Chapter Notes:

My beautiful readers,

My sincerest apologizes for not updating for a few days. My interwebz exploded. Or rather, my computer got a virus, and I had no access to my interwebz. Regardless, here is chapter five of "Handling It". I am going to warn you now that there are some gritty, gross parts to it, namely in terms of description - I got a little overzealous with my adjectives. (I regret nothing - namely because I'm a terrible person. :D ) I hope you aren't too grossed out. As always, reviews make me giddy like Kurt after Blaine says something like, "You move me.", so go comment if you want to make me the happiest gal in the whole wide world! :D

*Ahem* Yeah, I'll shut up now. Enjoy chapter 5, and I'll try to have chapter 6 to you in a relatively timely manner.

Chapter 5

The window had been hard to explain to his father. He had spent his whole morning the next day trying to think of an explanation, silently cursing the fact that Burt had the day off and would surely see the damage way sooner than Kurt would have liked.

That was exactly the way of it. By eleven o'clock, when Kurt still hadn't come down from his room, Burt had barged in, spouting something about not wanting him to "miss the whole damn day". Unfortunately, he noticed the big piece of cardboard where the window was supposed to be, right off the bat.

"What the Hell happened?" he asked his son, going over to inspect the damage.

"Um…" Kurt faltered. He still hadn't worked out the perfect excuse. Ultimately, pressed to answer by Burt's puzzled and slightly angered stare, he decided on a somewhat accurate explanation. Somewhat.

"Some kids driving through the neighborhood," he said. "They threw a brick through it. I'm pretty sure they were just messing around. Maybe they were drunk. I dunno."

Burt looked furious.

"You mean, someone drove through down our street and threw bricks at your window?"

"Not bricks. A brick. And they weren't aiming for my window. They were just messing around and managed to hit mine."

"Helluva shot," Burt mumbled, glancing back toward the boarded up wreckage. Turning back to his son, he said, "Are you sure you don't know who did this? I mean, because if you did… What if you had been standing there? What if they had hurt you? Maybe I should call the police-"

"Dad, don't, it's not that big of a deal."

"Kurt, if someone is targeting you-"

"No one was targeting me. It was just a lucky shot. Maybe they were daring one another to see who could throw it the farthest of something." He shrugged in what he hoped was a believable look of uncertainty. Burt stilled looked unconvinced.

"I dunno, Kurt, it seems awfully shifty to me."

"Dad I… I saw their faces. Before they drove away. I saw them. They were no one I knew. No one I recognized." This particular statement grated on Kurt's insides, because the lie was so blatant. He knew exactly who was behind all this, but like Hell if he was going to tell his Dad that, even if he felt nauseous from being so dishonest.

"Hmph," Burt harrumphed. He shook his head, mumbled, "Well, get up. It's actually not 200 degrees outside today, and you could use some fresh air." He glanced again at the window. "Well… maybe you've got a decent amount of that already. Regardless." He nodded his head, gave a significant look, and showed himself out of his son's room.

Kurt rolled to the edge of his bed, where he had been scribbling down potential musical numbers (in the midst of his near-obsessive worry about having to explain the window), and got to his feet. Bare-footed and still in silk pajamas, he padded off to the bathroom to take a shower.

It was here, feet feeling cold against the cool tile, the room soundless say for the occasional drip from the faucet and the rustle of Kurt's own body, did he have to address, for the first time since last night, the long, self-made gash in his abdomen.

When he had woken up, he had managed to ignore the dull ache in his skin, but now, as he lifted his shirt off up over his head, he had no choice but to acknowledge the taped on gauze he had placed on his stomach last night, sloppily, in a post-panic attack blur.

He couldn't shower with it on. Carefully and slowly, he peeled the tape back, cringing as the stick of it took with it tiny hairs and aggravated his cut. Pulling back the gauze, he revealed to himself a clotted, moist wound. Secretions from it strung together like a tether between skin and bandage. Remnants of blood stained the gauze and the skin around the cut itself. At the irritation, small droplets of it leaked out, fresh, while newly formed scabs prevented an outpour.

Kurt crinkled his nose in disgust, crumpling up the bandage into a ball and throwing it into the trash. He took a few Kleenexes and crumpled them up too, throwing them over top of the gauze, just as a precaution against anyone who may come into the bathroom and look into the bin. (Why anyone would feel the need to ruffle through the trash and then confront Kurt about the bloodied up bandage was beyond him, but he was feeling particularly ashamed and paranoid about the whole ordeal, and it didn't hurt to be careful.)

With the evidence hidden, Kurt then rifled through the medicine cabinet, until he came across an old, squeezed-up bottle of Neosporin. He coaxed a small dab of it out onto his index finger, and then, bracing himself in case the physical touch stung, rubbed it onto his cut until it glistened like it had been coated in oil.

The touch with the Neosporin didn't actually hurt. What did hurt, however, was when Kurt finally stepped into the shower after turning the water up, hot and full. The water hit his abdomen, and like the razor cut on his leg had, his wound felt like a thousand needles started poking it at once. Kurt gasped a gasp which was inaudible over the sound of the shower head.

He continued like this, hurrying as fast he could to get clean, wincing considerably when a bit of soap accidentally made contact with his wound. Drying off afterward, and applying a fresh coat of Neosporin, Kurt was in mild agony. The sore, and, given by how much it throbbed, on the brink of infection cut in his milky, smooth skin was overtaking his thoughts. And as he found a new bandage – this time just a big Band-Aid brand one – to cover it up, he swore to himself that would never do something so stupid again.

Burt had been right. For the first time in weeks, it was actually a temperature humans could stand, and he all but threw Kurt out of the house when he came downstairs, showered and fully clothed (shirt looser than he normally would have worn to keep his bandage hidden).

"If I have to exercise, eat right, and be healthy, then so do you," he said, holding the door open wide.

"You had a heart attack. You literally have to do those things to survive. I, on the other hand, eat perfectly fine, and have a perfectly executed exercise regimen, so tell me again why I am being told to 'go out and play' like a five year old, when I would much rather be in my room working on my musical."

"Because I'm sick of watching you boys sit around the house all damn day. If I could figure out a way to get Finn out of bed before one o'clock I'd make him go outside too. Go write your musical in the park or something. Have Blaine come over and go for a nice romantic walk. I don't care. Just get out of the house while you can. Temperatures are supposed to be up again by tomorrow morning."

Groaning a triumphant groan, Kurt muttered a, "Fine!", went and grabbed his notebook and a couple of pens, and set out towards the nearest park. The sun was beating down on him, it was pretty humid, and there were mosquitoes everywhere. But it was under 80 degrees, and that was what mattered. Who ever thought 79 degrees could feel so good?

Once he was at the park, Kurt settled down on a bench, legs crossing naturally, as he used the back of his thigh as a backing for his notebook. After staring blankly at the page for several minutes, the change of scenery not helping his creative flow any, a thought crossed the back of his mind that made his heart flutter in momentary panic.

His Dad was going to check the mail.

Kurt jumped up, startling a jogger who happened to be going by. He mumbled a, "sorry". He checked his watch. It was about 1:45. The mail didn't normally come until two or two thirty, so even if his bullies had put something in the box, there was a good chance Burt hadn't looked in it yet. It would be okay. He'd just sit on the front porch and write there instead, and then he'd have the first shot at the mail.

He was cutting it close, though. He'd have to set off for home, and set off there now, even though he had just gotten to the park. He could already feel mild anxiety building in the pit of his stomach, and he was not, repeat, not going to go through what he went through the night before. Flipping his notebook shut, he stuffed his pens back into his pocket and took off in a less-than-attractive power walk towards his house, checking his watch every, what seemed to be, ninety seconds.

If you were just going on a stroll, the park was not all that far away from where Kurt lived, but if there was hurry involved? It seemed to be a hundred miles away. Internally, Kurt was scolding himself for not thinking of this sooner as the clock ticked closer and closer to two. Eventually, he came to a block a little ways away from where he lived. He knew there was a shortcut in this part of the neighborhood he could go through, if he wanted, and as he glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, it seemed the only viable option.

He had never taken the alleyway shortcut before, intuitively thinking it had some sort of bad karma to it. It was one of those eerie looking ones, with big, looming fences on either side. It was one of those alleys that seemed to have no clear ending to them, and looked as though nighttime never left, even when the sun was high overhead. But any nervousness Kurt felt over this alley was miniscule to the nervousness he was getting over the thought of his Dad getting the mail and seeing a suspicious looking envelope with his son's name printed on the front in red magic marker. He started down it, grumbling as gravel and dust dirtied up his shoes.

By the time he saw them it was too late to turn around. They had spotted him first.

Suddenly, he knew he should have trusted his intuition, but it was a worthless endeavor to believe in it now. It was off to the side, in what looked to be part of a parking lot of an old, abandoned shop, where he saw the old, beat up Chevy Caviler – the same one he had seen screech away on his street corner last night. And leaning up against this car were three, largely framed boys, all dressed in gym shorts and baggy t-shirts, each wearing their own pair of basketball shoes. They all had a beer in their hand, and two of them were holding lit cigarettes, while one of them had an unlit one placed behind his ear like he was saving it. Kurt recognized the middle boy as Azimio, and he knew the face of the one to his right was someone on the McKinley football team, but he couldn't put a name to him. The boy on his left was completely unfamiliar, but that didn't stop him from looking at Kurt like he, himself, was some sort of wild animal, and Kurt was fresh meat. Indeed, all three of their faces lit up in smug, excited smirks at the sight of the small boy, who felt every single one of his body functions go into hyper-drive, instantaneously upon seeing this scene.

"Well, well, well," Azimio's voice rang clear. Kurt was still a decent distance away, and he considered running, but he knew that they could easily outrun him, and besides, his legs felt rooted in the spot where he was standing. He gulped, audibly, as all three of them approached him, slowly and menacingly. It was like something out of a movie, only, due to the wild thumping going on in his chest, and the incoherency of his thoughts as they rushed by in his head unhelpfully, Kurt knew that this was very, very real. "Look what we have here."

Once they got close to him, they circled him like a pack of wolves ganging up on their prey. Kurt kept turning around, trying to keep an eye on all three of them at once, but it proving difficult. They laughed at his futile efforts, while the other boy from his school said,

"Fancy meeting you here." He sounded genuinely surprised, and happily so. They hadn't expected him to come down this way. "Did you like our little gift last night, Hummel?" Kurt chose not to respond. He then gasped very loudly as the boy he didn't recognize put both his hands on the small boy's shoulders and squeezed tightly.

"You really should be more careful about where you wander off to," he whispered into his ear. Kurt felt a shiver go from his toes, all the way up to the hair on the top of his head, but the boy didn't let go. Instead, the boy from his school slid the backside of his hand down Kurt's cheek, "tsking" his tongue when Kurt turned his head away from his touch.

"What's a matter, Hummel? I thought you were into this sort of thing."

"Yeah," Azimio piped up, placing a hand on Kurt's waist. Kurt was in such an overwhelming panic at this point, all of his reflexes were frozen. He just stared in horror into Azimio's eyes as he continued. "Don't faggots like boys touching them? Isn't this just," he rubbed his hand slowly down Kurt's waist, until he reached his thigh. "What you like?"

"Please let me go. I have to go home. I have to…" he trailed off, words failing him, his own voice cracking as he tried to ignore the displeasure of their touches. He almost would have preferred it if they were hitting him instead. He couldn't stand this intimate contact with people he knew were just antagonizing him – trying to get him to break. And although he was trying very hard not to show it, he was, indeed, breaking.

"Aw, is Daddy gonna be worried about his little girl," the nameless football player taunted, pinching Kurt's cheek with his index finger and thumb, and sticking his lower lip out, mockingly.

The other two boys laughed. Azimio took his hand off of Kurt's thigh, and instead, placed it on his chest. He felt Kurt's heart beating fast beneath his palm, and it made him smile. "You nervous, Hummel?" he whispered, leaning in close. When Kurt didn't answer, he continued. "You should be. Be very nervous. You turned Karofsky into a faggot like you, and we're not ever going to forget that, you hear? We don't forget, and we don't forgive. You had better watch your back, Hummel, because like we said in our letter – it only gets worse from here." He stepped back, and nodded toward the other two, who stopped touching Kurt, and stepped away as well. "Consider this a warning," Azimio told him with a stern look. "We don't want to run into you again… or rather, you don't want to run into us again, you understand?" Kurt stared at him blankly. "I said, do you understand? Don't be rude. Answer me when I'm talking to you." Shakily, Kurt nodded his head.

From behind him, the person he didn't know gave a hard shove into his back, making him topple forward, hands making painful contact with the gravel below as he fell to the ground. His grip on his notebook was lost, and it was sent flying away from where he lay. They all looked down at him and laughed, before turning to head back to their car. Over his shoulder, Azimio called out, "And Hummel, if you tell anyone about this?" He took his index finger and gestured it in a line across his neck. Kurt got the message.

He picked himself up off the dirt covered ground, ignoring the scrapes in either hand, and the tiny pebbles lodged in his skin, as he turned on his heel and took off in a run, and didn't stop until he was at his front door.

Sweaty, out of breath, dirty, tired, and terrified, Kurt plopped himself down on his front steps and tried to regain his composure. He thought for sure his heart was going to fly out of his chest at any given moment, and trying to breathe deeply to calm himself down was proving near impossible. In any rational state, he would try to dust himself off and look halfway presentable. But rationality was not a strong point right that second, so instead, the only thing he thought to himself was, "The mail!", as his eyes immediately flew to his watch, which read 2:17.

Frantically, and surely looking like a madman, Kurt jumped to his feet, and pulled the mailbox, which hung, bolted to the wall next to the front door, open, relieved to see a small handful of letters inside of it. He grabbed them and rifled through them. Not a single one was for him. He had worried over nothing.

"Kurt, what the Hell happened to you?" Burt's concerned voice rang out, startling his son, who jumped noticeably. He hadn't even heard the door open. His quick, sloppy movements must have caused enough commotion to render Burt curious, and now he was standing there, an eyebrow cocked, as he looked at Kurt, who was standing there, holding a pile of letters, coated in a layer of grit and gravel, looking like he had just run a marathon.

"Um," he said, part of him not sure of what to say, and part of him not sure how to make words. "Mail's here." He held the letters out to Burt, who took them, and then grimaced in disgust and concern.

"Why is there blood on them?" He held them out so his son could see. Sure enough, a small amount of smudged red coated the edges of the outermost envelopes. Kurt quickly checked his hands – which he had completely forgotten about injuring – and saw smeared blood on his palms. He shrugged sheepishly up at his father.

"Sorry."

"What the Hell happened?"

"I tripped and fell," Kurt said lamely.

"Where's your notebook?"

"Uh…" He had left it in the alley – no way was he going back for it. He just shrugged again, making Burt look even more concerned. He was trying very hard not to let his father see that he was currently in a state of upmost panic, and it was proving difficult.

"Kurt…" Burt started.

"I'm fine, Dad," his son said quickly. "Really. I just… I was crossing the street, and there was a car coming that I didn't see, and it almost hit me, and I tripped over the curb trying to get away from it. It just shook me up a little, and the fall scraped my hands. I'll be fine." He forced a smile and hoped his story was believable enough to satisfy his father. Burt regarded his son for a moment, before saying,

"Well… alright. Just… be more careful, okay?"

"Of course."

"Go clean yourself up. Maybe you shouldn't be outside. It's like you forgot how it works. I finally got Finn to go out, and you know what the first thing he said to me was? 'Why is the sun so bright? Has it always been that way?' I mean, honestly."

Kurt laughed nervously, and then went around his father, into the house, where he bolted up the stairs and barricaded himself in the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He turned on the faucet and put his hands underneath the water flow. The dirt came off his hands, along with a faint line of red.

Still in panic-attack mode, he pulled his hands out from under the tap curiously, not bothering to turn it off, and stared at the scrapes on either palm. They were different than the razor cut, or the cut he had made with the glass. They weren't bleeding in a straight line. Some places were cut deeper than others, and his skin was torn up in strange patterns. Almost unconsciously, he used his right hand to start picking at his left, causing a searing pain to radiate to every fingertip. It felt good – soothing.

His eyes welled up a little, out of anxiety, fear, and pain. He blinked back the tears, however, and instead, dug even deeper into the wounds on his left hand with his stubbly nails on his right. He was scratching at the cuts, like they itched. He did the same thing on the other hand, and soon, blood dribbled down both palms, running down his wrists and getting trapped in the crevice of his elbows. He held up his arms in a bent shape in front of his eyes so he could see the damage he had done. He ached, and he reveled in it, letting the pain put his heartbeat back into proper rhythm, put his breathing back into the proper depths, put his thoughts into working order.

It wasn't until he was sure the worst of his attack had passed did he dare put his hands back under the still-running faucet. He wiped all the blood off his forearms, and after he dried himself off, he applied Neosporin to each hand, just a precaution. He found some gauze and wrapped it around both of his hands, tapping them tight, glad that his father had seen the wounds beforehand, so he wouldn't have to explain it, and when Carole or Finn or Blaine asked him what had happened, he could tell them, "I fell" without feeling too guilty – after all, that was the truth, wasn't it?

He mindlessly made his way into his room, and collapsed onto his bed, brutally aware of the dull pangs in his palms, the feel of his stomach bandage rubbing against his shirt, and the cardboard covering up his window, but ignoring all of it.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, relieved to see he had no missed calls, and only one missed text, and it was from Blaine.

"Am I still coming over for dinner tonight?" it read. Kurt didn't exactly feel up to socializing, but he couldn't exactly say no.

"Yep. : )" he responded, finding it hard to add the smiley face when he did not feel that way at all. If anything, he felt sick, and annoyed at how texting made his hand wounds even more evident. He was too tired to feel ashamed about what had just happened in the bathroom, though. Instead, he situated himself on his pillow, completely crashed from the entire ordeal, and basically passed out, and not waking until he heard his Dad calling up to him, several hours later,

"Kurt, Blaine's here!"

And he had to put on a happy face, and go greet him at the door.