fic: Sugar Spell It Out 1/5

[notfar]

A month after I started writing it, here it is in full. The 63-part angstfest cluttering up the first page of the angst meme. Originally posted here. Hopefully this version is a little easier to read :)

Title: Sugar Spell It Out
Author: notfar
Characters: Kurt, Brittany, ensemble
Rating: R
Word Count: 43,143
Disclaimer: Don’t own Glee and this never happened
Warnings: Violence, torture, non-con including rape, language
Notes: Unbeta'd, and probably a little segmented since it was originally posted in 63 individual parts. Much love to everyone who read and commented over on the thread of doom. Title swiped from a Tegan and Sara song.
Summary: Based on this prompt at the glee_angst_meme :

The downside of being a Cheerio is the extremely long practices. By the time their practices end, most of the school is locked up. Kurt always stays until all of his friends have been picked up to make sure they get home safely.

Kurt and Brittany end up being the last two at school. A man dressed as a janitor offers them a ride home, but he is not a janitor at the school.Brittany is certain the man is okay, but Kurt has reservations and ends up riding with them. Kurt and Brittany end up abducted.

Days turn into weeks before there are any leads about their location. Brittany is found wandering down a road leading to Lima, but not Kurt. Their abductor kept Kurt. She doesn't remember where they were, but she remembers that Kurt made her run when it was safe.

Cue grief and angst from everyone waiting for his return.



Part One

Back when New Directions was new and shiny and Quinn had convinced them they needed to hire a professional choreographer, they took a drive over to Carmel High to meet him. Admittedly, Kurt wasn’t paying too much attention at the time - the America’s Next Top Model finale episode was that night, and he had much more important things on his mind - but there something Rachel said that he remembered long after the disaster that was Dakota Stanley was long forgotten.

Vocal Adrenalin rehearsed from 2:30pm to midnight. And that. That was just insane. That was child abuse, or torture or something. Even taking Rachel’s tendency to exaggerate into consideration, that was a long goddamn rehearsal. Kurt just could not comprehend why anybody would willingly submit themselves to an activity of that kind of intensity five afternoons a week.

And then he joined the Cheerios.

“Sloppy! For shame. Shame on you all. Be ashamed, babies,” Sue crowed into her megaphone as the music cut out and the flock of cheerleaders was left tottering in pyramid formation.

It was no different from any other routine difficulty-wise, but this was their twelfth time running it without a break, and everyone was unsteady.

For Kurt, up front in a routine that finished with him lifting and holding Brittany completely steady, life was especially difficult. It wasn’t that she was heavy, per se; Brittany and Santana were the role models for continued weight loss amongst the Cheerios. But Brittany was basically the same height as him, and unlike Puck, upper arm strength wasn’t Kurt’s best feature. He was lithe, thank you very much. And after twelve run-throughs, his arms weren’t quite as steady as they needed to be.

“Your hands tickle,” Brittany whispered, arms spread out like a starfish, looking down to Kurt’s hands on her hips.

Kurt’s hand slipped a fraction, the sweat on his palms sliding against the polyester uniform, and Brittany wavered in the air where he held her.

He kept his face frozen. Coach Sylvester’s eyes narrowed.

“Is there a problem, Ladyface?”

“Definitely not,” he replied, thankful that Brittany had the sense not to wiggle her hips in front of Coach Sylvester.

“I don’t believe you. Run the routine again.”

The Cheerios exhaled collectively; barely louder than a whisper, but the closest any of them would come to sighing in the presence of Sue Sylvester.

She shook her head. “Just the two of you. Everyone else is done for the day. I need you back here tomorrow at six am.”

The rest of the team ran off immediately, not willing to tempt fate by staying a moment longer. Kurt lowered Brittany down, taking the opportunity to glance at his watch as he did. Nine o’clock. They’d been going since four, directly following on from a particularly vigorous Glee rehearsal.

He closed his eyes for a second as Coach Sylvester paced around them in a wide circle. He wanted to go home and sleep. Shower and exfoliate and moisturise, then sleep. It wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

“Unacceptable,” Coach Sylvester was saying. “Inconceivable. Inappropriate. Ugly, and disappointing. There will be no shaky arms in the Cheerios. When the two of you finish a routine front and centre in my championship squad, you will be perfection. Run it ten more times. Ladyface, I want you holding Brittany up like your wardrobe depends on it. I want you to be a statue. If you move, twitch, quiver or shake, I will know. And I will haunt you like the ghost of your great aunt Agatha until all you know and all you smell and all you sense is the pungent wafting odour of her famous pea and ham soup, drifting like a cloud everywhere you go. That smell is failure. You’re failures.”

With that, she set down her megaphone in the middle of the basketball court, striding out to the exit.

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Kurt asked before he could stop himself.

“I have a bear trap to lay in my neighbour’s backyard,” Coach Sylvester replied, glancing back over her shoulder before turning the corner.

“Well then,” Kurt said, shaking his shoulders out and taking a step towards the bleachers. He seriously needed to sit down.

“I wouldn’t,” Brittany said. “She’ll know.”

“She’ll know if I sit down?” Kurt frowned. “So she’ll know if we only run the number nine times instead of ten?”

Brittany nodded. “One time, Maggie’s shoelace came untied. And Coach Sylvester kicked her off the squad.”

“Okay…”

Brittany nodded again. “Ten is a lot, right?”

It was well and truly dark by the time they trudged out to the parking lot. Kurt stopped under the pool of light from the only streetlight in the car park, digging out his phone to call Finn. He was still in his uniform; possibly the only time he’d ever been willing to forgo fashion in favour of getting home sooner. Kurt paused when he saw Brittany standing back by the doors at the front of the school.

“How are you getting home?” he called out.

“Huh?” Brittany’s head perked up and she jogged over to him.

“Who’s picking you up?” he tried again.

“Oh,” Brittany said. “I usually ride with Santana. Or my sister picks me up.”

“Are you going to call them?”

“My phone’s in Santana’s bag,” Brittany said, like it was obvious.

“Okay…” Kurt tilted his head at Brittany. “Do you want to use mine? Or - y’know what, Finn can just drop you off first.”

“Need a ride?” It was a stranger’s voice, so coarse and unexpected in the dark, misty night that they both startled.

“Uh,” Kurt said, reaching out for Brittany’s hand and trying to locate the speaker. A man stepped out of the shadows. He was big, broad-shouldered and badly shaved. He looked like the poster child for every Don’t Take Rides From Strangers lecture Kurt had ever heard.

“Yeah!” Brittany replied, swinging the hand that was holding Kurt’s.

“Heard you talking,” the man said gruffly. “Got a car right here. Kids shouldn’t be out after dark.”

“Okay,” Brittany nodded. “My mom’s making meatloaf for dinner tonight!”

“That’s nice. I better take you home fast, then.” The man smiled, an expression that seemed completely foreign on him. He pressed the unlock button on the car-key in his hand, and the lights of an SUV in the middle of the lot flashed in response.

“Thanks,” Brittany said cheerfully.

“Britt, no,” Kurt said, holding tight as she tried to slip her hand out of his grasp. “We don’t know this guy. I’ve never seen him before.”

“He’s a janitor,” Brittany said blankly. “His shirt says ‘John’.”

“No he’s -” Kurt paused, turning back to look at the guy properly. Brittany was right - he was wearing the blue coveralls of the McKinley janitorial staff, John embroidered on a patch over his chest. “Oh. I guess he is.” It didn’t change the fact the Kurt really hadn’t ever seen the man before, and he was familiar with the majority of the janitors. They were the ones who let him out of storage closets back in the dumpster-tossing pre-Cheerios days. He must’ve been new.

“Have we made out?” Brittany asked. “I think we made out.”

“Want to refresh your memory?” the man asked. Kurt tried not to shudder, repressing the urge to brush his teeth. “Now c’mon. I got places to be.”

“Okay!” Brittany started off towards the car again, too quick for Kurt to grab. He could barely see in the darkness, but in seconds Brittany was at the SUV, sliding into the backseat.

“Coming, pretty boy?” the man asked. “Don’t worry, your friend is safe with me. Been a while since I had a tall blonde all alone with me.”

Oh god. “I’m coming,” Kurt said, swallowing thickly.

“Great.” The man started walking, glancing back to make sure Kurt was following. He wondered if he could beat him if he sprinted to the car and dragged Brittany out. This was the worst idea ever. But Brittany already had her seatbelt on. There was no way he could get her out of the car - or talk her into cooperating - without the man catching up to him.

“You kids should probably sit together in the backseat,” the man said. “Safety first and all.”

He held the door open for Kurt. Brittany waved from inside the cabin. This was wrong. It was completely wrong. His dad was going to murder him, but there was no way he was leaving Brittany alone in a car with a big strange dangerous-looking man. Kurt patted his pocket, making sure his phone was still there. He exhaled, overtly aware of the growing lump in his throat. He got in the car.

The man got in front. The engine started, and the car moved out of the high school parking lot.

There was a beep, and the locks slid into place.

Shit, Kurt thought, instinctively reaching across to take Brittany’s hand again.

“Your hands are sweaty,” Brittany whispered. “Did you put more duck on them? I didn’t know ducks could sweat.”

“Where am I taking you?” the man called back before Kurt could respond. “You two can pick who goes first.”

“Ooh, me,” Brittany said enthusiastically, reeling off her address.

“No problem,” the guy said, turning right from the main street to take them towards Brittany’s house.

Kurt started to relax. He was freaking out over nothing. It was just a kind-hearted, slightly scary-looking janitor looking out for two kids. Nothing more. He wriggled his phone out of his pocket, shooting off a text to Finn.

Be home in 20. Don’t need a lift.

Britt’s house was on the other side of town, but Lima was the very definition of a cow-town. He’d be soaking away his sore muscles in a hot bath in less than thirty minutes.

“So, you two a couple? Sneaking around after hours to get a little alone time? I know what you kids are like,” the man said, watching them in the rear-view mirror.

“We used to date,” Brittany answered. “But not anymore, I can’t remember what happened. Kurt’s my favourite ex-boyfriend.”

“Kurt, right,” the man said, drawing out his name.

“We were at cheerleading practice,” Brittany finished.

“Never would’ve guessed,” the man murmured, turning into Brittany’s street. “Which one again?”

“Number 33, I think,” she told him. “It has a fence. My mom let me choose the paint colour last summer.”

Kurt counted the numbers on the letterboxes as the car drove down the street. 27, 29, 31. The headlights of the car lit up the bright orange picket fence of number 33. And kept moving. 35, 37, 39.

“You missed it,” Kurt told the guy.

There was no answer.

“Uh, you went too far,” Kurt said, louder in case the man couldn’t hear him over the hum of the car heater.

The car turned right at an intersection, and then left until they were back on the main street.

“Where are we going?” Kurt asked.

Brittany reached forward, picking her backpack up and placing it on her knees. “Are we at my house? I think I lost count.”

There was no reply from the man but the growl of the accelerator as he pressed down harder. In minutes, the front gates of McKinley High flashed past them. The car kept moving, taking them further and further out of town.

This was bad. This was so bad.

He was still holding Brittany’s hand, but now his nails were pressing moon-shaped grooves into her skin. She didn’t seem to notice. It didn’t matter. Kurt was freaking out enough for the both of them.

It took a minute for him to remember the phone in the palm of his other hand. He needed to stop things right away. His fingers were trembling as he tried to figure out who to call. Finn, his Dad, Mercedes, maybe even Puck - then he stopped and cursed himself out mentally for being so stupid. Why would he call Puck to save him from a kidnap-in-progress? Puck didn’t even own a car. It was quite possible that 911 was a slightly more logical answer.

“Who are you texting?” Brittany asked. “Is it Santana? Tell her she still has my phone.”

The car slowed, pulling over to the side of the road. The man twisted back, reaching a hand out. “I’m going to need you to give me that.”

Everything in his being screamed at him to say no; to hit the call button and put an end to this before things got any worse. But something in the man’s eyes told him that would be a very bad idea. That making him angry would be a very regrettable move. The cabin of the car somehow seemed even smaller under the weight of the man’s gaze.

Kurt bit his lip and passed him the phone, 9-1-1 already keyed in.

The engine started up again. The man’s window slid down with the press of a button. Kurt heard the impact of his phone meeting the asphalt as the car started moving. He sat back against the seat, staring down at Brittany’s hand in his. She hummed softly, backpack still resting on her knees, apparently unconcerned that they still hadn’t arrived at her house.

The man was silent. Kurt closed his eyes, wrapping his other hand around his abdomen in an attempt to control the swimming feeling in his stomach. He hated this; this lack of control. Kurt liked facts. Facts and details. He liked knowing exactly which outfits he would wear in a week and what time his father would be back from the garage, and how long Rachel would be staying when Finn brought her down into the basement, insisting that the sound system was better down there.

He liked knowing exactly what the motive was when a strange man locked him in a car and drove him far, far away from Lima. He liked knowing where he was going and what would happen and how long it would take before his father could bust in there and kick some serious ass.

The sick feeling in his stomach got worse with every mile, every sign they passed on the road. He’d given up on trying to keep track of where they were. His geographical knowledge of Ohio was almost exclusively limited to navigating the streets of Lima. He used his GPS whenever he and Mercedes made an out-of-town shopping trip, or when they had to trek over to Vocal Adrenalin’s stomping grounds. Memorizing the road signs wasn’t going to help him, not when he was trapped in a moving car with no means of communication. That was a worry that could wait for later.

And in the meantime, Kurt was busy enough stamping down the growing sensation of dread. That, and holding Brittany’s hand whether she was worried for their safety or not. That was all he was capable of handling.

It was another three hours before the car slowed again. Brittany was dozing, head tilted forward until her chin was almost touching her sternum. She hadn’t spoken much since the man took Kurt’s phone. Maybe she could sense that something bad was happening. Maybe she’d forgotten that they were heading to her house once upon a time. Kurt wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and in any case, he didn’t want to have to explain that ‘kidnapping’ didn’t necessarily involve small children, baby goats or sleeping. Not in the presence of their surly captor.

They’d stayed almost exclusively on the main road, driving through the countryside of Ohio and occasionally passing through tiny sleepy towns, but it was after midnight in the middle of the week and the roads were almost empty. Three hours of constant, silent, tense travel, then the SUV was turning off, down a dusty dirt road.

The bumpiness jolted Brittany back into consciousness.

“Oh,” she said. “I dreamt it was raining.”

Kurt found a smile for her, and she beamed back at him, her ponytail somehow still perfect despite hours of cheerleading practice and the long car journey. She undid her seatbelt and slid across so she was sitting in the middle of the backseat, right next to Kurt.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

Kurt nodded, feeling the man’s eyes on them in the rear-view mirror. “Yeah, Britt.”

“You’re warm,” she said, tugging the strap of her new seatbelt around her body and clipping it into place, then dropping her head down against Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt slipped his hand around her waist, pulling her closer against him.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered to her.

“Okay,” she murmured, her breath soft and warm against his neck.

It was the slam of the car door that woke Kurt up, stirring him from a dream he couldn’t remember, his head resting on Britt’s. They’d stopped, obviously, but it was still dark outside. Too dark to make out the face of his watch, so Kurt had no idea what time it was, or how long he’d been asleep. That scared him a little. The idea of falling asleep without meaning to; leaving himself vulnerable to the maniac in the front seat.

It couldn’t happen again. Kurt was well aware that he knew precisely nothing about their captor, other than the fact that his coveralls belonged to somebody named John, and Brittany may or may not have made out with him. And really, that didn’t provide a whole lot of information in any case. Brittany’s kiss list was absurdly long.

The door on Brittany’s side of the back seat opened. She was still out, curled up against Kurt. The man leaned in, unbuckling her seatbelt and lifting her out of the car. Kurt clenched his teeth, his hands unconsciously forming into fists as Brittany was pulled away from him, stamping down the urge to grab onto her and never let go.

The man’s eyes met Kurt’s. “Don’t even think of doing anything stupid, Kurt.”

He was right, no matter how sick with rage the thought of the man's hands on Britt made him feel. Kurt stayed where he was as the man straightened up, Brittany dangling from his arms in a fireman’s carry. Somehow she was still asleep. The man kicked the car door shut again, disappearing from sight.

Kurt really wasn’t expecting the door on his side of the car to open moments later. A gloved hand clamped down over his mouth before he could shout. Another hand undid his seatbelt, then he was dragged out of the car back-first. He stumbled as his feet hit the ground, the hand holding firm over his lips. Whoever it was was holding him from behind, their other hand pressing tight against his chest as he was tugged backwards, away from the car.

It was so dark; too dark to see anything, and it was only the bite of the winter night air and the crunch of the dirt track under his feet that told him he was outdoors. Within moments the bumpy path gave way to smoother, paved ground and light flooded Kurt’s vision. He twisted his head, trying to see what was coming, but the hands kept him in place. Up two steps, and then they were on a wooden porch, the person dragging him quickly indoors.

It was a farmhouse of some sort, Kurt decided, struggling to stay upright as the person tugged him sharply through a doorway. The person paused, suddenly shifting their hold on his body so that Kurt was standing at the front, no longer being pulled backwards. In front of him stood a staircase, presumably leading down to the basement.

“Mind your feet,” came the male voice from behind him. “Be a shame if you broke your neck now.”

The man from the car was at the bottom of the stairs, busy tying Brittany’s arms to a pipe behind her back. She was awake, finally, and she didn’t look happy. Kurt stared, trying to catch her attention.

“Got yourself a pretty one, John,” the man behind Kurt called out. Brittany looked up sharply. The man standing over her, John, nodded, twisting her ponytail in his hand.

“That I did,” he replied. “Two pretty ones. Got lucky today.”

“The kind of surprise I don’t mind being woken up at 2am for.”

A few steps forward and then Kurt was shoved down onto his knees beside Brittany. John was ready with a coil length of rope, pulling his arms sharply behind his back and tying them to the same pipe.

As both men stood back, Kurt got his first look at the man who’d pulled him from the car. He was taller than John. Narrow shoulders and a buzzed scalp. Inky tattoos peeked out from the collar of his jacket. His eyes were bright blue.

“Our own Barbie and Ken,” he said, staring unblinkingly at them both. “You kids’ll want to get some rest. You might need it.”

“Shout all you want,” John added. “There’s no-one around to hear it but us. You can learn just what happens if you piss us off.”

“Night,” the blue-eyed man said, stepping back and advancing back up the stairs.

Someone flicked a switch. The lights died instantly.

“Kurt?”

Brittany’s voice was even softer in the silence that had fallen since the lights went out.

“Yeah Britt?” Kurt shifted on his knees. He could feel Brittany beside him, even if the rope was keeping him from reaching out and touching. He leaned to the side as much as the tight bonds would allow, straining his wrists until his shoulder made contact with the white cotton sleeve of Brittany’s winter cheerleading uniform.

She responded to the touch immediately, pressing back against his shoulder. The patch where their arms touched felt like the only warm part of his whole body.

“I want to go home.”

Kurt closed his eyes. “Me too.”

They didn’t hear from the two men for a long time. There were no windows in the basement, not even a hint of light creeping through the door at the top of the staircase. They had no concept of time at all. All Kurt knew was that they were down there long enough for the cold to creep into every inch of their bodies. Long enough that he was so hungry he found himself dreaming of Finn’s favourite heart-clogging triple-cheeseburgers.

Long enough that when the lights finally came back on, artificial and far too sterile for the concrete basement of a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, they were almost blinding; a bright white flash that lasted long enough to allow the two men to descend the staircase completely.

“Mornin’,” the blue-eyed man said.

Brittany whimpered beside him. They’d barely spoken in the hours and hours of darkness. There was nothing to say.

“Thought it might be nice if we all got to know each other a little better,” John said. “Barbie goes first.”

The blue-eyed man stepped closer, reaching to untie the knot connecting Kurt’s bound hands to the pipe. “Sorry pretty boy,” he said, yanking him up, Kurt’s knees too stiff to allow him to protest the movement. “This is going to be a private conversation.”

There was a cupboard built in under the staircase, impossible to see from their previous angle. The blue-eyed man dragged him over. His arms tied behind his back, Kurt had no way of stopping himself when the man shoved him in, face-first.

He hit the floor with a grunt. The ground was cold and gritty against his cheek. The door had been closed and locked immediately, but tiny streams of light flowed through the gaps in the wood. It felt like his nose was bleeding, thick and sticky against his top lip. He listened hard. The generator was rattling directly outside of the cupboard. He couldn’t hear anything.

An hour passed before the door opened again. John was there, his big hands gripping Kurt’s elbows and pulling him upright. They returned him to the pipe, the new knot straining his wrists even tighter than before.

“Your turn tomorrow,” John told him. They left the lights on this time as they disappeared up the staircase.

Brittany was quiet. Her ponytail was sitting lower against her head than Kurt remembered, like somebody’d been tugging it.

“What happened?” he asked.

“It was okay,” she said. “They just took photos. Took my shirt off. I thought they said they wanted to talk. My mom says a picture is a thousand words, so maybe they just wanted to save time.”

“Photos?”

“Puck took photos when me and him stayed over at Santana’s house one time,” Brittany shrugged. “We couldn’t find our shirts. He said he was doing his duty to mankind.”

Kurt was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open. “That’s not. Not really okay.”

“They said they were starting slow. They wanted something to remember me by.”

Kurt swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on Brittany’s. She pursed her lips, seemingly unbothered by the magnitude of what she was saying.

Men like John and Blue-Eyes weren’t the scrap-booking type. They weren’t taking pictures for their photo albums. They definitely weren’t taking photos to have something to look at while they whiled their lives away in federal prison. They were starting slow, taking photos, because pretty soon Brittany wouldn’t be around for them to look at in person.

Kurt was no psycho-kidnapper expert, but they really didn’t seem the type to let a gorgeous, blonde, innocent creature like Brittany wander away to freedom.

And if that was Brittany’s fate, what hope was there for Kurt.

They were so dead.

The lights stayed on. It gave Kurt a good chance to look at Brittany and reassure himself that she really was okay. Ponytail aside, she looked the same. A part of him wanted to ask if anything else happened. If either man had touched her. But he suspected he wasn’t quite ready to hear the answer. Not knowing that they’d probably be trapped in the basement for a long time to come.

She noticed him staring after a few minutes, tilting her head to mirror his pose.

“Your moustache is wonky,” she said, reminding him of the dried blood around his nose.

“Oh,” he said, drawing his knees up to his chest and leaning forward to wipe his mouth on the fabric of his pants. Disgusting, yes, but dried blood never was and never would be part of his moisturising routine.

Brittany was still watching him. “Coach Sylvester is going to be mad. I think maybe we missed a bunch of practices by now.”

Coach Sylvester was going to be mad for many reasons, and missing practice was probably much lower down on her list, Kurt suspected, but he nodded. “Rachel’s going to be worse.”

Brittany frowned. “I hope she doesn’t yell. I only like her voice when she sings.”

“Same.”

Kurt was grateful for the distraction, but it got him thinking about everyone back in Lima. They’d been gone 24 hours at the very least. Even considering how often he stayed over at Mercedes’ place, his father had to know he was missing. Or be suspicious, at least. And Mercedes. She’d be angry, at first. They had plans to watch Vampire Diaries after Kurt finished practice, texting each other from their respective homes. If his phone wasn’t smashed in the middle of the road, it’d probably be buzzing with a dozen bitchy messages from her for bailing on their tradition.

His phone. That thought made his heart pound. He’d texted Finn minutes before John stepped out of the shadows in the McKinley back parking lot. That meant Finn, and his father and Carole by default, had been expecting him home within the hour of sending that. And when he didn’t appear, when he disappeared and didn’t respond to any messages or calls, they had to know something was very wrong.

They’d already be looking for him. The police were probably already involved. Maybe this would be over much quicker than he’d thought.

Kurt really hoped Finn remembered to charge his phone.

“Do you think Santana will be sad I didn’t call her after practice?” Brittany asked. “I promised. I don’t want to make her sad.”

“You said she had your phone, right?”

Britt nodded. “I think so.”

“Then she won’t have expected a phone call. You can’t call without a phone. She won’t be sad.” Not just because she missed hearing Brittany’s voice before bed, at least.

“Kay.”

Brittany looked sad. It was a foreign expression on her face. One of her shoelaces was untied. Kurt decided to stare at that instead.

Footsteps echoed down the staircase a few hours later. Kurt and Brittany had been discussing precisely how hungry they were and what they really wanted to eat, imaging the expression on Coach Sylvester’s face if she caught them eating a quadruple-fudge chocolate sundae. The two men appeared, one by one, at the bottom of the staircase, and Kurt’s appetite disappeared completely.

“Time to go, Barbie,” John said, letting the blue-eyed man come forward and untie her from the pipe, practically carrying her off to the cupboard. She stayed silent, twisting back to look at Kurt with frightened eyes until they rounded the corner and he couldn’t see her anymore.

The blue-eyed man was back in less than a minute, wiping his palms off on his trousers.

“Kurt,” John said, drawing out the vowel like he had in the parking lot. “We’re going to untie you now. I’m going to hope for your sake that you’re smart enough to stay still. You haven’t seen it yet, but my friend here has a bit of a temper. Wouldn’t want him taking out his frustrations on your blonde friend, right?”

Kurt shook his head and kept his mouth closed.

“Good.” John stayed where he was. The blue-eyed man came behind him and pulled roughly at the knots around his wrists. He gave an especially sharp tug and the rope came loose, the movement sending a jolt of pain up Kurt’s arms to his shoulders, stiff and sore from being held in such a position for so long.

“Stand up,” the blue-eyed man said, his fingers closing around the raw skin of Kurt’s wrist as he pulled him upright. This was it. This was his chance to fight back, escape. A few well-placed kicks to the groin, a fist to the solar plexus, then he could release Brittany from the cupboard and they could get the hell out.

It wasn’t going to happen. Both men loomed over him, reminding Kurt that he was still waiting for the growth spurt to kick in so his height would finally match up to his shoe-size. He wasn’t tall, or strong, or intimidating. And after hours and hours of being roped up to a pipe, he couldn’t even raise his arms over his head. They knew it too.

“Gotta tell you, pretty boy, you’re not our usual type,” John said casually, tucking his hands into his pockets. “But you kinda look like a girl. I think we can make do.”

The blue-eyed man nodded. “I think so too. Now you’re going to take your clothes off.”

“Off?” Kurt really didn’t mean to squeak, but it was too late to stop it.

“Even sounds like a girl,” the blue-eyed man said. “You heard what I said.”

John shifted onto his back leg. Kurt could see the black handle of what was more-than-likely a knife sticking out of his waistband. Slowly, very slowly, he toed his feet out of his shoes.

“You might want to hurry it up,” John told him, noticing where Kurt’s eyes were fixed. His lips curled into a smile, hand settling around the handle of the knife. “The strip show can come later. We just need to see what we’re dealing with.”

Kurt really, really wanted to throw up as he pulled his shirt over his head. He hung onto it as he slid the elastic waist of his pants down his thighs, wishing more than anything that he’d gone for boxers instead of boxer-briefs.

When he was finished, he straightened up, standing before them in his underwear and socks. The urge to wrap his hands around his torso was unbearable. He kept his arms down by his side.

“Not bad,” John said after a long moment. “If you squint, it’s like looking at a really flat-chested, short-haired girl.”

“A dyke,” the blue-eyed man agreed.

They didn’t take any photos, and Kurt was very grateful for that fact. They just stared for what felt like hours, making comments about Kurt’s skin, and his waist, and how smooth the slope of his neck was, and how soft his lips looked.

As it turned out, John had very calloused hands.

When they left, letting him put his clothes back on and tying his hands back together and then back to the pipe, he couldn’t stop shaking. At some stage he realised Brittany was beside him again. She was talking, saying something, but Kurt didn’t hear a word she said.

After a while, she gave up, dropping her head down onto his shoulder. It sounded like she was singing, but he couldn’t make out the lyrics. Eventually the lights shut off again and she fell quiet, her breath warm and steady against his skin.

Kurt stayed awake, trembling, for a long, long time.

~

Brittany was humming, head tilted back against the wall.

“Britt, is that - is that Nickelback?” Kurt definitely wouldn’t have picked that. In any other situation that was probably a friendship deal-breaker.

She shrugged. “It’s stuck in my head. That guy was singing it, I think.”

Oh. Well, in that case, she could be forgiven. It didn’t do much to change his opinion of the men, though.

The men had been back down once since Kurt’s debut as a stripper, meaning it had been Brittney’s turn. Kurt spent the entire hour of isolation in the filthy cupboard on his back, banging his heels against the flimsy wooden door. The generator drowned out the noise, but it was better than sitting back and accepting whatever was going on.

And, like before, when it was all over, Kurt was too afraid to ask Brittany what happened. She was blunt; that was one of her best attributes as far as Kurt was concerned. But that meant that if he asked, she’d tell him what happened straight-out, no holds barred. He still wasn’t sure he could deal with hearing that.

She seemed okay, the Nickelback aside. Kurt hoped that was a good sign.

Brittany started humming again.

The two men had a pattern; that much was obvious even in the few days Kurt and Brittany’d been down in the basement. They came every morning - what Kurt assumed to be morning based on the men’s casual greetings. With no sense of time, Kurt had to trust that alone. He needed some way to orient himself and keep the hours from blurring together into days and, god-forbid, weeks. The men came every morning, and then again in the evening. Brittany in the morning, Kurt at night.

The house seemed impossibly silent in the hours in between. Not that the occasional echo of a footstep overhead offered any comfort through the night. It just meant that the men were probably leaving the house during the day. From the conversation the men had when they were first dragged in from the car, it seemed the house belonged to the blue-eyed man. It was possible John was just staying for convenient access to the newest basement occupants. The house, wherever it was, was at least a four-hour drive from Lima, surely too far to commute, even for somebody unstable enough to kidnap two kids from a parking lot.

It meant John was likely unemployed. It meant that he’d been there, in the parking lot, intentionally. Waiting for an opportunity. Waiting for someone new to play with.

The idea that they’d done this before had crossed Kurt’s mind many times. It seemed more than likely, considering the smooth procession of events since Brittany had run off towards John’s tinted SUV. The routine of it all, and the underlying familiarity between the two men.

They were practiced professionals. They found girls in small towns, where the police force was only really useful for stopping kids from shoplifting, rather than any sort of force to be reckoned with. Places the media was less likely to be interested in. They took them back to the farmhouse in the middle of nowhere and locked them in the basement.

Really, Kurt could only think of three things he had yet to figure out.

What happened to them in the basement.

What happened to them afterwards.

And how John could drive such a nice car without a job.

“My wrists hurt,” Brittany said with a sigh.

Kurt nodded. “I know.” The rope was a total bitch. At least this time, when they’d retied his bound hands to the pipe, they’d left it a fraction looser, giving him a bit of wiggle-room. With a wince as the rope cut into already-raw skin, Kurt shuffled over until he was right beside Brittany, their legs pressed against each other from hip to foot, shoulders touching. They could use all the warmth they could get.

“Well, maybe Coach Sylvester won’t be too mad we missed practice,” Brittany murmured after a moment, pausing. “Since we’re gonna have lost so much weight. That’s good, right?”

Like his stomach needed any more of a reminder of how hungry he was.

“…right.”

~

They brought a chair down with them. John dropped it on the floor in front of Kurt, straddling the back of the seat while the blue-eyed man took Brittany over to the cupboard.

“I know we said that boys ain’t so much our thing,” John said, leaning forwards over the backrest while the blue-eyed man was still busy with Brittany. “But I figured you’d appreciate a heads-up. Because what we said wasn’t entirely true. We’ve been known to lower our standards when the need arises. It’s all means to an end, you’ll understand.”

He stretched his arms overhead, glancing back to make sure the blue-eyed man was on his way back. “Don’t get me wrong, your leggy friend was what I wanted. You were just collateral. A bonus, if you will. And I’m thinking, keeping you around might make Barbie last a little longer than usual. Give her an occasional rest, maybe we’ll get a couple extra weeks out of her, y’know?”

“It’s a win-win situation,” the blue-eyed man said, coming back to stand behind John. “For him -” he pointed to John, “- and me.”

“Exactly.” John stood up, spinning the chair around. “Now, we’ve been watching. Seen the way she leans all over you. The way you tangle your legs together. I get it - I mean, Barbie’s a stunner. Who wouldn’t want something like that wrapped around you. But I’m thinking there’s more to it than that. She means something to you. The way you followed her into the car was kind of a give-away. You care about her. Be a shame if you did something stupid. Something so stupid we’d have to punish her, right?”

“Real shame,” the blue-eyed man chipped in.

“Now, pretty-boy, something tells me you might not be into her like we are. The cheerleading get-up and all. But even if you’re not fucking her, I’m gonna bet you don’t want us fucking her either. What do you say to that?”

“You’re sick!” Kurt burst out, unable to bite his tongue any longer. “Don’t touch her.”

John smirked. “Thought so. So I’m gonna tell it straight. You’re going to do what we say. And if you don’t, then Blondie will. Pretty sure she’s too dumb to say no.”

“This is wrong,” Kurt spat. He felt small and dirty and useless, crumpled on the ground with his arms fixed to a rusty metal pipe. And that was just the beginning. “Just. Leave her alone. Don’t hurt her, she doesn’t deserve this.”

“You don’t get to decide who deserves what,” the blue-eyed man said, walking around until he was standing over Kurt. “You’re in no position.”

“Remember what I was telling you about it all being means to the same end,” John told him, sitting back down on the chair. “A mouth is a mouth, and you’ve got some pretty little lips on you, Kurt. Always thought that a sharp tongue made for an even better blowjob.”

The blue-eyed man threaded his hands into Kurt’s hair, yanking him up until he was on his knees. Kurt swallowed, the man’s zipper directly in front of his nose. The lack-of-control freakout feeling he was having in the car came flooding back, multiplied a hundredfold. He was going to throw up in a second; the sharp pain of the man’s hands pulling his hair the only thing distracting him from the all-encompassing nausea.

“Whadda you say, Kurt,” the blue-eyed man said, gazing down at him. “You or Barbie. Or should I say, Barbie on her back with her legs over my shoulders. I was saving that one for later, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

Kurt swallowed hard, glancing across at John. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, twirling the knife flippantly between his hands.

He swallowed again. “Me. I’ll. I’ll do it.”

The blue-eyed man smiled and reached for his zipper.

He puked when it was over, falling back on his haunches and heaving up a sour mix of semen and stomach acid. The retching was uncontrollable, hunched forward as much as his bonds would allow, coughing until there was nothing left to come up, his face a mess of tears and mucus. They stood there, watching him without comment. Kurt kept his head down, not wanting to reveal what they’d made of him.

“For what I’m going to assume was your first time, not bad,” the blue-eyed man said. “Although throwing up’s not the most flattering way to finish. Probably should’ve thought that through before you went and puked right where you were sitting.”

Kurt’s stomach roiled again and he retched painfully, staying bent double until his oesophagus stopped spasming and he could breathe again. When he could finally sit up without spots of black dancing in his vision, the men were gone. He heard the bang of the door at the top of the stairs. Brittany still wasn’t back.

Slowly, his stomach sore and his jaw aching and his throat scratchy and painful, he sat back, barely caring enough to dodge the puddle of liquid beside him. He unfolded his legs, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them. He wanted to cry more than he ever had before, except maybe after his mother died. That felt like a lifetime ago. This was now, and he wanted to wrap his arms around himself and crawl into the corner and bawl until things were okay again.

He couldn’t do that, though. If he started crying, he’d never be able to stop. Things were just getting started, and the only way he could feel any worse was by knowing that this had happened to Brittany instead.

He swallowed against the bitter lump in his throat and wiped off his face as best he could against the fabric of his pants. He had to be okay, because if he wasn’t okay, he wouldn’t be able to protect Brittany. He exhaled, blinking hard until he’d regained a little more composure.

Kurt wasn’t going to cry. It didn’t change the feeling deep down that nothing would ever be the same again.

The blue-eyed man returned awhile later, bringing Brittany back to the pipe and retying the knot. He went back to the staircase, picking up a bowl and a spoon. It was some sort of soup, Kurt guessed from the smell, keeping his eyes fixed on his shoes. The man raised a spoonful towards Brittany, who hesitated.

“Can’t let a pretty thing like you waste away,” he said.

She threw a glance to Kurt.

“I know you’re hungry. No tricks,” the man said.

Brittany paused again, and then opened her mouth. The man smiled, spooning the soup into her mouth.

Halfway through, she leant over, nudging Kurt with her shoulder. “Kurt, you should eat,” she whispered, irrespective of the fact the blue-eyed man was right beside her.

He lifted his chin from his knees enough to smile and shake his head. “Nah, B. All yours.”

“Oh,” she tilted her head, taking in the vomit on the other side of his body. “You’re not feeling good?”

“I’m. I’m fine. All yours.”

“Kay,” she said, looking back at the blue-eyed man apprehensively.

He lifted the spoon again.

“I almost puked the first time I swallowed,” Brittany whispered, later, when it was dark and cold all over again. She shifted closer, the line of her thigh warm against his leg. “S’why I spit it out now. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“You don’t need to be,” Brittany said simply. “Do you think they’ll untie our hands tomorrow? My back’s itchy.”

“Maybe,” Kurt replied, the words muffled by his pants. “Why, did they say something?”

“No… I just wondered.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She nudged him again, using her knee. “Are you gonna sleep tonight? You sound tired. Do you still feel sick? My mom gets me a hot water bottle when my stomach’s sick. I could ask them?”

Kurt smiled despite himself. “Not necessary B, but thanks. I guess I’ll try to sleep.”

“Feel better,” she said softly, sounding worried. She shifted closer again, twining her ankles in-between his and placing her head down on his shoulder. Kurt hesitated, and then leaned into her, closing her eyes. Brittany made a soft, happy sound.

“Sleep tight, Kurt.”

~

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Brittany’s voice startled him a little; he hadn’t known she was awake. Kurt hadn’t slept, unable to move past the acidic taste in his mouth and the empty feeling in his stomach. It had been hours, five at least, surely, since the blue-eyed man’d brought Britt back to the pipe.

“Not sure.” His voice came out rougher than he was expecting. “I don’t really know, except that it’ll be in New York or LA or London.”

She hummed approvingly, and somehow, in the absurdity of it all, talking about their futures starving and tied to a rusty pipe, it made Kurt feel a little better. It wasn’t something he admitted freely; that he didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. He knew most people just made assumption. Even Mercedes, if you pressed her for an answer, would probably say something about fashion and design. Well, first she’d say “Kurt? Oh, he’s gonna grow up to be fabulous,” and then mention something about runways in Paris. His dad would give a similar answer, minus the fabulous-part, and with more mumbling about college fees and the cost of rent in New York City.

But Kurt honestly had no idea. And of all the people to make such an admission to, Brittany wasn’t someone he’d expected. She didn’t mind the absence of a direct, specific answer, though. It was kind of nice.

“What about you?” he asked.

She tilted her head, obviously putting some thought into it. “I always wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. But Santana says me and her are going to find a rich husband and just drink daiquiris all day by a big pool.”

“You mean husbands?”

She shook her head. “No, we’re gonna share.”

Kurt couldn’t come up with a proper reply for that. “Okay,” he said. “Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah. You can share too, if you like! Santana likes you, she told me once.”

Kurt snorted. Santana was a bitch. An admirably fierce bitch, but definitely not a friendly one. “Yeah, that’s believable.”

“I know! She said, ‘Hummel makes Adam Lambert look straight, but he can rock those skinny jeans.’”

“A compliment from Santana,” Kurt said, not letting on how flattered he actually was. Take that, Sue Sylvester and her frequent ‘pear hips’ remarks. “Never thought I’d see the day. Well, you never know. Maybe we could make a creepy four-person-marriage thing work.”

“I think so,” Brittany replied. “Santana’s nice. You can take us shopping. We like shoes. And pretzels.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Kurt said, imagining all the possibilities for someone with a figure like Santana. And legs as long as Brittany’s. He could spend an entire day just making them try on jeans. Not to mention skirts, with the new spring season just hitting stores. Girls had it so much better than guys. The possibilities were endless.

It wasn’t until he was back in the dusty dark cupboard that he realised how good Brittany was at distracting him from the horrors of the previous night. She was kind of a special girl, in the absolute best possible way.

He meant to say thank-you to her when John pulled him out of the cupboard awhile later, hauling him back over to the pipe. Brittany got in first, smiling over at him.

Her smile wasn’t as broad and happy as usual. And her hair was loose, all traces of the former ponytail completely gone. There was another wet patch on the concrete, closer to her end of the pipe.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, watching the men walk back up the staircase. “I didn’t swallow either.”


part two