Chapter Notes:
Glorious Readers, hullo!
This is where shit gets uncomfortable. :) For the record, I'm not a cutter, but I do have a panic-anxiety disorder, so everything you read here about anxiety, it's pretty much first-hand experience. I don't know if that matters at all, but I sometimes like to know where inspiration comes from when I'm reading a fic. Also, someone asked about Pippa Middleton biographies, and how many there could possibly be, and it made me laugh. I work at a library, and I also checked Amazon. From what I can tell, there are like, six. :D
I am also not sure where Kurt's bedroom is, but for purposes of plot-development, it's on the second floor. Deal with it. :D
It's 2:20 am where I live. I need to stop talking/typing/whatever this is. Here's the chapter. I'll have more for you soon. Also, reviewing my fic counts as public service hours, so you should totally do it. (Wouldn't that be awesome if that was actually a volunteering job? "Go review fanfiction for 20 hours!" "Uh... okay sir. I'll try... :D")
Bedtime for me. Reading time for you. Enjoy:
Chapter 4:
A combination of some blend of coffee drink mixed with the distant hint of mint toothpaste, and that other taste which could only be described as "mouth" – that's how Kurt categorized what kissing Blaine tasted like. He liked to do this – over think the information his senses were taking in so he could think about it later. Like, if he was bored, he could just think about how Blaine's face always felt a little stubbly (not in the itchy, gross way, of course), even when he was clean shaven, or how when he was kissing Kurt, his breath was shallower, and came from his upper chest, even though anytime else, he always breathed from his diaphragm, like a trained singer would do.
Today, as Blaine was pressed over top of his body on the couch, where they were taking advantage of the fact that no one was home for once, not even Finn, Kurt was trying to come up with some sort of metaphor to describe to himself what Blaine's eyes looked liked when they made direct contact with his, but all he could think was, "Daaaaaaamn!", all eloquent word choice possibilities stolen by raging hormones.
"You're really gorgeous, you know that?" Blaine murmured, his face dangerously close to the other boy's – close enough that Kurt could feel the heat of his breath on his face. (He'd make a note of that and think about it later.)
Kurt's cheeks grew hot, and he was certain he lit up like a Christmas light. It was a good thing Blaine thought blushing was adorable, because otherwise he'd be fucked – and not in the way that normally made his cheeks turn scarlet in the first place, whenever the topic was brought up. After months of dating, the most the two of them had done was roll around on the bed with their hands up each other's shirts, and for Kurt, that was more than enough, and for Blaine, who, although would never say no to the opportunity to go further, was ultimately happiest with whatever made Kurt comfortable.
And so, still burning, Kurt said, "I'm nothing compared to you."
Blaine rolled his eyes in a 'you're insane, but adorable' sort of a way, and then leaned down to kiss him with his mint-coffee-mouthy flavor.
This was one of the better moments of Kurt's week. The phone calls, although more sporadic, were still coming on a daily basis. He had gotten another letter – this time just a written down version of the oh-so-classy poem "what do you do with a faggot's head", and he could have sworn someone had been throwing pebbles at his window a couple nights prior, but when he pulled back his shades, there was no one to be seen.
Blaine, and all of Kurt's family, were still completely oblivious to the harassment he was receiving, and he had no plans on telling them anything. Sure, maybe he had to find a way to make it so his phone wouldn't vibrate so loudly. And perhaps he felt a groan every time a friend would leave a voicemail, because it would mean shuffling through all the hate messages in his inbox that he had simply stopped going through after a while. And yeah, he had suddenly become obsessed with getting the mail, even on Saturdays, when everyone was home. He made a point of it, making some excuse to his inquiring family that he was just practicing getting excited and being prompt about retrieving mail for when he would need to be when he was auditioning all the time – an excuse that was absurd and Kurt-esque enough to be believed. But none of this meant that he wasn't handling this well. In his mind, if everyone was still kept in the dark about it, then he was doing it right.
He did notice a few things that weren't quite right with himself as of late, however, and he hoped with all his might that no one else noticed them too. Like how he was suddenly sleeping a lot less, and was a little bit more irritable than usual. (He realized this when he just about bit Finn's head off when he had grabbed him a regular Coke out of the fridge instead of a diet.) Or how, now, when anything even mildly stressful happened – writer's block, thinking someone else might have gone to get the mail, Blaine taking too long to let him know he had gotten home safe – he would immediately start to feel a bit of adrenaline pouring into his stomach, as though he was suddenly really nervous all the time. He chocked it up to being tired and annoyed at the ignorance of Azimio and his friends, and tried to ignore it the best he could.
It was when he was curled up with Blaine, whether on the couch, on his bed, or even laying out on the floor (they did that sometimes), that Kurt felt the best. When he was kissing Blaine, and cuddling with him, he was able to force himself to stop focusing on whether or not there would be a missed call when he went to check his phone, or if someone had slipped a letter into the mailbox and Finn was going to find it before him. No, when he was with Blaine, all he thought about was stubble face, shallow, aroused breathing, mint-coffee tastes, and eyes he couldn't describe. He always loathed the time that his boyfriend would check his watch, groan, and tell him with a pout in his lip that he had to start his commute back home.
But it always came, and this day was no different. After a good long while, and two sore tongues, and four red lips later, Blaine glanced up at the clock on the wall, and then buried his face into Kurt's chest, moaning, "Fuuuuck, I have to go."
As had become habitual at this point, Kurt got up, tugged his shirt down (he couldn't believe he let his boyfriend mess up his clothes the way he did – he was just that handsome), ran a hair through his total sex-hair, and automatically went into the kitchen to fill up the thermos, which Blaine had brought back when he had come over that day, up with lukewarm coffee. Blaine took it with a glint of amusement in his eye, and Kurt walked him to the door.
"I'll talk to you when you get back home," Kurt said, accepting Blaine's goodbye kiss.
"See ya, babe," Blaine said, with a nice wave of the hand. He jogged his way to his car in order to get there quicker, so he could turn it on and crank up the AC. 'You wouldn't be so hot if you just wore short sleeves,' Kurt thought to himself, shaking his head, annoyed that, despite his disapproval, his boyfriend still donned long sleeves every day.
The house suddenly felt remarkably large and quiet. Although everyone went out and about quite often, it was rare that they did it all at once. Kurt almost never had the house to himself, and honestly, he wasn't sure if he liked it. He was an extravert, and while he could appreciate solitude, he much preferred hearing other people moving around, just so he knew he wasn't alone. That had been one major plus to Carole and Finn moving in – more people.
But now he was alone. He didn't feel like reading, because it was too quiet, and composing seemed like too much work, so instead, he went to his bedroom and flipped on the television, thankful for the noise. He clicked through the channels mindlessly, before landing on Food Network and watching, only half-interested, as Rachel Ray talked at him about her EVOO.
At some point, Kurt started to doze. He hadn't even realized he was tired until he found he was blinking himself awake, and it was suddenly dark outside. He checked the time. It was about 9:50. Carol and Burt had gone on a dinner and a movie date, and weren't expected back until midnight or so, and Finn was spending the night with the Glee Club guys (Kurt had been invited, but had politely declined, honestly surprised they had even asked him).
Kurt grabbed his phone off the cushion of old t-shirts of Finn's he had made for it, so it wouldn't make noise when it vibrated, and checked to see if Blaine had called. He hadn't and, thankfully, neither had anyone else. So far that day, he had received no threats, no letters, no calls – a new record for the past couple of weeks.
Not really wanting to move, but not wanting to risk falling asleep completely without doing his moisturizing treatments, he made himself get out of bed, and shuffle into the bathroom. A bit later, face smooth and all pours clog-free, he went back into his bedroom and began to put on his silk pajamas, when he was suddenly distracted by a loud crashing sound from behind him.
He turned quickly to see glass splayed out on the ground in front of the window pane, and his shades knocked crooked. He hurried over to the shattered window and peered out of it, just in time to see a beat up, old, grey Chevy Cavalier screech down the street, tires squealing, while a voice he didn't recognize screamed out "FAGGOT!" He might have heard laughter.
The automatic pump in his stomach began to pour adrenaline into his bloodstream by the bucketful. Breathing a little ragged, he inspected the scene, careful not to step on any class shards with his bare feet. A few inches from the window, he found a big brick, an envelope addressed in the familiar way ("KURT" in blood red), tied tightly around it.
There was no mistaking whose doing this was. Even if he hadn't known before now, who else other than athletic football players would have been able to chuck a brick all the way up to a second floor window, and make the target.
Kurt was shaking now. The adrenaline in his veins was getting worse, and it was more than he was used to. He was used to getting nervous, to getting uncomfortable and a little restless, but this? This was starting to scare him, the way his body was reacting.
He was starting to feel like he didn't have any control. The adrenaline just pumped more and more and more, until he was certain he may die of an overdose. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. His mind was going a thousand miles a second as he tried hard to take in breaths, but felt like his airway was constricted.
What was happening to him?
"Ignorance, ignorance, ignorance," he chanted to himself in his usual mantra, but it didn't do a damn thing.
He could feel the thick, humid air coming in from the window that lay in pieces on his floor, and it made him feel nauseous as he was already feeling unnaturally hot, every part of his body starting to feel like sweat was coming out of it. He felt like doubling over, curling in a fetal position and screaming, while simultaneously wanting to go outside and run laps around his house until his legs broke.
He was out of control.
This was taking him completely off guard. He was fumbling with the brick in his hand, trying to tear the envelope off without ripping it, and he nearly dropped the whole thing on his bare toe. He forced himself to sit, and couldn't help but to bounce his legs up and down as he could not, for the life of him, get them to stay still.
He had heard of panic attacks before, in psych class or something, but had never experienced one. He had just figured they were just things people got when they realized they missed a bargain sale, or went shopping in New York City and realized they didn't have any money to buy anything. He didn't think it was anything real, or as uncontrollable as his teacher had tried to explain, but now, as he sat holding the letter in his shaking hands, trying to regain some sort of composure, but not being able to think of anything but, "I'm going to be sick, I'm going to be sick, I'm going to be sick," over and over, he knew that it was very, very real.
'I have to open this,' he thought to himself, determinedly, not really sure why he was so bent on reading what this letter said, but not really thinking rationally at all anyway. He managed to find the handle on his dresser drawer, and he pulled out his letter opener.
Opening the envelope nicely was an impossible task. His hands were shaking so badly, slipping the end of the opener into the flap of the envelope was unimaginably hard. He tried and tried, but kept messing up, ripping the envelope more and more as he did so. In a final attempt to get it right, his hand slipped, and he accidentally jabbed his other arm hard with the sharp end of the opener.
He gasped in pain at first, and then, for a split second, felt some of his panic symptoms subside. They came back almost instantaneously, but the relief had been there. He had felt it. He knew.
In any coherent state of mind, Kurt would have put the opener down, stepped back from the situation, and breathed even. But he wasn't in any coherent state of mind. Instead, he gripped the opener tight in his hand, and, without any hesitation, drove it into the palm of his other hand, hard.
It hurt. It hurt badly, the sensitive skin of his palm aching at the pointed jab of the office tool. Kurt pulled the opener away, and a tiny spot of blood appeared, looking like a paper cut wound, or that thing the doctor did when she would prick fingers. It was just a dab, but to Kurt it felt like tension and nervousness was leaking out of the hole, like he was an overinflated balloon, and the tiny, little wound was letting out some of the pressure.
He remembered how he had felt when he had had the little bit of anxiety in the shower – how it had went away when he had watched that line of blood fall down from his leg and drain with the water. He wanted to feel that again. He needed that relief. This attack had come on so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and he had no idea how to deal.
The letter opener was too dull, though. It could break through skin, but only in small points. What Kurt needed, or, at least in this state of mind, thought he needed, was a cut like what the razor had done. A line of torn apart skin – an opening big enough to let all the air out of the balloon.
Barely even conscious of what he was doing, Kurt went back to the mess on the floor beside the window, and picked up a jagged piece of glass off his carpet. He held it up to his face, the dull light of his bedside lamp catching in the reflective surface. Somewhere inside anxiety-ridden Kurt, rational Kurt was screaming, 'you are not going to do what I think you're going to do, right?', but rational Kurt was too quiet to be heard right now.
His arm was too conspicuous, he couldn't do it there. His leg would bother him too much – that razor cut with those tight pants had been hell for several days. He regarded himself, looking down, wondering where he would do it.
He was shirtless. He had never finished putting his pajamas on. His milky-white skin, smooth as butter, glistened up at him as he gave a once over of himself. There. He would do it there.
He closed his eyes, took a shaking hand holding the glass, and put the sharp part of it against his skin, below his belly button, a little to the left. The glass felt cool against him, and he could feel the tiniest of pricks from the minor contact he had from it.
Rational Kurt was still screaming, but anxiety-ridden Kurt refused to hear.
Pressing in and dragging along previously flawless flesh, Kurt opened his eyes and looked down to watch as his skin was cut in a wavy, long line. He gasped out in pain, it stinging worse than he had planned, but at the same time, he reveled in it, loving having a new feeling to focus on rather than the adrenaline-induced restlessness.
The cut acted like a cat scratch. For just a few moments, it looked like nothing but a thin line across his stomach, but then, small beads of red began to bubble out of it, and soon, blood was dribbling down and running into his beltline, where his silk pajama bottoms absorbed some of it, leaving dark stains of red along the rim.
For who knows how long, Kurt stood there, glass still posed, eyes still watching as his own blood escaped from his body, caused by his own hand.
Eventually, enough of the nervous-tension had been lost through the self-made incision, and he began to gain back enough sense to know that he needed to clean himself, and the shattered window, up the best he could.
He cleaned and bandaged his stomach, swept and vacuumed his room, taped a big piece of cardboard over the gaping window, shoved the forgotten, unread envelope into his dresser drawer, suddenly not caring about it anymore, and then nearly collapsed onto his bed, all of it done almost robotically. He grabbed at his phone and saw he had a missed call from Blaine, and then a text from him that must of came afterward, which said, "You're probably asleep. I'm home. I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. ~Blaine."
Kurt, feeling like he had suddenly just come off a serious caffeine high, didn't even bother to reply. He put his phone on the table, and drew his knees to his chest, ignoring the ache in his stomach where the movement aggravated his cut. For a while, he lay there, contemplating the implications of everything that had just happened.
Rational Kurt made a bigger appearance, and he realized just what he had done. 'Just a onetime thing,' he assured himself, telling him he was out of his mind at the time, and he would just have to be careful about controlling anxiety.
But even as he thought it – as he tried to fall asleep so he wouldn't have to think about it – he knew this had suddenly all just gotten a lot more serious than he had ever thought possible. But it would be okay, or so he reassured himself. He could handle it.