13

Blanketed in Darkness

"Kurt?" Burt said for the third time, finally gaining his attention, not saying a word.

"Yeah?" He croaked, the first word he'd said all day.

"Buddy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he whispered.

"Kurt, it's noon. You haven't moved from that spot all day, you haven't even changed outta those clothes. Now what's going on?" He said, concerned, sitting beside him.

"I can't tell you," he said simply.

Burt sighed. "Did Blaine do something? He didn't try anything with you, did—?"

"No!" He said defensively. "He wouldn't hurt me like that."

"Then is he in some sort of legal trouble?"

"No, Dad. It's nothing like that, alright?" He said firmly. "He didn't do anything wrong, he…" He shut his eyes. "I can't tell you, yet. I haven't even talked to him about it yet."

Burt looked at his son, touching his shoulder. "So he didn't hurt you?" He shook his head. "And he didn't hurt someone else?"

"No," he said softly. "He's coming over to talk to me about it today." Burt nodded.

"Okay. You want me to leave you alone?" He said gently.

Kurt shook his head. "Can you stay?" Burt settled into his seat, wrapping his arm around his son's shoulders.

"It's alright, Kurt," he assured. "It'll be okay."

"I don't know, Dad," he breathed. "I really don't know."

Nine stitches above his eye and enough sleep to make up for all of the blood he lost. He was smart enough to ask for a plastic surgeon this time to keep it from becoming a nasty scar he'd have to live with for the rest of his life. A few months ago he wouldn't have bothered with it. He had someone to look good for now.

"Blaine—" Dr. Alberts began.

"Don't."

"Blaine, please, talk to the social worker."

"I've talked to social workers," he growled. "No one does anything. Nothing helps, so leave me alone." He stalked out, angry, hating everything about his existence.

He didn't want to talk about his abusive father and alcoholic mother. Especially not to Kurt. He didn't want to see that sweet face in pain. He didn't know how he'd react to telling him.

Kurt deserved to know anything he wanted. Why he acted the way he did, why he was so fucking angry at everything and that he didn't want to be this way anymore. Well, being an asshole was fun most of the time.

Driving to Kurt's house was agonizing. The anticipation was what was killing him the most, just getting it out and telling him. But what if he dumped him because of this? What if he decided it was too much baggage and he didn't want to deal with it? He tried to push the thoughts out of his mind, but every time he turned from them he only found exponentially more painful ones.

He hesitated walking to the door, hesitated knocking, waited through the unbearable seconds of Kurt coming to open the door. Don't leave me, he begged silently. Please. Not now. Not when I found out how much I need you.

"Who is it?" A voice through the door.

"It's me, baby," he whispered.

Kurt smiled when he opened the door, looking weary. His outfit was so simple; just a white long-sleeved shirt and loose-fitting jeans. He was still the most beautiful thing Blaine had ever seen. "Hey," he said happily. Blaine smiled back, immediately reaching for his hand, reaching for someone to keep him grounded and safe with him.

"Hey," he said. Kurt touched his face with his free hand, touching him just to touch him, and admittedly to see what kind of mood he was in.

He gasped when he felt the edge of his stitches, immediately retracting from there and cupping his cheek. "Blaine, what happened?"

"He threw a whiskey bottle at my head, a piece caught me in the eye," he mumbled. Kurt folded his lips, thumbing his skin. "Do you want to talk out here, or…?"

"No," Kurt said, snapping out of his pained daze. "No, come in."

He led him to the less-traveled front room, sitting down on the couch and refusing to let go of his hand unless he wanted to.

He'd been aware of Blaine's trembling since they'd joined hands, and it was getting worse the longer they sat there.

Blaine swallowed hard, unable to get past the stone lodged there. "Where do you want me to start?" He whispered. Kurt smiled gently, giving his hand a squeeze and kissing his cheek.

"Wherever you need to."

I came out in eighth grade. I was sick of pretending to be something I wasn't, sick of the awkward conversations with my friends about how girls turned us on, sex dreams we had about them, stuff like that.

I had sex dreams, they sure as hell weren't about girls though. No, mine were about muscles and hot skin, men's hands touching me, dicks touching mine, in my hands, in my mouth and god I wanted it so bad.

Sorry, sorry, I'm making you uncomfortable.

Point being, I had urges, but not with girls. And I just…I just couldn't take it anymore.

I got in at least twelve fights that first week. My parents found out on accident.

When I got home…my dad beat me until I couldn't move. He screamed at me, called me everything he could think of. My mother watched. She just, just sat there and watched him do it. That day was the first time he chained me to my bed. He got one out of the garage, wrapped it around my neck and locked it to the bed. I didn't go back to school for two weeks.

I spent two weeks asking permission to piss. Two weeks begging for something to eat. I-I hated it. He beat me every time he came home, dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night and screamed in my face. He threw me down on the floor once. He put his knee in the crook of my arm and kept one hand on my neck to keep me still. He took out a knife and cut fag into my arm.

He did finally let me go, but the abuse never stopped.

He beats me, mostly. I can't remember the last time he called me Blaine. He calls me faggot, queer, cocksucker. I don't know how many times he said he has a son and a faggot. Yeah, I have a brother. I fight with my whole family all the time. All. The. Time. And I'm so tired, Kurt. I'm so, so tired of fighting with him, of fighting with everyone.

School got worse. I started smoking after Christmas that year. I stole more, cussed more, got suspended more, detentions, fighting anyone that whispered and glanced in my direction.

I got jumped after a dance once. I didn't go in, I wasn't allowed at after school events or anything like that. The guy I was with, Jared, he didn't care. He just liked hanging out with me. We stayed outside, smoking, shooting the shit, nothing that interesting but he liked it. His parents didn't mind me much, either.

There were three of them. I told Jared to run, I'd take them. They caught him anyway. They effectively kicked mine and Jared's ass. They beat the living crab out of us. Never spent so much time in the hospital. They broke almost every bone in my hands, kicked the shit out of my face, broke my ribs and my collarbone. One of them stabbed me in the stomach. Dumb mother fucker missed all of my vital organs

Yeah, baby, it hurt. Hurt like you wouldn't believe.

Kurt, I've done a lot of stupid shit. I smoke pot, I used to use heroin just to make it all go away, used ecstasy to disappear into my feelings. Before I met you I was at a different party every night, drinking everything I could get a hold of, fucking whichever pretty boy was closest. I steal, I intimidate people, I hurt people and think it's funny, I smash windows, pick fights, get thrown in juvie nonstop and I hate it. I hate every second of my life that I'm not spending with you and I'm…I'm so sorry I couldn't be more for you, that I couldn't be better.

Damn it, Kurt…

I HATE MYSELF!

Kurt heard his voice break, heard the shuddering breaths and sure enough, when he touched his face his cheek was wet.

Big, tough, scary, rowdy, tongue-pierced and probably tattooed Blaine Anderson was crying.

Kurt gingerly took him into his arms, holding him. "Shh," he soothed. "Hush, hush, it's okay."

"Sorry," he gulped, trying to pull away. "I'm sorry, I—"

"It's alright," he said softly, holding him fast. "Shh…." He ran his fingers through his curls, smoothing them. They stayed there on the couch, both crying, locked together. "Blaine, please…don't hate yourself, okay?"

"Why?" He spat, self-loathing dripping from the syllable.

"Because not everyone hates you," he assured. "I don't."

"You don't?" He asked, looking up at him, right into eyes that couldn't look back.

"No," Kurt breathed. "I love you." He wasn't sure if he meant to say it or not. It was too early to say that, much too early. But it was too late, it was out now. Blaine blanched, gasping softly, blushing as well.

"You do?"

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling stupid. "I mean, I think I might— I don't know." He shut his eyes, blushing furiously. "I really care about you, and I think I love— but I shouldn't have said—"

"Kurt," Blaine whispered, stopping him. He leaned toward him, pressing a dry, gentle kiss on his lips.

"I think I might love you too, even if it's too early to say so." They kissed languidly for some time, Blaine still crying silently.

"We need to do something about him," he whispered. "There has to be someone we can talk to or…?"

"I've tried," he muttered. "I've tried getting help and it never works. No one listens. As soon as they find out I'm gay and having trouble and they stop listening, like it's my job to suffer if I'm gay. No one listened to me but you."

"Well, I have to listen, don't I?" Kurt teased, trying to make him smile. It worked. Kurt touched his face again, feeling the anguish in the lines of his face.

"Come here." He held him again. "Shh, I'm here. I've got you, it's alright. It's okay. Shh…" Blaine refused to cry anymore, refused to cause Kurt anymore pain, and if he cried Kurt would cry to. He'd made him do that enough.

"Can I stay here for a minute?" He asked.

"As long as you need me," he whispered.

Hours may have passed. Neither of them noticed or moved. Kurt held him against his chest, kissing him softly from time to time.

"You really love me?" Blaine finally said.

"I think that's what it is," he said softly. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. Nothing that's ever been this strong or…or this wonderful. So yes, Blaine, I love you."

"Guess we fell fast, didn't we?" He smiled. Kurt grinned back. This Blaine, soft, sweet, kind and gentle Blaine. That's what he wished the world would see every day. His heart, caged, stitched and battered though it may be, was warm, open and willing to love. Needing to love, or at least be loved.

Burt peered into the room, looking at his son, who looked incredibly sad, his nose pinked, eyes wet from crying. Blaine was in the same state, curled against Kurt and squeezing him tight, all anger and scowl gone from his expression. He looked like…well, like a scared little boy. He could see it wavering, though. He could literally see the wall putting itself back together.

He turned, taking another moment to watch them, knowing there had to be something he could do, but he wouldn't interfere unless Kurt asked him to.

"Hey, Blaine?" Kurt whispered.

"Yeah?"

"You want to know how I lost my sight?" He said tentatively. Blaine looked up at him, searching his expression.

"If you want to tell me," he said, not pressuring him into anything.

Kurt took a breath, squeezing his hand for reassurance. "I was eight, riding home in the car with my mom. We were just coming home from the zoo and… and then we were flying. I thought we were, anyway. The car flipped over, everything moving so slowly. Then we hit, and rolled, and rolled, and rolled. I don't know how many times before the whole thing skidded across the road and slammed into something.

"I remember how bad my head hurt, the glass all around me, blood rushing to my head because I was upside down. I was screaming. I don't know when I started, but I was then. There was glass all over the ground. And blood. So much blood. My new toy gorilla was drenched in it."

"Was it yours?" Blaine whispered, hardly audible.

"No," Kurt said, equally as quiet. "It was my mom's. I was screaming at her. 'Mommy, it's getting dark. Mommy, why won't you answer me? It's dark, Mommy! Help!' I was so confused, so afraid. And Mom…Mom… I thought she was looking at me for awhile. But she wasn't looking at anything. Mom was dead. She was dead when the drunk driver hit us. Snapped her neck. The last thing I remember seeing before everything went black was her open, dead eyes staring at me. I haven't seen anything since.

"Dad had to deal with so much at once. A dead wife and a blind little boy. When he held me for the first time I begged him to turn on the lights because I was afraid of the dark. He rocked me and told me everything was gonna be alright even though it wasn't.

"Those first few days I refused to let go of him, so scared I'd get lost if I did. He told me that this dark wouldn't hurt me, light would now. Hurt my eyes. I had to wear sunglasses outside all the time, I still do. I went to special classes where they taught me Braille, taught Dad things to put around the house so I could get around. They taught me to be independent. That's how I get to go to high school. I caught on to everything really quickly and managed to be really good at echo-location. Not a lot of people can do that." He took another breath, tears on his cheeks. "That's it, that's what happened."

They weren't sure who was holding who now. Blaine worked his arms around Kurt's neck, gently rubbing his back. "It's okay," he assured. "It's okay that you can't see. It's alright. You're beautiful, you're smart, you're funny. You're perfect, Kurt. Just like this."

Kurt laughed softly, smiling ruefully.

"How can someone be perfect when they're broken?" He gulped, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Blaine shook his head, smiling, holding his face.

"No, no, Kurt, you're not broken. You're so much better than the rest of the world. You're honest, you're true. You get to know people by what they say and do, not what they look like. You love people, not faces and that…that's what makes you perfect, what makes you better than everyone else. That's what let's you love me when everyone else turns me away and I love for that. I love you so much for taking a minute to actually look at me and not judge me by what I look like." He kissed him deeply, still holding his face. "You're not broken. You're an angel."

He held him, rocking him gently.

"Blaine, I think my dad can help you," he whispered.

"What can he do?"

"I don't know," he said truthfully, "but he has this way of being able to get things done for people he cares about."

"He doesn't care about me," he scoffed. Kurt shook his head.

"You don't know that."

Blaine looked at him, chewing his lower lip. "Okay. But…but not today. I can't today." Kurt nodded.

"That's alright," he whispered. "It's perfectly okay."

More silence where they said so much without saying a word, kissing and holding each other.

"I have to go," Blaine whispered, finally breaking the silence.

"Stay, please," Kurt begged.

"I can't," he said, squeezing him tighter, wishing he could stay right here, to drift off to sleep in Kurt's arms, so warm and soft and comfortable in a world so alien to his own. A happy one. He could pretend he was happy here. He could pretend the monster at his house didn't exist. "If I don't he'll…" Kurt shut his eyes.

"Please tell me when you get home. Let me know you're okay," he begged. Blaine nodded, kissing him again. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said, heart swollen. "I'll be here at two tomorrow, is that okay?"

"Perfect," he assured. One more kiss. He stood, squeezing his hand again.

"'Bye, Kurt."

"'Bye."

(2:34 p.m.) From: Kurt Where are you?

(2:46 p.m.) From: Kurt Did something happen?

(3:02 p.m.) From: Kurt Blaine, did you forget? Are you running late? What's going on? Please, talk to me!

(3:06 p.m.) From: Kurt Please!

(3:14 p.m.) From: Kurt God damn it, Blaine, TALK TO ME!

(3:18 p.m.) From: Kurt Did he hurt you?

(4:01 p.m.) From: Kurt I'm coming to get you. Hang on, baby, I'm coming to get you.

Move. Move. Please, something…

No. It's too hard. I can't. I can't it's too hard.

Breathing. It hurts.

Can't speak.

There's so much blood.

I'm cold.

Kurt.

I need Kurt.

Breathe. Blink. Swallow. Chain digs deeper in my throat.

Phone buzzes again.

"K-Kuh-Kur…" Chain digs deeper.

Cry. Still hurts.