2: Deny Everything

When Finn wakes it, it takes him a split-second to remember where he is; what just happened. It's the sight of his jeans toward the side of his bed and the blood on the sheets that reminds him. His stomach lurches and his body lurches with it, even though that makes his head spin even harder. He's not fully awake, and he's got this feeling like Sam did something to him – he doesn't think that beer should have made him the way it did.

Fuck.

Finn slowly pulls himself up to sitting, resting against the headboard. It hurts. Every movement worsens the throbbing pain in his ass, and wow, that's something he never expected to think. There's still a sickening trail of blood coming out, only a trickle, but it makes him feel sick. He barely manages to hold onto his food.

This can't be happening. It isn't happening. Fuck what is logical, and what all his senses are telling him; there is no way this could have happened. Not to him. Yeah, Finn doesn't have the best luck in the world, and these things do happen, but they don't happen to him. And Sam is a good guy, you know? He's good with Kurt, puts up with all kind of shit from the football team; he was here bringing Kurt roses, for fuck's sake. The kind of guy bringing his boyfriend flowers in the middle of the night for no real reason would not be the kind of guy to...

Finn doesn't even want to finish that sentence.

He looks down to see those flowers on the bed, slightly crushed from where he slept on them. Now he thinks about it, he can't just feel where the thorns were in his back. Being careful not to prick his fingers – although he's not sure why he's bothering at this point – he lifts them up to his face, and just stares at how red they are.

Red roses. Red blood on the sheets. Red skin as Sam got more and more excited and horny; fucking him into the mattress and not caring–

No, Finn's not going to think like that. He's pretty sure denying it can't be healthy in the long run, but it's pretty much all he's got right now. Because he can't admit it. If he admits it, he'll have to deal with it, and if he has to deal with it, everyone will have to deal with it, and that's wrong. Kurt is happy with Sam; like, properly happy for the first time... pretty much ever. Finn can't take that away from him. Not when he already had Kurt waste enough time pining after him, and he fucked up dealing with that so badly. Kurt deserves a good guy, and Finn can't ruin that for him.

Besides, Finn knows this town. If he says Sam... did anything... to him; it's just gonna make everyone think they were right about the gay guys in this town all along – even those who are being swayed to the other side, or at least hiding in fear of Kurt-and-Sam's place on the social ladder – say they're freaks and perverts and predators who are going to attack and destroy all the little innocent sweet straight boys. Like Finn.

He knows what it will mean – the days of dumpster dives will be over for Kurt; he'll be lucky if he makes it a month without being put in the hospital. If not killed. Finn bets the Mr. Berrys will be ambushed, and Rachel will try not to be pissed at him for that but kind of unable to help it, and that's so unfair, because those guys are really cool and the best parents Rachel could ask for. Kurt's really cool too, and Finn is not going to be selfish enough to ruin these all those people because of his own issues.

He's pretty sure there's something off in his logic, but oh well.

Once he's thought all this over, he looks at the sheets again and realizes he has to clean up before anyone gets back – because he can't let anyone find out. It takes him a few seconds to move his hands, grab his jeans off the floor and pulls them on (for some reason, Sam didn't bother taking Finn's shirt off). He wonders vaguely if, how he's still bleeding out of his ass, that might show – huh, maybe that's why girls are always so antsy during their period. They're worried about bleeding all over their clothes.

Finn thinks about it, realizing he's not bleeding much and the jeans are dark anyway. Oh well, thank god for small mercies.

He manages to stand up – although it still hurts like hell and his knees are shaking – and strips the sheets off the bed, because dude, blood. A little suspicious. Plus Finn really doesn't want to have to deal with seeing his sheets like that any more.

He just stares at them for a few seconds, wondering what he's meant to do. He can't just put them in the was like usual; his mom would find them, and blood... she'd see something's up. Which is against the whole point. She can't let anyone know something's up, because if it does, it all comes crashing down. Everything, for everyone, and he doesn't want to have that on his conscience.

If he's being brutally honest, he doesn't want to deal with it; the aftermath and the sympathy and people trying to understand and help and shit. He can't do that. He just wants to forget the whole thing, move on and let Sam be Kurt's Boyfriend, nothing more important in his life.

He wants to forget. He just wants to forget.

Sink, Finn manages to think after a few seconds. He drags the soiled sheets to the laundry room where the massive sink is, and fills it with cold water – he thinks he red somewhere that's better for blood stains than hot. He plunges the sheets in with the tap still running, wringing the blood out again and again, even if the cold is making him shiver – like, more than he already was. He's glad the blood is still more-or-less wet, so it's not that hard to get it out. At least, he doesn't have to like, soak them, which would be against the whole point.

There's something sickeningly normal about the way he's thinking about what he's doing. He's cleaning up. That simple.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eventually the sheets are more or less clean, and he pulls them out, dumping them in the hamper – hopefully his mom won't bother to ask why they're already wet. He doesn't think she will. He tries to remember what he was doing before Sam showed up; he was watching TV, wasn't he? He should go do that. Act like it didn't happen.

It didn't happen.

He's mindlessly watching the screen, trying his best not to think, when Kurt comes in. "Hi Finn," he says.

Finn blinks a few times. "Hey. It's like, almost midnight dude."

Kurt shrugs. "We got distracted. While our parents being out at this late hour would not imply anything good, tell me they are, so I won't get in trouble – I know the way dad gets when I stay out late."

"You're golden; they're not back yet."

Kurt nods. "Okay. Did anything interesting happen when I was out?"

Finn's heart pretty much explodes in its panic. "Wh-what?" he stutters out, pulling on his clothes. Oh god, please don't let him think...

Kurt shrugs. "It's not a big deal. It's just, Sam was acting like he might... Anyway."

Finn's stomach clenches again at the sound of that name. "I haven't seen Sam," he lies, and Kurt doesn't seem to doubt him for a second.

"Okay," says Kurt, and then he gives a loud yawn. "I think I'll go do my moisturizing routine and go to bed. Say hi to our parents when they finally show up, okay?"

Finn nods as Kurt walks off in blissful ignorance, and he stays glued to the TV. Eventually their parents do show up, and Finn takes that as a signal that it's safe to go sleep now. Somewhere at the back of his head is the idea that this still might all be some horrible nightmare, and if he goes to sleep, when he wakes up he'll be back in the real world and everything will be just fine.

When he walks into his room that idea pretty much dies. Oh god, it still smells like him, it – all blood and jizz and oh god, oh god. Finn doubles over, coughing and gagging and doing his best not to spew. He forces himself to sit down on his bed – that same bed, where Sam pushed his helpless body down and pulled off his clothes, rammed his way inside while Finn just lay there, head spinning and body out of control, not even able to beg him to stop – and digs his fingers in hard to the replacement sheets. He wants to cry, but he forces himself not to, just because if he does he's not sure he'll be able to stop. Sam...

He can't say it. He has to say it.

"He raped me."

The sentence bounces off the walls and around Finn's head. His face is scrunched up tight, like this is one of those math problems he can't understand – it feels similar. The word feels too massive and important, and too small and empty, all at the same time – that doesn't make sense, does it?

Finn buries his head in his hands, trying his best not to let through a choked sob – he fails pretty epically. Then another. And another. Before long he's weeping uncontrollably into his hands, leaning down and burying his head in the pillow so no-one will hear. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees those red roses, flattened in the corner.