A/N: Please go back to the first chapter and re-read the warnings before reading this one. I've updated them to include new warnings for this chapter, so even if you've read them before, I suggest doing it again.

On a lighter note, I know it's been a while since I posted on here but this is my longest chapter yet! I've been interacting with my Instagram account NayaWarbler, so if you want to be sure I'm still around (which I am pretty much always) don't hesitate to check me out there or shoot me a message!

Enjoy the chapter, everyone :)

Chapter Twelve: Please, Tell Me

The scrape of hard, plastic chairs filled the quiet room. Finn tugged his along with one hand, undisturbed by his cast, easy, effortless, thoughtless; Santana grabbed with both hands but heaved, strong and quick and a little bit angry a lot of the time; Quinn's small hands didn't even close around the rim, and she struggled pulling it into place, but she did so without letting on. After these short, awkward moments of silent rearranging, the chairs were banished to the far corners of the room.

No one would have given a second thought to the sounds the chairs made as they cleared the centre of the room for rehearsal, but the clanging was explicit in the heavy silence that had permeated the air.

"Ok everyone," Mr. Schue called out, clasping his hands together in his signature way as they gathered around him. It was their traditional Saturday rehearsal the week of a competition, and the kids were, as usual, tired and drained in every way. In a way, the rehearsal was useless – nine times out of ten, they changed something about their performance the day of. Still, it was a bit of normalcy they held onto. The teacher cleared his throat before continuing, "Sectionals is on Tuesday, as we all know. I've been putting this off for a while now because of recent events, but it's time I reassign the solo."

Gazes turned and stayed on Finn, but he held his head high, folding his lips together. "It's not like we have any other option," he muttered to himself before continuing for everyone else. "Who did you decide on?"

For once, Rachel closed her mouth right after opening it, and it stayed that way.

After a moment's acknowledgement had passed, Mr. Schue addressed the question. "Of course, Kurt was going to have the solo for this sectionals. However, when I first offered it to him, he declined it. He said, 'give it to someone else, like Brittany or Santana.' That's what I've decided to do."

Immediately, Santana's eyebrows flared in confusion and anger. "What does that even mean? Which one of us?"

"Both of you," the teacher replied, gaze flitting ingenuously between the two girls. "Your voices sound great together, and a duet would showcase our diversity better. Besides, you two are close friends, so rehearsing outside of school should be easy."

Ordinarily bright and carefree, Brittany's eyes clouded with pain so real it may as well have been physical. "I don't know if that's-"

"Like fucking hell that's happening," Santana snarled, grabbing her bag from the discarded chair and slinging it over her bare shoulder. "In fact, you can sing your little showtunes without me." Brushing them off, she stormed out, pleated skirt rustling with the movement of her wide hips.

Soft sniffles filled the quiet room as Brittany covered her face with her hands. Taken aback, Mr. Schue backtracked. "Or… not? Did I miss something?"

"Just about everything," Finn muttered again. Ducking under his gangly arm, Rachel placed a comforting hand on his chest, whispering something inaudible in his ear. He relaxed, closing his eyes as his balled-up fist loosened. He turned to Brittany with a hard but not accusatory expression. "I drove her here this morning," he revealed. "She's probably in the parking lot."

Her wet eyes shined, guilty and hopeful and something no one else would understand. "Are you saying-"

"I'm not saying anything," he snapped, turning away from her. That was the end of the conversation. Still, Rachel spared her a miniscule nod, and the blonde girl turned and ran from the room quicker than one of her backflips during cheerios practice.

Earlier's silence returned, more malicious and bloodthirsty than ever. Their teacher cleared his throat. "Quinn, you'll be doing the solo. Now, we only have nine members since Kurt can't perform, so we'll need to have the band fill in."

"Not necessarily," Rachel piped in. "At least, not all the spots. I actually… I've been meaning to bring this up, but it's been kind of intense with Kurt and Santana and Brittany and the solo-"

"Oh just spit it out," Mercedes said, shaking her head.

The small girl glared at her but continued the same, if not with a hint of sourness in her voice. "I found Sam. He's coming back to Lima tomorrow night, and he should be reenrolled by Monday, which means he can perform with us at Sectionals."

Mercedes quieted suddenly, and Quinn asked, "Didn't his family move to Kentucky? Where would he live?"

"With me," Rachel answered nervously. Finn's arm shot away from her shoulders, and his face crumpled with displeasure.

"What?" he said in a raised voice, the long, blue vein in his forehead distending.

As she placed her hand back on his chest, Rachel attempted to calm him. "It's not a big deal, really. He's crashing in our guest room until December break. That's like a week, tops."

"And after that? There's no way he's coming all the way back and changing schools just for a week so we can perform at Sectionals with one extra person."

She bit her lip. "No, you're right. But he's going to Kentucky for Christmas, and after that we can cross that bridge when we get to it."

"I guess…"

Mr. Schue bangs his marker on the whiteboard. "Ok, that's enough of that. Rachel, thank you for finding Sam. I'm glad we only have to find two more people, assuming that threat of Santana's to quit was empty. Now, can we all please get out our sheet music…"

Similar to the chairs, the sound of feet clomping against the floor as the group scrambled to retrieve their folders filled the room. Despite this, as Mr. Schue stood still in the centre of it all, he couldn't help but feel like his control was slipping; his control over the club, over their competitions, and over their lives. He knew they were teenagers, that they weren't his children, but somehow, in the past few weeks, it felt like they were in trouble – like they were facing much more than they should ever have to, some of it unknown to him still – and he wanted to help them, needed to, but didn't know how.

His control was slipping, and he didn't know if he'd ever actually been protecting them.

"Please," Kurt begged, eyes wide and teary. "It's just one d-day."

As he checked the boy's abdomen stitches, Dr. Anderson sighed. "It's barely been five days since we removed your spleen. There's no way you can go to Sectionals, even just to watch."

"WebMD says it takes less th-than a week to be released f-from the hospital after getting your spleen removed."

"And Dr. Anderson says you're also recovering from a rib fracture pneumothorax, severe trauma to your internal organs, and a concussion caused by blunt force trauma to the head. Besides, if you read further you'll see that another month at least is required for complete recovery from a splenectomy."

Kurt closed his eyes to hide the moisture welling up inside them, but it was harder to hide the knot in his throat. His cheeks burned red with embarrassment. "Not even in a wheelchair?"

The warmth of the older man's hand covered his arm, and the tears burned harder in the back of his head. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I know how much that performance means to you. But think of it this way – if we stick to my schedule, with you starting physical therapy soon, you'll be up on your feet all by yourself in no time. I can't make any promises, but I sincerely hope this will be the only competition you have to miss."

The doctor's speech was rewarded with the appearance of two bright blue, shining eyes. "What about… singing?"

"I… May I?" Dr. Anderson gestured towards Kurt's throat, and at his nod, proceeded to examine the area with his fingers. After an internal examination as well, he sat back, setting down his tools. Earnestly, he asked, "When was the last time you tried to sing?"

"A while ago. Maybe… t-two days after?"

"After you woke up?" Kurt nodded, and a hint of poorly concealed delight spread across Dr. Anderson's face. "Well, since my initial examination after you woke up, it seems that almost all of the swelling in your throat has gone down, and there was no permanent damage to the tissue."

"W-What d-does th-that… mean?" Kurt stuttered, voice trembling with hope and guilt for hoping.

A smile played on his lips. "It means that there's no physical reason you shouldn't be able to sing."

Kurt's face crumbled. "Th-Then w-why can't I even speak?" he asked, voice small and broken.

"Kurt," Dr. Anderson called out, calming and sure. "Kurt, this is a good thing. Once your PT is going well, I want you to start seeing a psychologist as well. I have high hopes for your recovery, Kurt. Really."

"O-Okay," he replied. He didn't completely understand why the doctor was so excited, but he figured it couldn't be a bad thing. His head spun, a dull pain in the back of it reminding him that most things weren't good these days; a buzzing on his side table made him wince, but he grabbed his phone anyway, the brightly lit screen piercing his tender eyes.

From Blaine Anderson: Can I swing by tonight?

Oh, that was right. Blaine was Dr. Anderson's brother… Kurt had almost forgotten, his mind occupied by hopes of seeing his friends on the stage (even without him). Now, as he looked up from his phone to see Dr. Anderson typing something into his computer, Kurt couldn't help but notice the similarities: sharp chin and cheeks, the same smattering of stubble across their defined jaws, full bottom lips overshadowing the tops. But, more than that, he noticed the differences, found himself yearning for hazel eyes instead of steel, curly hair instead of straight, cute and round glasses that rested on his strong nose.

He tapped out a message, shaking those thoughts out of his head.

To Blaine Anderson: Don't you have an exam to study for?

The reply came within seconds.

From Blaine Anderson: Always :_)

To Blaine Anderson: No one under the age of thirty has ever used that emote.

From Blaine Anderson: Wounded :( I'm only 24.

To Blaine Anderson: See, you're in the prime of your youth. Stop acting like an old man.

From Blaine Anderson: All med students act like old people. We're socially awkward.

To Blaine Anderson: Yeah, well, that's why you should be studying for your exam. I don't want you flunking out now that you've already sacrificed your youth.

From Blaine Anderson: That's not how it works, Kurt :(((

To Blaine Anderson: You can come over tonight, but you have to study in my room. I'm sure it's more comfortable than the floor outside it.

From Blaine Anderson: Yeah… I can explain that.

To Blaine Anderson: Mm-hmm, I'm sure you can.

"I'll be right back," Dr. Anderson called out to him. He nodded absent-mindedly.

To Blaine Anderson: Your brother just informed me I can't go to Sectionals.

A moment passed before the reply came.

From Blaine Anderson: I'm so sorry, Kurt.

To Blaine Anderson: It's okay. I knew it was a long shot.

From Blaine Anderson: That doesn't mean it hurts any less.

He waited for a moment, thinking about the truth in that statement. Hope sucks, he wanted to write. Instead he wrote:

To Blaine Anderson: Yeah.

From Blaine Anderson: If it helps, you can ask your dad to call you from the competition? You could hear them perform through the speakers?

He smiles softly at the phone.

To Blaine Anderson: That's a great idea. Thank you, Blaine.

From Blaine Anderson: Don't mention it. I'm just glad I could help.

"Kurt?" Dr. Anderson said from the doorway, drawing his attention. "Detective Gilbert would like to speak with you, if you're up for it."

"Oh, uh…" The boy glanced down at his phone to see three dots signifying that Blaine was typing. He sighed and shrugged. "I guess."

"He'll be here in a moment." The doctor closed the door behind him. A ping sounded from Kurt's phone.

From Blaine Anderson: Did Coop tell you anything else?

To Blaine Anderson: Actually, he just told me that Det. Gilbert is here to speak with me.

From Blaine Anderson: Elliott's there? Right now?

Elliott? A sharp sting appeared in Kurt's chest, and his face screwed up.

To Blaine Anderson: You know him?

The three dots appeared again, then disappeared, and then reappeared.

From Blaine Anderson: We dated a very long time ago.

The breath seemed to leave Kurt's lungs all at once, and there was no reason he could think of for that to happen. Except, perhaps, that he had just realized how much more Blaine had experienced than he had; the simple experience of having a boyfriend, for one. The rest of it he shut from his mind, because if he went into it, he was sure he would break in two and become irreparable.

Two abrupt knocks startled him, and he held a hand to his racing heart. "Come in," he said, and the detective peaked his head in as expected. Kurt waved him in with one hand, the other typing out a quick response to Blaine's text before shutting his phone off.

To Blaine Anderson: Sorry, gotta go.

"Hey, kid," Det. Gilbert joked, standing assuredly by his bedside. Kurt gestured for him to take the seat beside his bed, and he accepted gratefully.

"You w-wanted to see me?" Kurt stressed, instinctively squaring his shoulders. Unlike his other run-ins with the man, this time he felt the need to make himself look larger, less like the child that he hadn't been for a long time.

"Yep." As he dug through the satchel he brought with him, Kurt took a moment to assess him. He was unmistakeably handsome with distinctive features, thick brows and black studs in both ears. His brown hair curled up with an effortless style that made Kurt raise a hand to his own in self-doubt. His long fingers withdrew from the bag, holding a slip of paper.

Kurt's nose crinkled. "What's that?"

"A notice from the forensics lab. The DNA from your kit is coming on Monday. That's less than two days." He leaned in closer, a sort-of fire lighting in his eyes. "So far, all the department can do is wait for those results, since our interrogations got no results. I need you to know that we've spoken to those boys your step-brother told us were bullying you."

"Brother," Kurt corrected as he processed the information. His eyes wrenched open, every muscle tensing up as terror filled up the spaces between. "W-Wait, you d-d-did w-what?"

The detective frowned. "We spoke to several boys on the McKinley High Titans. Christopher Strando, Azimio Adams, David Karofsky…"

"W-Why, why would you do that?! I t-told you they d-didn't-"

"You told us you didn't remember," Det. Gilbert reminded him. "Without your recount, the best we could do was speak to possible suspects, and as bullies of yours, they were the first that came to mind."

I'm going to make this perfectly clear: they should have no reason to suspect him at all.

Kurt knew he was about to say something he would regret. He just knew it – it was as though he was the one being interrogated, where one slip of the tongue could ruin everything forever. So he took a deep breath, covering his mouth with one hand as though he was processing when he was really planning, planning…

He never wanted to do this.

"I… I remember who it w-was," Kurt whispered. "I remember everything. Who attacked me, who… who assaulted me."

The detective dropped the piece of paper in shock. "What? Kurt, you said you-"

"I know w-what I said. I… I d-didn't say anything because I… d-don't know his name. I only know w-what he looks like."

Det. Gilbert scrambled for a notepad and pen, flipping it open and scribbling something on the white pages. "Please, describe him for me."

"H-He w-was… tall, at least six feet, and older, d-definitely not in high school." Kurt spewed more descriptions of the non-existent man, pieces of himself dying as he helped the boys who hurt him go free. He described the man's face, his hands, his voice. He described in detail as much as he remembered of the attack before he fell unconscious. By the end of it, his chest was numb, and the pain he'd felt for the last two weeks was just a sharp buzz in the back of his head.

He couldn't feel anything anymore, and maybe that was for the best.

"And he w-was following me because of th-that," he finished, voice hollow and painless.

The detective's eyes were wet, but he blinked it away. "You had been meeting up with him at Scandals…"

He nodded and laughed self-deprecatingly. "I d-decided to break it off, and he… well, you know."

Detective Gilbert moved to place a hand on his arm but changed his mind, hovering over his skin for a moment before withdrawing. "It's not your fault, you have to know that."

"Of course," he replied immediately. It wasn't even his story, but he knew if it had happened to someone else, he would be saying the same thing. It wasn't his fault, of course it wasn't, how could it be? But that didn't mean… "Yeah, I know th-that. Really."

"Ok," the detective sighed. "Ok, good."

"Mm."

"Well then," he closed the notebook and tucked it into his satchel. "This is really helpful. Thank you, Kurt. I'll go get the doctor."

Kurt nodded and smiled until he was gone, and then shut his eyes so tightly that he thought he might not be able to see when they opened. Or maybe, he thought darkly to himself, they'll just never open.

Would that really be so bad?

Blaine chewed absent-mindedly on his pen cap as he flipped through the pages of his mock exam. Glancing at the mocking timer on his phone, he groaned, digging his fingers into his scalp. It was hard to focus when he was almost certain Kurt was ignoring his text messages.

He gave up, pushing the papers away and opening the 'messages' app on his phone, scrolling through the ones he shared with Kurt earlier that day.

From Kurt Hummel: Sorry, gotta go.

To Kurt Hummel: wait kurt

To Kurt Hummel: I have to tell you something.

To Kurt Hummel: Cooper told me last night that Elliott got a notice from the forensic lab.

To Kurt Hummel: I need to talk to you. Urgently.

To Kurt Hummel: Kurt?

They were still marked unread. Blaine sighed heavily into his palm, hoping Elliott hadn't sprung that on him and knowing that how he'd gone about it hadn't been much better. Hopefully, Kurt wouldn't check his messages until after Blaine visited him that night.

A plate appeared on the coffee table in front of him. The smell of pasta wafted up towards his nose, and he groaned. "Jeez, Wes, you should quit your job and open a restaurant."

"And you should get a job," he retorted, gesturing at the abandoned mock exam. "Or at least try to get into a good residency program."

"Why would I need a job when I have you?" he teased through a mouthful of sauce. Wes rolled his eyes and sat down beside him.

They shared dinner in silence, watching kids' shows on their ancient television and making faces at the horrific voices the actors used. "Why did we get this channel again?" Blaine snickered as he took a sip of wine.

"For Lily," Wes said. "She used to love it here for some reason, remember? Whenever she and her parents would come to Lima, we couldn't get her to leave."

"Oh, of course," Blaine reminisced, a grin playing on his lips. "I miss the little monkey. We should go see her."

"Westerville is only an hour and a half away, Blaine. I'm there every day for work. I don't know why you and Cooper don't go and see her more."

His smile faded, but he nodded. "You're right. I'll go see her next weekend."

Blaine's phone buzzed against his side, and he picked it up, unlocking it quickly. A message popped up on his screen.

From Finn Hudson: Dude get th fck here rn

He frowned, typing a one-handed reply as he ate quickly with the other.

To Finn Hudson: Finn? What happened?

From Finn Hudson: kurt jus tld the cops he knws who did it – said its some rando?! I knw hes lying bt not y…

Blaine shot up from his seat and grabbed his bag. He propped his feet up on the table one by one to yank his shoes on.

To Finn Hudson: omw

Wes frowned and pulled the man's wine glass towards him so Blaine wouldn't knock it over. "Where are you going?"

"Emergency at the hospital. Coop needs me." He threw his jacket on haphazardly before leaning over and kissing his roommate on the cheek. "Thanks for dinner."

"No problem-" Wes' words fell on no ears as Blaine was out the door before he could finish. He sighed, stacking their half-empty plates and taking them to the kitchen. He muttered to himself as he squeezed the food into Tupperware, "That boy's gonna be a handful of a husband someday. Can't wait until I don't have to deal with him anymore."

"Everyone, get out," Finn snarled, low and menacing like his mother had never heard before. The crowded room's air was like an hourglass, slowly seeping away and bringing with it tension and anger and fear. "Everyone. Now."

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Carole nodded, carefully filing the police officers and doctors and nurses out of her stepson's hospital room. Burt stayed back a moment, casting a pained look at his son. How could he have…

"Burt," Finn implored, the fire gone from his voice. "Please, just give us a minute. Go to the cafeteria." The man bit his lip until blood spilled over, but left nonetheless and without comment. Alone, Finn turned to his brother.

"Look-" Kurt attempted, desperation in his eyes.

"No." Finn stopped him. "I just want to know why you're lying to them. And don't try to tell me you aren't, because you all but confessed to me that it was Karofsky who did this to you."

"I w-was confused and ashamed and my head was-"

"Kurt. Look at me."

Their eyes met, and what Finn saw in Kurt's was the return of all that pain, tenfold.

His voice cracked as he spoke, like brittle bones tied to a train track. "I can't."

Finn waited for him to continue. He wasn't a particularly patient person (at all) and yet he waited. A minute passed, and then another, and a few more until he wasn't certain how long it had been, and still he waited.

Perhaps he would have waited forever if it weren't for the faint yet persistent knocking at the door. He frowned, having thought he'd scared them all away for a little longer, until he yanked the door open and was inches from the sweat-soaked face of Blaine Anderson.

"Please, let me in," the man panted, as though he'd run all the way from New York City. "My brother's somewhere around here and he'll have questions if he sees me."

"Sure, yeah," Finn muttered, ushering him inside before shutting the door softly behind him. "Um, Kurt, this is-"

"Blaine," he whispered, reaching one hand out in front of his face. The man rushed to his side, giving him a one-armed hug that enveloped him tight. Kurt breathed into his neck, "You're here."

He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them to stare at Kurt's white pillow covers. "Yeah. I told you I would come."

Finn stood in front of the door – it was maybe a few feet, but it felt like much too far away. He'd never seen them together, and the sight of it was strange; it was strange to know that Kurt found such comfort in someone who wasn't him, or Carole, or Burt. Kurt, who'd been alone essentially his entire life.

Blaine pulled away first, sparing one caress of Kurt's hair before withdrawing. "I thought you were angry with me," he breathed, taking his usual spot on the bed.

"What?" he sputtered. "Why?"

The man's gaze drifted to the side table, where Kurt's phone was sitting. In the short time he'd known Kurt, he knew that if the phone was powered on, it would be in his hand or on the bed; it comforted Kurt to have it within easy reach. He sighed in relief, shaking his head. "Never mind. I'm here now."

"Yeah, about that," Finn interjected. "Isn't there a reason you're here, Blaine?"

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed around it. Lacing his fingers through one of Kurt's hands, Blaine explained, "Finn texted me that you… spoke to Elliott?"

Kurt tore his hand away. "That's why you're here? Of course it is…"

"Stop it, Kurt," Finn shouted. "We're trying to help you! Why can't you see that?"

Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his face contorted, pulled into the sky by his pointed, delicate nose. "D-Do you th-think I…" His words were punctuated by deep sobs, and his chest felt like it was bursting through his skin. It hurt, but it also felt so good. He let go.

Vaguely, somewhere on another plane, he felt a familiar body pull him close again, and the scratch of his skin against soft fabric. Through someone else's ears, he heard a honey-dipped voice say, "Give me half an hour," and his brother's voice reply, "I'll watch the door," and a gentle groan and click and then silence. But in his own body, he felt tender fingers wipe the tears off his cheeks, the endless stream, until they gave up and just tucked his head into a warm chest.

Eventually, the sobs ended, and there were no tears left to seep from his pliant eyes. Eventually, Kurt began to listen to the words Blaine was murmuring to him. "You're okay, you're fine, no, actually, you're great, you know that? You're great, and I'm so glad we met," they went. "Although I wish it had been under better circumstances, and of course I regret what happened to you, so much, everything that's happened…"

"I don't," Kurt whispered back. "Not everything."

Blaine's stream of thoughts stopped then, as though the realization that Kurt was lucid had locked them back up in some unconscious mind box that he would have to dig deep into to find them again. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," Kurt replied.

"We have to talk about this."

"I know." Kurt's bottom lip stuck out involuntarily, and he looked so young that Blaine had the immediate urge to pull away and run. He resisted, but put more distance between them now that he knew Kurt was stable.

"Earlier, you texted me and asked me to study in your room," he began. Kurt nodded, and Blaine continued. "You said that it would be more comfortable than sitting on the floor."

"Th-The day we met, you were… sitting on th-the floor, outside my room."

Blaine nodded. "I… I've been sitting there sometimes, ever since you woke up."

"But, w-why?"

"The first few nights it was… well, it was just because you woke up right after I sang to you and I thought maybe… but after that, I- I saw something." Blaine took a deep, shaky breath, struggling to unearth the scary memory. "I looked into your room and this guy had his… his foot pressing into your abdomen, and you were still healing from the injuries you came in with, and after he left I chased him out onto the street but he was gone by the time I got there…"

"Oh," Kurt breathed.

"I thought… I thought maybe I'd dreamed it, but then your spleen ruptured and there was no reason for that to happen so long after you'd come in with those injuries. So, Kurt," Blaine pleaded, "please, tell me what happened that night. Please, tell me who he was, and what he did, and why he did it. Please, tell me if you're protecting him because of it."

Instinctively, Kurt wrapped his arms around himself, seeking the comfort he couldn't give himself. Blaine's resolve crumbled, and he offered his embrace once more, trying not to flinch when Kurt accepted it and crawled into his arms. Comfort, he reminded himself. Be his comfort.

"H-His name is… Azimio," Kurt began. Blaine's arms only tensed for a moment before he clung to the own comfort he was offering. "He wasn't the one w-who… well, he came because…"

"Start from the beginning," Blaine suggested, chin resting on Kurt's hair.

"Do you remember how I told you about th-the bullying?" At his confirmation, Kurt continued. "One of the f-football players was the worst. His name… is Karofsky. He and his f-friends cornered me… one night after Glee rehearsal and… and attacked me. Kicked, punched, I th-think he even broke of th-the pipes and… beat me with it. He w-waited until everyone left before he… he kissed me."

Blaine couldn't help his flinch – he felt anger rise inside of him like he'd only ever felt once before, the night of the Sadie Hawkins dance. Nevertheless, Kurt kept speaking, like a broken dam that couldn't close back up no matter what it was tearing down and ruining. "I… I th-think h-he said something to me th-then, something d-disgusting, but I can't remember, probably f-for th-the best… and I only… I only remember… j-just a little… before I…"

"Stop, please," Blaine whimpered. "Please, just-"

"Okay," Kurt said, reaching an arm back for him. That was a shock – Blaine couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten an arm back. Kurt's was warm, and soft, and… comforting. "Okay. Um, Azimio came t-to… to warn me not to tell th-the police about Karofsky. He, uh… th-threatened… Finn, Carole, my dad… my family. That's wh-why I… why I couldn't…" Kurt's eyes widened, and his spine stiffened as shoved Blaine away. "Why I still can't – Blaine, you have to promise not to tell them! I shouldn't have told you… He said don't tell anyone-"

"Kurt-"

He curled his arms back around himself. "I don't even know you! How could I d-do th-this to them… shit, shit, shit, shit!"

"Kurt."

"I need t-to get Azimio here t-tomorrow night – maybe if I tell him he can… get the DNA samples f-from the forensics lab and burn th-them… and then th-there's nothing th-they have… except your word over mine-"

"Kurt!" Blaine had moved off the bed, was standing beside it. "Listen to me. The police can keep your family safe, but do you really want those people out in the world, unpunished? Do you want them to be able to get away with something like this again? Do you want what they did to you to be something they laugh about at reunions in fifteen years or something they regret forever?"

"I…" Kurt unfurled his arms, letting them drop weakly by his sides. "I don't want to hurt him."

Now Blaine was confused. Hurt who? His father? Finn? "What do you mean, Kurt?"

"I d-don't want… to hurt Karofsky."

He stopped, stunned, silent. "But… but he-"

"I know wh-what he did." Kurt took a breath, deep and low and honest. "But wh-what if he just needs help?"

"Kurt, he assaulted you. No amount of trauma excuses that. No amount of insecurity, or pain, or sadness."

"I know that, I do, but I can't help-" Kurt dried the tears on his cheek with his sleeve. "It's not easy. I'm not weak."

"I know."

"I'm not weak," he reiterated. "They th-think I'm f-fucking weak, d-don't they? I'm not. I'm… I'm going to f-fix this. You're right. I'm going to fix it."

Blaine relaxed, a weight lifting off his chest that had been there for a very long time. "Okay. Okay, Kurt. What do you want? What do you need right now?"

Those strong, icy blue eyes – icy but warm, but soft, but light at times and heavy at others – met his, sure, determined. "Get Detective Gilbert and… and my father."

Kurt sat on his bed, ankles crossed under him as he watched the bustle of police officers talking to his family and Detective Gilbert. Everything was okay as long as he could see them all. Blaine was in the chair by his bed, not touching him, but close enough for comfort. He'd insisted on leaving while Kurt spoke to the detective, but there was no way Kurt would have gotten through the story alone – instead, Blaine remained here, in this chair, while Kurt choked his way through it a second time, and he stayed in the chair even now, long after he'd finished.

Burt broke away from the questions, making his way over to his son. After throwing his arms around Kurt for a good minute, the mechanic turned to Blaine. His gaze was weary, curious, and probing, the way someone would look at an untested treatment for a deadly disease. "Burt Hummel," he introduced, holding out one hand.

He hesitated replying, which didn't go over Burt's head. Throwing a glance at Kurt, who nodded reassuringly, he took his father's hand in his own and shook it firmly, the way his own father had taught him at the ripe old age of seven. "Blaine Anderson."

Burt recognized his last name first. "Anderson! Any relation to the doctor?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. He's my older brother." Blaine glanced again at Kurt. "That's actually how Kurt and I met. I… well, I assisted on his surgeries the night he was brought in."

The older man's brows cinched for a moment before recognition set in. "Blaine as in the Blaine whose name Kurt kept muttering in his sleep for a week after he woke up?"

"Well, you see, um, Kurt remembered me from the night he was brought in... I, uh…"

"He saved me, dad," Kurt interjected, biting his lip to keep from revealing anything too private. "I… d-don't remember much f-from the hospital that night. I just remember being so scared, but th-then Blaine was standing over me, t-telling me it was going t-to be okay, even when he couldn't have known that."

Blaine blinked rapidly. "You never told me that."

Kurt smiled softly. "I just did."

Before either of them could process, Burt's arms were tight around Blaine. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Thank you for him, Blaine."

"Always," Blaine replied.

As Burt pulled away, he coughed awkwardly. "So, you're a doctor then?"

"Third year of medical school," he corrected. "Although recently I've been mistaken for a doctor so much that it might make me qualified."

"You certainly spend enough time here," Kurt teased.

"Yeah, half of which is just you distracting me from studying," he fired back. A surprised, delighted giggle escaped Kurt's lips, and for a moment, the light was back in his eyes that Burt hadn't seen in over a month.

Still, he was a father; he couldn't help himself. "Should I be asking when you two have had this time to get to know each other?" he cross-examined, arms folding over his chest intimidatingly.

Blaine froze, a deer in headlights. His round nose, wide eyes and thick brows matched the description perfectly. "Sir, I promise nothing untoward would ever-"

Kurt turned red as a tomato, cheeks to ears – not at Burt's comment, but Blaine's. "Dad, please. We t-talk at night because you and Carole would never let us get a w-word in edgewise."

"Me?" Burt exclaimed, mock-insulted. "I would say Finn would be the one doing that."

"Finn already knows," the brother commented as he joined their group, tucking his phone into his pocket smugly. There were remnants of a seriousness in Finn's eyes as he came up to them, a hint of vengeance that was enough to concern Kurt in its moment of presence. Nevertheless, he shook it off as they engaged in their signature playful banter.

"Seriously? You told him?" Burt demanded.

"Hey, I don't like the way you're saying that-" Finn argued, and so commenced the Hudson-Hummel feud of the night. Kurt listened for a minute before his interest died out, after which he turned to face Blaine, whose face still had not enough blood in it.

"B," he whispered, tugging at his sleeve slyly so as not to attract attention. "Stop looking so gobsmacked."

Blaine stared at him incredulously. "Did you really just use the word 'gobsmacked'? You are no longer allowed to call me old, ever."

"What on earth d-do you mean? Gobsmacked is now being reclaimed by th-the youth."

"Ok, now you're just making fun of me," the man replied, a deep pout etched onto his lips. He looked achingly cute like that. Kurt blinked at the intrusive thought.

"Maybe," he said cheekily. "What are you going to d-do about it?"

Blaine bit his lip, but the smile stretched out around his teeth. As he was about to respond, the detective appeared in front of them, and a sudden silence persisted.

Detective Gilbert – Elliott – cleared his throat. "Blaine. It's nice to see you again."

"You too, Elliott." Blaine hesitated between a handshake and a hug, but eventually settled on taking his old friend into his arms for a quick embrace. They parted soon and resumed a casual distance. "It's been a while."

"It has," he agreed. "Since the band broke up."

"The band?" Kurt interrupted.

Elliott grinned. "In college, Blanderson and I were in the best cover band of eternity. I refuse to tell you the name in case you look it up, though."

"If it's th-the best cover band of eternity, I'm sure it's nothing t-to be embarrassed about," Kurt challenged easily. They laughed in response, and Kurt leaned back. "So, you t-two seem close."

"Ah, yes," Elliott confirmed, throwing an arm over Blaine's shoulder. "We dated sophomore year of high school. Not much younger than you are, right?"

Kurt frowned at the last statement, but suddenly realized something that made him forget. Sophomore year of high school – Elliott was Blaine's Sadie Hawkins boyfriend. His empty stomach twisted and twisted. "Right, of course." He locked eyes with Blaine, whose expression confirmed it entirely.

"How did you two meet?" Elliott asked, gesturing between the man whose body was half under his and him. Kurt opened his mouth to reply when Blaine spoke.

"It's a long story," Blaine replied, brushing him off and ducking out from under his arm. "Long and boring, really." Ouch. That stung.

Kurt was prepared to speak up when the detective's partner called over to Elliot from across the small room. "Yo, Gilbert, we gotta go! The Captain's orders were pretty clear!"

"You heard the man," Elliott made to leave before Kurt stopped him.

"Wh-What I said earlier," Kurt repeated. "I meant it. Please, j-just… I know what he d-did was wrong, and I know he needs t-to be punished, but please, d-do it the right way."

The detective nodded, solemn, before running off to his partner's side. He tipped an invisible hat before the two disappeared from sight, off to do whatever they did.

Turning back to Blaine, Kurt swallowed harshly around the knot in his throat. "So… long and boring, huh?"

He didn't expect a small smile to spread across Blaine's lips. "I just said that so he wouldn't go blabbing to my brother," he explained, taking a step closer to Kurt. Blaine's hand brushed his arm, and Kurt's breath caught. Their eyes locked, and Blaine's smile widened. "I would hardly describe us as boring, Kurt, and we've only just begun."

"Right," Kurt breathed, a new kind of feeling rising in his chest. "Right, yeah."

Blaine squeezed his arm, leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, Kurt."

"Night." The word slipped through his lips without him even thinking it – he couldn't think much of anything. It was only then that he realized how tired he was, how very exhausted, and that everyone but his family, who were waiting by the door, had filed out of the room.

Kurt closed his eyes, just for a minute, and by the end of that minute, he was lost in a blissful, dreamless sleep once more.

It was a beautiful night; the stars were bright and twinkling, and the moon was in the crescent shape it was most known for, the kind you'd find on a post-card or in an oil painting. And, as life imitates art, it was in that crescent shape that Paul Karofsky found his son, hanging from his ceiling, only moments before the police showed up at their door to arrest him.

Searching the room as the warm body was taken to the morgue, doing his best to ignore the wails coming from the parents on their front lawn at midnight, bathed in the glow of that mocking crescent moon, Detective Gilbert's gloved hands picked up a cell phone with a broken screen. Clicking the power button, one single text lit up the phone, loud and blaring as though a voice recording instead of words:

From Finn Hudson: You're over, Karofsky. Everyone's gonna know what you did. Just wait and see.

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, the detective cursed softly to himself before sliding the phone into a plastic bag and submitting it to evidence.

A/N: That's all for today. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if it is darker than usual. I just want to know, is anyone interested in reading the interactions between Brittany and Santana? I was toying with the idea of writing a spin-off with just their story, or maybe including some more scenes with them to explain exactly what happened.

Please let me know in the reviews, or just review to let me know if you enjoyed, or what you'd like to see in future chapters! Honestly, reviews are what keep me writing, so I really appreciate even the shortest ones!

Thanks for reading!

Love,

Naya