He only takes in a deep breath when he finds Mr. Schuester slumped over an auditorium chair, bottle of whiskey in hand and half-unconscious. He sighs deeply, and walks over to where the older man is, shaking his shoulder.
"Hey, Mr. Schue," he says, and it comes out more curt than he intended, "Wake up. Come on. You're passed out drunk in the middle of the auditorium; that can't be good – you'll get fire. Come on, let's get you home."
This whole plan is rather hampered by the fact Will is drunk off his ass and can't possibly drive himself home, and probably won't even remember the directions, and Kurt has no idea where Mr. Schue lives. He really doesn't think he's meant to. However, he's not really thinking this plan through – in a pinch, he thinks Ms. Pilsbury will help him.
"Kurt?" Mr. Schuester opens his eyes, hazy and unfocused, like he's still trying to remember who Kurt is and if he has any right to be here. "Why are you here?"
Kurt sighs. "Trying to get you not fired for being drunk off your ass at school, even if it did just end. Come on, Schue, go home."
"Fuck off," Schue mutters, then laughs. "What home again?"
Kurt can't help but roll his eyes. "Okay, you left your wife. Sucks. Whatever; can you hold the broody drunken angst until you're somewhere is won't destroy your entire life even further?"
Schuester takes that comment to heart, leaping up straight and pulling Kurt towards him by his shirt. "Don't you dare talk about my wife," he says angrily, spit landing on Kurt face. The younger boy winces. It didn't really hurt, but Mr. Schue is angry and starting to scare him.
"Okay, uh, Schue. Think about this," he says, trying to maintain a casual tone, "You are physically intimidating a student. Pushing aside the illegality, do you really think it's something you'd do when you're sober?"
Mr. Schuester laughs loudly, and only grasps Kurt's sweater harder. Kurt vaguely considers that this sweater is Alexander McQueen, and Mr. Schue might just wreck it, but he's actually scared for his own safety now so he's not paying that much attention to the sweater (and when Kurt is ignoring his clothes, things are serious.)
Then Mr. Schue throws him to the ground with a violent force one would not expect from how drunk he is – Kurt feels his head hit the cold linoleum floor; feels his hands whack against the sides of the steps, guaranteeing bruising. "Ow!" he cries out, taking in two deep breathes to calm himself. He forces himself to sit up on his still-stinging hands. "Mr. Schue, please calm down," he says, all confidence gone – he's terrified and not scared it Schuester knows it.
"God. Look at you," Schue says, almost sympathetically, and crouches down. For a second, Kurt thinks he's realized what the fuck he's doing, and is going to stop. "You're pathetic," he says bitterly, slurring the word 'pathetic', and Kurt looks down.
"Am not," he says, then raises his head back up again defiantly. "I'm not the one who's wasted off my ass and taking out my issues on the kid who has nothing to with any of it, so on the screwed-up-ometer? I'm doing okay."
He honestly wasn't expecting the punch Mr. Schuester brought to his face, because he's stupid like that. He feels the bones in his nose crack and the blood gushes out, getting on his clothes and face. "Ow! Fuck! What is wrong with you?" he asks, and Schue only responds by punching him again from the side of his face.
Kurt falls to the ground again under the force of the impact, holding his nose to try and stem the flow. He says the only thing he can think of to – "Mr. Schue, you are destroying this sweater! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood stains out?" he hopes that acting unintimidated will somehow cause Schuester to stop, either by making him gain respect or just lose interest, like they always said you should do with bullies in elementary school.
It doesn't have the desired effect. "Of course. Prissy little fag can't bare to harm his fucking sweater," Schuester says, and Kurt flinches – this can't really be happening. Mr. Schue is drunk out of his mind, and that is the only reason this is happening – the real Mr. Schue is a great teacher, and general one of the kindest, most tolerant people Kurt knows – he wouldn't be doing this.
Then Mr. Schue abruptly grabs for it, and tears the sweater off Kurt like in was make out of cotton wool. Kurt stares at the pieces of fabric in his teacher's hands, and makes a small, anguished noise. "You destroyed it!" he calls out, for a second breaking through his blind panic in defense of his clothes. Then the cold November weather catches up to him and he shivers, because he really needed that sweater.
Mr. Schue shakes his head. "So what? Come on, Kurt – I beat you up, I said discriminatory things," and Schue's really too drunk for the word 'discriminatory', but he tries, "But no, you get all worked up about your clothes. Way to defy a stereotype there, Kurt."
Kurt swallows deeply and sits up abruptly. "I'm going," he says. "You can drink yourself to death for all I care," he says, and turns of his heel to leave. However, Mr. Schue does not let that stand, and punches him to the floor again.
"Stay down!" he yells, and Kurt whimpers. His blood is in splatters on the floor, and the very sight of it is making him sicker and sicker. He lies there on the floor, scared out of his mind, until Mr. Schuester comes and lays on the floor with him.
"What are you doing?" he asks, as Mr. Schue runs his hand over the thin cotton of Kurt's shirt. "Schue?" he asks, whimpering, and Schuester laughs in his ear again.
"Come on, Kurt," Schuester murmurs, moving his body until he's practically lying on top of Kurt. "You like guys. I'm a guy. What's the problem?"
"You're a teacher..." Kurt says quietly, as Schuester hand begins to travel up and down his ribcage, like an incredibly fucked up game of Itsy Bitsy Spider. Kurt gulps. "You just hit me, you're a teacher, I don't even like you that way; God, please Schue, don't make me do this."
Schuester snorts. "Oh, shut up. You're always whining like this – hell, maybe if you finally get some you'll stop pissing me off so much, or drooling over Finn when I need you to rehearse," and Kurt flinches when Schue brings up Finn. That's not fair.
"Please, stop," Kurt mutters, as Schuester's hand travels further south, towards what Kurt most definitely does not want him touching.
This is the moment where Kurt should freak the fuck out, scream for help, and fight back with teeth and fists and nails and whatever will get this bastard the fuck off him. But everything inside him is frozen in fear, and he can't say why, because he wants so desperately to escape but he can't make himself try it.
"You're not going to stop me, are you?" Schuester asks, breath hot on Kurt's ear, and the boy whimpers in fear while he feels his stomach lurch.
Shuester's hand is still scrunching and unscrunching the hem of Kurt's shirt, dangerously close to the zip of his jeans. Then he stops. Stops in a second, and laughs again. "Wow Kurt. How desperate do you think I am?" he says, before pulling himself up. "Go home, Kurt," he says as he begins to stumble drunkenly out of the room.
Kurt runs out of there.