22

Pit of the Soul

Kurt was crying, hard, listening to the fabric of his sweater tear, feeling the cold air claw at his skin, quickly taking him over and making him shiver. "Please…" He begged. Hands he prayed would disappear forced him to turn around, a mouth on the back of his neck and his shoulders, those hands holding his hips down and in place, never letting up or allowing him peace.

"Shh…" Karofsky hissed, scraping his nails down his back, hurting him. He sobbed into the tile, arching away from his hands. He felt the knife at his hip and…and…and his pants were mercilessly torn open, a button snapping, zipper breaking under the strain of such power.

"Please, please, no. God, don't do this. Please, please!" He whimpered. Those same hands with awful, agonizing force snaked around his stomach, touching his soft flesh before dipping lower, past the waistband of his underwear. "No, no, NO! NOHOH, PLEASE! PLEASE!" Lips tearing at his skin, cheeks raw with tears. Every tiny, minute movement resonated through him, making him tremble from head-to-toe.

"Shut the fuck up!" He spat, knife at his throat. "You shut the fuck up right now, bitch. I'll fucking kill you."

"Please, please, I want Blaine," he sobbed, knees giving out beneath him, the wall left to support him. He felt his jeans slide down to his thighs, briefs going with it. He shook his head, hard, choking a gasp when a hand closed around his throat, pinning his face where it was. "Anything but this, please, please, anything else!"

"SHUT UP!"

He squealed when he felt hot, burning flesh pressing against his own, threatening to violate him and tear him apart from the inside out. "God, please, please, DON'T!"

The door burst open. "Kurt?"

The voice of an angel to save him from hell. "Blaine!" He managed, throat sore. The hand on his hip tightened, squeezing to hard, bruising and scraping in an instant. He thought his bones would break.

"Kurt-! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! YOU GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!"

The God-awful heat at his back was gone, allowing him to hastily pull up his pants before falling to his knees, crying into his hands.

The crunches and cursing that echoed behind him were horrendous. David's grunts and Blaine's screams were too loud, hurting his ears. He covered them, crying, feeling absolutely filthy and unbearably disgusting.

"Disgusting mother fucker, HOW DARE YOU TOUCH HIM!"

The red in his vision was almost as intense as the rage boiling in his stomach. To see Kurt, his sweet, innocent Kurt nearly naked, shuddering, sobbing with this monster's hands ravaging him was enough to drive him insane.

And at the moment, he was.

He drove his boot into his gut over and over before striking his groin. "YOU SON OF A BITCH! DON'T YOU EVER, EVER FUCKING TOUCH HIM AGAIN! I SWEAR TO GOD-"

His words were drowned out by the door opening. "WHAT THE HELL IS GOIN' ON?!" Shannon roared, assessing the scene quickly and poking her head back out. "WILL, SUE, I NEED YOUR HELP!"

Blaine was violent, sure, but this level of carnage, this need for wanting to rip him to shreds was a little overwhelming. The blood dripping from his nose and his lips wasn't enough. He wanted to feel his bones crush under his hands, wanted to hear that satisfying crunch as he shattered him to pieces. Shattered him until he was worse than that awful look on Kurt's face when he'd walked in. "Disgusting, fucking, asshole!" He snarled, throwing him back to the tile to stomp his ribs.

He didn't hear Bieste come back in with Mr. Schuester in tow. He flailed and thrashed when he was taken away, needing more to force him to atone for hurting the light in his life.

Sue went to Kurt immediately, taking off her jacket and draping it around his shoulders before coaxing him out of that corner, Rachel following with the rest of the Glee club, running to Kurt's side.

Blaine barely saw them, barely heard their cries of outrage, unsure if he was screaming with his voice or his mind anymore.

HE HURT KURT, HE HURT MY ANGEL, HE HURT THE ONE GOOD THING IN MY LIFE! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LET THAT GO?!

Burt Hummel was not a particularly violent man. But the moment someone dared to harm his son all sanity was out the window. No, no he wasn't about to allow anyone to harm the most precious thing he had in this world. Anger didn't begin to cover what he was feeling. It wasn't enough; there…there weren't words to describe the feeling of knowing something terrible had happened to his child in a place he was supposed to be safe.

His son. His child. His baby.

If not for Carole being with him he'd have killed someone by now, would've screamed louder than he already had and unleashed a hell yet to be seen on this town.

He couldn't. Not for Carole, not for Finn or Blaine, and not for Kurt. He didn't need anger and loud voices around right now. He needed his dad to be gentle with him and make him feel safe again.

He was sitting on the edge of the ambulance. One of Blaine's spare band T-shirts and what looked to be Sue Sylvester's jacket had replaced his cashmere sweater from this morning, and thinking of what had happened to it made his stomach flip horribly. A shock blanket had been draped over his shoulders, his head leaning against a cuffed Blaine's chest, eyes empty. So empty and cold, seeing so many things in his darkness that they would never know of. Blaine kissed the top of his head, his own eyes closed, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to hold him close and never let go.

Carole patted his hand and went to her own child to see what had happened, leaving Burt to feel as if he were floating toward him rather than walking, the hand on his arm that had been grounding him allowing him to free-fall now. He said nothing when he reached him, finding his throat clogged with too many words and tears. He carefully reached out to smooth his hair, giving Blaine an approving nod, doing his best to ignore the boy being loaded into the ambulance behind him.

Kurt gasped softly, recognizing the touch of the presence he'd sensed moments ago, tears he'd thought had run out springing to his eyes. "Dad?" He sat up, looking toward the person, desperate. "Daddy?"

"I've gotcha," Burt managed, holding his cheek. "I'm here, buddy." Kurt immediately wrapped his arms around his father's waist, not letting go as the parent knelt in front of him and held him close, smoothing his hair. "Shh, I'm here. I'm here, it's okay."

"He touched me, he touched me, Daddy," he whimpered, hoarse. "I was so scared, I-I tried to be brave, I did, but- He had a knife, he- He said it was…it wasn't really. God, it was just a toy. But-but I thought…Daddy, help me!"

Burt let his tears fall freely, not strong enough to keep them back anymore. He rubbed slow, small circles on his back, kissing his forehead. "It's okay. I'm here. He can't hurt you anymore, he won't touch you again. I've gotcha, I'm here."

He sobbed against him, chest aching, so scared. Blaine watched, anguish in his own eyes, hands sore and bruised, the cuffs digging uncomfortably.

"Mr. Hummel?"

"I-I already answered your questions-"

"Shh, he's talking to me, buddy," Burt said softly, patting his shoulder. He slowly let him go, guiding him back to Blaine where he readily linked his wrists around his neck, clinging to him and not caring who saw or what they thought.

The criminal's arms itched to hold him, hands twisting in the metal as if sheer will would be enough to get them off. He just wanted to hold him. "Shh, it's alright. I'm here. I've got you." He leaned his cheek against his, listening to his quiet, erratic breaths, still scared to death that he would be harmed in some fashion. It was easy to feel that way when you could never hope to see what was coming.

"I wanna go home," he breathed. "I want to go home, Blaine. I want you to hold me and tell me he can't touch me again because I can't believe it right now. I can't because I can still feel him."

"Shh, hey, hey, you're going home soon," he assured, kissing his temple. "They said you don't need to go to the hospital and your dad's gonna get you out of here as soon as he can. I swear."

"I won't go without you."

"Kurt, I hit him. That's the way it works, I lash out and they-"

"He tried to rape me and you got upset," he hissed, broken. "Y-you stopped him from…If they take you away for that then…That's not fair, I can't do this without you!"

"I know, I know," he nodded, pained. "But I'm here right now, okay? I'm right here. It's alright, Kurt."

God damn it, why can't I hold him?!

The officer that had been speaking to Burt came toward him, taking a key from his belt and unlocking the handcuffs. "No charges filed, kid. Consider yourself-"

"He stopped that kid from violating my son and you want to call him lucky?" Burt intervened, rage and fire in his eyes.

"I didn't mean-"

"But that's what you said," he glowered at him, fists clenched. "Get away from my son, officer." He stepped away, mumbling something about respect for the uniform or some other garbage.

As soon as his defenses didn't have to be up anymore, Blaine took Kurt into an embrace, holding him close and tight. The blind boy hugged him back, crying again, shuddering, needing to feel him again. As soon as the police had gotten there they'd torn him away, leaving Kurt to cling to Coach Sylvester until she bullied them into allowing him to sit with him. It was still so cold in his dark, Blaine once again being the only source of light in his heart.

"I'm here. Right here, baby. Shh…Right here. Don't cry, don't cry, it's alright." He stroked his hair and his cheeks, keeping him as near as possible, even pulling him into his lap. And Kurt cried as if he'd never stop.

Burt kept a comforting hand on his shoulder, another tear finding its way to his face again, hastily wiping it away when he saw Carole coming back to him.

"What'd Finn say?" He asked softly. She sighed, looking at the wounded young man with tears in her eyes.

"Dave coerced Kurt into going in the locker room with him. He had a knife, well, a prop that was real enough and he…he tried to…" She chewed her lip, taking a deep breath before continuing. "If Blaine hadn't come in when he did, Kurt would be a lot worse than this."

He looked at his son, his broken, battered son, trembling so hard in Blaine's arms and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Can I go home now?" Kurt gulped, such begging and plea in his quivering voice. "Please."

"Yes," Blaine nodded, swallowing hard. "Right now, baby. We're going right now."

Echoes and ghosts of hands on his body only shooed away by Blaine's voice. "Blaine, sing. Can you do that for me, please?"

"Shh," he held him to his chest, smoothing his hair and kissing his temple, singing softly into his ear, trying desperately to keep his tears out of his voice. "Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel like you're less than, less than perfect. Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel like you're nothin''. You are perfect to me."