Title: In The End
Author: Emoryems
Rating: M
Pairing: pre-Blaine/Kurt
Spoilers: Pretty much everything up to 2.14 is fair game.
Warnings: talk of non-con, violence, language.
Word Count: 4,603 (parts 1 and 2)
Summary: continuation of Your Sins Into Me (warning for explicit non-con).
Let me know what you think? Con-crit is completely welcome, too.
EDIT: went through and fixed formatting; ate it.
It is a bright, sun-filled morning outside, the light filtering through Kurt's window to highlight a multitude of small specks of dust floating through the air.
Kurt is resting on his side, one arm propped under his head as he watches the light catch on the dust over and over again. He likes seeing the world like this; it's almost magical to acknowledge the existence of something so innocuous, so mundane, and how in the right light it can become beautiful.
Kurt inhales lightly, rounding his lips to blow out a steady stream of air. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as the points of light dance and twirl about. They almost seem to play a game of tag, dancing and twisting this way and that.
Limbs heavy, but feeling light, Kurt sighs and stretches his legs out, pointing and curling his toes. He's been awake and laying in bed for around an hour, just appreciating the little things like the softness of his bed, the warmth of his comforter. The secret beauty of dust.
He needs to get up soon and clean his face, moisturize, do his hair and get dressed, but he feels lazy. He figures that one day of being lax about his appearance, but without totally forgoing his basics, won't be the end of the world.
When he does get up, sliding out from under the covers and sitting on the edge of his bed, Kurt can't help but feel like everything is good. There doesn't seem to be a single thing in his life right now that feels wrong or bad, and he wishes this would last forever.
When he's ready to go to class, he grabs his bag and takes a cursory look around his room to see if he has forgotten anything. He was a bit rushed, but he doesn't feel the need to worry too hard about something little that he might not have done.
Seeing nothing in his sight, and having no thoughts as to what he could possibly have forgotten, Kurt leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.
He doesn't even realize that he's forgotten to spend a few minutes covering the remnants of bite marks on his neck, leaving them to peak out over the collar of his shirt.
When he walks to class, foregoing breakfast, Kurt slows his strides and just appreciates the play of light on the floors and walls. The hardwood paneling of the old-style building glowing in the beams coming in from tall windows and cheerful conversation flowing about, it feels like he's floating.
Kurt skips lunch that day, too, knowing that if he tries to eat, tries to sit with the other boys and their boisterous activity, it might break through this. He is enjoying feeling so free, feeling like there is a soft breeze against his face, reminding him of a beautiful spring day.
Deciding to sit in the library, Kurt pulls a textbook from his bag and starts to read, losing himself in the lines and diagrams easily.
Kurt is focused on his book, legs crossed comfortably and neck bent forward over the desk, and he doesn't notice Blaine approaching.
He's read the same line three times, distracted by the sound of a bird chirping just outside the window, when he hears the inhale of air behind him.
Kurt closes his eyes and freezes in place when there is a light brush of fingers against the back of his neck, coming and going almost as if it had never happened. He knows what is there, and he now knows exactly what he forgot to do this morning.
He should have known that something like this would happen, and in some way he has been expecting it. But this doesn't make it any easier, and it doesn't make it hurt any less.
Kurt feels the light mood from earlier turn heavy, tugging him downward like an iron weight. His mind is quickly turning to darker thoughts, extinguishing the light and soft feel of the day. It's like a heavy blanket settles over his head, dampening everything.
"Is that? Kurt, are those bite marks?" Blaine's voice is quiet, as though he is afraid to say what he is thinking. Afraid to know the truth.
When Kurt shifts in his chair to face Blaine, he sees that the other boy's mouth is open, his thick brows high.
"Blaine…"
Blaine shakes his head and comes in closer. "What happened?"
"It's nothing, Blaine."
"It's not nothing, Kurt. This is much more than 'nothing'." Blaine pulls a chair up to sit next to Kurt, close enough that their knees brush together.
Kurt turns his head away. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Was it him?"
Kurt's eyes dart to meet Blaine's, and he knows that his friend is putting it together.
"You told me you transferred because he was throwing you into lockers, because he was harassing you. What did he-?"
He doesn't want to lie to Blaine. He doesn't want to hide this any longer.
"It was after school a few weeks before my dad's wedding. I was there late, and I didn't even hear him coming."
"I'm sorry, Kurt, I'm so sorry." Blaine looks devastated, like it was his fault and he's standing up to take the blame.
It makes Kurt more angry than anything else. "Why are you sorry? You weren't there, you didn't make him do – that."
"I didn't mean it like that," Blaine says, eyes wide. "I meant that I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"I know," Kurt sighs, "I didn't mean to snap like that."
"It's fine," says Blaine.
"It's really not. I've just been so messed up, and I haven't really told anyone," Kurt trails off, staring at his hands.
"No one else knows?"
"Well," starts Kurt, "Wes knows. When we were sharing a room he saw one of my nightmares."
Blaine shifts forward, hand coming up to touch Kurt, but before he makes contact he stops. "Can I?" Blaine asks, indicating the hand that is hovering over Kurt's shoulder uncertainly.
Kurt gives him a tight smile and nods. "I don't mind, Blaine."
Blaine closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Kurt. The position is awkward, with Kurt still sitting and Blaine leaning forward in his own chair, but Kurt enjoys the contact.
They stay like that for some time, and then pull apart. Kurt gives Blaine a smile, close-lipped but genuine.
"What are you going to do?" Blaine asks, settling back in his chair.
"About what?" Kurt raises a brow.
"About Karofsky. You can't just let him get away with this." Blaine leans forward, sincerity painting him.
"I can," Kurt says sharply.
"How can you just let this go?" Blaine asks, jaw clenching and eyes narrowed.
"This isn't up to you, Blaine," Kurt says, low and tight. "This is my decision. And I don't want anyone knowing. I don't want to dredge it all up again. Just drop it."
Kurt grabs his books and bag, stands, and then turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Blaine to watch his retreating back.
Kurt is ignoring the multitude of texts and phone calls from Blaine when he runs into Wes. They are both in the Warbler's practice room, sitting on opposite sides of the same couch, and there is no one else in the room.
"How did you know what to do?" Kurt is looking at Wes from the side, eyes not quite meeting the other boys'. "When you helped me, you knew exactly what to do to stop it. The fear."
Wes nods, scanning Kurt's face. "They're anxiety attacks. I used to get them when I was a kid."
Kurt looks at him curiously.
"I was – pressured, I suppose you could say – from an early age to do very well in my studies. Sometimes it would just happen." Wes takes a deep breath and looks away. "Before a test, if I had a project worth a lot. They started happening over little things, too."
"Like what?" Kurt asks.
"Before I got to school in the morning, when I couldn't find the right word to use in an essay. Little things. My parents realized what was happening, and they got me some help."
"What do you mean?"
Wes smiles at Kurt. "They took me to a councillor. She's the one that taught me the relaxation techniques that I used."
"Do they always work? How can you manage to think through all of that – it's so overwhelming. I just – I don't think I could calm down enough to work through that alone."
"It takes practice. They're something you can integrate into your everyday life. There are other options, too, such as medication." Wes frowns at the look on Kurt's face.
Kurt, noticing the look, plays a nervous beat on his leg with thin, nimble fingers. "Can you show me some? When it's happening, when I feel like that, I'm so out of control. I don't know what to do. But it helped, last time, and I – I was hoping you could show me how to do it on my own."
"Kurt," Wes says carefully, "maybe you should go and see the councillor here. He's much more highly qualified than I am, and –"
"No," Kurt says, interrupting Wes. "I can't."
Wes stares at Kurt, seeing the black circles under his eyes and the strained hold to his shoulders.
"Come and see me after Warbler practice tomorrow. We'll talk then."
It's the weekend and Kurt is at home. It's late at night and the house is quiet, the soft whisper of flesh on cotton the only sound.
There are tears dripping steadily down Kurt's face, creating slippery paths across his cheeks as they descend. His eyes are clenched shut and light sobs are hitching in his chest.
The blanket under him feels soft, smooth, and he clenches the material in his fists. It acts to ground him to the moment, pulling him away from thoughts of the past.
When Kurt opens his eyes, he stares up at the ceiling of his room, abstract patterns dancing in the corners of his eyes among the stucco. There is nothing more than some silvery moonlight and the yellow beam of a streetlight to illuminate the walls, and the darkness serves to blur the sharp edges of his vision.
A slight breeze wafts across him, and Kurt shivers, naked skin alight with goosebumps.
He can't touch himself.
The last few months, ever since that day, he had lost interest. It was like every teenage fantasy that had ever piqued his interest was abruptly wiped from his mind. He could still appreciate a good-looking guy, that wasn't the problem; it was that when he saw someone attractive, he couldn't picture them in a less than platonic situation.
Whenever he tried, he just felt dirty, like he was doing something wrong.
Now, lying naked on top of his bed, Kurt wishes that he could make it stop. Make his brain just stop reminding him again and again exactly what had happened.
But it won't, and he can't get further than wrapping a hand around himself before his mind starts to playback images and sounds and feelings. All of the things that he's worked so hard to push away, to bury somewhere they can't escape, just appear, playing like some old projector across the backs of his eyelids. Across the vastness of his skin.
He doesn't know how he will ever get over this, the association. It's like everything that Karofsky did to him, every touch, is imprinted on his body, just waiting to be awoken.
Kurt unclenches his hands from the blanket and wipes the tears from his face. He can't take anymore right now; he just wants to fall into the dark abyss of sleep and hope for no dreams.
He pulls a pair of boxers on, not bothering to change into his nicely folded pyjamas, and buries himself in his bed. With the thick covers around him as he curls on his side, he feels separated from the world, like there is a barrier between him and everything else.
He only wishes it were made of steel, not air.
Kurt is coming down for dinner when he hears it.
He's been feeling low for a couple of days, and the only thing that he really wants to do is sit in his room and lay in bed. But he doesn't do that; he gets up in the morning and puts on a mask of himself.
"It'll be okay, honey," Carole says, her voice travelling from the kitchen into the hallway. "We'll manage – this just means tightening our belts a little."
"I know."
Kurt winces, hearing the exhaustion in his fathers' voice.
"But… I wish…"
Carole makes a noise of agreement, and Kurt hears as she and his dad hug, and then the light smack of a kiss.
Not wanting to intrude any further in his dad's and Carole's privacy, Kurt wanders back up the stairs, careful not to make any sound.
He thinks about the Kurt from a few months ago who would have done anything to help his father. Who gave up winning against Rachel in their Diva Off for something much less than this. He wonders what happened to that boy, the one who he wishes he still was, and knows the answer.
But he can't do it. He can't go back to McKinley and face Karofsky, not when there is any chance that the bigger boy will come after him again. He's scared enough as it is, and he doesn't have to see the boy daily.
So he ignores the voices screaming in the back of his mind to tell his dad that he doesn't like Dalton, that he wants to transfer back to McKinley. It would be a lie, but it would save his father so much stress.
But he can't. And maybe it's selfish of him, and maybe it makes him a bad son, but he just can't consider it.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, fingers digging into his thighs, he is doused in guilt.
Three days after hearing his dad and Carole's conversation Kurt finds himself curled on the couch beside his dad once again. It has become a ritual of sorts for the Hummel men whenever both Finn and Carole are away, leaving them to their own devices for a short time.
Burt will grab a beer (light, and only one a day or he will have to deal with not only Carole, but Kurt) and sit in front of the TV, turning the channel to Deadliest Catch or Ice Road Truckers. Kurt will inevitably close his textbooks or turn off his music, and take the opposite end of the couch.
They will then sit and watch the program in comfortable silence, neither fully focused on what is happening, and both aware of the other.
Kurt has lost count of the amount of times he's been in this exact position. And lately, sitting so close to his dad with such an open environment settled around them, he feels the cage that have caught his words start to fall away.
Heart beating loudly in his ears, Kurt shifts to face his dad. Burt is focused on the screen, the colours of light playing across his features.
"Dad?" Kurt tries to make his voice strong, but it comes out as almost a whisper.
Burt turns toward him and his face is open, questioning.
"I need to tell you something."
Burt's spine straightens, his posture becoming more alert. He is silent, but his obvious focus on Kurt says "go on".
"I – I was." Kurt swallows hard and think briefly of saying 'I was wondering what you wanted for dinner', but he's gone this far. He can do this. His heart is fluttering madly in his chest now, and giant invisible hands clench at his lungs, winding him.
Before he can either convince himself to stop, or the impending panic becomes too great to handle, he says it.
"I was raped."
The words fade from existence as though sinking into an ocean of silence, leaving the room devoid of any noise other then that of the TV blubbering in the background. For a moment Burt is still.
Staring at the statuesque figure of his dad, Kurt immediately regrets saying anything. He wants to turn back time and never consider it again.
The way his father is looking at him, struck still from shock or horror, makes Kurt's insides clench painfully. What if his dad is disgusted with him? What if he blames Kurt for not being strong enough?
And then Burt is in motion, reaching across the distance between them with both arms.
When he is pulled to his father's chest, held close and tight, Kurt feels all doubt drop away. His dad loves him, and nothing could stop that. Nothing.
"Oh God, Kurt," his dad is saying. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Fingers gripped in the flannel of his fathers shirt, Kurt says, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Burt is shaking his head from side to side, hat becoming dislodged as he moves, and holds Kurt tighter. "Don't say that, Kurt. Oh buddy… it's not your fault."
Kurt wishes he could believe it, could revert back to believing everything his dad said like it was scripture, but he's not a child anymore, and this isn't something that he can think about logically. He's tried, and it doesn't work.
Time passes slow and fast all at once, and Kurt doesn't notice anything other than the tight grip that his dad has on him. He is still held in his father's arms when the front door opens and Carole's and Finn's voices break through their cocoon. Emotions high, but eyes dry, Kurt just stays still, not wanting to pull away.
He should be angry.
Every site that talked about rape recovery said that it was normal to feel angry, to have nightmares, to be scared. He was everything but angry, the one thing he wished he could be.
When he thought of Karofsky he almost felt a shock of something that maybe, if multiplied by one hundred, could be anger. It was mostly fear. And anxiety.
As he sits at the dinner table, his family chatting around him through mouthfuls of food, he feels like there is something wrong with him. Like Karofsky had been right; that he did want it, in some unconscious way. No matter how many times he's told himself that, no, it was nothing like that, everything that had happened had been out of his control, the thought creeps back into his mind.
He doesn't notice that he's fallen completely silent and still, lost deep in his thoughts with eyes fixed, but unfocused, until all conversation around him stops. When he looks up, there are three sets of eyes, each brimming with their own kind of concern, staring back at him.
With all of their focus on him, and the thoughts still swirling in his mind, it is too much. He has to get away.
Placing his immaculately folded napkin on the table and pushing his chair back, Kurt says, "Thank you for dinner, Carole. Excuse me." And then he makes his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room.
Once he is alone, the blank walls glaring down at him, he feels open and exposed. So he crawls into his bed and curls under the blankets.
He never used to spend this much time in bed, just blocking the world out with downy shields, but it has become a sanctuary for him. Somewhere that he can be and not feel like he's on display; it's somewhere he feels safe.
Right now, though, he can't gain the kind of comfort he usually does from it. He can hear Karofsky in his head, almost feel his breath on the back of his neck. "Practically begged for it," he had said. At the time, Kurt had denied it, known with all of his being that it wasn't true. Because he didn't want it, and he had done everything in his power to stop it.
It doesn't seem that way, though.
Kurt jerks, body going tense, as a knock sounds on his door.
"Kurt?" It's his dad. "Can I come in, buddy?"
Kurt pulls himself out of the covers far enough that his head and shoulders are exposed, and tries to compose his features.
"Yeah," he calls.
Burt is careful when he opens the door, moving slowly, as though any sudden or large movements are not allowed.
A pang of guilt twists in Kurt's chest; he did this to his dad, he gave him something to worry about. Something to add to the stress he's already under financially and physically.
Burt closes the door and approaches the bed, sitting on the edge but twisted to face Kurt. His eyes, the eyes that Kurt sees in the mirror every day, are sharp and soft all at once.
"How are you doing?"
Kurt licks his lips and pulls himself into a seated position, the blankets pooling in his lap. Without them over him, covering him, he feels bare. He crosses his arms over his chest, holding to them tightly.
"Fine," he says, hoping that he's schooled his features well enough to hide how not-fine he really is.
His father knows him well, though, and tilts his head down, raising one brow. "You sure? You didn't look so good at dinner. And you didn't eat much." Burt pauses, looking unsure. "Is this – is this about what happened?"
The air in the room is thick and Kurt does everything to avoid his father's eyes. "No."
Burt sighs softly. "Kurt, kid, you gotta talk to me here. I don't know what to do. Do you need to see someone? Maybe talk to a professional?"
Kurt is shaking his head. "No. No, I'm doing fine, dad."
"Will you tell me who it was?"
Kurt is silent in response.
Burt leans forward and puts a finger under Kurt's chin, gently forcing his eyes upward. "Kurt, please."
His dad is almost begging, and it makes Kurt want to scream "Karofsky! It was Karofsky" into the air. But he can't, he won't risk Karofsky going through on his threats. And there is no way that if he tells his dad, he won't go after him.
So Kurt bites his bottom lip and shakes his head.
There is no anger in Burt's eyes, just resignation. "Okay. Okay. I don't understand, Kurt, but if you are still in danger… you'd tell me, right?"
It's one of Kurt's biggest fears voiced. "Yeah," he chokes out. "Of course."
But he doesn't know, and the fear has been eating at him for months. It is always there, when he's awake, when he's asleep. It has pervaded everything.
"I love you, kiddo," Burt says, and leans forward to wrap his arms around Kurt's shoulders.
Kurt leans into the hold, resting his cheek on his father's shoulder. "I love you, too."
The next day at breakfast Kurt pours a tall glass of orange juice, humming "What Is This Feeling?" to himself as he does so. When he turns and starts to wander back to his room, some of the liquid sloshes over the side of the glass, leaving patters of sticky droplets across the floor.
"Darn," he says, putting the glass down on the counter.
Wetting a dishcloth, he kneels down to wipe up the mess, careful to get it all. When he is finished, he starts to straighten up, but then catches sight of a large form coming up from behind.
Without thinking, he starts to whip around, but then slips as his foot glides on the still-wet floor.
"Woah, dude, careful."
There are two large hands on him, gripping tightly, unwavering.
"Don't touch me!" Kurt pulls away from the hands on him, crashing into the cupboards in his haste. He keeps his back against the solid wood and granite, scooting away as fast as he can.
As he passes near the sink he catches the edge of the glass of juice there, and it crashes to the ground in a loud shatter of glass. Too wrapped up in trying to get away from the large figure in the kitchen with him, Kurt keeps moving, right through the broken glass and to the corner, which he backs into as far as he can.
"Dude! What's wrong? Did you cut yourself?" Finn has both of his hands in the air, palms out, showing Kurt where they are.
When he steps forward, trying to get closer, Kurt shrinks back, pushing himself into the corner. "Don't!" he yells, voice high and desperate.
Finn's eyes have gone wide and he doesn't know what to do. Looking down, he sees a pool of red starting to spread beneath Kurt, and his mouth drops open. "You're bleeding," he says, blankly.
Kurt doesn't respond, just stays where he is, chest rising and falling with quickly-taken breaths.
Snapping out of his daze, Finn moves forward quickly, trying to see where the blood is coming from. The second he is close enough to touch, though, Kurt has swung a fist out and landed a hard hit to the side of his face.
Finn cries out and steps back, cupping a hand to his cheek. "What the hell, man?"
Kurt continues to shake, chest heaving with even harsher breaths. "Stay away," he says.
Not wanting to risk making Kurt any more upset, Finn backs up a little. He doesn't know what to do. He feels useless.
When his phone vibrates in his pocket to signify a new text message, Finn shoves his hand down and pulls it out. He dials his mom's cell number and waits for an answer.
When she picks up, her voice relief in his ears, he practically yells, "Something's wrong with Kurt!" into the speaker. "I don't know what I did," he says, "I was only trying to help, and now he won't come out of the corner, and he's, like, crying and breathing funny."
Carole's words come through the other end, and they are loud in Finns ear. "We're in the driveway." He couldn't be more relieved.
The front door opens and footsteps pound toward them. Finn hits 'end' and waits.
"Kurt!" Burt practically slides into the kitchen, shoes protecting him from the mess of glass as he approaches his son. "Kurt, buddy?"
Kurt's sobs break rhythm as he looks up. "Dad? Oh my God, dad."
Burt moves slowly but steadily until he has Kurt in his arms. "You okay?"
Finn clears his throat, and Burt looks toward him. "He cut his foot." He points down, and Burt follows with his eyes. "He wouldn't let me near, and I didn't know what to do, and…"
"Finn, honey," Carole says, putting a hand on Finn's shoulder. "Calm down. It's okay." She pats his shoulder before moving away.
Finn watches as she grabs a clean dishtowel and walks over to where Burt is with Kurt, staying in their sight at all times.
"Here," she says, handing Burt the towel. "We need to see how bad it is. He might have to go to the hospital."
"No!" Kurt shakes his head, eyes wild. "No. No hospital. Please dad, please," he begs Burt.
Burt just looks at Kurt with sadness in his eyes. "Let's just see how bad it is, okay? We'll decide what to do then."