Title: Bittersweet Symphony
Rating: PG-13 for the diabolical f-bombs.
Spoilers (if any): 2x20 basically.
Warnings (if any): Swearing, Blaine!angst, sorta happy ending?
Word Count: 1,337
Summary: It was supposed to be Kurt's night.

A/N: So I haven't written in a while, nor have I posted anything either, but after last nights episode I got caught up in the exquisite angst and had to write me some of that. I don't really know what this is (apart from a great distraction from my studying for an exam I have to take tomorrow), so um. Yeah. Title is from Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve.

Ultimately, Blaine knew it was Kurt's night.

Kurt, with that kilt and his hopeful, honest eyes. Kurt and his newfound trust for Karofsky. The feeling of safety that Kurt suddenly had. Blaine knew that Kurt hoped tonight would be the night. A chance for Kurt prove to Blaine- and to himself- that McKinley really had changed. Kurt thought he was safe, and though he may not be accepted by everyone with open arms and rainbow badges of gay love, he belonged at McKinley.

Blaine knew though. He knew with every bit of him that those fucking kids—those good for nothing, destined-for-a-two-dollar-an-hour-job kids—would mess up Kurt's night. People like him and Kurt, people like them. . . Well, that was it. People like them. Even in his own mind he was an outcast.

It was supposed to be a school. That was their Principal up there, announcing Kurt's name like he had to or something.

Blaine felt his hands clench and his mouth twist into something ugly, something like anger and hurt and pain and everything else his poor, beaten down heart was feeling right then as the silence of the gym crashed down on his eardrums.

Kurt was still beside him. Blaine hadn't missed Kurt's small intake of breath, the trembling brush of his hand against Blaine's, and then the jarring, unnerving gasp that tore from Kurt's body as Kurt rushed out of the gym.

Oh fuck. Right there and then everything came back to Blaine—John's face when the fucking assholes that had beaten them up had delivered their final blow to John's face. The bruises littered like twisted, horrific kisses on his skin. The way the bruises had seemed almost like blessings from them. Here you are, fag. We deem you totally worthless.

As Blaine called out for Kurt his voice shook with not only pain that Kurt—hopeful, beautiful, dazzling Kurt who was running from him and out of his sight and breaking his heart with every step—had had to go through this, but because it had happened again. To Kurt. The boy he knew that he fucking loved, for God's sake.

Because God, if Blaine had spent all this time waiting, waiting for someone to hold out their hand and take him in and accept him and love him then God only knows what Kurt must have felt all those lonely months. And to have everything Kurt had built on and gained from Dalton and from having Blaine torn from him, again, in front of Kurt's whole school? It was like the beatings, the bruises, every taunt and shove and kick all over again. It was like that, but this type of humiliation was sly. It was conniving and done through the use of a fucking ballot.

Blaine had put himself out there; Blaine had reached out and took Kurt's hand that day they'd first met without even thinking about it. Without even realising it was what he'd wanted. Blaine had wanted—God, he'd needed—someone to do that. Blaine had wanted that, but not anymore. He used to be—and sometimes, without Kurt, still was- Blaine Anderson, the one who reached out and touched your heart through song, through words, through the simple touch of his hand. That's who he was.

He'd just needed that in return.

Kurt had given him that, though. Kurt had done that, for him. Yet Kurt was the one being pulled apart again, while Blaine stayed cushioned inside Dalton while he could do nothing for Kurt. Then or now, as he sat on the floor, tired and drained and fed up as he leaned against the lockers.

He let Kurt vent and cry, all the while physically forcing himself to not move and wrap himself around Kurt and take the boy away from all the pain. He wanted to hide him somewhere, away from pain and hurt and humiliation. Away from here so those pretty eyes would never have to shed another fucking tear. Not over those assholes.

Blaine waited. Blaine waited until Kurt was done, because in the end Kurt was the strong one. Kurt could show his emotion and then make himself stronger because of it. And then Kurt thought Blaine was perfect. Blaine was some knight in scratched, chinked armour because Blaine was just good at hiding it, hiding away all his emotion. Blaine felt like one big walking lie.

Kurt—Kurt would fight to the death. In the end Kurt would run back into the arena and fight whatever was put in front of him.

Blaine would throw a few punches then flee. He'd flee and never look back—not until someone took his hand and led him to safety.

And every part of him screamed at him to do just that when he reached out his hand for Kurt, who sat on the floor like a broken doll, going through the motions and convincing himself that going back in there would be what he needed. Every nerve cell, every part of Blaine's brain yelled at him to run.

He didn't run.

He reached for Kurt. He needed Kurt to take his hand. He needed Kurt to hold him tightly and take them back in there because Blaine couldn't do it for them. He needed to know that as soon as Kurt would take his hand that it'd be OK. He needed Kurt's hand in his. This was his silent, desperate plea: please show me this is going to be OK, because I need you right now, to help me face what we just left behind.

Kurt took his hand.

Kurt got up on stage, eyes scanning the silent crowd and nervously taking in a breath before fucking owning them all. Beautifully, spectacularly and Blaine was so fucking proud. This was his boyfriend—this was Kurt Hummel.

Then Kurt was there alone on the dance floor, silent and proud and breaking, breaking like glass under the strain. Blaine could see the cracks, could see the tiny subtle breaks in Kurt's heavy armour that he'd only recently thought he could hang up for good.

He found himself walking towards Kurt, reaching out for Kurt's hand. He was fucking scared out his wits, and every part of him yearned to be bolting for the door—but this was Kurt. This was his Kurt.

He looked at his waiting hand and then at Kurt, lips pursing and hand trembling minutely under the harsh spotlight. God, he was scared. So, so scared.

But then Kurt's hand was in his own again, once more anchoring Blaine back to his place, showing Blaine without even knowing he was doing it that ultimately, someone would be there to take Blaine's hand too. Guide him through whatever people threw at them.

It was their night, after all.