A/N: Yes, I wrote you a sequel to the previous chapter, the prompt was too tempting not to.

I'm caught up on filling the new prompts, but I am still behind on reading an reviewing some of your guys' fills. I'm so sorry I am not reviewing more instead of filling old prompts. I have not written much lately so I have this itch to write at the moment, I hope you understand, and I promise to read all your wonderful work before the end of the week.

Prompt (4): He's at home, scared, terrified even, and just wishing that it would stop

Characters: Kurt, Blaine, Burt

Words: 1184

Unhalted

He's at home, scared, terrified even, and just wishing that it would stop ... but his hands keep itching.

Blaine has made him get rid of a lot of sharp things in the days since '...since THAT day,' - the day Blaine had found out more than Kurt had ever wanted to tell ... anyone.

But there are things Blaine cannot get rid of for him. The throbbing in Kurt's head is nothing that can be packed up in a trash bag with razorblades, hand-mirrors Kurt might smash – use the shards to cut.

So he is stuck, they are stuck in his room, the throbbing in his head, the itching in his hands and him. They are foreign and they are part of him.

'How do you get rid of a part of yourself?'

How does anyone ever get rid of anything attached to them, intertwined deep within you?

"You are not alone." After cleaning up, cleaning the broken skin as good as they could, Blaine had held Kurt that day, had whispered soothing words and had held him close until his breathing had calmed so much, Blaine had not been sure if Kurt had not fallen asleep until Kurt had asked, voice small, "What now?"

"Do you want me to tell someone?" Maybe it had been a stupid question, already a stupid thought before it had left Blaine's mouth. He had had to try though. Right?

Kurt had only shaken his head, eyes squeezed shut tight then.

Blaine had held him for what had felt like hours after that, long, peace-filled hours, both of them curled up against the headboard of Kurt's bed. And Kurt – zoned out, cocooned in Blaine's warm form – had not even registered his dad coming in, exchanging surprised looks and a couple of hushed words with the stranger cuddling with his son, '... by the looks of it.'

'So much for a smooth first meeting.'

'Maybe if Blaine was here ...?' maybe then the itching, the throbbing, maybe then they would leave, '...leave me alone.'

It is a torturous choice, because Kurt cannot tell, he knows he will not be able to tell until Blaine is here again, if it had been the new cuts or ... or those arms '... holding me,' that had made all the difference that day. Kurt knows what he longs the answer to be.

But he cannot know; there is always a calm ... after cutting. At least some hours, sometimes, rarely, even days, where it is okay, where it does not hurt to breathe around other people and not every smile is forced or fake; where the head is dazed enough to believe in more than it sees, hears. Time when the person inside does not feel so damn trapped '... always.'

For the first time in a very, very long time Kurt wonders if what he wants has never really been to be left alone. 'I hate feeling alone.' But how could he want anything else, with the way other people have treated him? Because who, who could love him?

Kurt has long forgotten what it is like to be around someone else and be himself, be happy being himself, sure in who he is, because he is loved for his smile, his laugh, his love.

The Warblers, the Dalton boys are different, different from McKinley, the bullies, the haters.

But they are also so different, in so many ways, ... from him.

It is scary having such a loose grip on yourself that every time you try and allow yourself to be, just be, around people ... your grip slips. Because you just know, everyone is telling you after all, has been telling you for years, you need to be '... I need to be someone else, new, different, to deserve a solo, to deserve a mom, to deserve a life. To be loved, to deserve to be loved.'

Then, in those moments not even your clothes will hold you together. And Kurt has tried, with the tightest clothes he could find.

They do not work, they won't keep him, won't hold him any closer to himself.

Blaine had held him.

'There are knives downstairs, maybe even razorblades in dad's bathroom around the corner. There is bound to be something in reach,' it is a thought Kurt has not been able to shake, for too long already today. Saturdays are hard. Kurt used to help his dad in the garage, a lot. Now there is Finn, and he is not needed anymore. Kurt used to make dinner, for the two of them. Now there is Carole, cooking for four, and even the task of eating seems impossible to Kurt now ... too often.

As he keeps his limbs locked, his muscles aching with tension, Kurt reaches for his nightstand, his phone, even the edges are rounded.

"Blaine?" Blaine had insisted on being on Kurt's speed-dial after receiving a weak "No," as answer to the question if anyone else knows.

"Hey, Kurt," the voice already is warm and so soft in Kurt's ear.

Kurt is clutching the phone hard, fingers paling with the force, "Can you come over. ... I'm, I'm scared I'll, I'll ... do something."

...

Kurt meets Blaine at the downstairs front door a while later, pale, and as Blaine takes Kurt's hand in his for a brief welcoming squeeze he notices '...shaking, too.'

Blaine does not let go as they start walking.

They have a quick drink in the kitchen and are on their way back upstairs - Blaine had caught Kurt staring blankly in the direction of what he had suspected to be the cutlery drawer, holding all sorts of sharp objects, no doubt, and so prompted for them to head upstairs - when they run into Burt in the hallway.

"Hey guys. Where to in such a hurry?"

"This is Blaine, Dad. Blaine, this is my dad," Kurt introduces with mild disinterest, the itch still all under his skin making him restless. He cannot focus.

"I know," Burt answers, which has Kurt's attention snap back into place.

"You ... you've met?"

"Kurt," Blaine says, gently squeezing Kurt's hand, "Last week, when I returned your book," Blaine swears he can feel Kurt's heart pounding in the tips of his fingers it is pumping suddenly so hard, 'Fear,' "... when you were so exhausted from Warbler practice and studying that you fell asleep on me after we had sat down and talked. I didn't want to wake you. And your dad walked in, wanting to ask you to dinner," Blaine says briefly smiling at Burt, "after I explained he said it was okay for me to stay a little longer. So I stayed ... for a while. Until you woke up again."

"Oh yeah, right. Okay," Kurt murmurs, eyes unfocused, glazed.

"Everything alright, Kiddo? You look paler than usual," Burt asks concerned.

"No, no I'm ... I mean, I'm fine."

Not entirely convinced Burt turns to Blaine, "Keep an eye on this one for me, will you? He does not like to ..."

"Daad, I can take care of myself," Kurt interrupts.

"See what I mean?" Burt says with a chuckle.

Blaine answers only with a weak smile, 'If only ...,' "I'll keep my eyes open, Sir."

"Thanks, Kid."

Kurt has let go of Blaine's hand about three sentences ago, is already half up the stairs when Blaine hurries after him, "Kurt!"

A/N: It hurt writing Burt like this, so unsuspecting:(