Fantabulously fantabulous reader,

Alas, the plot thickens! Sorry this took so long. I meant to have this done the other day, but work killed me, and then Fourth of July happened, and that's a big thing for my family, so I had ZERO time. But that's okay, because it's done now, much to my relief, because this chapter was annoying to write. Hopefully it won't be annoying to read, though! Like I said, that plot hath thickened. (But you hafta read to see what I mean. ;D ) I'll try and update soon. I'm working a couple other fics too, though, and working, and like, an actual novel that isn't fanfiction, too, so please bear with me if I am a little less than perfect at updating quickly. I promise I won't ever make you wait more than a few days for an update unless circumstances are super messed up. Fair enough? And, just fyi, every time you leave me a comment, and angel gets its wings. :)

Enjoy:

Chapter 7

It was nearly two weeks later, and Kurt was with Blaine, Rachel, and Mercedes at the Lima mall, out on a hunt – per Kurt's insistence of course – for shorter sleeved shirts for Blaine.

"Do not even think about it," Kurt scoffed as he watched his boyfriend eye longingly at a rack of clearance winter tops. "You know why those are on sale? Because it is a million degrees outside, and no one wants them. Including you. Now come on." He grabbed Blaine by the elbow and dragged him along as the girls scouted ahead for shirts the diva would approve.

"How about this one?" Rachel asked, holding up a particularly foul looking button up with a design only Rachel could appreciate. Mercedes and Kurt exchanged a look, and the other girl took the garment from Rachel's hands, saying,

"Let Kurt and me handle this."

Sure enough, twenty minutes of rack-browsing later, Blaine was holding more shirts than was reasonable. With a strained, "Can I try these on now?" his face mashed up against fabric, he looked pleadingly toward his boyfriend for permission, who gave a small nod.

Outside of the fitting room, the three of them stood waiting for Blaine as he tried on his clothes. "It's really tight!" he called through the door.

"It's supposed to be!" Kurt called back, examining a cuticle with bored interest.

"You look really tired, Kurt," Mercedes observed now that they had time to talk. She cocked a concerned eyebrow.

"Yeah, and you barely even said a word when I told you about my call-back for Maria in the local production of West Side Story. I expected a little bit more enthusiasm."

"Oh I'm fine," Kurt said, waving a dismissive hand. "And Rachel, when you get a role in a play for a company that isn't run by bored housewives, I'll be more excited for you. Until then, it's just child's play."

"Ouch, Kurt," Blaine chuckled from behind them. They turned and looked at him as he wiggled around uncomfortably in shirt that clung to his chest the way Kurt's pants clung to his thighs. "This feels funny," he pouted.

"But it looks exceptional!" Kurt exclaimed, clasping his hands together. He grinned a silly grin at the other two, who laughed and nodded in agreement, which made Blaine groan.

"I was afraid you'd say that."

"Go try the other ones on! This has renewed my hope in your wardrobe! Go on!"

Head hung in defeat, Blaine went back into the fitting room to try on whatever other torture device his boyfriend had grabbed for him. Mercedes and Rachel began gossiping about some guy they had seen Quinn with the other day, their worry over Kurt already forgotten. Not that Kurt minded, of course – he was more than happy for their inquiries to be cut short. He didn't feel up to answering questions he knew he wouldn't be able to answer truthfully. Because truthfully? He was anything but fine. Back at home, a new pile of torn open envelopes sat inside his bedside table drawer, next to the bloodied up t-shirt, and the crimson stained steak knife he never returned to the kitchen. A fresh batch of cuts chaffed against his shirt as he moved about the mall with his friends. No. He wasn't fine at all.

But they didn't need to know that. His friends didn't need to know how he had scolded himself relentlessly the morning after carving the hate word above his belly button. He didn't need them to know how, even though before, anxiety and depression had just been side-effects to all the hate, they were now pretty much just his default position. And more than anything, they didn't need to know how addicted he was getting to hurting himself – even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it outright. Maybe he did a little knife work whenever his telephone rang one too many times, or maybe it calmed him down to see blood drip down his sides whenever he read a particularly nasty letter, but that didn't mean he was a cutter – because cutters weren't like him.

Cutters were the emo kids that Blaine used to hang around with. They were the ones who would go to that clearance rack Kurt had steered Blaine away from, and browse it with intent. They marked up their wrists with razors over things like bad breakups, and feelings of being misunderstood, and how on Earth could Kurt really relate to one of them?

No, see, he was just a kid whose family had spent way too much time worrying over him, and he didn't want to be a burden anymore. He was a bully victim who had found a unique way to solve the problems that went along with it – even though the increased adrenaline and heartbeat really didn't do anything but harm to his stomach and blood pressure. Cutters were sad-sacks, broken people, and attention-whores. Kurt was simply handling it, the best way he knew how. Or at least that was his justification every time the blade made contact with his skin.

So for now he was content to wave away worried comments, and utter "I'm fines", and just enjoy the company of his closest friends and his boyfriend in a rare instance of calm. So when Blaine came out and fake-model walked towards them with another constrictive shirt, Kurt merely laughed along with his friends, and demanded to see more.

Eventually, all the clothes had been tried on, and after a little bit of arguing ("Kurt, I swear, if you make me buy that I will never, ever wear it!"), Blaine had four nice short-sleeved shirts that they all could agree on. At the register, a cute college age guy rang them up, and made small talk with the other three, while Kurt checked his watch. It was getting late – the mall was going to close soon, and Blaine needed to start out on his commute back home.

After insisting on buying him a coffee from the food court (since he didn't have a thermos handy), Kurt waved goodbye to Mercedes and Rachel, and walked with his boyfriend to their cars, where they were parked right next to each other. Blaine grabbed his waist and pulled him close and gave him a nice kiss on the mouth before murmuring in his ear, "I'll see you in a couple days, alright baby?"

"Mm," Kurt said, his eyes still closed, deeply inhaling in the comfort and safety of his boyfriend, hoping it would be enough to get him through until Blaine's work schedule allowed him to come visit again.

"Thanks for the shirts," Blaine said, pecking him on the cheek, before letting him go and going over to the driver's side of his car. "And the coffee," he added. He winked and waved as he pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Kurt leaning his back up against his car, watching as he left.

Once in his own car, Kurt noticed he was low on gas. He groaned to himself, not really feeling up to a gas station trip, but knowing that if he didn't he would get anxious over it, and would worry about his car stopping in the middle of the road or something. (He was starting to get nervous about the stupidest of things.) Sighing, he put on his seatbelt, grating his teeth as the belt pulled against his stomach, and put his car into drive, following the way Blaine had left a minute ago, and drove to the nearest gas station.

At the pump he rolled his eyes, irritated, as he looked at the sign that read "OUTSIDE CREDIT/DEBIT CARD PAYMENT OUT OF ORDER – MUST PAY INSIDE". He filled his tank up $20 worth, and, annoyed, went into the station, where there were two people in front of him – one who was holding a gigantic cup full of some sort of fountain drink, and the other who was arguing with the cashier about the few dollars he had won on a lotto scratch ticket. Brilliant.

Kurt crossed his arms in front of himself impatiently, and looked around. His eyes fell on a display of items next to the counter. It was a sort of "Household Items" display, with things like toenail clippers, tiny bottles of a type of shampoo that would never in a million years touch but a follicle on Kurt's head, and the like. But none of that interested Kurt. Instead, he was drawn to a package of 50 straight-edge razors, sitting next to things like nails and screws.

He turned his head away abruptly. What was he doing? Using a knife he found in his kitchen was one thing, but actually going out of his way to buy instruments to hurt himself with? That would be hard to justify. But even still he couldn't help but think how much easier it would if he had something like those at his disposal. The knife he had been using was already a bit blunt to begin with, and all the use he was getting out of it was starting to wear it down even faster.

He shook himself a little, trying not to think about it. He could use another knife, or sharpen the one he had, or Hell, even just stop using it all together. It wasn't like he couldn't just quit doing it if he had to. He just chose not to.

But even still, Kurt's mind was suddenly preoccupied with those straight-edge razors, and how much more controlled they would be. How the closer grasp would make the lines so much nicer, and how he could be more exact with them.

He hardly even noticed the woman with the fountain drink walk away, and jumped a little when the cashier said, a little agitatedly, "Sir, can I help you?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry." He stepped forward and dug through his wallet until he found his debit card. "Uh, I have gas on pump 3."

"$20 right?"

"Yeah."

"Anything else for you?"

He wished she hadn't asked. His bit his lip and tapped his foot a little nervously, before reaching over to the display and grabbing the package and placing it on the table. From in front of him he grabbed a package of spearmint gum, just so he didn't feel weird buying just the razors.

"That should do it," he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. The cashier barely seemed to notice as she rang up the gum and razors and put them in a small plastic bag.

"26.09," she said in a bored voice. Kurt swiped his card, punched in his pin, accepted his purchase and receipt gratefully, and was out of the station in record time.

Heart pounding in his chest, he slid into his driver's seat, and took the package out of his bag and looked it over. He could see fifty tiny little razors lined up in perfect order through the transparent plastic. He gulped, tossed it to the passenger side, and started his car.

He had just taken impulse buying to a whole new level.

"Oh," Kurt breathed as Blaine's mouth all but ambushed his own. His boyfriend's hands wrapped around his shoulders and squeezed him tight as his tongue did things that made Kurt completely forget what they had been doing before. Had they been watching a movie? Practicing singing? Just talking? He couldn't remember, and really, he didn't care, because right now all he could focus on was that coffee-mint-mouth taste as Blaine pushed him forward gently, and pressed his body on top of his, until they were both horizontal on Kurt's bed. Blaine's arms, which were actually bare for once, as he was wearing one of the shirts he had bought at the mall, rubbed against Kurt's, and Kurt filed away the feeling of Blaine's muscular, a little hairy, but still smooth arm skin in his 'things to remember about Blaine' list.

A couple days had taken a lot longer than that, or at least that's how they had felt. Blaine had been miserable, ringing up items for customers and putting his charm at full-blast for eight hours both days, but it was nothing compared to what Kurt had gone through.

The morning after he had bought the razors (which, at that point, remained unopened in his bedside drawer, which was starting to become nothing more than a home for all his secrets), he had been woken up by a disgruntled Burt, who stood above his head saying something about Kurt's car.

"Huh?" Kurt said groggily, opening a tired eye to squint up at his father.

"Someone smashed in both of your door windows."

"What?" Kurt asked, sitting up slightly, rubbing his face, still not quite comprehending.

"The door windows on your car? Someone smashed them in. They're shattered and bent up."

Still half-asleep, Kurt allowed himself to be led by his father downstairs and outside, where his car, which he had parked on the street that night, was sitting with both side mirrors looking as though someone had come by and obliterated them with baseball bats.

"I can fix it, no problem, but I need you to tell me if you have any idea why someone would do this to your car," Burt had said, looking at his son with worry behind his gaze.

"I dunno, Dad," Kurt had responded with a yawn. "Probably just someone messing around."

"You're gonna tell me that both your room window and your car mirrors being demolished are just 'kids being kids'. Seems too coincidental to me."

"Do you want there to be someone after me, Dad?" Kurt snapped, making Burt jump. "Sorry, but I don't know who did it. I guess I'm just an unintentional, unlucky target."

Not looking convinced, but having to get to work, Burt had no choice but to believe Kurt's lie. And it was a lie. Because there was no doubt in Kurt's mind that this wasn't an accident, and when he checked the mail later that day, his suspicions were confirmed.

"LIKE OUR MODIFICATIONS ON YOUR CAR, HUMMEL? I PERSONALLY THINK IT'S AN IMPROVEMENT."

Heartbeat elevated, face flushed, and with Finn downstairs playing video games, Kurt had decidedly taken his anger out on himself. His shaking hands had torn apart the plastic casing to his new razors messily, and he grabbed hold of one and held it out to look at, like it were a beacon. The blade was so thin and sharp, and the potential damage was overwhelming.

Kurt had actually gasped the first time blade met skin, the cut being much deeper and cleaner than he had expected. But after a few small markings, he became accustomed, and was calmed down quicker than he would have had he used the knife.

Cleaning up in the bathroom later, a new bottle of Neosporin in his hand, the realization hit him hard like a coming train that, somewhere, between hate mail and phone calls, and the accident in the shower, he had become a cutter, and yes, he was a cutter. Like the so-called 'emo' kids he had been so judgmental to before, he had become someone he used to make fun of. And the part that scared him the most was that he had no intentions of stopping.

So that's why now, with Blaine resting over top of him, his lips trailing off of Kurt's mouth, and beginning to explore his jaw line and neck, did Kurt take comfort in the security and chill atmosphere Blaine brought with him whenever he was around, because Kurt didn't feel as anxious when Blaine was there to protect him, and if he didn't feel anxious, he didn't feel the need to hurt himself.

But, like anything involving panic anxiety, things could quickly go from perfectly fine, to perfectly horrible, if the right trigger was set off.

Kurt's personal trigger was pulled as Blaine's hands, which were before supporting him on either side of Kurt's body, rested steadily in the mattress, moved to the bottom rim of Kurt's shirt, and tried to push it up.

Kurt all but threw Blaine off of him, causing Blaine to sit up quickly and nearly tumble out of his straddled position over Kurt and over the side of the bed. He caught himself just in time to prevent the fall, but he looked at Kurt with a confused face as the other boy sat up in a sitting position and drew his legs to his chest, cheeks reddening, both in nervousness and embarrassment.

"Kurt?"

"I'm sorry."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, you just… you just caught me off guard."

"Caught you off… Kurt, we've done this sort of thing before. It's not like I was overstepping a huge boundary or anything."

"Boundaries can change."

Blaine looked at Kurt with a look of bewilderment, his mouth slightly gaped, until he finally sighed, got himself out of his awkward half-about-to-fall-off-the-bed position, and got into a mirroring position of Kurt on the other end of the mattress.

"Look, Kurt, I respect you, and I know you want to take this thing slow, and that's fine, really it is, but…" he shook his head a furrowed his eyebrows, and Kurt felt guilty for making his boyfriend so conflicted. "You have to give me something, here. I can't keep guessing what's okay and what's not."

Kurt felt sick to his stomach (more so than usual), because, honestly, he wanted nothing more than to be able to touch Blaine, and have him touch him back – to memorize all the new sensations and tastes and smells that went along with skin exploration. But all of the Band Aid brand bandages and scars that littered his abdomen very distinctly told Kurt that this was not an option. He drew his knees in closer, in an unnecessary act of defense, as though Blaine was going to pounce at him and rip his shirt over his head. At his nervous action, his own body responded by pouring more adrenaline into his bloodstream, and as it began to pump through his veins, he began to become very restless and uncomfortable, and he knew only one thing would solve it.

"I'm not trying to be difficult," he squeaked, his voice even higher than usual, as he focused most of his energy on keeping his breath even. "I'm really not. I'm just… Maybe you should go."

Blaine blinked a few times. "What?"

Kurt's fingers ached for the feel of the metal of his razor as his body became more and more unbearable to be in. "I can't give you any more right now."

Blaine reached out to touch Kurt's arm, but Kurt involuntarily jerked away, touch being the last thing his over-stimulated body needed right that second. "Kurt, what's wrong. You look like you think I'm about to attack you."

"Nothing's wrong. I just hate making you wait for me like this, but there's… there's nothing I can do about it."

"Hey, it's fine. I mean that. Just give me some sort of idea of what I can and can't do so you don't send me flying over the side of the bed when I accidentally cross a line." Blaine grinned reassuringly at Kurt in an action Kurt couldn't bring himself to reciprocate.

"Maybe you should go," he repeated, clamping his eyes shut tight at the thought, not really wanting Blaine to leave, but not wanting his building anxiety to stay even more.

Blaine stared into Kurt's face, waiting for Kurt to return the gaze, but when Kurt kept his eyes shut, and even tilted his head so his forehead was resting on his knees, Blaine gave up, still confused as to how things had gone from 'I'm so glad to see you' to 'please get out of my house' so quickly. "Okay," he told Kurt, as sweetly as he could. "Okay, if that's what you need right now, that's fine. I'll call you when I get home."

Kurt felt the bed shift as Blaine got off. He heard his door open and then close, and that was when he dared to lift up his head and open his eyes. He was completely alone. Distantly, he heard Blaine clamber down the stairs. He didn't even wait to hear him leave out the front door. Instead, he practically threw his bedside drawer open and rummaged around for the t-shirt rag and the razor he had been using.

He sat his utensils on top of the table, crossed his arms and grabbed the bottom edge of his shirt with both hands. He peeled his shirt up over his head, and tossed it carelessly to the floor (not even caring if the designer material got wrinkled).

He picked up the razor and fiddled with it between his fingers as he eyed his stomach for a new place to make his mark. It was remarkable how quickly his perfect, smooth skin had become a bloody warzone of scars and mending cuts of various sizes and severity. He settled on an unmarked place just above his left hipbone, and the blade was nestled nicely against the skin, when suddenly his door flew open, and he heard,

"Hey, sorry, I'm on my way out, but did I leave my phone-" the voice broke off.

Kurt looked up instinctively, and his own horrified eyes met ones of equal horror as he stared into the face of his boyfriend. Blaine's eyes broke the lock they had with Kurt's, and instead, moved down slowly until they rested on the lattice work that was Kurt's abdomen. Kurt remained absolutely still, blade still pressed in just enough to prick at the nerves and send a small jolt through his body. He was unbearably aware of the piercing eyes of his boyfriend, but he couldn't remember how to turn away. Blaine looked suddenly pale, his jaw practically unhinged, as he brought his gaze back up.

"Oh Kurt," he muttered, his voice uncharacteristically small and weak. "What in the world have you done?"