Pride, Privilege, and Predators

[comingfloods]

Title: Pride, Privilege, and Predators
Warnings: NonCon, Language, Violence

Fill for Glee Angst Meme

NC17!


Chapter 4

Brown slush covers the dirty roads. Traffic cruises past the school. It never stops in this city. The Big Apple buzzes with a particular energy. Everyone that steps off a train can feel the humming life. No one tells you about the grimy parts of the city. It takes grit to survive New York City.

Stilettos clomp up the staircase. A group of girls giggle and laugh their way to class. Flattening his body against the wall, Kurt Hummel offers them a fake smile and lets them pass without a word. Voices travel up the staircase. He hears snippets of conversations as he reaches the second floor and reaches for the door handle. His classmates chatter about their classes, fashion, and the latest hookups after last night’s party. He ignores their incessant clamoring.

The office light beckons him inside. Clutching his folders to his chest, he releases a deep breath and knocks on the door. An advisor smiles at him as he steps inside. A horn blares on the street below. Traffic dominates the city. He fights a yawn and hopes he can sneak in a nap later on in the day. His roommate would disappear for afternoon classes.

He should spend his free time practising script lines. The thought pesters him. He wants to dismiss his responsibilities for a day. In a few weeks, NYADA would fade into the background of more unpleasant memories. His knees ache. He wants to go home. Ohio State has an excellent theater program.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Hummel,” the advisor says, “from what I hear, you have a lot of potential. How can I help you today?”

Her dark skin glistens in the soft light. He glances down at the name on the desk. Lana Holmes. Her dark eyes shine with kindness. Degrees hang on her walls. Flicking his eyes over her credentials, he sees philosophy credentials from east coast schools. She never attended NYADA.

The folder crinkles against his shirt. He sets it down in his lap and looks at her gold necklace.
“I want to transfer schools,” he says, “I want to go back to Ohio.”

The smile morphs into a puzzled frown. He feels tiny and young under her scrutiny. She looks at his folder. Students pass by her office. A few wave at her. Music drifts down the hall. Someone has a radio in their office.

“I don’t hear that very often,” she replies, “you won a coveted spot in a performing arts school, Mr. Hummel. Many students feel homesick during their first semester.”

The patronizing tone grates on his nerves. He struggles to keep his smile in place. Her office smells like candy. The sweet scent of cinnamon assaults his nose. He clasps his hands in his lap. The school smells like sweat and sex. He senses it under the perfume and cologne.

“I appreciate the opportunity to study here,” he lies, “and I know how many kids did not get into the school--even though some of them probably had more talent than me. I just don’t think NYADA is the right fit for me.”

The admissions committee lies. They promote the Greeks. He thinks about Rachel. His heart constricts in his chest. Her instructors shower her with praise and gift her solos. His tongue swells with the bitter taste of betrayal. She had an internship lined up for the summer.

Mrs. Holmes taps her french nails on her desk.
“I suggest you sleep on it, Mr. Hummel,” she says, “you won a scholarship here. If you transfer to another performing arts school, your decision to leave NYADA will haunt you for the remainder of your career.”

Flinching at her hard tone, he fingers the folder on his legs. She presses forward with a cold New York lilt.

“Many students get homesick,” she repeats, “you should give it a year before you quit. I know the program can be challenging--but you have to stick with it. Most of the students I talk to struggle during the first year. I think it’s the hardest.”
He nods and widens his smile.

“You’re probably right,” he says, “I think I’ll sleep on it for a while.”
The smile returns to her face.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” she replies, “come back anytime if you want to talk about classes or staying on track towards graduation.”

The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, still clinging to his folder.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he says, “I’ll let you know how I’m doing later on in the semester.”

She swivels her chair back towards the computer.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Hummel!”

Reaching for the door handle, he flees the office without another word. Students whirl down the hall. He weaves his way through the crowd. The halls begin to move closer, threatening to collapse on top of him at a moment’s notice. He takes the staircase down to the street. A voice cries out for him. He grips his folder and hurries away from her.

“Kurt!” Rachel calls. “Kurt, wait! Come back!”

His lungs expand and contract with rapid breaths as he runs away from her. She follows him down the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “please--forgive me!”

He ignores her pleas. Thrusting his hands against the metal door, he shoves the bar down and jogs outside. Snow flies into his hair. Rachel stays inside. He sighs with relief when her voice fades into the traffic. Cold air hits his pale skin. His breath slices through the atmosphere.

Leaning his back against the grimy brick wall, he holds his folder and tries to stop the tears. His eyes well with water. Tears flow down his face. A group of businessmen walk by the school. They fire rapid words at each other. No one spares him a second glance. He stares at the imposing skyscrapers.

“Leave me alone Rachel,” he whispers, “you have your place in your sorority.”

The city moves around him for a long time. He stands there until the tears harden on his cheeks and his skin turns pink. The thought of heading back to his room keeps him on the sidewalk. Mark Levine hates him. They tolerate each other. He misses Finn. Living with his stepbrother challenged his sensitivity towards cleanliness.

Rooming with Mark challenges his sanity. The dancer knows what happened that night; his girlfriend saw it. He thinks about the scar on his stomach. The scab has yet to fade. He sees it every time he changes his shirt. Pus oozes out of the scar when he cleans it. He hopes it fades by Christmas break.

A cell phone buzzes in his pocket. The noise startles him. Reaching into his pocket, he yanks the phone out and glances at the name flashing on the screen. Cooper Anderson. He presses the green phone on the display, accepting the call. A familiar voice floods his frigid ears.
“Kurt!” Cooper says. “I’m glad I got a hold of you.”

The frantic tone immediately sets him on edge. Cooper operates with a refined nature. The actor possesses a constant grace. Blaine mimics his movements sometimes. Kurt sees the resemblance every time his boyfriend dances.
“Cooper,” he replies, “what’s wrong?”

The actor never calls him. Blaine gets those phone calls. Fear coils around his gut. He remembers the way they interrupted his French class. His father went down in the middle of the day. Blaine called him every day after classes. He wants to hear his voice.
“How soon can you get back to Ohio?” Cooper asks.

The lack of hesitation worries him. He breathes into the speaker.
“Today,” he replies, “tomorrow at the latest. It’s early enough. What happened?”
Cooper hiccups and clears his throat. Kurt grips the cell as tightly as he can.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, “what happened?”
“Blaine was in a car accident this morning,” Cooper answers, “he’s in the hospital--he has internal injuries.”

The words hit him like a baseball bat. Collapsing against the bricks, he sinks down onto the sidewalk and sits in the thin layer of snow. Dirt seeps into his black pants. Blaine wanted him to come home for Thanksgiving. He planned a trip early in the semester. The scar stopped his plans--the Greeks prevented the trip with extra course work and a script project. He hears their voices.

“You can go home for Christmas,” Molly said, “you have to stay here and help us with our senior project. You’ll go home later.”

“How is he?” He asks, hating his weakness in this city. “I’ll take the next flight out.”
“He’s in surgery,” Cooper replies, “but the doctors gave him a good prognosis. I’ll pay for your ticket.”

“Are you there with him?” He hates the idea of Blaine being alone. “He--he should have someone there today.”
“I’m flying out this afternoon,” Cooper replies, “Schuester is there at the moment--Uncle Jim is coming back from Europe as soon as he can get a flight out.”
“What?” He bounces on the balls of his feet. “Blaine is there alone?”

His voice tremors. Blaine spent so much time on his own. He saw it when they first met. At the beginning of their relationship, Blaine kept his home life private. It took him months to mention the dance. He remembers the way he used to find excuses to hang out. Last year, he discovered his true living situation after the slushy incident at the garage.

“You know Jim works,” Cooper snaps, “he’s got dealerships to run, Kurt.”
“What about your parents?” He counters. “Are they even going to bother visiting him this time?”

Cooper sighs into his ear. “You know how they feel about my brother. They keep their vows to their faith above all things.”

“Even their sons,” he says, “I just--I want to see him.”
“Take the next flight out,” Cooper says, “he’ll want to see you when he wakes up.”

“I’ll go upstairs and pack,” he replies, “I’ll let my professors know that I’m leaving for a family emergency.”

“Blaine really loves you,” Cooper continues, “he misses you.”
“I miss him,” he says, “I hope he’ll be okay.”

They end the call with awkward reassurances. When Cooper hangs up tears drench the collar of his shirt. Shoving his cell into his back pocket, he runs to his dorm room. NYADA means nothing to him at this moment. He flies up the staircase. Faces blur into one another. He sees a cold parking garage.

Blaine screams in pain as he lies on the concrete, twitching from the rock salt in his eye. He pants for air and bursts into his dorm room with renewed energy. Frantic energy buzzes through his veins. The empty room welcomes him. Hurrying over to the twin bed, he falls onto his knees and yanks the suitcase out. He flips the lid open. His hands shake.

He throws clothes into the suitcase. Footsteps and laughter trickle through the walls. He includes toiletries out of habit. The shoes stay in the closet. He has a whole collection in Lima. Once he’s finished packing, he sits at the tiny desk in the corner and books a flight. Cooper emails his credit card information.

The flight leaves in four hours. He sends emails to his instructors, explaining his sudden departure. Blaine haunts him. His photographs sit on the bookcase. He grabs his favorite picture of Blaine and sinks onto the bed. Holding it to his chest, he stares at the clock and cries. He whispers into the dull afternoon light.
“Please be okay,” he chants, “please be okay.”

Mark interrupts his litany. His roommate returns from his dance class with a smile on his handsome, fair face. His blue eyes twinkle with mirth. Mark possesses a natural charm. He takes ballet and plays lacrosse in his free time. His roommate grew up in Seattle. He dates an aspiring actress and ignores Kurt most of the time.
The smile fades from his face as soon as he finds him on the bed.
“Kurt,” he says, “what’s wrong?”

He hears the false, polite concern in his smooth lilt. The picture frame digs into his shirt. He sets it down on the bed and reaches for his suitcase.
“I have an emergency,” he says, “I have to go home.”

Mark purses his lips.
“We have midterms,” he replies, “you have a project to work on. Do you really think it’s a good idea to go home because you’re a little homesick?”
He glares at the tall blonde.

“My boyfriend was in a car accident,” he snaps as he stands, “I’m going home.”

Dragging the suitcase across the floor, he reaches for the door. He opens the door and shrieks as a slender hand lands on his forearm. Molly Stone stands in the hallway. He jumps when he sees her cold smile. She slips into their room and meets his gaze. He knows he looks like a mess. The pretty brunette leans into his personal space.

“Going on a trip?” She asks.
Molly keeps her voice neutral. He takes a backwards step.
“I have a family emergency,” he answers, “I don’t have time for your crazy today, Molly.”

Her eyes slide into a hard glare. His scar flares with pain. He resists the urge to scratch it. She has that effect on him. He returns her cold stare.
“I heard you had some kind of emergency,” she says, “Professor Lowe sent me down to check on you.”

He scoffs at her sudden concern.

“Did he send you,” he replies, “or did you volunteer?”

She lowers her gaze to his stomach. He keeps his hands on his suitcase, refusing to give her any more twisted satisfaction. She crosses her arms over her chest.
“I volunteered,” she says, “I just wanted to check on you.”
“Let me pass,” he says, “you’ve done enough damage.”

She grabs his forearm and pulls him forward. Losing his balance, he spins into his bookshelf and swears as his knee collides with a sharp corner. Mark leans against the wall and stares at him. He catches his breath, hating his conscious. She’s just a troubled girl. Hitting her in return is wrong. The thought impedes him.

“What do you want?” He asks as he rubs his sore knee. “I just want to go home.”
“That’s the problem,” Molly replies, “you’re leaving in the middle of the term.”
“My boyfriend was in a car accident,” he says, “leave me alone.”

Turning towards the door, his scar stings with renewed pain. Molly steps aside.
“Go on then,” she says, “but accidents do happen.”
Her voice chills him. He wants to scream at her. Mark steps into the center of the room.

“Rachel has so much promise,” he says, “she loves it here.”
Molly taps her shoe on the floor.
“She’ll still be here when you’re gone,” she says, “remember that.”

He takes a nervous step. They let him pass. When he reaches the hallway, he turns around and looks at the couple.
“You’re worried I’ll say something about the party,” he says, “you think I’ll tell---you’re just scared.”

“So are you,” Molly replies, “you should be.”
“I don’t care,” he says, “I have more important things to worry about.”
Mark steps forward. “Rachel could fall down the stairs.”
“Remember that when you’re at home,” Molly says, “she’s loyal to us now.”

He sniffles and looks down the hall.
“I know,” he says, “I have the scar to prove it--she saw what happened.”
“You took it like a champ,” Molly replies, “just remember what could happen if your tongue slips when you’re in Ohio.”

They watch him leave. He scurries down the hall and hauls his suitcase into the elevator. The doors slide shut. He has no energy to worry over Rachel. His mind focuses on Blaine. The sorority from Hades harassed him on a regular basis. They trickle into his room at least twice a week (sometimes more) and threaten him with bodily harm.

He had real bullies back home and he kept their secrets for years. If he mentions the party to anyone outside of the sorority, he knows Rachel would suffer the most from the fallout. Watching her lose her dreams will bring him no satisfaction. She loves the sorority. He sees it in her dark eyes every time she wanders onto his floor to apologize. She likes being a part of something special. The sorority recruited her, not him.

The elevator reaches the first floor. Pulling his suitcase across the metal threshold, he pushes his way through the busy hallway. Traffic barrels down the one way street. The lights never vanish from the windows. He follows a group of girls onto the sidewalk and hails a cab. Mufflers rattle in the brown snow. He wiggles his fingers at four cabs.

Rachel disturbs his worry. “Where are you going?”
A frigid breath escapes from his lips. He feels her slender fingers on his shoulder.
“Home,” he answers, “I have to get to the airport, Rachel.”

She steps around his suitcase. Her blue and white dress sparkles in the dull light. He ignores her pleading eyes. She keeps a firm grip on his shoulder and looks at his tear stained cheeks.
“Something’s happened,” she says, “is it your dad?”

He waves at a cab, hoping the driver will stop for him. The cabbie ignores his plea for a ride and speeds past the lamp post. He needs to escape from the city. The buildings tower over him like disapproving guardians. The city rumbles with life. He thinks about Lima Memorial Hospital. Blaine will sleep there tonight.

“Blaine was in a car accident this morning,” he sniffles, “he’s injured.”
Cooper seemed hopeful. He needs more information before he can make a solid judgement on the matter. Rachel’s hands fly to her face in horror.
“Is he--,” she stutters, “will he be alright?”
“I don’t know,” he says, “I’m going home.”

Stepping in front of his hand, Rachel sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles. The noise shatters his concentration. A cab pulls up to the curb. He reaches for the handle and pulls the door open. The driver looks at him from the rear view mirror.
“Where to son?”

The Southern accent rolls across the leather seats.
“LaGuardia,” he says, “I have a flight to catch.”

Rachel reaches for his bag. The driver pops the trunk and smiles.
“Thank you miss.” He drawls as she puts it in the trunk.

Gridlock could delay their drive. Sliding into the back seat, he sticks his hand into the sleet and grabs Rachel’s white coat. She turns around in her brown boots. He tugs her hand forward. Blaine was in a car accident. He needs a friend. Rachel looks at his hand.

“Come with me to the airport,” he says, “I can’t be alone right now. Not---not again.”
She nods and grips his locked fingers.

“Okay,” she says as she slips into the cab, “Blaine’s my friend too.”

By the time his flight leaves, he has a sleeping pill in his hand and a bag of vegan cookies in his pocket.