A/N: I can't thank you guys enough for the heartfelt reviews (and mnemy, that was most certainly not a tl;dr!) I've tried my best to be honest in this fic to make it as realistic as possible, and if it has helped you that makes me so happy. The main message I want to convey is just that all pain matters, however meaningless you may think it is, and that it's crucial that you get help. And whoever you are, whether you've reviewed or not, it means a ton that you've read up to this point, so thank you for sticking with me through all the angst (and time)!

The chapter title is from "Demons" by Imagine Dragons, which is a phenomenal song, so you should, you know. Go listen to it, or something. ;) I know the wait has been insane, but hopefully this chapter will make up for it. Enjoy!

Monday, November 5.

When Blaine wakes up on Monday morning, the world is heavier than ever. He'd spent Sunday as if on a sustained high, more alive than he'd felt in a while—at least, more alive for a longer period of time. It'd been a brief glimpse of clarity outside the bell jar, spending the whole day with Kurt as he practiced a song for an upcoming performance, but on Monday it suddenly occurs to him that the feeling was probably just what happens after near-death experiences. Just like how he'd felt when he'd "quit" cutting for the first time: bright and weightless. I'm practically fucking bipolar, he thinks as he gains consciousness, listening to Kurt shuffling about in their kitchen. Pathetic.

And what had happened to him—or what he'd done to himself, more like—hardly even counted as a fucking near-death experience anyway. He'd thought about killing himself and then decided he couldn't, decided he wasn't even strong enough to end it. What a goddamn miracle.

Yes, Monday brings real life back with it, brings all of the schoolwork and anxiety and worthlessness back, and it crashes onto his shoulders with a half a dozen texts about where he's planning to study for his bio midterm tomorrow and at least three too many messages from a worried brother.

He deletes all of the ones from Cooper and grits his teeth as he shoves the phone into his schoolbag with the rest of them. He hadn't even thought about the midterm the past few days. He'd been expecting that he'd be dead today. What a lovely thought, he thinks distantly, and is so caught up in this morbid idea that he hardly notices Kurt when he appears in front of him.

"Well, good morning." His boyfriend's eyes glint a little with his smile as he speaks, and Blaine almost doesn't reciprocate when he leans in and kisses him softly. But Kurt's proximity, his smiling lips and his body heat pressing against Blaine's along with his hands on Blaine's hipbones, bring all of Sunday back to him in a rush. Why can't he keep that feeling alive? He's being far too pessimistic; he just needs to study today. That's all. He has one class, and then he can study for bio, and it'll be fine. He needs to get on with his life, right? That's what he promised himself—promised Kurt, in a way—that he'd do.

So he pushes down the ache and smiles against Kurt's lips, and by the time he gets to NYU later that morning and starts setting up a time to study bio with Zach and Annabel, Blaine has decided to be okay.

After all, what alternative does he have?

Tuesday, November 6.

The final actually goes alright, as far as Blaine is concerned. He'd spent a few hours studying everything on Monday after class and cramming with Kurt the morning of as Kurt crammed for a music theory midterm of his own. When he gets back to their apartment at half past three in the afternoon, his boyfriend is waiting with coffee and congratulations.

"So, how do you think it went?" Kurt looks up from the counter as he talks; he's pouring half and half into his own coffee.

"Not too shabby, I think. I don't really want to think about it, actually." Blaine cringes slightly in emphasis but ends up grinning at his boyfriend all the same. For once, he's actually feeling normal. And it feels good.

"I totally see where you're coming from. I have no fucking clue how I did with music theory. Let's just celebrate getting them over with."

There's a strangely satisfying clink of coffee mugs and an even more satisfying warmth as they drink in unison. "God, I love warm drinks in cold weather."

"I know, right? So good." Kurt moans in a way that makes Blaine flush, raising his eyebrows at him. "What? Oh, sorry for turning you on. It was an accident, honest!"

He shakes his head and swallows and crosses his legs conspicuously, making Kurt laugh. I'd listen to that laugh forever, Blaine thinks, and hopes that maybe he can.

They end up sprawled on the couch together watching Daily Show reruns, both in T-shirts and sweatpants and both very relaxed. Blaine's just starting to think that maybe the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach will fade completely after a while, that he can force it away with Kurt's chest against him and Kurt's breath on his neck and Kurt's left hand tracing over his skin mindlessly and their hands entwined on warm blankets between them, when it happens.

He feels the touch on the scar before Kurt speaks, and it jolts through him like electricity, a reminder of what he still wants and can't let himself have.

"Shit, Blaine, what's this from? It looks like it must've been really deep...jeez."

Kurt's head turns as he sits up slightly, forcing Blaine up as well. Suddenly the proximity is suffocating.

"Um... what're you talking about?" He knows exactly what Kurt is talking about. The scar he touched is the lowest one, the pinkish red line at the top of his left forearm. He's reminded sharply of the guy from the gym, the offer to find a therapist.

"This scar here. How did you get it?" Kurt's eyes are worried and inquisitive, and there's a little crease between his eyebrows that Blaine needs to eradicate. Now.

He scrambles. Any fucking excuse will do. Anything.

"Uh...I think I...I'm not sure, actually." Think, you fucking moron, think. "It was probably from when we were first unpacking my stuff. You know, with the box cutters? I think I might've nicked myself a few times when I was cutting the tape."

"Nicking yourself is kind of an understatement, Blaine. This must've bled a lot. It's weird that I didn't notice it earlier. Why didn't you mention it?"

Why did you have to notice it now? "I donno," he mutters, shrugging. "It didn't seem very important." Please forget it, he thinks, and leans over a little to press his lips to the skin of Kurt's neck as a manifestation of the thought. Mutters against his skin in his roughest (and, as he knows from experience, most distracting) voice: "It was stupid of me, really. Didn't want to worry you." Then he adds, just for emphasis, "It's not important."

Kurt chuckles breathlessly, says "Okay, you win. We don't have to talk," and then tugs on the front of Blaine's T-shirt to draw their mouths together. Blaine sighs in relief against his boyfriend's lips and pushes himself up with his arms until he's on top, pinning Kurt to the couch with his body. He hums against his boyfriends lips when he groans and makes a note in the back of his mind to put on a long sleeved shirt at the first chance he gets.

Kurt doesn't mention the scar again that night.

Thursday, November 8.

By Thursday, Blaine is starting to struggle. The post-non suicide attempt high, as he has come to think of it, is completely gone four days later, and the only thing keeping him from falling back to rock bottom is Kurt and the moments he has with him. After he leaves in the morning to go to class, it's like the darkness descends again. He can't help but think about all the work he'll have to do that night, feel the anxiety and self-disgust pressing on his chest and making him ache for a blade. A lot of it has to do with how much he's hiding. The more he hides from Kurt the more shitty he feels, which makes him want to hurt himself more, and that only gives him more crap to hide. It's a fucking cycle, and it doesn't end.

Neither does the voice in the back of his head telling him he'd be better off dead. He's not sure whether he really wants to be dead, but there's no doubt that he feels, in every atom of his being, that he deserves it. He hasn't cut himself in over a week, either, and it's starting to build. He thinks that maybe if he does, the suicidal shit will tone down a notch, but he hasn't had many chances lately with Kurt so close. He's starting to worry that he won't get any.

And he would probably feel weird about thinking about cutting himself like it's a normal thing, but by this point it kind of is. It's all that's really keeping him sane, aside from Kurt.

Of course, Thursday is another slow day, and after taking too long to wake up and fighting to pretend and look alive to Kurt as they eat breakfast, he feels like absolute shit. He has a psych lecture today, though, which makes him think that maybe it can improve, so he tries to keep at least a halfway open mind.

It probably would have improved, too. But he hadn't read the new chapter yet, and when he walks into the lecture hall and sees the words written in large capitals on the whiteboard, he almost walks right back out.

The topic for the November 8 lecture is depression.

It's actually strangely interesting, in a morbid way, to listen to what are essentially his own thoughts about himself from another person's lips. This is why he took Personality, to get a better understanding of people and what makes them do the things they do, but the lecture hits a little too deep in some places. Fuck, who's he kidding? Every word of it is like a kick to his gut. When he walks out the door it feels like he has been strung out for the world to see. He wonders if any other students can tell, but most of his energy is concentrated on ignoring the sentence that's been repeating obnoxiously in his head since his professor first said it: "One of the most important life tasks each of us faces is understanding both who we are and how we feel about ourselves."

He wonders idly on the way to their apartment if he'll ever really feel okay about himself, if this will ever really go away. And if not, can he hide it? Long enough, at least, for the scars to fade? Shit, he'll have to stop cutting at some point, too, but it feels so impossible with the anxiety thrumming through his veins that he ignores the thought completely. It crosses his mind again that breaking up would be far easier, both for him and for Kurt, really, but his cowardice—his emotions—foil him again, and deep down he knows that they need each other too much to be okay on their own. They've split up before, obviously, but they've always been happier together than apart, as Kurt has said, and the attachment, the love, has only grown over the years.

Love is keeping me alive, he thinks, but it's darker and more painful than romantic. It should be romantic. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I just be a goddamn normal human being?

He walks in the door with a heavy heart and clenched hands. His nails digging into his palms is a poor replacement for a knife, but he has nothing else. He can't give in. Not yet. If he can just last one more day, at least, maybe it'll fade. Right? Maybe I can stop.

But fuck. Fuck. Not yet. When he hears Kurt's key slide into the lock, he decides that if he gets home first tomorrow, he'll cut.

Maybe he can release enough tension to set himself back to normal. Maybe it'll be the last time, he tells himself, because it feels a little less like giving in. It feels good, and it makes it a little easier to smile when Kurt opens the door.

I'll cut tomorrow. That's what I'll do.

Friday, November 9.

The if in getting home before Kurt was more for his conscience than anything. Kurt is staying late because of a performance he and a few other students have been working on, so he shouldn't be home until around four thirty. Blaine gets there at just a few minutes before three thirty after rushing away from campus. He tries not to let the guilt swallow him up. It's the first time he has really thought through it before slicing himself open, and it feels almost as bad as cheating, somehow. Sneaking around behind Kurt's back, doing something he'd hate to know about—he can't even let himself think about it.

As it turns out, he doesn't really need to worry about that. He needs the pain so fucking badly that once he has pulled out a razor, all other thought just dissolves. The press of the metal against his skin is heaven even as self-loathing simmers in his gut along with it, and it's like getting drunk the way the blood bubbles up and spills over. You deserve this you deserve this you deserve this repeats in his head like a mantra, along with a few choice insults and collections of swear words, as he slashes and slashes and slashes again at his upper left arm, and he loses track of time. Ten minutes pass—along with a significant cluster of fifteen or twenty cuts, give or take a few—before he has even thought about leaving the bathroom to glance at a clock.

He has dragged himself out of the punishment and self-hatred by around 3:45, but (unsurprisingly) it sticks to him like blood for a while after. He doesn't even bother to wipe away the streams of red on his left arm, safe in the knowledge that Kurt won't be home for at least another half hour.

He ends up sitting shirtless on the couch and waiting for the blood to dry, staring at the assortment of cuts he's created. It's incredibly gratifying to watch the blood leaking out of the lines he has drawn, and he focuses on the throbbing pain until he feels nothing else, until it drums in his ears like his own heartbeat.

Then he hears a key in the lock.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

Within seconds Blaine is in their bedroom, scrambling for the first shirt he sees, which turns out to be a white V-neck tee that he can only hope is clean. A glance at the digital clock beside their bed tells him it's only 4:00, but he scolds himself anyway. He shouldn't have been so careless acting like he had all the time in the world and Kurt is going to notice the darkness in his eyes because he always does and why is he such a fucking useless moron that he can't even cut himself right and—

And then Kurt is there.

Everything is going to be fine.

"Hey, Kurt, what's up?" Blaine has managed to make it back to the couch, and is leaning on the back of it as casually as he possibly can.

"I got out early." Kurt flashes a wry smile and shrugs as he sets his book bag down by the door. "Apparently we didn't need to practice Dancing Queen as much as we thought."

"Huh. Well, it is Dancing Queen." He shifts to one side a little bit, leaning more on his left arm to try to keep it out of Kurt's direct line of sight. It's still burning like hell, but the pain isn't so much good anymore as it is annoying. It doesn't belong in this context. "There's only so much you can do with the original number."

"You have a point." Kurt yawns and stretches as he walks into the kitchen to pull out a glass of water. When he disappears around the corner Blaine panics for a second, his mind racing to recall where he'd left the razor, but he calms down when he remembers that he already washed it off and hid it away in his dresser. "So," Kurt calls from behind the door of the fridge, "how'd your day go? Is Calc just as annoying as always?"

I finally cut myself for the first time in weeks, he thinks offhandedly. But you got home early so I haven't cleaned up all the blood yet. "It wasn't so bad, actually. I think I'm getting the hang of it, at least a little bit. Zach isn't making fun of me quite as much as he was last week."

Kurt laughs brightly as he closes the fridge, and a moment later he emerges from the kitchen with a cup of water. "I guess that's a good sign." He takes a sip, and then adds: "Oh, and I've been meaning to ask you whether you wanted to...you're bleeding."

"What?" Blaine forces a confused expression onto his face. "No I'm not." No I'm not no I'm not no I'm not.

"Yes you are. Your shirt." Kurt sets the cup down on the coffee table and starts to walk around the couch, looking concerned. A quick look down sends Blaine's heart into double time: the blood has started soaking through. There's a spattering of red on the sheer white sleeve of the T-shirt he'd pulled on so hastily, and a few darker red lines are visible beneath the sleeve, having dried on his skin after dripping down from the cuts. Why didn't he think of this when he was looking for a shirt? It's a fucking white T-shirt! How fucking stupid—fuck fuck fuck.

Kurt is just a few feet away now, having stopped before getting too close, probably because of how tense Blaine has become, ready to run away. To run and run and never ever look back, never admit to anything. "Blaine, come on." He looks worried, maybe even angry, his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw tighter than usual. "What happened? Did someone do that to you?"

Yes. I did, because I don't deserve you.

"No, no—of course not. It's probably just a stain that was already there. I don't remember doing anything to myself or—" Great fucking word choice, Anderson. "Or anything. It must just be a stain." He pulls at the sleeve to cover more of the red and clenches his jaw when it makes the cuts sting. He'll change into another shirt, that's all, he'll get another one and slap on a Band-Aid or two and it'll be fine—

"Blaine." Kurt waits, and sure enough, Blaine looks up after a few seconds. Once their eyes meet, he finds himself unable to look away. He can feel Kurt searching, seeing right through him, realizing that he's lying, trying to figure out the truth and coming up short. He wants to disappear more than he thinks he ever has in his life. And that's saying something. "Blaine, it's okay. You don't have to—I'm not gonna be mad because you're hurt." His eyes are so earnest. Blaine is starting to feel slightly nauseous. Making myself sick. "Just, please. Let me see."

Blaine opens his mouth to reply and promptly shuts it. Without even realizing what he's doing he takes a step back and clamps his right hand over the blood to hide hide hide it. Somehow he manages to force his voice into a resolute calm through all the fear and self-hatred and shame. "No, it's really nothing. I'll just change." He looks away. "I'm fine. I'll just—"

He cuts himself off to turn around. Within seconds he's in their bedroom, searching for a sweater that he can hide in. He just needs to find something to pull on over the blood, then it'll be okay, Kurt will buy it. He has to buy it.

But he doesn't get very far. Blaine could never make himself push Kurt away, and a firm hand on his shoulder freezes him on the spot. Before he can even begin to object, Kurt has pushed him down to sit at the edge of their bed and is holding him there firmly by his shoulders. Then he bends down to look him in the eye.

"Blaine." Kurt's voice is gentle, but his eyes are bright and nervous and unrelenting. "You're going to sit here, and I'm going to look at your arm. Okay?"

Numbly, Blaine realizes there's no getting out of this. If he tries to put it off any longer, Kurt will only push back harder. He blinks a few times, bites his tongue, stares a hole in the carpet below his feet, and finally relents with a soft "Okay."

His sleeve is pulled up, and he hisses as it comes unstuck from the open wounds on his skin. There's a murmured apology and then a sharp gasp from above him. "Oh my god."

He closes his eyes, wanting more than anything for this to be a dream. Fingers trail carefully over his skin, from his upper arm all the way down to the pit of his elbow, and he shivers instinctively at the touch. He can feel Kurt holding his breath, and when he finally opens his eyes again, he sees his boyfriend's jaw working rapidly in the corner of his vision. He stares harder at the carpet, wishing he could sink into it. Finally, after what feels like ten minutes but what is probably less than one:

"You've been cutting yourself? Fuck, Blaine." Blaine can practically hear Kurt's mind racing, trying to piece together an explanation. He doesn't dare affirm the question, but he can't really deny it either. He feels something inside of him sink, sink, sink, like a rock to the bottom of a lake. A tiny part of him had been hoping Kurt wouldn't realize what the cuts really were right away, but that hope is dashed now. He can lie indirectly, maybe, but not like this.

He concentrates on the movement of Kurt's chest as he takes a deep breath. In the back of his mind he realizes that he's been biting his tongue so hard he's almost drawing blood. Suddenly, the solution occurs to him. It's almost painfully obvious.

"Please, Kurt, just...hear me out, okay? It's—" He swallows, trying to keep the hoarseness out of this voice. "It's not really a big deal." He forces himself to look up into his boyfriend's eyes, but looks back down at his chest and the green and brown cardigan he's wearing after a few seconds. He can't stand the watery blue irises, the abject worry and disbelief swimming in them. Fuck, he sees right through me. But he goes on anyway. "It's just a coping mechanism. I do it when I get stressed. It's nothing to worry about, okay?" Another glance up, his eyes screaming please just let this go. "I just didn't want you to worry, that's all. I knew you would if you found out."

Kurt chuckles, but it's an empty sound. "Not a big deal? What part of this isn't a big deal?" Blaine purses his lips, trying to push down the tightness in his chest. "You're fucking cutting yourself, Blaine! And what do you mean, if I found out? Did you think you could hide this forever? How long have you been doing this to yourself?"

Blaine bites his lip now, clenching his jaw, but it doesn't do anything to push away the anxiety. Abruptly he notices that he's shaking his head minutely, but he can't summon the willpower to make himself stop. Just stop, stop asking, leave me to my fucking self pity, fuck fuck why am I so fucking messed up this wasn't supposed to happen—

"Hey." Kurt sinks down beside him on the bed and gently reaches out to cup his jaw, making him meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, but you can't trivialize this, okay? Don't try to pretend it's nothing, because it's not. I mean, look at your arm, all the blood...this is not okay."

"I know," he murmurs exhaustedly, no longer even trying to avoid meeting his boyfriend's eyes. "I know it's not. I'm sorry, I just—I can't stand you seeing me like this, Kurt." His voice breaks at the end, and he ducks his head in shame. As an afterthought: "And it's really not as bad as—"

"Blaine."

"It really isn't, though! This was supposed to be the last time. I was gonna stop, I swear. I was getting better, finding other ways to deal with the stress, with school and everything." He clenches his jaw and swears at himself in his head. How did he let himself sound so broken? He can feel Kurt's gaze on him and it makes the pressure in his chest worse, makes him want to push his boyfriend away and run until his legs don't work anymore. There's nowhere to hide, and it's hell.

"It wasn't just the stress, was it? I know you, Blaine. Don't lie to me. It's not gonna work this time." Kurt's hand presses worriedly over his where it's clenched on the comforter between them.

But I want to. I can't fucking stand this, Kurt. Can't stand you knowing what a fuckup I am. But he's frozen. He bites his lip and shakes his head and can hardly breathe, let alone speak. After a second he manages to move to stand up, but a hand on his own tugs him back as soon as he's on his feet. Reluctantly, he turns back.

"Please, just talk to me."

He can't stand the desperate, pleading look in Kurt's eyes. "I'm sorry, I will, I just...I need to clean this up, okay? I'll be right back, I swear, I just," he falters, pulling his hand from Kurt's. "I'm sorry."

He manages to persuade his legs into movement, but it's like walking through sand. After a few seconds he's made it into their bathroom and closed the door behind him. He leans his palms against the counter and tries not to be sick, choking back a sob. Safe. It feels like he's floating in the brightness of the room, all the light reflecting off tile in a surreal way, like this could be a dream if he wished for it hard enough. He wants more than anything to get a razor and carve apologies into his skin for another hour.

But he can't, because Kurt.

Kurt fucking knows.

Blaine can't stop shaking, can't get his breathing back to normal, can't even fucking move, let alone attempt to clean away the blood. But he's not about to ask for help.

It turns out he doesn't need to. After what can't be much longer than a minute, a voice calls brokenly through the door: "Blaine? Please, I know you're hurting. Can I come in?"

He grits his teeth and struggles to swallow. "Fine," he says thickly, "come in."

He hears the door open, feels Kurt rest one hesitant hand on his shoulder and the other on the counter beside Blaine's white-knuckled one. "Hey, just breathe, okay? Just calm down. We'll talk later, don't worry about that, I don't care; I just want you to be okay. Just...you're fine, Blaine, just breathe." Distantly he wonders if Kurt even knows what he's saying, but the words don't really matter. Just the sound of his voice and his presence alone has already made him less tense.

After a moment Kurt turns on the tap, and then there's a tissue against Blaine's skin turning from white to pink. He hisses automatically at the sting and glances up at the mirror, focusing on the mess he has made of his arm. Then his eyes meet Kurt's in their reflection, apprehensive and bright blue-green. "Sorry," Kurt mutters, biting his lip as he lightly presses the tissue back against Blaine's skin, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He winces at the apology and looks away. He wishes he could just dig his fingers into the cuts and never let the pain go. "It's fine."

Once the blood is mostly washed off, there's a pause. Blaine's breathing is shallow as he feels Kurt's fingers start to skim gently over the lines on his arm. "Jesus, Blaine. There are a lot of scars here." He nods minutely and turns to lean against the counter with his left arm, facing his boyfriend in defeat. From the corner of his eye he sees their reflection, Kurt standing straight and Blaine slouched, like all the life has been driven out of him. Sounding bewildered, Kurt adds: "I can't believe I didn't notice them."

He shrugs. "I've been...really careful about keeping them hidden." His voice cracks a little, so he pauses, then adds: "I didn't want you to see."

"What, because I'd make you stop?"

He knows the anger isn't really directed at him, but it still makes Blaine cringe. "No, I just...I was ashamed. Wouldn't you be?"

Kurt takes in a shaky breath, and when Blaine looks up he sees him with his hand over his mouth, watery eyes fixed to the collection of lines on Blaine's left arm. Fuck. Kurt only does this when he's really upset, and Blaine hates himself more than ever for making him feel like this. "Blaine, why would you—do you really feel that shitty about yourself, that you'd—" Blaine's eyes widen. It's only after Kurt grabs his right wrist that he realizes he has taken a step back. "No, I'm sorry, I...we don't have to talk about it right now, I'm just..." Kurt falls silent, hesitating, and then takes a step closer, leaving about a foot between them. Blaine bites his lip as his boyfriend gently pulls his left arm up under the bathroom lights.

"Is the one I noticed before..." Kurt reaches down to touch the thick pink line on his forearm. "Was that you too?" Blaine nods again quickly, his jaw working, and when he glances up at Kurt the concern and anguish on his beautiful features is like a stab to the gut. Fucking worthless failure, god, Kurt, you don't know how much I really deserve it deserve it deserve—"Hey, look at me."

And he does, finally. He really looks at his boyfriend, letting his gaze settle on his wide, worried blue eyes and the crease between his thin eyebrows and his usually perfect brown hair that's mussed up from his hands in it, starting to fall into his face (something that only happens when he's really fucking worried), and the tight line to his jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows slowly, waiting, waiting because Blaine has fucked up his day, his life.

"Fuck, I'm sorry." He looks into Kurt's eyes and hopes he sounds sincere, hopes he can convince him that he's alright. "I'm a fucking idiot, can't even deal with normal stress the right way. I never wanted you to find out. I thought I was getting better, and this was supposed to be the last time and everything would be fine. And it is. It's really not as bad as you think; you don't have to worry. I'm stopping, okay?" Kurt is biting his lip, and Blaine can practically see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. "Kurt?"

"Okay, you're not a fucking idiot, for starters." Blaine chuckles, avoiding the blinding warmth in Kurt's eyes. "And I'm glad that you're stopping, or trying, and I'm gonna help you as much as I can. But you can't just keep pretending, Blaine." He cringes, but Kurt plows on: "You always do that, try to cover things up and act like nothing's wrong, but you can't just suddenly be okay after this. I want to talk more—later, but really talk, Blaine. I mean, this has obviously been going on for a while, and just, god. I didn't realize you had such a low opinion of yourself."

"It's not that I..." He swallows, faltering. Pathetic. But lying isn't really an option at this point.

"I'm not judging you. I just want to help."

"Yeah, I know. And I really appreciate it, I do, but right now can we please just..." Just, something else. Anything else.

"Yeah, no, I'll bandage you up and then maybe you can put on a shirt so I can stop ogling you, and we'll, you know. Watch mindless TV or something for a while. It is Friday, after all. Does that sound good?"

"Yeah, it does, actually." Thank you, he wants to say, but Kurt probably sees the gratefulness in his grin.

When they leave the bathroom a few minutes later the weight on Blaine's chest is gone, at least temporarily. Kurt always makes him feel better, of course, more real, more alive and worthy. But now the truth, however hateful, is out in the open, and though the thought of talking is a daunting one, he thinks that maybe Kurt will be able to help. No matter how little Blaine deserves it.

That is, if I can make it through this weekend, he thinks, but forces the thought down and replaces it with another; one that he can almost let himself believe is true:

Everything is going to be fine.