I'm the worst procrastinator ever. While I apologize for this, I don't see it changing anytime soon, for which I apologize further. Someone take tumblr down when I need to write, please and thank you. Go follow me and bug me to update things; I'm posting my url on my profile. Seriously, or I'll keep going "eh, they'll be fine." "I don't feel like writing the feels." "ooh shiny." Like I have all. Summer. Long. So yeah, blanket disclaimer: I don't own anything but this plot divergence. -Love even though I'm the worst updater, Maya

Five o' clock the following morning found Kurt blending concealer into the dark skin under his eyes, hiding the evidence of his sleepless night. Blaine had called, and Kurt ended up spilling everything but Noah's name.

"Maybe you really should transfer," Blaine had said sagely once he was done declaring war some nameless-to-him boy he didn't even know. "These so-called straight guys are getting out of hand."

"Maybe."

"I mean, are you even safe there?"

"Maybe. I think so. I don't know. It wasn't like Karofsky, it was…"

"Cough, Stockholm Syndrome, cough."

"You're not subtle or funny. And that's not even what Stockholm Syndrome is, do your research."

After Blaine declared him a lost cause and hung up, Kurt spent the rest of his night feeling at his lips until the faint swelling from Noah's kiss faded to memory. He was pretty proud of himself for only giving in to the urge to touch himself at that memory only once.

Now, even after spending an hour fussing with his face, he left far too early; although he drove as slowly as he could, he still arrived at the Puckerman house half an hour ahead of schedule. Nevertheless, Noah was sitting on the front step, raising his head at the sound of the Navigator pulling up. Kurt could see the darkness under Noah's eyes even from the car, and he felt a bit guilty for being glad that he wasn't the only one up all last night.

Noah all but leapt to his feet, but hesitated there, stuffing his hands into his pockets and drawing his shoulders up almost imperceptibly. Kurt could wait, though (it wasn't like either of them was in any rush), and his patience was rewarded when Noah made his stiff way down the walk and climbed into the passenger seat.

Kurt took the key from the ignition and sat back, trying to stare impassively at the anything but Noah and failing to not sneak sidelong peeks every three seconds. "Nice to see you," he finally said quietly. Noah didn't respond, didn't show any signs of having heard him, and Kurt soldiered on, "So, yesterday should probably be discussed but, um—you don't have to worry about anything, I'm not going to tell anyone or demand that you define yourself for anyone's benefit, let alone my own, that's between you and yourself and it's none of my business. Hell, I might not even be here much longer, so who am I to ask questions—anyway." He was rambling, he knew this, but he couldn't have stopped with a gun to his head. "I don't need anything from you when it comes to… this… and it's not like it has to change anything! We can pretend it never happened or. Or we could pretend none of this ever happened at all, and we can just go back to ignoring each other, just." He took a breath, but it wasn't half as calming as his yoga books made it seem. "Just, whatever you need, okay? I'm behind you."

Noah stayed quiet for a few more nerve-wracking seconds, until he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, "I chose a song."

Kurt blinked at him. "Okay, no matter what Mr. Schue says, not everything can be solved with music—"

"No, I mean the Discretion assignment. In all the… excitement, we forgot all about our extra-special lesson for the week or whatever. I chose a song, and I'm performing it today." He finally looked at Kurt, and Kurt had never seen his eyes so clear and open. "Don't be late."

There was nothing Kurt could do but swallow to wet his dry throat and mumble, "Okay."

Kurt was late, though, but it wasn't his fault. Karofsky had him against the lockers again in the emptying halls as everyone rushed home or to their offices or clubs. Kurt sighed, electing to play bored. "Yes, David?"

The larger boy got right in his face and snarled, "You told."

A cold bolt of fear shot through Kurt, but he thought he hid it well. "I didn't. I would never do something like that."

"You did. That song yesterday is proof."

Kurt looked away. "Only you and I know that was for you."

"Liar. You told that sparkly guy." Figures he doesn't watch American Idol—wait.

Kurt's head snapped up. "I did not!"

"And then you fairies sang that song, making fun of me." Karofsky leaned even closer, and Kurt couldn't stop the wave of nausea that rolled through him at the memory of the last time they were this close. "And then you kissed him. Just like you kissed me."

"I never kissed you," Kurt hissed. "For the last time, you kissed me. I didn't want you anywhere near me and I still don't. you need help, Karofsky, and I don't think I can give it to you. That would require contact with you, you see."

Karofsky's thin lips curled into a sneer. "Yeah, because a fag like you doesn't want all up on every dick in the building."

"You're damn right, a fag like me doesn't!" Come on, Kurt had standards, after all.

"Yeah? So you and Puckerman, nothing's going on?" Kurt held Karofsky's gaze, but he could feel the flush spreading over his face, and Karofsky smirked at the sight. "Yeah, okay. Lemme explain how this works. You stop spreading shit about me and getting your fruitiness all over me and Puckerman, and…" He trailed off as he untied the silk scarf from Kurt's neck, his callused fingers just brushing Kurt's skin and freezing his lungs. He stared, paralyzed, as Karofsky held up the scarf and, maintaining eye contact, ripped it lengthwise down the middle, slow and straight. Kurt exhaled shakily, and Karofsky finished as the ruined fabric fluttered to the dirty floor, "…and I won't destroy you."