Notes: This has felt like a really long week, especially with the events of the last few days. I will be continuing my posting schedule as usual but please, if you're not feeling up to reading, don't, and please all look after yourselves. Rest in peace, Cory.

The locker room scene is taken basically verbatim from 'Never Been Kissed' (script credit: Brad Falchuk, I used the transcript on glee-transcripts Tumblr by Millie/yaaaycheers) because I'm actually that lazy and, well, there's no point fixing what ain't broken. (With a bit of an addition.)

Warnings for the Karofsky assault kiss and semi-graphic vomiting near the end. Also, ESPECIALLY IN LIGHT OF RECENT EVENTS, there is a lot of talk of death in this and the following chapters.

BOOK TWO
AN EMPTY LAND

chapter vii

By the time Kurt's dad came down to his bedroom to make sure he was awake, Kurt had got a hold of himself. He'd forced himself to press pause on showing his grief – he could mourn Blaine later, when he wouldn't get disturbed and then have to come up with some excuse because he'd never been able to tell anyone about the best friend he'd ever had. He took a long shower and stretched out the rest of his morning vanity routine. When he smiled and talked to his dad, he could play off his excess emotion as just nerves, and pretend there wasn't a gaping hole in his mind where Blaine ought to be.

Kurt was nothing if not a consummate performer, and hiding his true feelings was something he'd had lots of practice at.

He hardly seemed to notice anything going on around him. What little breakfast he could stomach tasted like ash. His dad and Carole's support buzzed dully in the background, and his response to his dad's "good luck, boys" was automatic and not anywhere near as emphatic as it ought to have been. Even the chaos of the green room as they were waiting for the competition to begin was an indistinct buzz in his ears, and it took Mercedes almost pushing him off his chair for him to look at her.

"You okay?" she asked with a frown. Kurt wondered what she'd say if she knew, if she'd tell him that Blaine was in a better place now. Anger flared in his chest. Blaine wasn't in any place now – the real world, wherever they were while Kurt slept, and certainly not Heaven.

"Fine," he said, trying not to grit his teeth. "I just can't believe these are our costumes." It was such a petty thing to be concerned about, even if Kurt had gone on a long rant about how awful the outfits were. That had been the other night. The last time he'd seen Blaine. "I need the bathroom," he said in a rush, pushing himself out of his seat and not stopping until he was alone.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't keep his composure, he couldn't get up on stage and sing about howbeing a loser was awesome, he couldn't pretend everything was okay when it wasn't because his best friend had just died.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Kurt looked up, and he saw a boy with blonde hair wearing a heartbreakingly familiar blazer. He was a little older but Kurt had spent hours looking at Blaine's Facebook profile picture.

"Do you know Blaine Anderson?" tumbled out of his mouth before he even realised what he was saying. The boy looked taken aback, and a little sad. Kurt wanted to be angry again – this boy was in Blaine's profile picture, they were obviously close, shouldn't he look more upset?

"Uh, yeah, he's – one of my friends. How do you know him? You're in the New Directions, aren't you?"

"We—" Kurt cleared his throat, took a deep breath, stood taller. Blaine was really real, and he was having a conversation about him. He was talking to someone who actually knew Blaine. "We knew each other. Fell out of touch. I just heard he was—" dead, dead, dead, dead.

"Oh, man, I'm so sorry. This probably won't help any but the Warblers are dedicating our performance to him today. Did you know he was in the Warblers?" Kurt nodded, his lips pressed together. "It was Wes' idea. We're gonna ask for donations for Coma Care." The guy gave a resigned shrug and a sad smile. "He figured, Blaine gets a lot of love and his parents aren't exactly strapped for cash, and there's still a chance he'll wake up even though he's on life support, but not all coma patients and families . . ."

But Kurt had stopped listening. Hope trickled from his heart, slowly bleeding through his veins and fighting off his grief like white blood cells.

"Life – life support?" he echoed.

"His body crashed yesterday. They managed to revive him but . . ."

Kurt threw his arms around the Warbler, unable to stop himself from sobbing into his blazer or whispering a string of gratitude. The hope burst into a supernova in his chest, exploding to the furthest parts of his body, even filling his toes and fingers, and blasting away the weight of his despair. Blaine was still alive – he was still alive! – and that meant Kurt would find a way to get back to him, and this time he would bring Blaine away from the dream world with him.

The bell rang, and suddenly backstage was swarming. Kurt pulled away and roughly wiped at his eyes.

"That's our cue. You should go wash your face – I'd hate to win just 'cause you looked a mess."

The guy grinned as Kurt swatted his arm.

"The Warblers don't stand a chance."

"We'll see. Anyway, I really do have to go before Wes kills me. Break a leg out there."

"You too. And – thank you."

The New Directions won Sectionals. After squeezing the life out of Mercedes, Kurt looked across the stage to the Warblers. He and the boy he was talking to earlier exchanged smiles, but before Kurt could even think about going over and asking for his name, he was whisked away to the New Directions' green room and was forced to sit through a congratulations-but-don't-get-cocky speech by Mr Schue.

"How you feeling now?" Mercedes asked once they'd got back to the bus. Kurt grinned at her – the wide, toothy grin he absolutely hated because it made him look twelve years old and was a massive crack in his armour. Mercedes' eyebrows rose at it, which wasn't a surprise because Kurt almost never smiled like this in the real world.

"Much, much better," he answered. "We won! We're going to Regionals!"

Mercedes laughed. "You got that right, baby! And then we're through to New York!"

"I wonder if we can get Mr Schue to allow us a day or two to look around after the competition," Rachel mused, popping up beside Kurt from nowhere. Kurt jumped out of reflex, and was mildly disappointed when Rachel's words registered and he felt nothing but excitement at them.

"If only," he sighed.

"At the very least, he should chaperone a visit to Broadway. How much do you think rush tickets are?"

"For a group this big? Way too much," Mercedes said. "Plus, there's no way the boys are gonna sit through a musical. Except for you, Kurt."

"Finn still thinks Funny Girl is about a comedienne who gets seduced by a war veteran," Kurt said, exchanging sympathetic grimaces with Rachel. Hers was a little sad around the edges, but she definitely didn't seem as cut up at the mention of Finn as Kurt thought she would be.

Burt and Carole were waiting with Rachel's dads and some of the other parents who'd gone to the competition in the parking lot when they got back to school. Rachel disappeared instantly and Kurt and Mercedes had to eventually be dragged apart so the Hummel-Hudson family could get to Breadstix for their celebration before the dinner rush.

"Boys, you were fantastic," Carole gushed. Kurt grinned at her and started rambling about their preparation and the performance itself, even mentioning the nameless Warbler from before the show who helped Kurt kick his nerves (at least, that was the story he told them).

"Aren't all the dudes in that school, like, gay?" Finn asked.

"I wouldn't know," Kurt answered coolly, although of course he did know that Blaine was the only gay guy in his immediate group of friends. "We only talked about the performance." He shoved some lasagne into his mouth to pre-emptively shut himself up.

The conversation turned to their competition and Regionals for the rest of the course, and while they were waiting for their desert, Burt said, "Speaking of good news, we've got some for you, too."

"Oh, god, you're pregnant," Finn said, looking horrified. Kurt almost choked on his drink.

"No, no baby," Carole said hastily. "It's unlikely we'll have another child but if we do it won't be for a while yet. Don't worry, okay, honey?"

Finn nodded, relieved, and Kurt couldn't deny that his own dread felt a bit lighter.

"So what's the good news?" Kurt asked.

"We got the house!" Burt and Carole grinned and Finn whooped. "The realtor called us this morning and said the sellers accepted our offer, so we can start movin' in on Tuesday."

The elation of Blaine being alive coasted Kurt through the weekend, and when he woke up after a dreamless sleep on Sunday he was filled with a renewed vigour to get back to Blaine. He printed off one of Blaine's old Facebook profile pictures and slipped it inside the cover of Marion Cotillard's Vogue issue, and then he spent the rest of the morning researching everything he could think of. Spending several hours reading about hokey New Age practices ended up being a colossal waste of time, but, since this was for Blaine, he could look at it as: at least he'd ruled out one possibility.

There were god knows how many other possibilities, but Kurt would worry about those later.

But it was as if Karofsky could sense Kurt's new resolve and determination, and he began tormenting Kurt at a totally new level. Kurt was barely halfway across the parking lot before he was being tripped over. He took a moment to collect himself – his anger, his frustration, his tears, he didn't even know – and when he looked up, he just met Karofsky's singular, hateful gaze without flinching. Karofsky stamped on his bag, tearing one of the strap seams in half, and then walked away.

Over the next week alone, Kurt was pushed into countless lockers, usually with a snarl or a jeer; he endured eight slushies; mutiple kicks to his legs and the back of his chair; spit balls in class like they were in middle school. It wasn't just Karofsky, though it was clear that every bully, jock or not, was taking their cue from him. Unsurprisingly, no one noticed; not Rachel, who had offered to duet with him after the competition; not Mr Schue, who had seemed to completely given up on Kurt after one failed attempt; not his dad, who had so much to worry about already, organising the move and his honeymoon; not any of his friends or clubmates or teachers who claimed to care about him.

The only person who had without fail always noticed was on life support and blocked from him. Late at night, that threatened to depress him, but he always caught himself before any tears could even well up in his eyes and used that emotion to bolster himself.

Kurt threw himself into research and helping Burt pack up their house. They went through the communal rooms together, and it was nice, even if they didn't talk much. It was nice, if painful, to stumble across an item long since forgotten and discover a memory.

"What are we gonna do with Mom's stuff?" Kurt asked once they'd made their way into the attic, where most of Elizabeth's belongings had gone after the funeral.

"Most of it's gonna be sold or pawned, I think."

Kurt stared at him. "What?"

"The house ain't that big, Kurt, and it ain't fair for me to keep a bunch of Lizzie's stuff. Carole's selling a bunch of her and Christopher's things."

Kurt clenched his jaw, hating himself for hating how much that made sense. "Fine. I get it. I get it!" he repeated at his day's raised eyebrow. "I do, Dad, I just . . . didn't think, I guess."

Burt got up off his knees, dusted his hands on his jeans, and then knelt back down next to Kurt. "Listen, we don't have to get rid of everything – anything you want to keep, if it won't fit in the new house, we'll store it and you can take it with you when you get your own place."

"Thanks, Dad."

Burt grunted in reply, and then the two men went back to work, only breaking the silence to share another uncovered memory.

It felt like merely a blink before the week was over, and yet Kurt was exhausted as if he'd barely slept for a month. He spent the weekend Googling random spirituality terms and moving between his and the Hudson's homes to make sure all packing was on course. Finn, predictably, had barely done a thing. On Sunday night, Kurt stayed up until two am brainstorming blackmail and/or bribery methods, and he entered school on Monday with the single-minded purpose to find Finn and implement them.

All his plans were derailed when, halfway through a set of doors, Karofsky pushed him, making Kurt stumble and catch the front of his shoulder on the hinge.

He walked off with a smirk. The shell around Kurt's frustration and helplessness shattered, and Kurt was running after the bully.

They ended up in the boys' locker room.

"What is your problem?" Kurt shouted, putting every ounce of feeling into his glare as possible.

"Girls' locker room is next door," Karofsky said. He didn't even look away from his locker.

"What are you so afraid of?"

"'Sides you sneaking in here to peek at my junk?"

A bitter laugh bubbled in Kurt's chest but evaporated with the heat of his anger. "Oh, yeah, every straight guy's nightmare, that all us gays are secretly out to molest or convert you. Well, guess what, ham hock? You're not my type."

That certainly got Karofsky's attention. "That so?"

"Yeah. I don't like chubby boys who sweat too much and are gonna be bald by the time they're thirty."

Karofsky slammed his locker shut and stepped right into Kurt's personal space, raising a fist theateningly. "Do not push me, Hummel."

Kurt eyed the fist – 'the Fury', what a joke. It was so close it prickled at the hair's on his cheeks. "You gonna hit me? Do it."

"Don't push me!"

Kurt only stuck his chin up higher. "Hit me, 'cause it's never gonna change who I am. You can't punch the gay out of me any more than I can punch the ignoramus out of you!"

"Get out of my face!" Karofsky screamed. The stench of burger and onions wafted over Kurt's nose and it took everything he had not to start gagging.

"You are nothing but a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are!"

Kurt would never have imagined himself ever seeking Karofsky out to confront him. It wasn't bravery that had him standing up for himself in the hallways – it was his own pride and pig-headedness, and his hands shook every single time. Of course, many a time he'd daydreamed about it, of calling Karofsky out and a teacher noticing, or saying just the right thing to get Karofsky to back off, but he'd never thought it would actually happen.

And never, in any of his fantasies or imaginary confrontations, would he have had the slightest thought that it would end this way: with Karofsky's rough hands crushing his skull; with Karofsky's lips pressing so hard that Kurt's own caught on his teeth and made him bleed; with burger-and-onion breath invading his mouth and his throat; with Karosky's eyelids the only thing in his field of vision as his first kiss with a boy was stolen by the person who made his life most miserable.

When Karofsky pulled away, there was a seemingly interminable moment where they just stared at each other in horror, until Kurt finally stuttered out, "You—"

He didn't know what he was going to say, but it snapped the bully out of his daze. Karofsky's face twisted in a snarl, his hands moved from Kurt's jaw to his neck, and the taller boy smashed him back into the locker.

"If you tell anyone about this," he whispered, "I'll kill you."

Kurt didn't move – couldn't move – and then Karofsky was gone, leaving Kurt alone in the locker room, one hand clutching his torso, the other trembling violently around his aching lips. And then without being aware of the change of location, he was suddenly retching into a toilet bowl, his throat burning as partly digested foodstuffs became bile.

It was the only time Kurt allowed himself to cry in school.

The bell rang, and Kurt realised he'd missed two whole periods. Still on shaking legs, he went to the nurse's office and claimed he had food poisoning, so his dad came to take him home.

Kurt didn't go to bed. He lay on the couch and flipped on the TV, determined to stay awake because he had no idea what he would see if he fell asleep, but going by what he saw behind his eyelids every time he even blinked, it wouldn't be good.

He wished he'd kissed Blaine all those weeks ago, before Sectionals and the castle and they knew anything was wrong. He wished he could close his eyes and greet Blaine's smiling face, lounging by the Lake somewhere only they knew. He wished he could pick up his phone and hear Blaine's voice and laugh and call him over to be held in his arms, just like he had after Burt's heart attack.

He wished everything were different, but it wasn't, so Kurt stared blankly at the television and let his dad believe that he was simply sick.