Fic: What You Don't Know Can't Hurt You
Title: What You Don't Know Can't Hurt You
Characters / Pairings: Mostly Kurt with some Blaine, Wes, David, and Burt. No pairings.
Rating: NC-17 for dark themes
Spoilers: None really. Just that Blaine exists, but I'm pretty sure that's common knowledge by now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. I wish I did. But I definitely don't.
Warnings: Contains suicidal thoughts and themes plus a whole heap load of angst.
Summary: Written for this prompt on the glee_angst_meme. This didn't turn out at all like I expected it to, and I really hope that the original prompter likes it. Keeping my fingers crossed.
Kurt’s had the gun since he was thirteen. It was the year they started getting the threatening phone calls, the bricks through the windows, and the detailed letters in their mailbox. It was the year Burt decided he wasn’t going to wait around for someone to hurt his baby. He knew he couldn’t be with Kurt all the time, and having them sleep in the same room would just be weird at that point. So he’d moved Kurt to the basement, easily the safest room in the house. The windows faced the backyard and were hidden behind bushes, so it would be difficult for someone to get in through them.
The first time someone had tried to break in though, Burt decided that just having Kurt in the basement wasn’t enough. The kid needed to know how to protect himself if he ever had to. Oh, Burt had no doubt that Kurt would be able to raise enough fuss, at high decibel levels, that people would come running, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. So he signed them up for lessons at a shooting range in Columbus.
Kurt whined the entire two hour trip, until Burt thought he was going to give in and turn around just to get the kid to shut up. But then he thought about the letters, about one day coming home to find Kurt dead, and kept driving. Once at the range, they signed in with the front desk and were taken back to go through a beginner’s tutorial. The instructor was a big guy, exactly the kind of guy that Burt worried about with Kurt. Covered in tattoos and wearing a simple tank top and some cargo shorts, earmuffs hanging loose around his neck and orange safety goggles sitting on his bald head. Burt thought he’d take in Kurt’s obvious orientation and immediately want nothing to do with them. He was pleasantly surprised when he instead crouched down to Kurt’s level and complimented his bow tie, telling the kid that he wished he could pull off something that awesome.
“Too bad I can’t, huh kid?” he told a giggling Kurt. “Oh well, I’m sure my life will go on. You see my partner over there?” He pointed to the other side of the room, where a wiry female sat on a stool, rapidly typing on her cellphone and safety goggles perched atop her ponytail. Kurt nodded and the instructor, James, told him to head over to her to get his safety equipment.
Burt watched him go, almost relieved to have him with a female, if only for a little while. He turned to James in time to see a half smile form on the man’s face.
“He’s a cute kid. Reminds me of my nephew. I take it you’re forcing him into these lessons as a safety precaution?”
Burt chuckled a little at the realization that James had seen through his excuse of father/son bonding. “That obvious?”
James shrugged. “Probably not to people who don’t know what they’re looking for. I did the same thing for my nephew. He was scared half to death after he took the first shot. Honestly, your boy will either react the same way or think it's ‘cool’.”
“Nah, he’ll probably shriek a little, if anything.”
James laughed at that and clapped him on the shoulder. “And that is what the earmuffs are for.”
Kurt had shrieked, and then vehemently denied ever doing so, but was eventually able to get over his fear and complete the course. At the end of the day, both he and Burt had course completion certificates and would only need to apply for permits. The course had been the easy part, convincing the courts that Kurt, as a minor, had a definite need to carry a concealed weapon was a different matter entirely. In the end though, all they’d had to do was present a few of the written letters and the courts ruled, although hesitantly, in their favor.
A month and a half later, Burt sat Kurt down in the living room. Sitting on the coffee table were two .45 semi-automatic pistols. Kurt stared at them, trying to distinguish one from the other before coming to the conclusion that they were completely identical.
“Now, Kurt. I know you know what you’re doing with a gun. But, this will be put under your bed or inside your nightstand drawer and you will not remove it unless you absolutely have to. Are we clear? These are for protection purposes only.”
Kurt nodded, eyes still glued to the table in front of him. His gaze faltered when Burt kneeled down in front him and grabbed him into a rough hug, but he quickly resumed his staring over his father’s shoulder.
“I can’t lose you kid. I can’t. I hope you never have to use one, but god forbid if I’m going to leave you unprotected.”
They sat like that for a long time. Burt holding Kurt to his chest. Kurt staring at the guns on the table. They finally separated and Burt handed one of the guns to Kurt, telling him to take it down to his room and hide it.
Kurt ran down the basement stairs, the cold metal heavy in his hands. He skidded to a stop beside his bed and fell to his knees, quickly shoving the gun underneath it as far as he could, ignoring that spot beneath his bed for the remainder of the week.
He eventually grows used to the presence of the gun in his room and a year later moves it from under the bed to his bedside drawer where it is easier to access. Luckily, he never has to use it.
It isn’t until a month into his Freshman year that he thinks about the gun as something other than protection. He’s always been bullied, but the constant shoves and slushies in high school are something completely different from what he usually gets.
He trudges down the stairs to his room, dragging his feet across the carpet as though lifting them is agony, which today, it is. The jocks had miscalculated their toss this morning and his right leg had clipped the ledge of the dumpster. It wasn’t broken, but he hadn’t been able to walk right the rest of the day.
Leaving his bag by the base of the stairs, Kurt slowly made his way to his bed before flopping face-first onto the mattress.He hissed as his leg hit the comforter, even that not being soft enough to not aggravate the damaged muscle. Sighing, he pushed himself into a sitting position and reached for the Arnica cream he’s taken to keeping in his nightstand. He fumbles blindly for it before freezing as his hand touches metal where plastic should be. Slowly, he removes the gun from the drawer and stares at it before quickly replacing it and slamming the drawer shut. The bruise suddenly forgotten, he tries to calm his breathing and convince himself that no, he wasn’t thinking about that.
Over the next year and a half he does think about the gun in that way. Sometimes he’ll just open the drawer and stare into it. Some days he’ll take the gun out and set it in his lap as he checks his email and surfs the internet. Then there are the really bad days. The days when he runs out of spare outfits because he’s been slushied so many times. The days when he can make out the numbers on his skin from the combination lock his shoulder was shoved into. The days when he just wants to curl up into a ball and die because it just hurts so much.
Those are the days when he takes the gun out and turns toward his closet.
Those are the days when he’ll sit in the corner, in the pitch blackness, and clutch the gun to his chest and sob.
Those are the days when he forgets about his Dad and Mercedes and Glee and just wants to give up.
But those days are never his last. No. He’ll eventually remember the people in his life that love him. He’ll remember the words that his Dad said when he first bought the guns, and he’ll wipe away his tears and climb from the closet and put the gun away before walking upstairs to make dinner. And if no one knows what he was doing immediately after school then, well, it's all for the better.
When he transfers to Dalton he figures he’ll finally be safe and won’t have a need for the gun. After all, there won’t be any locker shoves and slushies, so why should he need his personal security blanket? His dad protests, stating that just because he’s at Dalton doesn’t mean that Karofsky doesn’t know where he is and can’t get to him and he somehow winds up with the gun in one of his desk drawers in his new dorm room. He places it there because his Dad made him and doesn’t plan on touching it until he’s packing up his room at the end of the year.
He keeps the gun a secret, mainly because he doesn’t want to freak any of his new friends out, but mostly because he doesn’t want to be constantly monitored by Blaine. Blaine, who won’t understand that Kurt isn’t going to use the gun, he just wants to hold it.
He does pretty well at not letting anyone know about too. Until the annual Warbler sleepover. He’s required to attend. It's tradition and he’s, well, a Warbler. So he goes, and it's fun. They watch movies and gorge themselves on cheap soda and snacks. They plan to stay up all night and Kurt’s fine with that until Wes announces around 4 that it's time for Truth or Dare. Normally, Kurt’s fine with that, but he’s tired, and when he’s tired he tends to talk about things that are better off unknown. He could just pick dare every time and decides that’s probably the best course of action until Wes explains the rules.
New members have to answer a truth from every other Warbler. It's a way for the other guys to get to know the newbies and Kurt understands that, but he doesn’t like it. But hey, maybe it won’t even come up. After all, they’re most curious about why he transferred in the middle of the semester anyways, so why would they ask about guns and suicide and depression?
As per tradition, he’s really sick of traditions, the new members have to go first. So Kurt finds himself on the receiving end of 16 stares and while he loves attention, he doesn’t love this kind of attention. His fingers twitch where they’re resting on his knees and Blaine catches the movement from across the circle, sending him a comforting smile before starting the questions. He keeps the first question easy and the next five guys follow suit, asking things like ‘What’s his favorite musical?’ That’s easy, Wicked.
Favorite movie? The Sound of Music.
Does he miss McKinley? McKinley? No. New Directions? Yes. Everyday.
Is he a spy? No. And he laughs at the glare Blaine shoots the asker of THAT particular question.
The ease at which these answers flow lull him into a false sense of security, so he’s completely unprepared for Wes’ question.
“Have you ever contemplated suicide?”
“Yes.” He answers without thinking and it takes his brain a few seconds to catch up to his mouth. He winces in shame and shifts his gaze to floor, unable to look at anyone. There’s nothing but silence and he risks a glance around the room, seeing many horrified looks. His eyes settle on Blaine, who just nods like he understands and he guesses that maybe of anyone in the room Blaine would understand.
He continues his survey of the others, finally coming to rest on Wes who looks like he’s been punched in the gut. His jaw is slack and he can’t seem to find the words in his head. Kurt gives him a little half-smile and it rouses Wes from his stupor.
“Have you ever attempted it?”
“Is yours a two part question or are you asking for someone else? I thought everyone only got one question.” He’s honestly confused because two-part questions weren’t covered in the rules.
Wes shakes his head. “We aren’t playing right now.”
Kurt bites his lip. He knows he has to answer this. They won’t leave it alone and silence will just make him look guilty anyways. So he steels himself for the aftermath and just spills.
“What do you mean by attempted? Did I ever slit my wrists? No. Did I take an entire bottle of ibuprofen in an attempt to overdose? No. Have I sat in my closet with a gun to my chest and just wished for the pain and torment to stop for one damn day? Yes. That I’ve done. It probably doesn’t count as an attempt since I never actually hurt myself, but there you have it.”
The stares have gotten worse. Those that missed his ‘yes’ to Wes’ first question are definitely paying attention now. Blaine finally looks shocked and David takes over where Wes is left floundering.
“Why?”
“Why not?" he asks, because it's a perfectly good response to that, thank you very much.
David scowls. “I mean, what could have happened to push you to that.”
Kurt lets out a huff of amusement at David’s naivete before turning his body to fully face him. “You ever been to public school?”
At David’s confirmation in the negative, he continues. “You’ve never been thrown into a dumpster on a daily basis and told to stay there because, after all, that’s where garbage belongs. You’ve never been thrown into lockers multiple times a day and been unable to move because of the bruises covering your back. You’ve never had a, two, four, hell six slushies thrown at your face at one time. You’ve never had open your locker and find two pages of detailed notes on how to properly kill yourself. Never had pee balloons thrown at you, or the word “Fag” spray painted on the side of your house.
"You’ve never come home to find that someone broke in while you were at school and hung a noose from the rafters in your ceiling. You’ve never had a closeted jock think it's okay to sexually harass you and then threaten to kill you if you told anyone about it. And you, David, have never had a teacher see most of this happen and not care.”
He’s crying now, and he thought that he’d gotten past the hurt of it all, but apparently he hadn’t. He takes a moment to breathe and wipes the tears from his cheeks. His voice shakes a little as he moves his gaze from a chastised David and continues.
“None of you, bar one that I know of, knows any of what I’m talking about. You’ve all led extremely privileged lives, and you’re lucky, so lucky, to have done so. I’ve had a gun since I was thirteen. It's something solid and real and there and sometimes,” Kurt swallowed. “Sometimes I like to take it out and just hold it. Sometimes I’ll put it to my mouth just to see...just to see what it feels like. And when I do that, it's the only time I feel like I’m fully in control of my life. It calms me down. Some people, when they get that close to certain death lose all control and nothing can stop them from pulling the trigger. But me? When I sit there in the dark with the barrel against my lips...there’s nothing that can make me pull it.”
At some point during his spiel he’s stopped seeing the commons and the Warblers. He’s staring off into space and it isn’t until he feels hands on his shoulders that he realizes that Blaine has moved, has crossed the room and knelt before him, has pulled him to his chest and wrapped one arm around his shoulders, his other hand cradling the back of Kurt’s head, not letting him move it from the warmth of his threadbare sleep shirt.
It's when he feels the tremors coursing through Blaine’s body that he catches up to what he’s done and he can’t stop the sob that tears it's way from his throat. There’s a flurry of movement and noises and he can suddenly smell Wes’ body wash. He can feel David’s watch catch on his shirt as he rubs soothing circles on his back. He can’t see the others leave the room, but he can hear the quiet mumblings as they do so. They’re drowned out by Blaine’s words in his ear, his breath warm against his skin as he whispers that everything is going to be okay, that he doesn’t need it anymore, that he’s safe here.
Kurt isn’t sure which one of them he’s trying to comfort.
Characters / Pairings: Mostly Kurt with some Blaine, Wes, David, and Burt. No pairings.
Rating: NC-17 for dark themes
Spoilers: None really. Just that Blaine exists, but I'm pretty sure that's common knowledge by now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. I wish I did. But I definitely don't.
Warnings: Contains suicidal thoughts and themes plus a whole heap load of angst.
Summary: Written for this prompt on the glee_angst_meme. This didn't turn out at all like I expected it to, and I really hope that the original prompter likes it. Keeping my fingers crossed.
Kurt’s had the gun since he was thirteen. It was the year they started getting the threatening phone calls, the bricks through the windows, and the detailed letters in their mailbox. It was the year Burt decided he wasn’t going to wait around for someone to hurt his baby. He knew he couldn’t be with Kurt all the time, and having them sleep in the same room would just be weird at that point. So he’d moved Kurt to the basement, easily the safest room in the house. The windows faced the backyard and were hidden behind bushes, so it would be difficult for someone to get in through them.
The first time someone had tried to break in though, Burt decided that just having Kurt in the basement wasn’t enough. The kid needed to know how to protect himself if he ever had to. Oh, Burt had no doubt that Kurt would be able to raise enough fuss, at high decibel levels, that people would come running, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. So he signed them up for lessons at a shooting range in Columbus.
Kurt whined the entire two hour trip, until Burt thought he was going to give in and turn around just to get the kid to shut up. But then he thought about the letters, about one day coming home to find Kurt dead, and kept driving. Once at the range, they signed in with the front desk and were taken back to go through a beginner’s tutorial. The instructor was a big guy, exactly the kind of guy that Burt worried about with Kurt. Covered in tattoos and wearing a simple tank top and some cargo shorts, earmuffs hanging loose around his neck and orange safety goggles sitting on his bald head. Burt thought he’d take in Kurt’s obvious orientation and immediately want nothing to do with them. He was pleasantly surprised when he instead crouched down to Kurt’s level and complimented his bow tie, telling the kid that he wished he could pull off something that awesome.
“Too bad I can’t, huh kid?” he told a giggling Kurt. “Oh well, I’m sure my life will go on. You see my partner over there?” He pointed to the other side of the room, where a wiry female sat on a stool, rapidly typing on her cellphone and safety goggles perched atop her ponytail. Kurt nodded and the instructor, James, told him to head over to her to get his safety equipment.
Burt watched him go, almost relieved to have him with a female, if only for a little while. He turned to James in time to see a half smile form on the man’s face.
“He’s a cute kid. Reminds me of my nephew. I take it you’re forcing him into these lessons as a safety precaution?”
Burt chuckled a little at the realization that James had seen through his excuse of father/son bonding. “That obvious?”
James shrugged. “Probably not to people who don’t know what they’re looking for. I did the same thing for my nephew. He was scared half to death after he took the first shot. Honestly, your boy will either react the same way or think it's ‘cool’.”
“Nah, he’ll probably shriek a little, if anything.”
James laughed at that and clapped him on the shoulder. “And that is what the earmuffs are for.”
Kurt had shrieked, and then vehemently denied ever doing so, but was eventually able to get over his fear and complete the course. At the end of the day, both he and Burt had course completion certificates and would only need to apply for permits. The course had been the easy part, convincing the courts that Kurt, as a minor, had a definite need to carry a concealed weapon was a different matter entirely. In the end though, all they’d had to do was present a few of the written letters and the courts ruled, although hesitantly, in their favor.
A month and a half later, Burt sat Kurt down in the living room. Sitting on the coffee table were two .45 semi-automatic pistols. Kurt stared at them, trying to distinguish one from the other before coming to the conclusion that they were completely identical.
“Now, Kurt. I know you know what you’re doing with a gun. But, this will be put under your bed or inside your nightstand drawer and you will not remove it unless you absolutely have to. Are we clear? These are for protection purposes only.”
Kurt nodded, eyes still glued to the table in front of him. His gaze faltered when Burt kneeled down in front him and grabbed him into a rough hug, but he quickly resumed his staring over his father’s shoulder.
“I can’t lose you kid. I can’t. I hope you never have to use one, but god forbid if I’m going to leave you unprotected.”
They sat like that for a long time. Burt holding Kurt to his chest. Kurt staring at the guns on the table. They finally separated and Burt handed one of the guns to Kurt, telling him to take it down to his room and hide it.
Kurt ran down the basement stairs, the cold metal heavy in his hands. He skidded to a stop beside his bed and fell to his knees, quickly shoving the gun underneath it as far as he could, ignoring that spot beneath his bed for the remainder of the week.
He eventually grows used to the presence of the gun in his room and a year later moves it from under the bed to his bedside drawer where it is easier to access. Luckily, he never has to use it.
It isn’t until a month into his Freshman year that he thinks about the gun as something other than protection. He’s always been bullied, but the constant shoves and slushies in high school are something completely different from what he usually gets.
He trudges down the stairs to his room, dragging his feet across the carpet as though lifting them is agony, which today, it is. The jocks had miscalculated their toss this morning and his right leg had clipped the ledge of the dumpster. It wasn’t broken, but he hadn’t been able to walk right the rest of the day.
Leaving his bag by the base of the stairs, Kurt slowly made his way to his bed before flopping face-first onto the mattress.He hissed as his leg hit the comforter, even that not being soft enough to not aggravate the damaged muscle. Sighing, he pushed himself into a sitting position and reached for the Arnica cream he’s taken to keeping in his nightstand. He fumbles blindly for it before freezing as his hand touches metal where plastic should be. Slowly, he removes the gun from the drawer and stares at it before quickly replacing it and slamming the drawer shut. The bruise suddenly forgotten, he tries to calm his breathing and convince himself that no, he wasn’t thinking about that.
Over the next year and a half he does think about the gun in that way. Sometimes he’ll just open the drawer and stare into it. Some days he’ll take the gun out and set it in his lap as he checks his email and surfs the internet. Then there are the really bad days. The days when he runs out of spare outfits because he’s been slushied so many times. The days when he can make out the numbers on his skin from the combination lock his shoulder was shoved into. The days when he just wants to curl up into a ball and die because it just hurts so much.
Those are the days when he takes the gun out and turns toward his closet.
Those are the days when he’ll sit in the corner, in the pitch blackness, and clutch the gun to his chest and sob.
Those are the days when he forgets about his Dad and Mercedes and Glee and just wants to give up.
But those days are never his last. No. He’ll eventually remember the people in his life that love him. He’ll remember the words that his Dad said when he first bought the guns, and he’ll wipe away his tears and climb from the closet and put the gun away before walking upstairs to make dinner. And if no one knows what he was doing immediately after school then, well, it's all for the better.
When he transfers to Dalton he figures he’ll finally be safe and won’t have a need for the gun. After all, there won’t be any locker shoves and slushies, so why should he need his personal security blanket? His dad protests, stating that just because he’s at Dalton doesn’t mean that Karofsky doesn’t know where he is and can’t get to him and he somehow winds up with the gun in one of his desk drawers in his new dorm room. He places it there because his Dad made him and doesn’t plan on touching it until he’s packing up his room at the end of the year.
He keeps the gun a secret, mainly because he doesn’t want to freak any of his new friends out, but mostly because he doesn’t want to be constantly monitored by Blaine. Blaine, who won’t understand that Kurt isn’t going to use the gun, he just wants to hold it.
He does pretty well at not letting anyone know about too. Until the annual Warbler sleepover. He’s required to attend. It's tradition and he’s, well, a Warbler. So he goes, and it's fun. They watch movies and gorge themselves on cheap soda and snacks. They plan to stay up all night and Kurt’s fine with that until Wes announces around 4 that it's time for Truth or Dare. Normally, Kurt’s fine with that, but he’s tired, and when he’s tired he tends to talk about things that are better off unknown. He could just pick dare every time and decides that’s probably the best course of action until Wes explains the rules.
New members have to answer a truth from every other Warbler. It's a way for the other guys to get to know the newbies and Kurt understands that, but he doesn’t like it. But hey, maybe it won’t even come up. After all, they’re most curious about why he transferred in the middle of the semester anyways, so why would they ask about guns and suicide and depression?
As per tradition, he’s really sick of traditions, the new members have to go first. So Kurt finds himself on the receiving end of 16 stares and while he loves attention, he doesn’t love this kind of attention. His fingers twitch where they’re resting on his knees and Blaine catches the movement from across the circle, sending him a comforting smile before starting the questions. He keeps the first question easy and the next five guys follow suit, asking things like ‘What’s his favorite musical?’ That’s easy, Wicked.
Favorite movie? The Sound of Music.
Does he miss McKinley? McKinley? No. New Directions? Yes. Everyday.
Is he a spy? No. And he laughs at the glare Blaine shoots the asker of THAT particular question.
The ease at which these answers flow lull him into a false sense of security, so he’s completely unprepared for Wes’ question.
“Have you ever contemplated suicide?”
“Yes.” He answers without thinking and it takes his brain a few seconds to catch up to his mouth. He winces in shame and shifts his gaze to floor, unable to look at anyone. There’s nothing but silence and he risks a glance around the room, seeing many horrified looks. His eyes settle on Blaine, who just nods like he understands and he guesses that maybe of anyone in the room Blaine would understand.
He continues his survey of the others, finally coming to rest on Wes who looks like he’s been punched in the gut. His jaw is slack and he can’t seem to find the words in his head. Kurt gives him a little half-smile and it rouses Wes from his stupor.
“Have you ever attempted it?”
“Is yours a two part question or are you asking for someone else? I thought everyone only got one question.” He’s honestly confused because two-part questions weren’t covered in the rules.
Wes shakes his head. “We aren’t playing right now.”
Kurt bites his lip. He knows he has to answer this. They won’t leave it alone and silence will just make him look guilty anyways. So he steels himself for the aftermath and just spills.
“What do you mean by attempted? Did I ever slit my wrists? No. Did I take an entire bottle of ibuprofen in an attempt to overdose? No. Have I sat in my closet with a gun to my chest and just wished for the pain and torment to stop for one damn day? Yes. That I’ve done. It probably doesn’t count as an attempt since I never actually hurt myself, but there you have it.”
The stares have gotten worse. Those that missed his ‘yes’ to Wes’ first question are definitely paying attention now. Blaine finally looks shocked and David takes over where Wes is left floundering.
“Why?”
“Why not?" he asks, because it's a perfectly good response to that, thank you very much.
David scowls. “I mean, what could have happened to push you to that.”
Kurt lets out a huff of amusement at David’s naivete before turning his body to fully face him. “You ever been to public school?”
At David’s confirmation in the negative, he continues. “You’ve never been thrown into a dumpster on a daily basis and told to stay there because, after all, that’s where garbage belongs. You’ve never been thrown into lockers multiple times a day and been unable to move because of the bruises covering your back. You’ve never had a, two, four, hell six slushies thrown at your face at one time. You’ve never had open your locker and find two pages of detailed notes on how to properly kill yourself. Never had pee balloons thrown at you, or the word “Fag” spray painted on the side of your house.
"You’ve never come home to find that someone broke in while you were at school and hung a noose from the rafters in your ceiling. You’ve never had a closeted jock think it's okay to sexually harass you and then threaten to kill you if you told anyone about it. And you, David, have never had a teacher see most of this happen and not care.”
He’s crying now, and he thought that he’d gotten past the hurt of it all, but apparently he hadn’t. He takes a moment to breathe and wipes the tears from his cheeks. His voice shakes a little as he moves his gaze from a chastised David and continues.
“None of you, bar one that I know of, knows any of what I’m talking about. You’ve all led extremely privileged lives, and you’re lucky, so lucky, to have done so. I’ve had a gun since I was thirteen. It's something solid and real and there and sometimes,” Kurt swallowed. “Sometimes I like to take it out and just hold it. Sometimes I’ll put it to my mouth just to see...just to see what it feels like. And when I do that, it's the only time I feel like I’m fully in control of my life. It calms me down. Some people, when they get that close to certain death lose all control and nothing can stop them from pulling the trigger. But me? When I sit there in the dark with the barrel against my lips...there’s nothing that can make me pull it.”
At some point during his spiel he’s stopped seeing the commons and the Warblers. He’s staring off into space and it isn’t until he feels hands on his shoulders that he realizes that Blaine has moved, has crossed the room and knelt before him, has pulled him to his chest and wrapped one arm around his shoulders, his other hand cradling the back of Kurt’s head, not letting him move it from the warmth of his threadbare sleep shirt.
It's when he feels the tremors coursing through Blaine’s body that he catches up to what he’s done and he can’t stop the sob that tears it's way from his throat. There’s a flurry of movement and noises and he can suddenly smell Wes’ body wash. He can feel David’s watch catch on his shirt as he rubs soothing circles on his back. He can’t see the others leave the room, but he can hear the quiet mumblings as they do so. They’re drowned out by Blaine’s words in his ear, his breath warm against his skin as he whispers that everything is going to be okay, that he doesn’t need it anymore, that he’s safe here.
Kurt isn’t sure which one of them he’s trying to comfort.