Kurt is curled on the couch, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other pillowing his head on the armrest. He has a light blanket draped over his legs, but his feet are sticking out and getting kind of cold; he's so comfortable, though, that he doesn't move to cover them.

His father is sitting next to him, eyes on the TV screen and hat perched on his head. Burt has been doing much better lately, and Kurt knows that he's been seeing a lot of Carole. He doesn't know exactly where their relationship is going, but he suspects that his dad isn't going to wait around for much longer. The heart attack scared him. It scared them both.

Kurt jumps when a weight suddenly settles on his exposed feet, and he looks up to see his dad eyeing him with concern. "Are you doing okay, Kurt? I know you don't always talk about the stuff that happens at school, but lately, Buddy, you've been acting different," his dad says, giving his feet a quick squeeze before covering them with the tail-end of the blanket.

His heart starts to beat fast and anxiety swarms its way into his chest. "There's. It's nothing, dad," he says.

Burt gives him a soft but stern look. "I may not know exactly what goes on, Kurt, but I see how it affects you. Whatever has happened, you know you can talk to me, right?"

He loves his dad so much, and these little moments when he realizes how lucky he is show him how much his dad loves him, too.

In this moment, with his dad's eyes boring into him and nearly choking him in kindness, he wants to tell him. Wants to crawl into his dad's arms and hug him tight and be held in return. He wants to sob into the soft flannel of his dad's shirt and tell him everything. Tell him how sorry he is that he let this happen to him, tell him how much he's hurting right now.

But he can't.

The man who means the most out of anyone in his life, the man who raised him and accepts him for who he is, the man who loves him no matter what – he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to know that his son has been hurt like this.

Polluted like this.

As much as Kurt would like to spill his heart and soul into his father's lap, as much as he wants to be held tight and told everything will be okay, he knows he can't do it.

This is his weight to bear; it's his shame to hide and to bury deep.

Kurt feels the tension and worry start to settle as he makes his decision. He looks into his dad's eyes, feeling the worry wash over him and through him, leaving in its path a trail of guilt. "I'm fine, dad."

He turns away, breaks the connection, and thinks that he's anything but fine.

Kurt's eyes open when he wakes in the morning, the sound of his alarm ringing in his ears. As he reaches over the edge of his bed and stops the noise, he pulls his arm back under the covers. He's warm and languid, and he knows that when he gets out from under the covers and is exposed to the cool air of his room he will lose this feeling.

There is not much in Kurt's life that makes him feel relaxed – between dealing with the closed-minded Cro-Magnon kids at school, his dad's health, school work and glee he is stretched pretty thin. And now this.

The thought, even as abstract and oblique as it is, fills Kurt with a deluge of fear, and he starts to tense and breath heavier.

As he feels the anxiety start to take over, Kurt tries to slow his breathing and directs his thoughts toward something, anything, else.

It doesn't work, and Kurt wishes he could fall back asleep. Could wipe the memories from his mind and never have to know how this feels.

Kurt has been using every single method he can think of to avoid Karofsky. The other boy is still after him, and after last week, what Karofsky had done to him, he can't stand the thought of being caught alone with him. He can't go through it, not again.

Mornings are the worst now, and Kurt can barely force himself to get up and go to school. Leaving the house, leaving the sanctuary of his room, his bed, is terrifying. He no longer looks forward to seeing his friends, to going to Glee; he's too busy being afraid.

There are many times he has had to pull over on the way, hands frozen and shaking on the wheel of his vehicle. He will lean his head forward and just breathe, listen to some music, try to calm himself down enough to continue on. To convince himself that he can do this, he can get through this.

But school has become like the inside of a horror house, and around every corner Kurt is expecting him to be there. To grab him and hurt him again.

Every loud slam of lockers, every time he walks past the boys' locker room, he flinches. And it isn't getting any better; it's getting worse. He can almost feel Karofsky's eyes on him as he darts between classes, keeping as close to his friends as he can.

Sometimes, when he's walking through the halls, or even lying in bed at night, he can feel the bigger boy's hands on him. Can feel the hot breath ghosting over his neck.

The moments when he loses himself in the past are starting to wear on Kurt, and he wishes that he could bury the memories deep and never see them, or feel them, again. He's trying so hard to forget that, sometimes, he thinks that he's just carving them deeper into his mind.

When his dad and Carole announce that they're getting married, Kurt finds the perfect distraction. He can work on this, on his colours and his textures, on the perfect wedding, and he doesn't have time to think about large hands holding him down. He doesn't have the time to feel the anxiety creeping through him at every turn.

He barely even has time to eat or do homework. But it doesn't matter, not when he's found something that can keep his mind and his body busy.

He thinks he's doing a good job of pretending everything is okay, putting on a mask for the world to see while he screams inside. If he catches his dad staring at him when he's not looking, or if Mercedes starts talking to him more than she has in months, he knows they suspect something has happened, but he tries to ignore it. He relies on the belief that they will never find out the truth.

Class is about to start, and Kurt is gripping the strap of his messenger bag tightly enough that his knuckles are white, keeping close to the lockers as though they could shield him from the world. But he keeps his head held high, his strides long and smooth.

The majority of his injuries are healing well, and the limp he's been covering isn't even discernable anymore. He wears scarves or turtlenecks everyday, making sure they don't slip down and expose the bruises and bites littered on his neck. He's gone out and bought four new pairs of gloves that are long enough to cover his wrists and wears long sleeves for extra protection.

He tries not to think of how sometimes, when he's sitting in a room full of his friends, people who care about him, he wishes his shirt would ride up, or his scarf would fall away. So that they could see – see how much he needs them, but without telling them. Because he's scared, and he's ashamed, but he still wants someone to hold him. He wants someone to lean on, someone who will soothe his pain and misery with gentle shushes and warmth.

He wants his mom.

Leaving McKinley happens so fast that Kurt doesn't have the chance to feel much more than a strand of disappointment for leaving his friends, which is quickly awash in the flood of relief that comes soon after. He won't have to see Karofsky every day, won't have to hunch his shoulders in fear, expecting the next attack at any moment.

When Karofsky had approached him at his locker, when he'd crowded in close like he had, it had made Kurt feel a thrill of fear so deep that he couldn't move. When Karofsky put the finger to his chest, dragged it down, he stopped breathing and his body thrummed from the wrongness.

He couldn't take it anymore. The fear, the stress, it was all become too much to handle.

He knows that he could have had Karofsky expelled - hell, he probably could have had the other boy arrested with the perfect imprint of his teeth in Kurt's flesh – but he couldn't do it. He couldn't risk Karofsky retaliating; he certainly couldn't look into his father's eyes and tell him what had happened to his son.

The reaction his dad had had to Karofsky's taunt, to the revealed death threat, was bad enough. He can't imagine what would happen if his dad ever found out about the other kind of assault that Kurt had suffered.

So Kurt keeps quiet and takes the escape that his dad and Carole present; the chance to get away from all of this. From Karofsky. And, hopefully, to somewhere that he will be, if not happy, able to live without paralysing fear.

Kurt arrives at Dalton with his life packed into two large suitcases and exhaustion written across his features. He supposes that there might be some hope mixed in there, too, but when he tries to think positive, it's like the thoughts are just sapped away.

The administration is happy to place him quickly; they've heard of his situation, and they are more than willing to help. The lady behind the reception desk in the head office even hands him a thick packet of scholarship applications. Kurt takes them in his hands almost reverently.

"Thank you," he says softly, giving her a grateful smile.

She beams at him, her wrinkled face alight in kindness. It almost breaks him to see it.

After they've been thoroughly introduced to Dalton life by the Dean, Kurt and his father are lead to the room where he will live.

There are two single beds on opposite ends of the room made of a dark wood, matching bedside tables and dressers flank them, and there is also a desk for each of the occupants.

The Dean, who is older with long and prominent features, has paired exactly the wrong colour of shoes for his suit.

"We don't usually have many mid-year transfers to Dalton," the greying man says, gesturing them into the room with a sweep of his arm. "It was felt that, for the sake of all the students' comfort, you were to have your own room."

At the wording Burt visibly prickles, and Kurt steps closer to his dad, putting a hand to his shoulder.

The Dean, who had spoke absently, notices the other man's reactions and his eyes widen. "Oh. Oh, no, Mr. Hummel. We absolutely do not discriminate against our students for who they are. I just meant that the boys who have been here since September or from previous years are settled into their routines already. We didn't want to disrupt that."

Burt nods, and Kurt lets his hand drop away, back to his side. "That makes sense," Burt acknowledges.

The rest of the tour goes smoothly, and soon Kurt is left alone in his room, suitcases at his feet and staring at empty walls and a darkening pane of glass.

The window affords him a view of the courtyard below, where the fresh snow is dotted with the footprints of students in a hurry. Stretching above the ground are the bare limbs of trees, reaching their spindly branches for a sky that is forever unreachable. The shadows they cast stretch, distorted, over the planes of the snow like scars.

It's kind of appropriate, Kurt thinks, as he turns away. Because by tomorrow morning those scars will have changed, moving with the light of the sun, but they will never leave. They will morph into new forms, stronger and bigger, faded and slight, but they are always there.

Until someone comes along and cuts the tree down. That'd do the job.

No one comes to visit him on his first night, and Kurt looks at his phone, which he has turned to silent, and wonders if he should have called Blaine and told him that he was here. That he had run away from McKinley because he just couldn't take it.

But he doesn't – instead he curls under his covers and stares at the ceiling for a long time, and waits for sleep to take him. Whether the darkness would bring sweet pleasantness or night terrors is something that Kurt doesn't know. More often than not it is whimpers and tears and a body trembling in fear.

He falls into the depth of sleep without being able to tell when it happens – one minute he is memorizing the feel of a new mattress and the trajectory of the single crack in the ceiling, and the next he is running through the halls of McKinley.

His chest is heaving from exertion, and his hands are trapped, tied by the wrists. He can hear Karofsky coming up from behind, footfalls heavy and steady.

Kurt turns to look behind, trying to judge how much of an advance he has on Karofsky, but there is no one behind him. Confusion creeps in to join with fear in his mind.

As he turns back to look where he is going, he collides with a solid wall. When he starts to fall backward, clenching his eyes in preparation for impact, arms wrap around his waist, holding his steady.

It's Karofsky.

Kurt jerks awake, yelling, "No!"

The room is silent and empty around him as he shakes, sobbing into the night.

He's in Warblers practice when it happens.

They've been rehearsing a number that involves a lot of dancing, and the guys have been going all out this time. Blaine is jumping up on the furniture, a habit that Kurt has found more charming than annoying, and the others are throwing around whatever type of dance moves they can do. Kurt is secretly impressed by Nick's pirouettes.

So when Nick sits down next to him when they finish, panting and just slightly damp, Kurt doesn't think anything of looking over and smiling.

And then it hits him. The smell – it's Karofsky. There are hands holding too tight, pain radiating from his face and body, the smell – oh, the smell - that is engulfing his senses and seeping into him. Sweat and soap; every time he takes a breath it enters him, filling his mouth with filth.

Suddenly he isn't in surrounded by uniform jackets and vests; he's pinned face-first against the wall of the boy's locker room, hands tied securely in front of him, and there are hands on him. A mouth is lapping at his neck.

Pain radiates from where he is being violated.

Chest so tight he can't breathe, fear filling his mouth, everywhere, Kurt can't even scream. He's frozen, terrified, and oh, God, he just wants it to end.

He doesn't know how long it goes on for; he doesn't know anything but the horror and agony and humiliation.

The smell seems to pervade everything; it fills his sinuses, chokes down his throat and swirls in his lungs like a ravaging fire. As it makes its way through, into him, it digs cruel fingers into his stomach, leaving him churning, dizzy and sick.

Bile is suddenly in his mouth as he gags. Bringing one hand up to cover his mouth, attempting to stop the stream of throw up from pouring down his front, Kurt is brought back to the present in time to make a mad dash to the door.

He can hear Blaine calling his name as he retreats down the hall to the nearby bathroom, but doesn't dare look back.

As disgusting as it is, Kurt kneels down over a toilet, the furthest from the door, and loosens his hand, gagging long and hard, over and over, until nothing more will come up. His mouth tastes sour, and the smell of his sick is everywhere.

When the heaves finally end, Kurt is left gasping for breath and coughing over the porcelain toilet bowl. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the tears gathered there as cool prickles on his hot face. The floor is cold and hard on his knees, and he resolutely does not think about where he is, what he is positioned over.

The roiling of his stomach finally easing, and the pants coming lighter and further apart, Kurt opens his eyes, intent on gathering some toilet paper to wipe his mouth with.

"Here."

A hand is holding a damp paper towel in offering, and Kurt can't help the slight flinch its sudden appearance elicits. One glance up and he can see Blaine's eyes staring down at him, filled with concern in a way that has now become familiar.

Taking the offered paper towel, Kurt mumbles, "Thanks."

"Are you feeling okay?" Blaine asks, reaching over Kurt's hunched form to flush the toilet.

Kurt blushes, realizing that Blaine has just had a front-row view, and smell, of his puke. "Yeah," he says, voice rough. "I must have eaten something bad."

Blaine looks sceptical, but doesn't protest. "Well, it's probably best if you get some rest. And liquids."

Nodding in assent, Kurt smiles in thanks at Blaine, who has taken hold of his elbow to help him up. "That would be a good idea."

"I'll walk you to your room."

Blaine leads him out of the bathroom and through the halls, and all the while Kurt studiously ignores the feeling of being watched.

Not long after the incident during Warbler practice, Kurt walks into the cafeteria to find pandemonium. Of Dalton quality. Which basically means that there is a steady excited murmur instead of screaming. And no physical violence.

Approaching the table that most of the Warblers share during meals and taking an empty seat next to Blaine, Kurt leans over and asks, "What's going on? Did someone die?"

Blaine gives him a look that says 'what?' and shakes his head. "No. No one is dead." Blaine pauses as if trying to reconcile Kurt's question with real life. "Some of the water pipes in the dorms exploded this morning – about ten of the rooms are uninhabitable."

Blaine motions with his chin to where Wes and David are sitting, backpacks in their laps and a tightness to their expressions.

"Wes and David are some of the unlucky ones who have to sleep elsewhere until the mess gets cleaned up."

"Where are they going to put them all? Are there enough empty rooms?" Kurt asks.

Blaine frowns. "No. They'll have to start pairing up the singles when they fill what rooms are open." Brown eyes look at Kurt. "Looks like you might be getting a roommate."

Kurt leans back in his chair, lips pursed together and a single brow elevated.

The morning that Wes wakes up to water seeping down his walls and dripping from his ceiling, he just knows it's going to be a bad day.

His prediction turns out to be right, and his day continues on a similar note; he discovers that David's room, which is a single, has also been affected. That was his best option for temporary accommodations, and now he has to wait to hear from the administration about where he will be placed.

So when he is informed, ever so politely, that he is to room with Kurt Hummel until he can have his room back, it doesn't really surprise him.