippancy and mild interest.
This is it. Oh my god, this is it.
His heart is clenching uncomfortably in his chest, breathing too hard and the whole world coming at him a little too fast as he types out a response with badly shaking fingers as quickly as he can. He has to work his way through a few versions of a response before he arrives at something not vaguely hysterical or insane-sounding.
Inexplicably, the strangest feeling starts to bubble up in Blaine's chest mid-revision, and when he opens his mouth helpless, mirth-filled giggles burst out from between his lips like a small child. They're nervous and high-pitched and he can't stop shaking as he runs his hand over and over through his hair and makes it even messier, but it's the first time he's laughed in weeks and it feels like a dam breaking.
In the end, he decides on something short and to-the-point; this is enormous, a chance, yes – but he can't in good conscience bring someone into the situation with any ambiguity in their mind as to what they're up against. Blaine refuses take any chances, to endanger anyone who isn't prepared and fully aware of the circumstances. He reads over the final product, eyes running the short bundle of words for what feels like the umpteenth time:
To: awilliams
From:
Subject: Re: Re: A few questions about your work on folklore.
Dr. Williams,
As relieved as I am to get your message, you need to know that my situation is as dire as you imagined. It could be dangerous – really dangerous – for you to get involved. If we're talking about the same thing, I think you'll understand exactly what I mean. There have been threats made.
I don't want to put you in harm's way. You have to be sure.
Blaine
When he is certain that he's made things as clear as possible, Blaine lets out a heavy exhalation – and hits the send button. The loading screen pops up for a brief moment before the e-mail is gone, gone, gone. Careening off into cyberspace and rushing toward the only shred of hope he's managed to find during this entire nightmare.
Blinking, Blaine leans back onto the couch, rests his head in his hands, and tries to ignore the way his eyes are stinging. The way his bottom lip is trembling. Tries to get a handle on himself before he flies apart into a dozen pieces. He should feel bolstered, now; braver.
For reasons he can't quite explain, in this moment Blaine feels more fragile than he has in weeks instead.
Not expecting a response any time soon, Blaine rubs at his eyes and lets out a deep breath. He is about to close his laptop and head for the shower to get ready for class, hand hovering to pull the screen down and close it, when his high-pitched email alert tone nearly makes him jump out of his skin in surprise. He jolts, practically knocking the whole laptop off the table and scrambling to read the new message sitting in his inbox. It's almost as though the sender was waiting for his response on the other end.
To:
From: awilliams
Subject: Re: Re: Re: A few questions about your work on folklore.
I understand. I've encountered them before.
When and where do you want to meet?
Dr. Williams
Back when Blaine still lived at home, he used to tend to frequent a certain kind of coffee shop more than others. His favourite haunts in Westerville had been quirky and small, usually with cute names with puns and baristas who didn't care if he camped himself a place in the corner and stayed for hours on end. When he first came to New York, he clung to the tradition of seeking out the more unique, unusual places to get his caffeine fix for a few years. They weren't always close or convenient, but the servers were always friendly and the drinks made with personality, and there were usually even open mic nights he could come to. Places he could perform, put himself out there; become the confident young man who owned the stage again, if only for a few minutes.
He'd stopped going to those little havens somewhere along the line, though, and Blaine can't be sure exactly when. At some point, in the midst of midterms and essays and so many readings, it had become easier to just go to one of the two scridgy cafes on campus for his medium drips, or to the Starbucks nearby if he wanted something fancier. It was more efficient, this way. Quick, and easy, and the same drink every time. It had made sense.
Getting good marks was more important than finding time to sing, after all. It had been no big loss.
The coffee shop that Dr. Williams has chosen for them to meet at, Habit, is something close to a throw-back to the types of coffee shops he used to love what feels like so long ago. It's a bit more streamlined, true; but it has that feel of individualism that makes him relax almost as soon as he pulls the door open and walks inside out of the cold. The shop is clean and warm, the walls made of old worldly brick; the colourful espresso machines behind the counter are clearly top-of-the-line. Large windows let the sun come streaming in to brighten up the small space, and that feature by itself is enough to make Blaine feel more secure. Safer.
Blaine scans the room as he pulls off his gloves — it's November in New York and it's cold outside – and tries to determine if he's arrived before the professor has. There's a group of college kids clustered around two tables pulled together and chatting intensely over their lattes, an older East Indian woman at a corner table by herself, a couple of men wearing business suits chortling into their serious cups of black coffee. He thinks he sees someone who might be likely for a second, but it turns out to be a middle-aged couple perched happily at a back table; they're laughing, and smiling, and for a second Blaine looks at them sitting together easily and feels strongly jealous in a way he can't fully explain.
In any case, he seems to have arrived first; he hadn't been sure, having come directly from class. The coffee shop itself isn't too far from the NYU Law campus, which Blaine suspects Dr. Williams might have just arranged on purpose. He slides himself into a sturdy wooden table with a good view of the door, strips off his heavy winter coat to hang over the back of his chair, and waits.
Jumpy nerves are twisting in Blaine's stomach – they have been since the e-mail yesterday, he can't help it – and to take his head off waiting, he lets his mind drift to imagining what Dr. Williams will look like. He's retired, so on the older side of things; possibly with a shock of white hair and glasses perched over his nose. Blaine thinks of how very elderly indeed some of his own professors have been in the past, and how long academics in general tend to stick around in their positions. He imagines a frail handshake, the skin on the man's hands aged and withered, soft and translucent like old paper.
"Excuse me?" asks a low feminine voice, and Blaine blinks out of his reverie and turns around. The East Indian woman is standing next to his table, her head cocked to one side and looking at him tentatively. "I'm sorry, are you Blaine?"
Oh.
Feeling discombobulated and caught off guard – as well as more than a little embarrassed with himself – Blaine opens his mouth and stammers out a hasty apology.
"God, I'm sorry," Blaine rushes, jerking up from the table. "I'm – yes, Blaine Anderson." He extends his hand, still cold and slightly numb from being outside. She takes it, wrapping her own long fingers around his hand and shaking. Her grip is firm, and she holds his gaze with kind brown eyes for the entire time.
"Dr. Amita Williams," she says professionally, smiling at him with very white teeth. She's a handsome woman, slightly shorter even than he is and with a softness around her middle that makes her look healthy instead of dowdy. She's wearing an attractive green sweater that fits her well, and her hand feels warm and real as they shake hands. Even though the shoulder-length brown hair that hangs loose around her face is streaked with grey, she doesn't look nearly old enough to be a retired professor.
"You're younger than I thought you would be," says Blaine, awkward and slightly too loud, before realizing that the sentiment had the potential to be offensive as well as complimentary. He winces, because he really is awful about not thinking before he speaks: he just hasn't been interacting with enough people for it to be a problem lately. He relaxes, however, when she laughs.
"I retired early," she says as way of explanation. "My husband and I decided to buy a bookstore in the city a few years ago, and now we live in behind it." Absently, Blaine feels himself nodding along and blinking hard. There is a strange sensation pushing at his insides; restrained panic trying to get out, trying to escape.
"I should get you a coffee," he begins, turning his head away and fumbling with the coat slung over the back of his chair, reaching his hands into the pockets. Blaine feels twitchy and under scrutiny like a small animal, fumbling as he slides his hands into one empty coat pocket after the other. He doesn't know why he feels so lost when he's finally been able to find someone to help him, it's irrational and stupid and he feels as though he's going to break. "It was really nice of you to come out here, I really appreciate it..."
"Blaine," says Dr. Williams softly, but he keeps pushing on. Gives up on the coat in a flap of sleeves and reaches into his pants pockets with unsteady hands, right hand finding keys and phone but no wallet, where is it, why can't he find it.
"It's just," Blaine manages, blinking hard as his left hand finally closes around the soft leather of his wallet. He pulls it out, and it won't stop wavering in mid-air. "I should get you something, you know? Because I'm grateful, and. Do you want – tea, or coffee, or something to eat, I could get you something to eat –"
"Blaine," emphasizes Dr. Williams in a low, firm voice, and Blaine's bottom lip trembles. He clenches the wallet in white-fingered hands, holding tight because if he doesn't it's going to fall to the ground, it's shaking so hard. She reaches up and rests a hand on either one of his shoulders, strong and certain and holding his gaze kindly, and Blaine feels about five years old.
"It's okay, Blaine," she says softly, too quiet for anyone else to hear; the words make him suck in a breath of air despite their volume. Hey eyebrows are pulled together, and her hands are strong. "You're safe. It's going to be okay."
A tiny noise escapes his throat, and his face feels hot and crumpling, and Blaine isn't exactly sure which one of them moves into the embrace first but all of a sudden she's holding him tight, arms stronger than they look as he buries his face in her shoulder and her hands wrap around and hold him close. Not saying anything and not making any move to do anything else, just holding him, holding him together, and there's something so effortlessly maternal about the gesture that it makes Blaine squeeze his eyes shut against how suddenly and desperately badly he wants his own mother.
His mother is taller than Dr. Williams is, slighter, the feel of it isn't the same at all. But the sentiment is there nonetheless. Dr. Williams he holds him tight and firm and close, and for the first time since everything started Blaine feels safe.
He presses his face into this woman who is not his mother's shoulder and breathes in the smell of her perfume until he's able to think again. Until the shaking in his limbs begins to ebb away, and his eyes stop burning, and it feels like he can stand on his own without leaning on her for support.
When he pulls away, feeling embarrassed and awkward – he just hugged a complete stranger, they only just met, she must think he's insane, and the whole coffee shop was probably watching – she silences any words he might try to speak with a shake of her head and an understanding look.
"It's okay," Dr. Williams cuts him off softly, and for the first time Blaine really believes her. He nods, vision still swimming slightly but the tears stayed in his eyes so it doesn't count, and lets out a shaky breath. She lets go of him to reach down to pick something up, and Blaine realizes that it is his wallet; he'd never even noticed dropping it. When she hands it back over to him, he takes it with surer hands.
"How about you get us something to drink and I'll get our table all set up, all right?" she asks, and he nods fervently because this is something he can control. Something he can figure out, and make better, and fix.
"...what would you like?" he asks, trying to sound gracious – or at least to make his voice come out steady instead of weak and small. It mostly works.
"An earl grey tea misto for me, please," she says, and gives him an encouraging smile.
Blaine looks down at the wallet in his hands, back up at the woman in front of him – and nods. He begins to make his way over to the counter to place their order as she combines brings her handbag and coat over to his table, not even caring about the looks he must be getting from the other patrons. Shaking his head and hardly able to believe how quickly everything has changed, Blaine gets in line to order their drinks.
When Blaine comes back with a medium drip and a London Fog a few minutes later, Dr. Williams accepts her drink gratefully. He tries to shoot her a charming grin as he settles back into his chair; the one he used to be so good at, but his face seems to have forgotten how to form lately. The smile he receives in return lets him know that he succeeds at least a little bit. She's also very swift to correct him on the use of her name.
"Call me Amita," she requests with a smile, blowing into her mug and shifting the top layer of foamy milk in the process. Her voice is low and comfortable to listen to; she enunciates her words carefully whenever she speaks. "Doctor Williams is too formal; I'm not even a professor anymore, although I'm grateful to say they can't take my doctorate away from me."
Nodding and laughing a little, Blaine makes the mental adjustment. He's had friends accuse him of being too formal with adults before, but it's just the way he was brought up. It's instinct to go for the more respectful term first and wait to be corrected it later. A better mistake to make. She takes a careful sip of her drink.
"Now," says Amita, putting the mug back onto the table. The teabag string hangs over the side, dangling and barely scraping the tabletop. She settles her hands on the table, and Blaine can see that there is a wedding band on her finger. "Tell me how you met the vampire who's after you."
The word is bare and unconverted on the air. Hearing her say it out loud, without any hesitation at all, is almost embarrassing in its way: like parents who say too much when their child's friends come over. Blaine winces away from it, but Amita says the word with confidence; holds his gaze without shying away.
And that... god. That makes it real more than anything else could, hearing it out loud. From an adult, a real live person in front of him with knowledge and insight and who doesn't think he's crazy. Who won't condemn him for doing more than implying, and will believe him, and who honestly seems to want for him to be okay.
Blaine hesitates, opens his mouth – and tells her the whole story.
Everything, the whole sequence of events. From intercepting Kurt in the alley, to the kiss on the bench – he really, really hopes that she isn't homophobic, because there's no way he can talk about this without going into that particular aspect. He talks about the man Kurt killed. The scratching at the door, the slaughtered officers. The heart in the box. He tells her about the days and weeks of hiding and being afraid and being a coward; about just how much he'd felt as though he was waiting for something inevitable to happen. How close he'd come so many times to giving up.
Blaine talks, and talks, and all the while Amita listens. Nodding her head in all the right places and occasionally asking for clarification, jotting notes down in a large blue notebook, and Blaine honestly cannot believe this. Cannot comprehend that he has someone to talk to about this now; someone who won't think he's insane, and knows the risks, and knows how to keep herself safe. Giddy hysteria keeps threatening snag at the narrative and pull him away, but Blaine keeps going determinedly until the whole story is told.
When he's finished, Amita nods slowly. She looks slightly paler than before, and a section of her greying hair has tumbled over her cheek. Although her mug is empty, Blaine himself has been talking for so long with so few breaks that's fairly sure his own drink has gone stone cold. Across from him, she takes a long look at her notes – and lets out a tiny breath of air.
"Well," she begins after a while, settling down her pen. "That's... well."
"Yeah," Blaine replies softly, mouth dry and throat sore from talking for such a great length of time. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, then automatically reaches up to run a hand through his curls. He encounters the slick of the gel instead, having forgotten that he'd taken the time to make himself look at least slightly presentable today in honour of the meeting.
"Blaine, I won't lie to you," says Amita, hand twisting at a ring on her finger and staring down at her notes. She looks slightly uneasy. "I've had some experience with these creatures in the past: I met one myself, many years ago now, and I've spent my life studying them. I've interviewed a few other people during my career for first-hand accounts. But your case..." She lets out a contemplative sigh, eyebrows furrowing as she stares at some point in the air beyond him. "I... I've never encountered anything quite like it. At least, not with the people I've talked to myself in the past."
"Oh," says Blaine quietly, staring fixedly into his coffee cup. She takes a deep breath.
"All that means, though, is that we need to take the time to think about this properly. Now." Amita moves forward in her seat. "Let's think about this. Kurt could have killed you the night he met you, Blaine," she insists gently, leaning forward and clearly trying to catch his gaze. "But he didn't. He let you walk inside your apartment where he cannot reach you, safe and sound. If he wants to kill you so badly, why do you think he did that?"
"I..." Blaine trails, taking a sip of his coffee to stall for time. It's cold and unpleasant, now, but he swallows it down anyways. Memories of red sheets and candlelight are toying at the edges of his brain, overwhelming him. He swallows. "He said he had plans. That he wanted to..." Shame heats his face, and he can't quite meet the older woman's eye. "...make it special. With... candles, and romance, and..."
Blaine makes an abortive gesture with one hand, but Amita is already nodding. The expression on her face is uncomfortably similar to that of someone reading a particularly interesting footnote.
"He wants to kill me," Blaine states dully, and the resignation of it isn't even terrifying anymore. It's so present, the threat of death, over him all the time and it's so hard to keep being frightened of it. "And he's a monster. I don't... I don't pretend to understand how his mind works."
At once, Amita opens her mouth as if to speak – but she closes it again quickly, lips pressed tight together. For the briefest of moments, there is something almost reticent in her eyes. It's gone quickly, though; replaced by the veneer of academic professionalism and careful listening. She brings one of her hands up to rest her chin on and nods.
And Blaine doesn't have any time to wonder about it, not really, because more memories are straining at his mind. Tugging at the edges of his brain: the feel of Kurt's hands along his skin, how in control Kurt had acted. The feeling of being thrown back on the bed and pinned down, taken –
"There's more," says Blaine awkwardly, because by now there doesn't seem to be any point in holding anything back. No more point to decorum. "It's... I'm sorry, there isn't really a good way to put this." He laughs distractedly, then falls silent for a moment. "After Kurt told me that, about wanting to make it special... I had this dream."
"Did it feel as though you were awake?" Amita asks immediately, and Blaine's eyes fly wide open.
"Yes!" he exclaims, shocked vindication bursting inside him. "I've been having them every night, and it's like – like I'm more awake there than I am while I'm asleep. The pain is more real, everything is more real, and after he mentioned making it special I went to sleep and it all played out like he said and I woke up so scared, and how did you know –?"
"Because I've had them, too," she says, and Blaine is practically vibrating.
"Is he putting them there?" he asks at once, gripping the table a bit too hard and leaning toward her across the tabletop. "I mean, he practically said that he isn't, but – he could be lying, and – is it all in my head, or is it him? In the dreams, it... it feels like him."
Amita pauses for a long moment, biting her bottom lip as she hesitates.
"I... had the dreams for a few days after the night I encountered a vampire," she begins, tapping her pen on her notebook. "They were... vivid, even when they were vague. Bright and real and awful; violence and death and sex, over and over." She glances at Blaine for confirmation and he nods; for all the variance of the nightly visions, they all share at least one of those strands in common.
Amita leans forward. "But Blaine: I am almost certain that the vampire I met? Did not know I had survived the attack. I don't believe he knew I was alive, let alone that he would have cared enough to get into my head. He didn't focus on me the way Kurt focuses on you. From the lore I've studied, as well, I do not believe that they put the dreams there intentionally, or that they have the power to do so."
"But... we've both had them," Blaine insists, feeling confused. "There must be a connection, there has to be. He – Kurt knew." A memory of the other night; Kurt's groans and breathy gasps over the phone, the way that word had echoed in Blaine's ears. Lover. Lover. Lover. "Kurt knew that I dream about him in that way. He was... he was happy about it."
"I imagine he was," says Amita darkly, and Blaine's eyebrows furrow together. She wrings her hands across the table from him, appearing to think of the best way to phrase something.
"From what I can tell, vampires have a... tendency to get under our skin," she explains slowly, taking her time. Strong, long fingers clasped in front of her as she speaks. "They aren't human, Blaine, no matter how much they might look like us most of the time. Our minds have a... difficult time, sometimes, processing them. They're different from anything we've ever encountered before; something beyond our experience. From what I can tell, when human beings encounter a vampire, something of their essence gets into our heads. Wriggles into our brains and stays there for a while, and the dreams are one sign of that. It's a survival strategy, mostly, I think. It disconcerts us. Makes us more willing to give ourselves over to them; less likely to fight back."
There is a cold, heavy sensation growing in Blaine's chest as he tries to process the exact implication of the explanation. "You mean... there's a part of him – Kurt – inside my head?" he asks, disbelieving horror woven through he words. His head is spinning.
Amita nods. "Not a conscious part, and a small one. Something beyond his own control. But if he's spent any significant time with you? Then... I can only assume that the answer is yes." Her lips purse together tightly. "These dreams... they're fairly consistent in the research I've done in Eastern and Western Europe, as well. Something of him has wormed its way into you, and now your own mind is providing the details in order for you to find a way to comprehend it."
"So this... part of him. It's at the core, but..." Blaine trails off, looking determinedly down at the table. "But my own head makes up the details. What happens, and where, and how."
Amita nods. Blaine bites his lip, feeling strangely hollow.
All this time – even after Kurt had seemed pleasantly surprised at his place within Blaine's head, he'd still suspected... he'd still been sure that Kurt was controlling the dreams somehow. Injecting ideas into his head, forcing his mind to take him into the scenarios. That he had been using Blaine's head as another battlefield with which to wear him down, and strip him bare, and drive him mad.
But even if there is something of Kurt inside of him, inspiring it all, the actual content – the sequence of events the dreams follow, the locations they take place at, the combination of the sensual and the brutal... it's all being packaged and presented and topped with a pretty bow by his own subconscious.
For the first time, Blaine fully processes the fact that before he knew of Kurt's true nature, the dreams had only ever been based around romance. About Kurt's physicality and beauty, his mysteriousness; the way he had made Blaine feel wanted for the first time in a long time, and the sadness at the abruptness of his departure.
It was only after watching that man get killed that anything of blood or pain or fear had manifested within them as well.
"Blaine," he hears Amita say through the fog, and he snaps back into the real world with a jolt. She is staring at him steadily, the lines of her face pulled into an expression of patient concern.
"What can I do?" Blaine hears himself asking, and there is a steely determination beginning to harden at the edges of his mind. He has an ally, now. A resource that he doesn't intend to ignore. He isn't alone in this anymore. He shakes his head firmly. "These past few weeks, I've felt so trapped, but – what can I do? How can I fight him?"
Across from him, something is shifting in the former professor's expression. Sneaking into the creases of her eyes and tugging at her smile, making her sit up straighter in her seat. And when she speaks, there is the strangest sense of pride resonating from the words.
"You've been very brave," Amita starts slowly, hastening to continue at the devastated expression Blaine can feel spreading over his face without his permission. "I know you don't think so .You think that you've failed people, that you're being a coward. But Blaine: you've held up well, and you've done the best with what you've had." She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "But you can't last like this forever. You can't cling on and hide and try to resist and turn this into a battle of attrition, because if you do? He will succeed."
It's an expected blow to his stomach, hearing that out loud, but that doesn't make it any less true. Doesn't make it any less something Blaine has already been aware of at the back of his head. He nods firmly, letting out a determined breath.
"Then what do I do instead?" Blaine asks, and she grins.
"We take the battle to Kurt," Amita says with confidence. "Go on the offensive. Try to get information, be sneaky. Learn as much as we can and find out how we can hurt him most effectively. We're at a disadvantage – the lore on killing vampires is big, and vague, and not very well tested – but we're not completely without hope. We have my research, and access to information, and someone Kurt is very clearly willing to communicate with: you."
Her eyes are shining with something frenetic and convicted, and Blaine can feel the stirrings of hope beginning to sprout and grow in his stomach. He's been alone for so long, and finally – finally – he has someone on his side. They can do this. They can find a way.
"It's going to be hard," she warns. "But I promise you, Blaine: we will find a way to kill him."