Kurt was enjoying the new freedom that hid dad had agreed to give him. Although he missed talking through his day on the way home, his sense of independence as he pulled onto the road made it all worthwhile.

He sang along to the radio as he drove, rolling down the window and feeling the blast of cold air rush past him into the car.

Burt not picking him up had helped the tyre shop, too. Because he didn't have to be at Dalton, Kurt's dad could work later at the garage, and Finn could help out (with Burt's supervision). That helped ease Kurt's guilty conscience a little about his dad forking out the Dalton fees. One day, he promised, he'd send Burt and Carole on the world's best honeymoon. Of course, with all this and Carole's up-in-the-air work schedule, Kurt was still getting used to being the only one in when he arrived home. But he could live with it.

Parking in the driveway, Kurt turned off the radio, shut the window and checked his hair before climbing out of the car. He had only just shut the door and locked the car before he was ambushed by a huge mass of red and thrown back against the vehicle. Gasping in surprise, Kurt heard his body thump hard against it before the wave of pain whipped up his spine. Blinking to clear his eyes of stars, Kurt shrank back instinctively against his car, tensing in anticipation of the incoming blows.

After a moment, Kurt glanced up at his attacker, his eyes focusing on the red McKinley letterman jacket before flicking up to the face of Dave Karofsky.

Kurt swallowed. Yes, he was scared of Karofsky, of course he was, but this was getting old. It had been two months since he'd transferred, so why couldn't Karofsky just get over it? There were surely plenty of other kids at McKinley that he could terrorise, so what made Kurt worth all this extra effort?

There was a pause. "What do you want here, Karofsky?" Kurt asked quietly, not quite meeting his gaze.

Karofsky looked surprised for a moment. "I wanna catch you up on what you're missing, Hummel," he replied threateningly, raising a fist.

"No, you don't," Kurt said, playing for time, "because if you did, you'd already be hitting me. So what do you want?"

There seemed to almost be two sides of Karofsky, fighting it out in his brain. On the one hand, he was the same scary jock he always had been, suggesting a slushie facial or dumpster toss; on the other hand, he looked like he wasn't even sure what he was doing here, like he'd suddenly blinked and found himself on the corner of Kurt's street. Unfortunately, this new side submitted pretty quickly.

A fist connected with the side of Kurt's face before he had time to shout out, throwing him sideways into the car. He clutched at the roof and tried to get the world to stop spinning, but an elbow to the stomach had the ground flip out from under him and crunch under his hands. Gasping for breath that wouldn't come, Kurt curled up under the hail of blows that followed. His vision blurred and blacked out at the edges, so he shut his eyes, trying to tense up against the kicked and almost hearing his body screaming in pain. He tried to do the same but it came out as a quiet "ah!" as another kick met his stomach, causing his to curl up tighter, his fingers clutching desperately at his knees. Then came an end to the blows, and an odd silence. Kurt didn't trust himself to move, so just lay in his foetal position, eyes squeezed shut and knuckles white, a thousand bruises itching to form and blood trickling from his nose and various cuts on his hands and face from the gravel.

A minute later, he heard footsteps walking away from across an ocean.

It hurt to move. It hurt to lie still. It hurt to breathe but it hurt more if he didn't.

Kurt foggily thought that he should get inside. Inside had sofas and warmth and no Karofsky. Fighting for breath, Kurt rolled onto his front, crying out as his shins took his weight and his core tensed, and wincing when he put down his hands to push himself up onto his feet. His knees felt shaky as they supported him, but the moment he stood up his head swam and they buckled underneath him. Kurt let out a sob, not even realising that he had tears mixing with the sweat and blood on his face. He ended up sitting, leaning back against his car door. He could barely move – how was he supposed to walk to his front door in this state?

He forced his numb fingers into his blazer pocket, dropping his phone into his lap and drunkenly finding the right number. He held the phone to his ear with both hands, wincing at the tiny movement.

"Kurt!"

"Blaine." Just hearing his friend's voice had refuelled Kurt's hope. The pain in his chest eased a little, and he gasped for air as he found himself crying. How pathetic he must look.

"Kurt, what's wrong? What's happened?" Blaine's voice had become concerned and Kurt could almost see him lean forward, frowning.

Kurt was feeling light-headed and he couldn't think what to say. "I need help," he choked out weakly.

"Are you home?" Kurt could hear Blaine move as he spoke. Coming to rescue him, Kurt thought blearily.

"I'm outside my house," he answered. He coughed, and movement caused him to hiss in pain.

"What happened, Kurt?" It sounded as though Blaine was trying to be calmer than he was.

Kurt's brain was fuzzy. It hurt to think too hard and everything was aching anyway. "Um..." He sniffed and wiped his nose only to see the blood on his hand. "I'm bleeding."

"Oh my god, Kurt, did you get hit by a car?"

"No, no," Kurt replied immediately. Well, it felt like immediately. But, come to think of it, he was leaning on a car. He certainly felt like he'd been hit by a car. He couldn't get the details straight in his muggy mind. "But I got hit..." By something? Someone? He couldn't think, couldn't work it all out. "Blaine," he murmured weakly. "It hurts."

"What hurts?" Blaine sounded far away. Why was that. It took a moment for Kurt to realise he'd dropped his phone. It lay sadly by his hip.

"Everything," Kurt groaned quietly. "Blaine." The name rolled off his tongue; he could barely think, he when he did, that was what he thought of. If he was going to die, it'd be saying Blaine's name.

"Kurt," came the persistently desperate reply. "You've gotta stay conscious, yeah?"

"Yep," Kurt agreed. God, Blaine's voice was like velvet, even over the phone. "Blaine."

"What is it, Kurt?"

"Nothing. Just... Blaine." Kurt hummed the name.

"Kurt. Stay with me, Kurt."

"Always." Of course Kurt would stay with him. What a dumb thing to say.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay." Kurt's body felt heavy.

"Stay awake, alright? Don't – "

Everything blurred. When Kurt opened his eyes again, the sun had gone in and it was darker. Night fell very quickly in January, he mused. He couldn't really feel his body and it hurt like hell. He hadn't been hit by a bus, had he? That would be embarrassing.

"Kurt! Kurt!" There were footsteps. Quick, light ones, running towards him.

As the footsteps got closer, he recognised the voice. "Blaine." His throat was dry and the name came out croaky.

"Oh, god, Kurt, oh my god..."

"Blaine."