Wrong. Chapter 13
13.
Thanksgiving is tough - it always is, with the family coming. Sometimes Blaine thinks they only come every year to give him a hard time. But he survives somehow, even if he has to bite the inside of his lip half the time to stop himself from shouting at them. At some point the skin breaks under his teeth and he feels the salty, coppery taste of blood. Strangely, it calms him down.
The next two days are even tougher. And it feels weird and unfair because not that long ago the prospect of spending two days with Kurt would be a dream come true; something to make Blaine ridiculously happy. They would probably have spent hours in bed, naked and hungry for each other, trying to make up for months of separation, soaking in the closeness, reluctant to let go even for a moment. They would have talked non-stop, only breaking their conversation to kiss and have sex.
But it doesn’t work this way, not anymore. He might have not consciously decided to try and distance himself from Kurt here and now, but the mere knowledge that Kurt will be heading back to New York soon and Blaine will stay here, alone, to try and forget him all over again, makes him careful and aloof. Even as Blaine’s skin aches to touch, to be closer, as close as humanly possible; even as his heart floods with love as he takes in all the tiny, precious details of Kurt that the months apart blurred in his memory, his mind remembers: Kurt deserves better. Blaine has to let him go. If he really loves Kurt, he will release him into the world of possibilities and the bright future that is just waiting to accept and embrace him.
Kurt seems surprised at first, confused. He tries to initiate closeness, to talk - really, openly talk, like they used to do all the time - about the previous weeks and months, all the topics they’ve been avoiding all this time. Blaine’s depression, his suicide attempt, the fact that Kurt never knew anything about it; the distance that wasn’t there before. But Blaine can’t talk about it - can’t even start, so he keeps dodging the hard subjects, pretending not to notice Kurt’s attempts.
And the more time passes, the more hurt Kurt looks, the more he retreats into himself, not trying to cuddle into Blaine’s side anymore, not diving too deep into topics that might be even slightly touchy or personal. So they spend hours, alone in the empty house, more like friends than boyfriends and lovers. Kurt doesn’t ask why anymore. Blaine doesn’t explain, either. But it kills him slowly; his skin too tight, itching to be scratched or punctured open if it can’t be touched and caressed; the deceptively steady beat of his heart tempting him with promises of red, red blood. His mask feels more like a prison with every passing hour, suffocating him and threatening to split open. When Kurt leaves on Friday evening, Blaine spends long minutes with the pin in his shaking fingers, fighting with the need to use it. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this, though, not while Kurt is in Ohio. Finally, he hides the tiny thing deep in his drawer and goes to take a long shower instead, the water so hot it hurts.
On Saturday, every minute with Kurt is torture, Blaine’s façade so strained that it’s cracking in places. He knows his behavior is more and more erratic, moments of clinginess sneaking through his mental barriers, and Kurt looks lost and resigned when they say goodbye, and so sad that Blaine’s heart bleeds. Still, he manages to resist the siren’s call of his little steel friend for several hours, just lying on his bed in a fetal position, numb and defeated, unaware of anything but the empty dreariness of his world and the fact that every hour brings him closer to the moment when Kurt will be so, so far away again. His thoughts, wandering aimlessly, bring him to the realization of just how lonely he is, and how alone he will be when his phone finally stops bringing him Kurt’s voice and his words. This is the final straw. Blood pounding in his ears, Blaine grabs the pushpin and blindly, viciously, pushes it into his thumb.
Of course, just as the relief hits him like a shock of cool water on overheated skin, Kurt comes to spend the night. And lying with Kurt breathing peacefully in his arms is enough to keep Blaine awake all night long. He spends the night hours - their last hours together like this, he’s certain - intermittently taking Kurt in with all his senses and whispering hotly into his skin; pleas and apologies, explanations and well wishes, all watered generously with tears. Kurt sleeps through it all, and even though Blaine knows he’ll never tell him all that to his face, he feels better with his words hidden under Kurt’s skin, in his hair, built into his very being. Kurt won’t remember, but maybe he’ll know, one day. Maybe it will be enough for forgiveness, maybe with time, it will help.
And then it’s 5 am and Kurt has to go. There’s one last hug, one soft kiss that begs to be held and prolonged forever, and then Kurt is gone. Blaine turns on the spot, comes back to the house and opens the long unused door leading down to the basement.
It’s his little gym, which he hasn’t used in quite some time. The running mill and the training bike are gathering dust in the corners, his weights lie forgotten on their stand. Stiffly, like an automaton, Blaine strips off his shirt and picks up his boxing gloves. He makes quick work of wrapping his hands and fastening the gloves - anxiety itching under his skin, nervous energy almost crackling all around him. He feels so restless he just wants to act, stepping to the center of the room and the heavy boxing bag hanging from the ceiling. The urge is building in his stomach, shooting up his spine in rapid, angry waves.
The first punches are furious and fast, and they only build in intensity until everything Blaine hears is the pounding of his heart and the dull thumps of fists hitting the leather of the bag. And screaming. He’s screaming, raw and angry, like a wounded animal, just letting out sounds and fury and pain without any coherence because he’s so beyond that. His muscles ache, his joints feel like they are ripping with the force of every punch, his body out of practice and not warmed up, sweat stinging his eyes - he doesn’t care.
He’s angry - angry at life, at himself, at Kurt, too. It’s not fair, not fair that he has to be screwed up like this, destined for some mediocre, lackluster life, undeserving of love, joy and success. Why? What has he ever done that was so bad the world is punishing him like this? Because he sure as hell can’t remember anything that would make him deserve this. Was it something in his previous life that he doesn’t really believe in? Was it something his ancestors had done that he has to pay for now in karmic currency? Or is it just life being cruel, laughing in his face? Giving him the perfect man, love like a dream, successes and perspectives, and then snatching it all away? No, worse - making him reject it himself, cut it out of his heart with a dull, rusty knife, bit by bit, because he doesn’t deserve it. Because he’s weak and wrong and just plain not worth it.
And then Kurt - just coming back like this, out of the blue, showing him again what he’s losing, shoving it in Blaine’s face with his beauty, his soft words and softer touches, his kisses and patience and love. Doesn’t he know how much harder he’s making it to forget him? No, not forget - Blaine will never forget anyway, but at least pretend, at least distance himself.
Kurt’s fingers, feather-light on his wrist last night, burnt Blaine with the intensity of shame like nothing he’d felt before. It was supposed to be acceptance, probably, but who was Kurt kidding? How could he accept this, accept Blaine with all his wrongs and weaknesses? He can’t, he just doesn’t realize it. Kurt accepts what he can see, what Blaine lets him see, or maybe what he wants to see; just bits and pieces and shiny little details - and it’s so far from the full, real image.
Sweat is flowing continuously down Blaine’s face and his body now; his arms feel weak and hands beaten to a pulp, his muscles and joints scream with every movement. But the anger and torture of it all don’t lessen, don’t flow out with the force of the punches, with sweat and screams, like they always did in Blaine’s worst moments when he sought refuge here. It doesn’t help, damn it, his last resort doesn’t work now.
He realizes he’s crying - big, gulping sobs, choking on all the grief and pain and the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions going crazy inside his head, impossible to stop. He tears off his gloves in violently fast movements, dropping them to the floor. His muscles are killing him, but he doesn’t care as he runs upstairs, to his bathroom, to hide under streams of water so hot it’s almost scalding.
He’s crying and choking, and trying to stop the chaos in his head, slow it down even a little bit because it’s making him crazy and nothing helps, nothing at all. It’s like he’s feeling everything at once, unable to focus on anything - hundreds of stimuli, from inside and out, are fighting for his attention, and he feels himself drowning in them. Nothing makes sense and for the first time in his life Blaine really thinks that he wants to die, just to stop feeling, to make his mind quiet, make it shut up.
And then somehow in all this chaos he remembers the pushpin, the singular blade of pain, the simple beauty of blood. He doesn’t have it there with him though, and even if he did, it wouldn’t be enough, not with how lost and hurting he is. He’ll just use something else, and if this doesn’t help…
It has to help. It has to, or he’ll go crazy.
Reaching out of the shower and forcing the medicine cabinet open, Blaine retrieves the straight razor that he got as a gift from his grandfather when he started shaving. His hands are trembling so bad he almost drops the razor while trying to open it with wet slick fingers, but finally, he succeeds. Even though something in his brain whispers, no, bad idea, it’s the road leading even deeper, right now he doesn’t care, he just wants to stop the hurricane in his head.
Without even stopping to think - the voice in his head screaming now, pleading, reasoning, but getting lost in the stormy waves of everything else - Blaine presses the blade to his upper arm and slides it in a light caress.
The pain is sharp and perfect, centering him immediately, giving him the feeling of control. Blood flows down his arm, drips from his fingers to swirl on the floor for a moment, so pretty, and then gets sucked into the drain. So he does it again, and again, focusing on that sharp burn bringing him the feeling of calm.
Daze and a pleasant rush envelop him as he gets out of the shower at last and dries himself off in slow, relaxed movements. Not bothering to cover his nudity, Blaine grabs a washcloth to press to his still bleeding arm - the pressure brings back some of the pain and god, that feels good - and goes right back to bed. He’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
When he wakes up, it’s late afternoon and his brain has switched back on at last, calm and rational. For a moment Blaine hopes that it was just a dream, but no. There are six long cuts across the width of his left bicep; shallow, but caked with dried blood. It’s nothing like the tiny scratches and pinpricks of before, and the feelings of shame and unease hit him hard. This is something else, something so much worse because now there’s no escaping the word he heard and read so many times.
Cutter.
He’s no longer playing with fire, creeping along the edge. He’s a cutter. He can add this to the resume of his failures. Congratulations.