Genre: Angst/ Hurt/ Comfort/ Romance
Word Count: 950+
Warnings: Comforting of a rape victim, potential triggers.
Summary: Blaine comforts Kurt after he is raped. (I'm bad at summaries. It's really not as depressing as it sounds…I think)
Dedicated to the survivors and those who stood by them through it all.
A/N: So I decided, after a few requests, to write a companion piece of this from Blaine's POV. I hope you enjoy it despite the angst.
You get the call and it changes everything.
The moment the words leave Kurt's mouth you want to rush over to him. You want to cry, you want to rage and scream and shout. You want to curse the world, raze it to the ground and hunt the son of a bitch who did this to the man—the boy—you love.
How could this happen? How could you let this happen? You should have been there for him. What good are you?
You push the unhelpful thoughts aside, stop yourself from asking why he didn't tell you immediately; he knows he can tell you anything, everything. That's not important right now. This isn't about your ego.
You wonder if he's told his dad. His voice rises above a whisper for the first time as he pleads for you not to tell, not to tell anyone! Not his dad, or Carole, or Finn, or Mercedes.
No one who cares.
You don't push the subject right now and ignore the selfish, heady moment of elation that he chose to tell you, only you; you won't feel good in the face of Kurt's pain, it's not right.
You talk to him for what seems like hours, listen to him recount the events in a broken voice.
At one point you just listen to each other breathe, count your heart beats and imagine that they're in sync with his, hope he can't hear the hitch in your breath that says you've been crying.
With hesitance you ask to come over, feel relieved when he agrees despite the late hour.
The drive is over in a flash and then you're there, slipping quietly through the door Kurt's left open for you, padding on silent feet to the large white room that Kurt somehow manages to make warm.
He's sitting on the side of his bed when you enter, his feet dangling, head bowed, hands clasped together. For a moment you wonder if he's praying.
What will you say? How can you take away the pain? What can you possibly do to make this better?
You're just a child yourself; you can't possibly handle this. Kurt deserves someone better, stronger, wiser.
But then, as if he senses your roiling emotions, he lifts his eyes to meet yours.
The questions don't matter then. All that matters is the pain in his eyes. Those beautiful eyes you've stared in more times than you can remember, the eyes whose color you tried to name once, and eventually just had to settle on Kurt.
It's the broken sob that sets your feet to moving towards him, and you're not sure who's made it. Again, it doesn't matter. You drop to your knees in front of him; it's you who looks like you're praying now.
For a moment you're scared to touch him, scared to hurt him, scared to mar that perfect skin further.
When you reach for him he flinches.
The boy who, just a few days ago, had nearly tackled you in a hug and kissed you until you were both breathless, tongues fighting in a battle both would win, who had flicked open the buttons of your shirt with that teasing smile and pressed his own bare slender chest on yours and rocked with abandon against your hips, who had lain tangled with you for hours afterwards and let the sweat and come dry forgotten between you, had just flinched away from you.
And fuck. You're more angry at that barely there flinch than you've ever been about anything else in your life. More so than when you were bullied, shoved into lockers and taunted. More so than when you ran away.
Someone had made Kurt fear your touch.
One day you're going to find them. They'll wish they had never been born, you're sure of that.
But you push the anger from your eyes, let it simmer in the back of your troubled mind, there's plenty of time for that later. When you're alone you'll let it wash over you, use it as a balm for your fractured heart.
Right now, though, you just pull back your hand; you can wait the few minutes it takes for him to reach for you, to pull you onto the bed beside him. He needs the control and you will gladly give it to him. It's another thirteen minutes before he breaks the silence with the soft whisper of your name and you close your eyes and let him tug you down to plush blanket below you, let him curl into you, rest his head in the hollow of your throat.
How could someone hurt him, someone so goddamn perfect? It doesn't make sense how someone can harbor so much hate, so much ignorance and anger. How is it possible?
You can't even imagine what Kurt must be feeling. You feel sick even thinking of it.
He's had something so precious taken from him; his virginity, his trust, his innocence.
You want to hold him in the cradle of your arms and never let him go, press your lips to the bruises and wish them away, erase every trace of the forced pain.
You know you can't hide him away forever; life will always manage to creep in.
But for now there's no real world; there's only the sweet smell of his shampoo filling your senses, his soft limbs molded to yours. Only you whispering it's not your fault with every scrap of conviction you possess. Only him murmuring your name against the skin of your throat in answer.
Only Kurt and you and darkness.
He just needs time.
You'll survive this together, you know this for certain.
So should I keep going with this? Maybe a few years in the future? I don't know…What do you all think?
Thanks for reading 3