Seriously, thank you for all your reviews and story alerts! Next chapter should be up around... let's say the 18th as a tentative date. Once again, thank you!
Disclaimer: It's not true, so don't sue.
Blaine had been staring at his computer for the last fifteen minutes, a mug of chamomile grasped in his hands. He let the steam rise in milky tendrils over his face. Finally he sat down at the black dining chair, and he set the mug of tea on a circular coaster.
His fingers hesitated over the keys of his computer.
He knew that this was the tipping point. Searching someone's name on Google was really that escarpment into stalker-dom.
But he couldn't resist anymore. There was a constant nagging in the back of his mind about this girl that he couldn't stop if he tried. There was something wrong about her, and he knew that he probably had the answers at his fingertips. The Internet held all the answers in the world. He didn't have a single one.
His cheek still smoldered from that kiss.
It had burned when her lips brushed against his face. It was a sudden influx of warmth that he hadn't prepared for.
Feeling himself grow more embarrassed at the memory, especially his reaction to her boldness, he decided, in that moment, to take the initiative. He could settle that irritating feeling once and for all.
All it took was typing in her name. He'd have the answer.
Did he really want it, though?
He inhaled shakily, and tapped the keys quickly.
Kurtney Hummel.
The page loaded rapidly, and his eyes grazed the results.
There wasn't a single result having to do with his Kurtney, though.
There was a Twitter for a girl named Courtney in Indiana with the same last name, but it wasn't her.
There was a Facebook for another girl, this time actually named Kurtney. But that wasn't her, either.
Growing more and more frustrated, Blaine tried to narrow his search.
Kurtney Hummel Los Angeles.
Kurtney Hummel Italy.
Kurtney Elizabeth Hummel.
Not a single answer.
Something suddenly occurred to him as he leaned back in his rickety seat. The thought made his tongue swell and he swallowed heavily.
What had that man called Kurtney in the café?
He'd shortened her name. He'd called her Kurt.
Kurtney had never asked Blaine to call her Kurt. Besides, Kurt... that was a boy's name, right? Wasn't that short for - Curtis, or something? Why would she want to be called that? She hadn't corrected the man at all.
Fingers trembling, Blaine inputted the new name into the search field, a foreboding feeling of dread settling in his stomach.
Kurt Hummel.
Immediately the results expanded.
There was a Facebook page for a Kurt Hummel.
There was a page in Italian, listing all the interns at Miu Miu.
There was a review for Kurt Hummel's performance with a 'glee club' at William McKinley High School, dated from 2011.
Blaine's heartbeat was jumping erratically.
Kurtney wasn't her name.
He clicked on the result for Kurtney's - Kurt's - high school performance.
The picture made him blanch.
A young, pale man with the face of a doll had his arm outstretched with a tiny brunette girl beside him, his mouth open with the man in the middle of an obvious note. Blaine didn't think his gender was that contestable. But that wasn't where he found his answer.
Those eyes.
Those eyes had haunted his dreams for weeks.
Kurtney wasn't her name. She wasn't even a 'her.'
A horrified sob ripped its way from Blaine's throat, and he stood violently from his chair, unable to face what the images on his computer clearly told him.
It explained why Kurtney wore such masculine clothing. Why she had been so hesitant to come out with him. Why she didn't correct that Sam man for calling her Kurt.
Kurtney Elizabeth Hummel didn't exist, and she had never existed.
Blaine's entire body was quaking, and his legs gave out beneath him. He fell over his chair, crashing to the ground, his knee smashing onto the wood.
He didn't want to believe it. Maybe she was transgender, he tried to convince himself. Maybe she has a twin brother, and that man was teasing her.
But he was ignoring the truth that was so blatantly staring him in the face.
He felt dizzy with bewilderment, and he was sickened to know that he felt ashamed.
Was he really so pathetic that Kurt had to take pity on him and call himself a girl to not offend him? It was true that if he had known Kurt was male since the beginning, he would have avoided him like the plague. It's what he did with every man.
Did she - he - know the degree of which he admired and revered him? How Kurtney had been a ray of light in an otherwise dismal existence? The melodramatics of the situation made his stomach turn. Did Nora know?
She had to.
He suddenly felt nauseous, and vomit rose violently in the back of his throat. He dashed to the bathroom and kneeled in front of the porcelain, clutching its sides desperately.
Nora knew. She'd hired Kurt after all.
She'd been playing him for a fool for weeks.
He'd placed his trust in her. She was his doctor. Wasn't she bound to help him?
He hiccoughed through his tears, feeling more and more sorry for himself.
Then it was replaced by rage. Hot, sticky rage.
Kurt and the doctor had no right to lie to him like that. To forcibly place him in the presence of a man. Were they trying to condition him? The method was ...cruel.
He'd thought he was getting better. He was finally able to take charge in a situation.
He'd never been in charge at all.
Blaine blindly grabbed for his cell phone, sending off an email rapidly.
The coldness of the metal faucet underneath his hand grounded him a bit. He pulled the stopper to fill up the sink with near-arctic water.
When it was filled to overflowing, he let his face sink into it and let the frigidity embrace him once more.
Regressing was too nice a word for what Blaine was going through. He knew it, too.
Two weeks had passed since the Kurtney/Kurt revelation. His apartment had fallen into more of a disastrous disarray, with his bookcases having been overturned with his fits of rage that hit him without warning, and the floors covered in loose papers.
The newspaper had called him a few times, but they'd stopped once they realized they weren't going to get an answer. It was nice to know someone was thinking about him.
Blaine knew there was someone else who was thinking about him, too.
He had thrown his cell phone against the wall six days ago, the plastic of it shattering off and ricocheting off the wood. He couldn't stand its constant chirping. He knew there were over thirty unread text messages, and sixteen voice mails, all from a single source.
He hadn't smoked since high school. He used to score medicinal pot to help with his anxiety, but he somehow always hit a high where he felt more paranoid instead of mellow. But he'd hit cigarettes hard for a while.
The twisting smoke in the air reminded him of the swirls of steam from tea. He took a final pull from the cigarette and flicked the butt into the wastebasket.
He laid on his back, watching the lights of cars going by reflect on the ceiling. There was a crash of glass from outside and shouted words. He glanced over at the mirror, laying in pieces against the opposite wall.
He was calm for once.
All he wanted was to feel nothing.
He fell asleep as he saw dawn creeping onto the sky.
When he woke up, his ears felt like they had been stuffed with sticky dough. He tried to pop them with a yawn but no luck.
What had woken him up?
He glanced towards the clock. It was eight in the morning.
Too early. Too bright.
The curtains opened themselves, the light invading every inch of the room, and he threw his hand up as a shield irritatedly. He swore half-heartedly and leaned his head back to try and find that peaceful darkness.
"You can't just leave yourself to die."
That voice.
His eyelids were so heavy, but he managed to look upwards.
An angel stood there with his arms crossed, his eyes far off, looking out the window. His jaw was tight with tension. The light, though rather dim and reflecting in rays because of the smoke, bounced off his profile perfectly. If Blaine hadn't already been mute, he would have been struck speechless.
But everything seemed to be moving behind a hazy film across his eyes. He fell backwards once more, and he heard a distinct sigh that wasn't his own.
He drifted off then, only able to feel his bedcovers come up to reach his chin.
The second time he awoke was at 2 P.M.
He blinked blearily, looking about his apartment. The bookcases in the corner had been righted, and from the looks of it, the books organized. Papers were stacked somewhat haphazardly back on his desk. His black chair was up-righted.
The electric kettle was plugged in, the little red light on it indicating it was maintaining a certain temperature.
There was a distant shaking of keys, and his front door opened. He couldn't see his new visitor. He sat up, all the blood rushing to his head and he swayed slightly, even though he was sitting. He bent forward and put his head in his hands to stop the pounding.
There was clacking of boots around his kitchenette, and that unique sound of plastic bags shuffling.
Blaine only looked up weakly when the boots made their way to his bed.
"Are you awake now?"
He nodded.
"I'm not going to let you rot, Blaine. I don't know what brought you to such a state but - just let me help you."
Blaine's mind was too muddled to think of a protest, couldn't find a reason to not trust this voice. Or those eyes.
He nodded.
"Hold out your arms."
He complied, holding his arms above his head. The angel put his arm beneath Blaine's, and supported him upwards. They stumbled clumsily towards the bathroom, and Blaine sat down ungracefully on the edge of the bathtub.
"I'll be right back. Don't fall asleep," the angel warned, and he was gone.
Blaine counted the seconds mutely as he waited for the angel to return. He hadn't even reached fifteen before he was back with the black dining chair. He put it against the sink and helped Blaine up once more.
"Sit in the chair, please," he requested, and Blaine followed the order. Gentle hands made his head lean back and the sink began to rush with cold water.
Fingers caressed his scalp. He sighed lightly as his hair was sifted with delicate touches. A snap crackled through the air, and he felt the shampoo get drizzled onto his head. He let his neck relax even further and simply unwound with the feeling of the shampoo suds slipping down his forehead.
He was tilted upwards with ease, and a soft towel tousled his black hair.
He lifted his arms abidingly and he felt the cotton of his shirt graze past his nose. A damp washcloth rubbed against him, the movement soothing and welcome.
"Drink this, Blaine."
A teal mug with swirling coils of steam was pressed into his hands and he drank deeply with compliance.
Spearmint.
Blaine hadn't woken up feeling refreshed in days. But he felt renewed when he woke up that Wednesday morning. He'd slept through the entire night, but he didn't feel sickened with oversleep.
He had been cocooned in foreign blankets, their fresh detergent smell comforting.
Sitting up carefully to avoid any repeats of earlier, he saw that the apartment was nearly lacking all its earlier clutter.
Shelves were organized with alphabetical sets of books. Everything was righted.
Confusedly he stood from the bed, walking out into the main room of his apartment.
He couldn't say that he was exactly surprised to see Kurt Hummel sleeping in that black dining chair, but the sight did startle him.
There was a certain softness that he felt in his chest when he saw Kurt dozing there, obviously exhausted. He tried to recall that early acrimony, but he was emotionally debilitated. Instead he simply pulled up his only other chair (a rather pathetic footstool) and straddled it, watching the rise and fall of Kurt's breathing.
There was a fluttering of Kurt's eyelashes right before he opened his eyes. He looked dazed for a moment, glancing about, but then his eyes locked onto Blaine's. They widened.
"Blaine, are you feeling any better?" he asked softly, his voice so much more timid than how it had been earlier. It lacked that authority. Blaine nodded infinitesimally, and the relief was plainly evident on Kurt's face. "I found your address in the file, and I called your landlord to see if anything was wrong, and... I was so worried when you just up and canceled all your appointments. Especially after... after what happened. Did I -"
"You did do something wrong," Blaine said quietly. "I realized about Kurtney. You've never been a girl, and you never will be, will you?"
Kurt's eyes were still as wide as ever. The pale man nodded his head silently, and Blaine exhaled, the movement more therapeutic than he'd thought.
He couldn't bring himself to be mad anymore. He was just tired of being tired with people.
"Thank you for taking care of me," he mumbled, eyes still stuck on Kurt's. Kurt's shoulders slumped slightly, and a nervous, slight smile graced his face.
"That's not something you have to thank me for."