As per usual, this is longer than I expected so I had to cut it in half - this is the 1st half of what I've written, and I've nearly finished the second half. It's probably better that I finished where I have for the moment anyway because this chapter it pretty angsty, and I didn't want it to become too emotionally draining. Hopefully you like this anyway. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed or favourited this story so far.
History: the greatest lesson ever if you had a late night and wanted to catch up on some much needed sleep. After all, what could you possibly miss that you couldn't just read up on later? History certainly wasn't going anywhere; it had already happened. It certainly did not help that their teacher, Mr Jacobs was as dull as ditch water, and maintained a monotonous speaking voice which could lull even the greatest of insomniacs to sleep. Who needed sound recordings of gentle waves or dolphins? Mr Jacobs also had a habit of getting them to just bullet point facts out of a textbook, or paraphrase extracts into a few sentences which would later be used as 'revision' for the exam later in the year. It was not exactly the most enthralling lesson plan, and most days, Kurt kept half a mind on the subject and the other half on doodling potential fashion designs in his leather-bound notebook, a habit which he just had not been able to give up over the years.
That was on an ordinary day. Today, it was much worse. Apparently Mr Jacobs had contracted the dreaded influenza virus spreading round school, and had forcibly been confined to his home by Principal Figgins. Normally, this could be considered a relatively interesting prospect – the cover teacher might actually get round to teaching them something. Yet this particular supply teacher was just plain… bizarre. Miss Holly Holliday, a bright woman, probably between her thirties and forties, with keen, shiny eyes, long blonde hair and a jokey, yet often a discomfort-inducing sense of humour was currently dressed in period clothing and declaiming the weirdest stuff about cucumbers and STDs. Wait… what? Kurt, who had zoned out for a good few minutes, suddenly became extremely aware of the reactions of the class around him, particularly Finn and Mercedes who were now apparently anxious about catching STDs from eating cucumber. Kurt rolled his eyes slightly; he loved his friend Mercedes dearly, and he even loved Finn in a brotherly way, but the idea that you could catch an STD from a piece of salad was ridiculous. He could only hope that the lesson ended soon; catching Mercedes eye and smiling slightly, Kurt returned to his doodling.
A few minutes later, he looked up curiously when Miss Holliday's impersonations of various historical figures halted and silence came over the room. Miss Pillsbury, the school guidance counsellor hovered there nervously. In fact, at closer observation, she looked even more nervous than usual. Miss Pillsbury, though she was supposedly a guidance counsellor, was a quiet, soft-spoken woman, with the widest doe-like eyes anyone could ever imagine, and due to her obsessive compulsive disorder, which she made no attempt to hide, she constantly looked scared or nervous at the world around her. Kurt's eyebrows formed a small frown as he contemplated why she could possibly look even more anxious, and so was quite nervous himself when Miss Pillsbury's eyes fell on him.
"Excuse me," she directed politely at Miss Holliday, her wide eyes still resting on him. "Could I please borrow Kurt?"
Kurt blanched as he felt all of his classmates' eyes fall on him, some students turning in their seats to stare at him intriguingly. He decided to stare back at some of them to show he act as though he wasn't fazed by this sudden surprise, however internally, Kurt was just as intrigued, if not at little scared. Miss Pillsbury still had that frightened look in her eyes which she did not like, and his mind was working furiously, mulling over why he could possibly be being fetched out of class by Emma Pillsbury. Miss Holliday however did not seem in the least deterred from the fact that her lesson had been interrupted and continued with her usual cheery, snarky humour:
"Sure, would you like him gift wrapped?"
The guidance counsellor finally looked away from Kurt and frowned slightly at Miss Holliday, as the class let out a few titters of amusement. Kurt took that moment to ignore the supply teacher, glance once at a curious-looking Mercedes and gather his books back into his shoulder bag.
"Look, I'm just kidding Ella-" Miss Holliday continued cheerfully.
"Actually, it's Emma." Miss Pillsbury corrected her, a small blush rising in her cheeks as more titters erupted from the class.
"Okay," Miss Holliday replied, taking everything in her stride and Kurt found her a little too happy for the seemingly serious situation. "Off you go Kurt," she said, although he had already risen from his seat and was halfway to the door. "And next time, don't be afraid of participating in the discussion."
Kurt just smiled blandly and exited the room thankfully with Miss Pillsbury. The wide-eyed woman flashed him a smile as they began to walk along the corridor, but it was clear that she was forcing it.
"What's going on?" Kurt asked quickly, deciding that he would have to ask, because she was clearly not about to explain anything soon.
Emma looked at him nervously for a moment before replying, "Your father's been trying to contact you-"
"My phone's been off all morning," Kurt explained, frowning and wondering why his dad needed to speak to him this urgently. What was going on? Had something awful happened? "My teachers get really ratty if it goes off in the middle of a lesson."
Miss Pillsbury gave him a kind smile, "Your dad's ringing from the hospital – he's on the phone in Principal Figgin's office right now-"
"What?" Kurt panicked, his voice rising dramatically in pitch, as his heart plummeted to the ground. He felt himself begin to automatically shake, and it was only a small part of his brain forcing him to walk onwards down the corridor and not let his knees buckle. "The hospital? Why is he ringing from the hospital? What's happened? Is he okay?"
Emma raised her hands to silence him, although she still looked troubled. "Kurt, I promise that your father is fine-"
"Is it Carole?" he demanded, and then frowned. No wait… if it was Carole, then Finn would surely be here too. "What's going on?" he finally asked desperately, panic overwhelming him now; his heart beating so rapidly he was sure it was about to leap out of his chest and start performing Riverdance in the school hallway. He was just very thankful for the fact that they were now a mere few metres away from Principal Figgins' office.
"I'm sure your father will explain everything in a minute." Emma reassured him gently, and he almost would have been comforted by her soft tone, had it not been for the fact that she still looked anxious. She stopped suddenly and nodded pointedly at something. Kurt followed her gaze and realised that they had arrived at the Principal's office, and from what he could see through the glass panes, the man himself had vacated his office in order to give Kurt some space. The phone had been placed face down on the desk, waiting patiently for him to answer, yet now he was here, Kurt almost did not want to know why his dad was at the hospital. What if it was really bad news? Emma had pretty much ruled out that his dad had been hurt, and Kurt was convinced that Carole was not the subject of the phone call because otherwise, Finn would be here alongside him. Kurt racked his brain, trying to think of any immediate family he might have that could potentially be ailing. Perhaps his grandfather – his dad's father, not his mother's – Elizabeth Hummel's parents both died when she was in her mid-twenties in a particularly vicious car accident. But Kurt had not seen his dad's father – his only remaining grandparent – in over a year. He had disconnected himself from Burt and Kurt out of disgust when Kurt finally revealed that he was gay. Burt, who had never been very close to his father anyway, stated passionately to an at-the-time, very tearful Kurt that it was no great loss – he would rather have his son any day. Yet Kurt knew with certainty that his dad was a good, good man, and if his estranged father was dying or hurting in any way, he would at once rally around his bedside and do his best to help, despite their differences.
Kurt suddenly realised that his mind was subconsciously delaying the moment in which he would have to pick up the phone and discover the truth behind the phone call, even though he had more or less assured himself that it was probably to do with his grandfather. He was, after all, with the exception of Burt, the only blood relation he had left. He glanced warily at Miss Pillsbury who flashed him a gentle smile:
"I'll be right out here if you need anything." She informed him softly.
Kurt tried to flash her a grateful smile in return, but he was too worked up over the phone call to put any real effort in, even though he was truly grateful for the woman's support. There were not many people who supported him at McKinley High, and there were even fewer who accepted him for who he was – Emma Pillsbury was one of a mere handful. Slowly, he made his way into the empty office and closed the door behind him, wanting to maintain some degree of privacy. Finally, he walked swiftly over to the awaiting phone and put it to his ear.
"Dad?"
"Kurt." Sounded his dad's voice; he sounded tight, nervous and quite breathless. This could not be good news. "There you are – I've been trying to reach you on your phone but-"
"The teachers insist that we turn them off whilst we're in lessons." Kurt explained quickly before demanding urgently. "What's going on, dad? Miss Pillsbury said you were at the hospital. Are you and Carole okay? Is it grandpa – is he sick?"
He reeled off all of these questions in record timing, all in one breath and Kurt was quite impressed that Burt not only managed to remember all of them, but provide swift answers as well. "Bud, I'm fine," he promised quickly. "And so is Carole, and as far as I know – well, I haven't heard anything anyway – grandpa is fine as well."
"Then why are you at the hospital?" Kurt asked desperately, now more than a little confused.
Burt's breath audibly hitched and there followed a long pause, as if he was trying to figure out what to say next. After what felt like an hour to Kurt, but in reality could only have been less than a minute, Burt said slowly, "Something happened this morning… while Carole was on her way to work, she saw… she…" he broke off, apparently struggling to voice what had happened.
"Dad, you're really scaring me now." Kurt said softly, his eyes wide with panic. Burt's sudden inability to speak his mind did nothing for Kurt's already hammering heart. "Please, just tell me what's going on."
He heard Burt sigh, take a deep breath and whisper hoarsely, "We've found Blaine."
Kurt felt the bottom instantly drop from his stomach, and as he sensed his knees beginning to buckle, he gripped onto the desk for support, lowering himself into Principal Figgins' chair. The world was swimming before him – this had to be a dream. It was a sentence he had only dreamt of hearing his dad say for six years, and now that the words had been uttered, he could not bring himself to believe they were really true. Blaine. His Blaine. The boy he thought about every day; his one true constant when facing up to another day at school where the terrifying Karofsky would loom over him and make each day a misery. The boy who had been forcibly dragged from his life and had seemingly disappeared from existence; his best friend… had finally been found? No… this must be a mistake… there must be a catch somewhere. Life was never this good to him.
The image of he and Blaine sitting together closely on the tyre swing in the photograph in his locker swam instantly to the forefront of his mind. Gorgeous amber, almost hazel eyes, sleekly gelled-back curly hair, a cheeky, infectious grin, boundless energy – all memorable features of Blaine Anderson, the wonder boy who had loved and cared about him; been his friend even at personal cost to him. And then there were the images of a different Blaine; the one that only he ever saw. The one who would finally let the tears fall when they were alone, because his dad had hit him, or yelled at him, or when Jonathan had really been off his head with drugs and booze, he had thrown heavy objects at him, and burned Blaine's skin with the stubs of cigarettes. But the last time Kurt had seen Blaine was the worst time of all, because he saw the damage first hand, straight after the blows had occurred, and his best friend had been at his most vulnerable. Kurt squeezed his eyes shut as he desperately tried to shut out memories of Blaine's bleeding face, and of Jonathan dragging Blaine from the house by his hair.
"Kurt?" Burt was saying softly, and Kurt quickly zoned back into the conversation, realising how concerned his dad was sounding. He must have been silent for a good minute. "Are you there, bud? Can you hear me?"
It took a couple of tries for Kurt to find his voice again, "Yeah… yeah, I'm here, dad. I can hear you." Suddenly, his mind further processed the words Burt had spoken and connected them with the fact that Burt was at the hospital. Oh God… please no. "Wait… dad… what do you mean 'you've found Blaine'?" he demanded, panicked.
Kurt became aware of shaky breathing on the other end of the phone, and he was instantly terrified. "Kiddo…" Burt began hoarsely, before yet another lengthy hesitation. "When… when Carole was driving to work this morning… she saw… there was… there was a person… injured… lying just inside Queen's Park… a boy…"
Kurt instantly felt tears begin to leak down his cheeks; his body automatically accompanying them with wracking shakes. It took him a moment to realise he was crying… sobbing. "Oh God, dad," he cried desperately. "Please… please no."
"Oh, bud." Burt whispered miserably, his voice breaking with the strain of having to recount what had happened on top of hearing his son cry.
"What's happened to him, dad?" Kurt asked, quickly becoming hysterical, furiously swiping at the tears coursing down his cheeks. It was strange how swiftly a person could become hysterical, although admittedly, Blaine was the topic of conversation. Sweet, kind, warm-hearted Blaine had been hurt, and that was truly something to get upset over. "Was it Jonathan? How bad is it?" Terrible possibilities assailed Kurt's mind all at once. "Please… please… he's not… he's not dea-"
"No!" Burt informed him sharply at this final question. "Oh no… no, I promise you he's not dead, Kurt. I'm right here with him. He's not dead, thank heavens…"
Kurt sniffed, breathing a slight sigh of relief before adding sadly, "There's a 'but', isn't there?"
Burt took another audible deep breath, "Kurt, I really need you to try and be brave, okay buddy? For me, for yourself and especially for Blaine."
Kurt let out another loud sob and hiccupped because Burt's word had just confirmed that something awful had happened. It took a couple of minutes for him to process and obey his dad's plea, sucking in long, soothing, and glorious breaths of air to calm himself down. "O…okay." He eventually nodded, although his chin was still trembling as a result of keeping his tears behind fragile barriers.
Burt, who had been waiting patiently for his son to calm down, continued in a hoarse voice that didn't sound much more controlled than Kurt's, "It… it looks like Blaine has been… living on the streets for… a while… months, maybe… he had nothing on him except… well… the clothes he was wearing-"
Kurt let out another horrified, spasmodic sob, but covered it well with his hand, blocking the sound from travelling through the receiver. Blaine had been living on the streets? Why? What had that monster, Jonathan, done?
"He… He's malnourished… and underweight so… so he can't have been eating much… if at all-"
Kurt squeezed his eyes shut and continued to sob occasionally into his hand, where Burt would not hear it. Suddenly, Burt paused again, and Kurt just knew that the worst was yet to come.
"D…Dad?" he stuttered desperately, clinging to the desk in front of him for dear life.
He heard Burt release something halfway between strangled sob and a sigh before he continued, "This morning, Blaine was… attacked… probably in Queen's Park." This time, Kurt could not smother the sob that escaped his lips. Not Blaine. It couldn't be Blaine who had been attacked. Burt paused, clearly pained from hearing his son's reaction, but he had to give him the rest of the news. "The kid was… was probably too exhausted to even put up much of a fight. He… he was… assaulted… sexually… he was… raped."
Kurt's heart stopped; the tears carried on in full flow, but his entire body felt numb. He lost all feeling in his fingers and the phone slipped easily from his sweaty hand, dropping loudly onto the desk, but Kurt didn't wince. In fact, he sat stock still for a moment, knowing that if he moved then he would throw up into the nearest trashcan or faint onto the floor, and Principal Figgins probably would not appreciate either of those actions. He tried to comprehend his dad's words, but they just kept getting all muddled in his suddenly fuzzy mind. The world was swimming before him again and all he could think of was the bright, dapper, confident young boy in the photo; the one with the dazzling hazel eyes and the cheeky, yet charming smile. That image did not fit with the one Burt had just painted, and he certainly could not think of Blaine… hurt in such a way. Rape. His precious Blaine had been forced to undergo… rape. It had to be the wrong boy. It just… had to be. Truthfully, Kurt did not know a lot about sex – he refused to. Each time his dad would broach the subject of 'the talk', he would clamp his hands over his ears and loudly sing something… anything. He just wasn't ready to know everything yet. But he knew that to have someone do something so intimate with you… with your body, against your will, must be absolutely soul-destroying and terrifying and… painful. Oh God… Kurt could not even stand to think of Blaine in so much agony. What if Blaine had had his first time stolen from him? Oh please no…
He tried to take long, soothing breaths to calm himself, but each time he re-envisioned Blaine in such a state as his dad had described, he fell apart again, sobbing into his hands, shaking like a leaf. Even though he had dropped the phone, Kurt could still hear his dad trying to desperately reclaim his attention. He attempted to be brave, just as Burt had asked him, but pieces of information, memories and questions were whizzing at light speed around his head like there was no tomorrow. Why had Blaine been out on the streets in the first place? Where had he been all these years? Why had he only just returned to Lima? How would he look when Kurt eventually joined his dad at the hospital? What monster had done this to him? Had he changed? Was he a different person? Would he remember Kurt after all these years? Would Blaine even want to see him? Blaine's life had clearly changed for the worse, and Kurt hated to think how the younger boy would react to something like this. He would be… 15 years-old – sixteen in a few months time, Kurt calculated, not even thinking twice about the fact that he still remembered Blaine's birthday after six years of being apart. Kurt was seventeen and wouldn't even begin to be able to cope after experiencing such a thing. His small town problems of David Karofsky and the rest of his high school bullies seemed so… childish and distant now.
After a good few minutes, Kurt eased his tears and shaking enough to be able to grip the phone back in his hand and place it back next to his ear, listening to his dad repeatedly asking, "Kurt?"
"I'm here, dad." He sniffed in a small, croaky voice, and he heard his dad sigh in relief.
"I know it's… it's awful and… difficult to come to terms with, bud," Burt sympathized gently, sounding more upset than ever. "But… but we've got to think about how… devastated he's going to be when he comes round."
"He's not awake?" Kurt asked, his heart continuing to shatter into millions of pieces.
"No… he was… in pretty bad shape, according to Carole," Burt admitted slowly, as if ever word was causing him pain. "She found him, brought him in and then called me. The doctors have sedated him for the moment."
"I want to see him, dad." Kurt declared decisively, trying to make his voice stronger, even though he still felt like running into the toilets and crying some more. "I… need to see him. Do…" he said, voicing his fears. "Do you think he'd even want to see me… after… everything he's been through and… after such a long time?"
There was a paused, "He asked for you, bud… before he passed out." Burt answered softly, but the words still impacted Kurt hard. "Carole said he kept asking for you. You… and me." Kurt swallowed, and he could not help but allow his heart to swell a little. Blaine had asked specifically for him, even after all this time. Had Kurt meant as much to him as he had to Kurt after all?
"Dad, I need to see him." he repeated firmly, his voice slowly growing in strength, and he was thankful that he had finally stopped shaking.
"I know," Burt agreed, and were it not for the seriousness of the situation, Kurt could have sworn he could hear a slight smile in his dad's tone. "Carole's tried contacting Finn to drive you over here, but I don't think he's answering either."
"He was in my class just now – I'll go and get him." Kurt informed his father, rounding the conversation to an end, but before he could bid Burt farewell, the man said softly, and gravely:
"I just… need you to be aware, buddy… Blaine really isn't… isn't in a good way. He's badly beaten and he'll probably act… differently when he wakes up. It might just… shock you… and upset you and I need you to be prepared."
Kurt swiped furiously at his tears again, and straightened, determined to keep strong now... his oldest friend needed him. He would be there for Blaine now just as the other boy had been there for him countless times before. "O…Okay, dad." He replied quietly. "I'll see you soon."
"Love you, bud." Burt murmured quietly.
"Love you too, dad." Kurt sniffed, somehow finding unbelievable comfort in just those three words from his dad.
"See you soon." Burt responded softly, affection in his voice. "Chin up, okay?"
"Are you going to take your own advice?" Kurt countered in a lacklustre attempt at trying to add some normality to a devastating situation.
"We'll see." Burt answered quietly, and together father and son placed the receiver down at their respective ends of the phone.
Kurt sniffed once more and scrubbed at his face, even though it was fruitless to cover up that he had been crying. He always had bright red puffy eyes when he had been sobbing for any length of time, and regardless of how much he would now try to hide it when he stepped out into the school corridor to meet an waiting Miss Pillsbury to fetch Finn from class, the crying would be obvious. In the last three quarters of an hour he had taken in more information than his mind could take, but there was one thought – one person that kept him going; the same person who always kept him going through thick and thin. Blaine. Although in such horrible circumstances, he was going to see Blaine Anderson for the first time in six long years.
Blaine felt consciousness pulling at him from every direction and he fought with all his might to return to blissful sleep. He felt warm and cosy enveloped in darkness and wrapped snugly in what felt like a cotton blanket. Despite his disorientation and desire to slip back into dreamless unconsciousness, he found himself automatically questioning the term 'cotton blanket'. He did not remember owning a cotton blanket; he was sure he owned an ordinary duvet. As his ears became more attuned to the sounds around him, he almost recoiled as a constant, steady rhythm of deafening bleeps disrupted his silent bliss. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the sound to go away, whatever it was. Yet, no matter how much he wished it to stop, the bleeping kept ringing on and on, until it made his head hurt. Now that he came to think about it, he realised that his head did genuinely ache, and the sharp noises only aggravated it more. Please, he thought desperately, he just wanted the deafening noise to stop. He was so tired and he just wanted to sleep. Sleep had been good. Sleep had been painless.
Growing increasingly frustrated at the bleeping noises now, he tried to cover his ears with his hands to block out the incessant sound. A sudden, sharp, searing pain travelled through his right hand as he attempted to move it, and he automatically let out a loud whimper in reaction. Why did it hurt like that? Again, he tried to angle his arm towards his right ear, and the already searing pain grew worse, as if someone was stabbing his hand repeatedly with a very large needle. Blaine tried very hard not to panic, and decided to move his left arm instead… except he couldn't. He felt hot tears force themselves up into his still closed eyes, and the familiar knot in his stomach and chest that told him that he actually was panicking. Why? Why could he not move his left arm? He attempted the task again, but his arm just felt like a dead weight; as if it was too heavy for his body – almost as if someone had forcibly pinned it to his side so he couldn't move it.
Blaine's chin began to tremble as he grew increasingly confused in his still groggy, disorientated state. He could not move his left arm, his right hand descended into agony each time he tried to move it, and his head was throbbing so painfully it felt like someone was smashing his skull into a solid wall. What was happening? What was wrong with him? Blaine instead concentrated on attempting to move his lower body. This time, he released a scream of distress as his ankles, thighs and backside burned with agony; his skin felt raw and scalded as if it was on fire. He silently began to cry, utterly terrified as he questioned his pain-ridden state. Why did everything hurt so badly? Why couldn't he move his left arm? Why did he suddenly feel so unbearably hot? Why wouldn't that bleeping noise just stop? Why did his backside and between his legs hurt so much? Why did he feel raw pain running throughout every inch of himself?
Blaine was now about as far away from sleep as anyone could possibly get. Utterly petrified, he decided it might be time to open his eyes because that might help him assess what was going on. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased his eyes open, closing them almost immediately when flashes of unbearably bright light assaulted his vision. Gritting his teeth to try to stop himself from crying, he tried once again. It was not so bad this time, and he managed to keep his eyes open against the shockingly bright light, even if they were reduced to mere slits.
The first thing he saw was a plain white ceiling, and a plain white wall directly above and in front of him. Blaine frowned, despite the tears now running freely from his eyes down his cheeks – he did not remember ever living anywhere with a white wall. Now he was growing frustrated at the fact that he couldn't seem to stop crying, and it pained him that he was unable to just reach his hands up to stop the tears. So instead he focused on the information in front of him. White… white ceiling… white wall. Everything was too bright and white – wait… was… was he dead? Had he died? Was this place heaven… or hell… or even purgatory? The bleeping sent a splintering paint through his aching head once more, thus prompting him to turn and search for the source of the sound. Every inch Blaine moved his head, the pain evolved along with it, stemming from his head and flaring up through his entire body until the burning sensation arose in his lower body again. He yelped amongst his silent sobs until he caught sight of the object from which the sound was emitting. It was a machine, and he had certainly seen it before. Blaine tried to desperately recall where he had seen that machine; it made a frustratingly loud guzzling noise, accompanied by beeps at a steady rhythm every few seconds or so, and hooked in place next to it was a transparent packet of liquid. His eyes followed the line of tubing connected to the liquid bag until he saw it disappear into his right hand. Suddenly, it made sense why it hurt to move his right hand. There was a needle clearly pinning the tubing into his right hand, so that each time he tried to move it, the needle pierced his skin.
Blaine screwed his eyes tight shut once more as he attempted to concentrate, despite his distress. He had seen this before; he had seen the machines, and he vaguely recalled plain white walls as well. Plus, memories of those incessant bleeping and guzzling sounds were beginning to assail his mind, and he desperately tried to remember where he knew them from. Blaine tried to suck in a deep, soothing breath through his nose, in an attempt to calm himself, only to find he was inhibited in this as well. It was only now that he felt something akin to plastic blocking the passage into each of his nostrils. On the one hand, this seemed to be feeding him air when he was not conscious of its presence, but on the other, when he concentrating on actually taking a breath manually, he began coughing and spluttering. As he wheezed against the force of the coughs, Blaine felt yet more spasms of pain erupting down his body, and he could not help but cry a little louder. He just wanted it all to stop.
Yet even with the plastic threading into his nostrils, he was able to make out quite a distinct smell. He knew that smell as well – it was… like a cleaning agent of some kind… chlorine maybe… antiseptic? It was certainly clinical – like the stuff they used his hospitals. Blaine's eyes flew open, and suddenly everything clicked. Everything began to terrifyingly fall into place. Hospital! The last time he had heard those incessant noises, and viewed a bag of saline hooked up to that guzzling machine, was when he had been beaten and rushed to hospital after the school dance last year. It took Blaine another few seconds to consider why he was actually in the hospital again, but when it all came flooding back, he wished with all his heart that he hadn't had such an inquisitive mind; that he had just returned to sleep. Flashbacks of what his father had done that awful night passed through his mind. He recalled the terror, the rage and the anguish that had been coursing through him as he ran from his father, and from the house that had been his prison for almost six years. Blaine's stomach churned as he remembered the cold feel of sleeping on the stone slabs of sidewalks, and the desperate hunger and thirst. His feet ached as they regained the feeling of stumbling all those miles with only one goal – to reach Lima. And then he remembered that he had done it. He had reached Lima, Ohio… at a terrible price.
Images of the balaclava-clad man shot to the forefront of his mind and continued to haunt it. Blaine could still hear the cruel, spitting jibes, grunts and laughter; feel the blood, sweat, and indescribable agony as his attacker plunged himself roughly, again and again, inside him, to the hilt, until he broke completely. He remembered the blinding, burning pain, as if he was entirely on fire; as if he was being ripped apart, and no one cared. Blaine became inconsolable now – not that it mattered, because no one was there to console him anyway… no one was ever there. He threw his head back and with the little energy he had left to give, released a raw, almost animalistic scream of pain and devastation. That had been it. That had been his first time… and it had hurt. He had lost his virginity to… that… that rapist. Oh God… he had been raped.
The images and recollections of the event became even clearer in his mind; every little detail was being thrust to the forefront of his memory, and he just wanted it to stop. He wanted it all to stop. He wailed, and cried and screamed, ripping his right hand up to clamp over his ear, not caring that it caused stabs of pain, because jabs from a needle didn't even compare to the feel of his rapist inside him. He gritted his teeth, slammed his eyes shut and with all the mental power he had, tried to get the flashbacks to go away.
Burt ended the call to Kurt, aggrieved at hearing his son sob his heart out over the fact that his once best friend was in the hospital under the most awful of potential circumstances. Kurt had said that he was going to find Finn that minute at get him to drive him to the hospital, and if Burt knew his son, that would occur as soon as possible. He had tried his best to warn Kurt of Blaine's state, but he was still afraid that when the two boys finally came face to face, one or even both of them would break down. Of course, he had not seen Blaine properly for six years – the boy could have changed drastically for all he knew, but somehow he rather doubted his reactions to Kurt would change. For two friends to have their minds and hearts so completely tuned to one another as Kurt and Blaine had, he did not think that would change so easily, however many years had passed. Sighing, Burt replaced his phone back into the pocket of his overalls, and aimed to return to Blaine's room.
Once he entered, he was confronted with a truly heart-breaking sight. Blaine was no longer tucked up in bed sleeping peacefully as he had been when Burt had left. For want of an understatement, he was distressed. Blaine was thrashing around in the cot, screaming and making the most devastatingly distraught noises he had ever heard, tears coursing unchecked down his gaunt cheeks. His right hand was clamped firmly over his right ear, causing the needle connecting the saline drip to become disturbed, with the consequence that a few drops of blood were trickling from his hand, down his arm and onto the bedclothes. The boy's eyes were tight shut, and though his screams were virtually unintelligible, Burt thought he could make out the word 'stop'. Burt decided that Blaine could be in the throes of a distressing nightmare, before he saw the kid's eyes flicker open briefly to stare fearfully at the wall directly in front of him. It did not take a genius to work out that Blaine wasn't seeing a wall, but a person. Someone who was causing him unbearable pain – his attacker? The poor boy looked so anguished that he seemed about ready to tear his ears and eyes out to stop himself from recalling what Burt assumed were memories.
Although his heart was already shattering, Burt forced himself out of his paralysed state of shock and called out into the corridor to no one in particular:
"Help! I need some help!"
Immediately, two nurses – one male, and one female hurried from their positions in the corridor, into the room, and arrived by Blaine's bedside, with Burt hovering in concern. He wanted more than anything to take the poor boy in his arms, rock him and tell him everything was going to be alright, just like he did when Kurt was upset, but he didn't know if Blaine would welcome this action at the moment. The nurses hurriedly tried to gain his attention, speaking in a much louder, much harsher tone than Burt would have used; one of them seizing Blaine's hand away from his ear to set the needle straight, and the other trying to amend the tubing feeding in through the boy's nose, because it had slipped a little during Blaine's thrashing. The instant they touched him, Blaine's eyes flew open, and he recoiled, flinging himself with all his might across the bed, away from them, screaming:
"Go away! Stop it! Go away! Please GO AWAY! STOP!"
Burt didn't know whether he was surprised or horrified at the fact that neither of the nurses looked in the least bit perturbed by Blaine's reaction. On the contrary, they seemed pretty much passive, almost desensitised, and the mechanic supposed it was because they saw rape and abuse victims a lot. But, Burt thought angrily, this wasn't just another case – this was Blaine – a fifteen-year-old kid who he cared for as if was his own son, and who had just been violated in the worst possible way, not to mention been treated like dirt by his own father his entire life. So Burt could see just how much right Blaine had to finally crack; the fear in his eyes and the raw sounds of pain he was making, only confirmed Burt's thoughts that the boy was suffering. The last thing he needed were rough grasps from cold hands belonging to complete strangers, and loud voices in his ear telling him to calm down.
"His fever's probably getting worse. He may need to be sedated again." the female nurse commented to her colleague. "I'll fetch Doctor Carlton."
With that, she paced quickly out of the room, leaving the male nurse behind to try and coax an extremely hysterical Blaine back into the centre of the bed, and get him to calm down. Blaine however seemed blind to the fact that he was in a hospital – a safe haven. It was almost as if he was re-living some horrible nightmare. Burt was nearly as distressed as Blaine. He had never seen a human being cry in such anguish, and for it to be Blaine made it a thousand times worse. The confident, bright, bouncy young boy with the sparkling hazel eyes and dazzling smile, who had used to clutch tightly to Kurt's hand, running around his back garden, had gone. He had been replaced with a slightly older boy, yet strangely, he seemed smaller from the vulnerable, tight ball he curled himself into. This kid did not have sparkling hazel eyes or rosy cheeks as he flashed a dazzling smile. His face was thinner, caused by hunger and there was no light at all in his eyes except for the glistening of tears; in fact, he looked haunted, deadened and almost defeated.
The young, male nurse was doing his best, but his frantic attempt to get Blaine to lie still so that he could adjust the drip and tubing only eked more hysteria from Blaine:
"Get off! Just stop… please stop! No more!"
Burt's heart shattered for the final time, and angrily watching the nurse try to manhandle Blaine back into the centre of the bed, marched over to the bed and pushed the young man out of the way.
"Sir," the nurse complained. "It's not a good idea for you to be around him at the moment. You'll distress him."
Burt flashed the young man a scathing look, "I think you're doing just fine with that already."
"Sir, I must insist-"
Burt gritted his teeth, trying to keep all of his emotions in check, especially when Blaine was still sobbing on the bed near him, "Do you know this kid?" he demanded of the intervening nurse, who looked a little stumped, as if he wasn't used to the families of patients questioning his judgement.
"Um… n-no." he replied honestly, though with some reluctance. Now he looked like nothing more than a small boy in the face of an emotional Burt Hummel.
"Do you care about him?" Burt continued passionately. "Not because it's your duty, or your job, or because of common decency, but because he is family. Do you care about him as if he is your own flesh and blood?"
"Um-"
"No? Then at least let me try." Burt growled back. "Because I do."
The young nurse looked uncomfortable, but after a few seconds nodded and took a step backwards to edge of the room. Closing his eyes for a brief second, summoning the courage to stay strong of the distressed kid on the bed, Burt turned away from the nurse and walked slowly to the left hand side of the bed, where Blaine was currently sobbing and cowering, his right hand clamped back over his ear again; his left one probably unmoveable because of the heavy cast wrapped around it. Carefully, he lowered himself into one of the plastic chairs next to the bed, and noticing that Blaine had slammed his eyes shut again, reached out and gently took his right hand down from his ear and held it in his own. The boy automatically cried out and tried to tug it out of Burt's grasp, but he continued to hold it still, gently but firmly, just as he had done all those years ago when stopping the kid from pressing his hands over his wounded head.
"Blaine… buddy, it's Burt." He said softly, leaning forwards so that only he and Blaine could possibly hear his words; not wanting the spying nurse to eavesdrop. When the crying boy didn't react, he squeezed his hand and tried again, "It's Burt Hummel."
Burt swore he saw a flicker of recognition from Blaine, even though the kid's eyes were closed. However, Blaine made no effort to stop crying or look up, or even react it a way which would be physically visible, unless one was looking for it. Patiently, Burt waited for a couple of minutes in silence, stroking the boy's hand carefully with his thumb, allowing the boy to get used to his touch, and felt his heart lift a little when Blaine slowly relaxed his tense hand into Burt's. Still however, he did not stop cowering or sobbing; nor did he make an attempt to open his eyes.
"It's Burt," the man repeated encouragingly. "Burt Hummel. Do you remember me at all?" He paused, checking for any sign of a response from Blaine. When there wasn't one, he tried something that he thought might get the boy's attention. "Kurt's dad? Kurt Hummel's dad?"
It took a moment for Blaine to react, but Burt knew that his mention of Kurt had done the trick. He had been right. Even now, Blaine still remembered Kurt. That bond was still in there somewhere. Slowly, ever so slowly, Blaine cracked his eyes open, raising his face inch by inch from his curled up position on the mattress, until he finally looked up into the kind, gently smiling face of Burt Hummel. Burt saw recognition and an array of different emotions pass across Blaine's sweaty, feverish, tear-soaked face, as he looked searchingly at him, and he knew that only two words had to be spoken:
"Hey, kid." He whispered softly.
With that, Burt watched Blaine crumble completely and fall forwards towards him. The man got the message immediately, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and catching the boy as he fell into his arms, sobbing his heart out into Burt's shoulder. Burt simply held him and rocked him gently, glad that Blaine was back with them, even if only in part.
"I've got you, bud." He murmured into the boy's ear, forcing his own tears down as he reached up to smooth Blaine's sweaty curls away from his forehead. "I've got you. Kurt's on his way. You're safe. You're home. You're home and no one is ever going to hurt you again, I promise you that."
Next up - the moment we've been waiting for - a Klaine reunion. With Blaine in the state he is, how will he react? Also, apologies if people are finding it a bit Burt-heavy at the moment. Don't worry, the fic's all about Klaine once we get into the main grasp of the story. Please let me know what you think.