Title: "Until My Dying Breath" -- Chapter Three
Warnings: Vampire AU with all the unpleasantness that entails. Violence, bloodplay, blood drinking, sexualized violence, grotesque descriptions, dark setting, fear, minor past character death. Warnings on a chapter by chapter basis.
Length: 12,200-ish for this chapter
Story Summary: On his way home from campus to his apartment on the Upper East Side, Blaine Anderson happens to come across a beautiful young man with bewitching blue eyes. It doesn’t take long, though, for everything Blaine thought was real to fall to pieces. For his world to dissolve into a twisted dance of fear and heat and blood.
Notes: Hello, lovely ones! :) I'm procrastinating so badly by posting this, but I'm just excited to share more! Thank you SO much for reading and leaving feedback, as always. Also, here is my tumblr for anyone who might be interested. <3
For the next few hours, Blaine can’t think. Can’t speak, can barely breathe for how empty he feels. Sick and stupid and guilty, so guilty. So incredibly guilty that it strains at his chest and weighs him down and hurts like a wound every time his mind drags him back to them, to what he did. To the two police officers whose lives he handed over like a sacrifice for his own sorry skin.
Leaving the apartment isn’t an option. Intellectually, he is aware that he must be safe in here. Or at least as safe as he possibly can be after last night. If Kurt was capable of forcing his way inside, Blaine knows with a sureness that echoes down to his bones that he... that it... wouldn’t have hesitated. Would have torn apart the door, the walls, the whole building in order to get to him.
Not that Blaine deserves to be safe, not anymore. What he deserves is for Kurt to tear into him like he did those police, ripping into their skin and draining them dry and smearing his hands in their blood for fun. Blaine traded their safety for his own life, made the worst kind of devil’s bargain. He doesn’t warrant the protection of his apartment anymore, not after what he did. Not after what he caused.
They were innocent. Innocent workers doing their jobs, trying to protect the people of this city. And Blaine sent them right into the monster’s lair like the stupid, stupid idiot that he is. They would never have had a chance, he knows that now. Even armed with guns and strength and training, how could they face up against something that could snap a man’s wrists backwards as though it was nothing? How could they go up against a creature that shouldn’t exist – can’t exist – and have any hope of coming out of it alive?
Fucking idiot. Fucking naive, selfish idiot.
There is a dull, throbbing ache in Blaine’s chest that won’t go away. As though something is pressing against his insides. He feels cold, almost. Dull with self-hatred and sickness as the minutes tick by and the sun moves across the sky in an infinitesimal drag, time stretching out and distorting into the single longest day of Blaine’s entire life.
He spends hours watching the media coverage of the murder, eyes glued to the set and unable to force himself to move. It is as though a heavy weight is pressing down on him, keeping him in place. Making him watch for the people whose lives he ended. One of the murdered officers had children, he learns. He wonders how old they are. He wonders how they found out.
Around four o’clock a statement comes on from one of the officer’s wives. She is a pretty woman in her mid-forties; brown-haired and slender and wearing a dark blue button-up for the press release. In the middle of her brief statement about unspeakable tragedy and his lifelong commitment to the citizens of this country, her bottom lip begins to tremble. When the words catch in her throat and she breaks down, her face gets washed out by the bright white flash of a hundred cameras.
That same picture of her, face crumpled and sobbing into a torn Kleenex with mascara smudged and dark around her eyes, gets circulated for the rest of the day. Round and round and over and over, that same still photo of immeasurable grief and suffering.
Every single word and picture and statement impacts his chest with dull resignation; horror and guilt that Blaine simply cannot experience anymore. He can’t feel it, not really; his mind is thick, swimming in a daze of sickly regret that won’t break. New pieces of information register like an echo or a whisper or a flash, another rock atop an already insurmountable mountain.
The initial shock and sickness wears away, after a while. Boiled down and shoved deep inside, because how can one person feel this much? How can someone go on living with so much pain and fear and regret eating at them from the inside out?
The right thing to do – the moral, upstanding, honourable thing to do – would be to open the door and leave. To walk out into the middle of the road, throw his arms up into the air and start yelling for Kurt to come and get him. To bare his throat to the air and damn the consequences, because he’s already messed so much up. Already ruined so many lives with his own ignorance.
The human need to survive, however, is a funny thing. It must be stronger than he is, because Blaine can’t make himself leave the sanctuary of his home.
It is fear of pain and death and suffering that keeps him inside, cowardice and weakness, and Blaine hates himself for the protection even as he refuses to budge. He tries to tell himself that Kurt doesn’t deserve the satisfaction – doesn’t deserve to win so easily, to make the sacrifice of the two officers he got killed be in vain – but that reasoning is weak at best.
Deep down, Blaine is aware that fear for his own life is what keeps him tucked up inside much more than pride ever could. The knowledge sickens him.
After his fifth straight hour of watching local news, Blaine finally manages to force himself up from the ground. On autopilot he showers, changes into new clothes, eats a few mouthfuls of leftover pasta from the fridge. (He’s running out of food, though, already had to go shopping yesterday. Can’t hide in here forever.) When the dizziness he hadn’t even realizes was there during his hours-long trance is gone, Blaine takes a deep breath – before sitting down and opening his laptop in order to research a creature that shouldn’t exist.
It has been made very, very clear to him that looking for help in the usual places is completely out of the question. That he’s going to be alone, in this. Seeking help can only get other people – maybe even people he loves – killed; Kurt wouldn’t hesitate in tearing down Blaine’s world in order to get at him.
So what Blaine needs more than anything else, now, is information. He desperately needs knowledge and facts and answers if he wants to have even the slightest hope of finding a way to escape the monster that has set its eyes on him.
Some part of him half-expects to find the information right away; easy and straightforward and all laid out for him in one place. Perhaps a chart of strengths and weaknesses, or a list of debunked myths to give him an idea of what he’s up against. Some secret-but-not-hard-to-find site brimming with everything he could possibly need to know about vampires.
The reality, of course, is nothing quite so idyllic.
The entire process is frustrating, and fruitless, and his initial foray doesn’t reveal anything even vaguely authentic-looking. Despite the shower and food, Blaine’s mind remains determinedly dull and frayed with self-hatred and guilt and slowly simmering anger. The words on the screen barely even register half the time, his concentration is so completely shot to hell.
But the words he does manage to process... it’s all ridiculous. Useless, fake information. Everything is fetish clubs and ridiculous-looking covens with pictures of people dressed up in elaborate Victorian-style Halloween costumes with coloured contact lenses. Blaine finds pictures from television shows and movies, and excerpts from books so ridiculous he’s never even entertained the thought of opening them, and long rambling Wikipedia articles with information so vague and changeable and diverse that there is absolutely nothing to be learnt. Searching “real vampires” results in hopelessly hokey amateur websites that look as though they’ve been designed by a twelve-year-old, and “vampire lore” gives him lists of literary tropes a mile long – less than half of which sound like anything close to something resembling Kurt.
All of it makes Blaine wish desperately hard for a well-stocked room full of books. Real books, proper books written by respectable people who know what they’re talking about. Each one musty and old and full of actual information that means something, not the fetish fantasies of a million teenagers sprawled out across the pages of the internet. A proper online archive would be acceptable, too, though. Peer-reviewed articles and citations and facts, but there’s nothing of the sort to be found. Which – of course there isn’t, it’s absurd and ridiculous and completely unbelievable and if Blaine hadn’t seen it with his own eyes...
A few items and phrases pop out at him – their repetition notable, or something that sounds similar to something Kurt has done or could explain one of his actions – but overall, the experience is little more than an exercise in failure.
Entranced by his pathetic attempt at research, Blaine sits and reads and refreshes and digs as the day wears on. He works for hours, perched on the couch as the sun creeps slowly and steadily downwards outside his window. Tucking itself behind the tall buildings as the outside world begins to fade and darken and deepen into something much more dangerous. Much more sinister.
There is absolutely no guarantee that Kurt will be summoned by the darkened sky, no matter what the steadily increasing anxiety in Blaine’s chest attempts to tell him. That element could be a myth, or a wives’ tale, or something thought up to discourage little children from sneaking out late at night. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything that Blaine has only ever seen Kurt with his features dimmed by dark and lit by streetlamps. Conceivably, it could be a coincidence.
There are no coincidences, says the critically-trained part of Blaine’s mind. Only patterns waiting to be spotted.
It would be something straight out of a classic monster movie, if it turns out to be true. The kind of films that are so ingrained into Blaine’s consciousness through popular culture osmosis that he can’t help but let them influence his perception. He doesn’t want to let the possibly fictitious ideas of famous filmmakers infiltrate his head too much, however: doesn’t want to get sloppy or cock-sure and get himself killed by thinking he knows everything from watching a couple of black and white thrillers.
But the fact remains that he has only ever seen Kurt at night.
It makes Blaine feel hopeful, because it’s impossible for him to stay in here forever. He needs to go out at some point for supplies, at least. As much as Blaine likes to pride himself on having a fairly decent lifestyle considering his youth, his fridge is very much a student fridge. All condiments and nothing of substance, not enough to live on. Takeout won’t keep him healthy, and he can’t let himself waste away when he’ll need all the strength he can muster.
But completely aside from that... he has a life. Family, friends. A goal. An education he’s put thousands of hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars into. The thought of dropping all of his hard work without a backwards glance – abandoning it all in the dirt like it doesn’t matter, like all that time didn’t mean anything – leaves him feeling queasy and rudderless and perhaps even more scared than he is of Kurt himself.
Regardless: at the very least, Blaine will need to leave the apartment in order to get food.
And at best, he can try to run.
If Kurt doesn’t come until after dark, Blaine decides, that will just have to be enough of a confirmation for him. If it’s true that Kurt can only chase him during the night, and he can’t find any way to fight him? Then perhaps the worst case scenario will be to pack a bag and pick a direction and run as fast as he can at daybreak one day when Kurt least expects it. He stores away the idea to think on for later.
The sun sinks down lower, and lower, as the sky edges out into a husky, cloudy grey-blue. Sliding into night as the lights of the city prickle out loud and clear against the darkness.
Eventually, Blaine can no longer stand to put on the farce of research; he’s so anxious it hurts, and he hasn’t been able to comprehend the words in front of him for over half an hour. He closes his laptop, picks up the sturdy wooden chair that is the only other seating in the living room besides the couch, and walks it over to rest in front of the door. He sits down, takes a deep breath – and waits.
He tries his hardest to smooth his emotions over, to not feel anything. Not now, not when he doesn’t know whether or not anything will come of this. In case Kurt doesn’t show. Blaine’s emotions are strapped down and held back until further notice. Everything is pushed back and held fast just in case this all comes to nothing.
It is only twenty minutes after the sun has fully dipped below the skyline, however, that a noise comes from outside. The tiniest shift in the air, almost a change of feel more than it is a sound, and then –
It’s Kurt’s voice, unmistakable for the tone just as much as for the content of the greeting. The sweet tones drift through the thin wood of the door, high and cooing on the stillness of the air, and Blaine tries not to jump in his seat at the sudden shock of it. No footsteps, no real indications of arrival. Just... Kurt, there in an instant, dark and teasing and right on the other side of his door.
Blaine has never realized just how thin the door is, either. He’s always been able to hear his neighbours coming and going without ever having to strain his ears, yes, but this. He can hear Kurt’s breathing. Slow, and deep, and tinged with excitement. All at once, Blaine feels frozen in his seat from the horrible intimacy of it. The closeness, even though he can’t actually see Kurt’s face.
There is a deep inhalation of breath from outside, followed by a tiny noise of amusement. “You waited up for me, Blaine. How sweet.”
The words are like a slap to the face that sends all the suppression and empty numbness of the day flying out the window.
Stay calm, Blaine tries to tell himself, but even in his own mind the voice is shaking. This is what he wants. He’s trying to get a rise out of you. He can’t go out in the sun, focus on that instead.
But it doesn’t help. All of the anger, the frustration, the helplessness and sickly guilt swell up hard in Blaine’s chest. His fists ball up at his sides as wrenches himself out of his frozen state, getting quickly to his feet and making the chair scrape unpleasantly against the floor.
“Stop it,” hisses Blaine, eyes fixed on the door. As though Kurt can meet his gaze through its solidity. “Don’t you dare, you’re – how can you be so casual about this? You murdered them.”
“I told you I would,” says Kurt calmly, a smile in his voice. “I was just following through with my promises, lovely one. Isn’t that a good thing?”
The gentle scrape of nails on the doorframe cuts off Blaine’s response before his mouth can even form words, that awful sound hitting him right in the base of the stomach like a Pavlovian response.
“... I see you got my note,” whispers Kurt, voice low and husky in some parody of intimacy.
Blaine shudders, shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t even care.” At his sides, his hands clench into fists. “They had families. You ripped those people out of their lives, and it doesn’t even matter to you. You... you think it’s funny.” A small noise of disgust escapes from his throat. The word on the tip of his tongue is overblown and overdramatic, but in this moment nothing else feels more apt. “You’re evil.”
“I’m not evil, Blaine, I’m just not human. There’s a difference.” Kurt makes a fed-up noise in the back of his throat. He sounds flippant, dismissive. The door shifts and creaks as though weight is being pressed against it from the outside. Kurt, leaning his weight against it casually.
“Enough about me, though,” Kurt says, voice returning to its usual conversational highness. “Let’s talk about all of the things you’ve been doing that I find hard to swallow.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Blaine, trying to sound contemptuous. It comes off sounding more uncertain than anything.
The door creaks as Kurt’s weight shifts while he chuckles, high and clear and awful in the night.
“An anonymous tip, Blaine? Really?” More chuckling, trailing off into something sinister. “What are you, twelve? Have you been getting all of your strategies from television shows? Silly boy, don’t you know that they record anonymous tips? They can trace them. Find their way back to you lickity-split, and slap a pair of handcuffs on those lovely wrists for sending two people to their deaths.”
Blaine opens his mouth, but no words come out. Horror is winding up slowly in the pit of his stomach, and he mentally chastises himself again for being a complete idiot. Of course he knew that, of course. That was common knowledge as far back as middle school; the reason you didn’t prank call the police, because they could find you later.
But no one has called him today. No one at all, and it’s a high-profile case. Wouldn’t someone have tried to get a hold of him by now if they had his number?
“You’re lucky I’m here to watch out for you, pretty thing,” Kurt continues smoothly, a self-satisfied tone to his voice. “The deaths might be making front pages, but it seems people are a bit more hesitant to talk about the unexplainable break-in into dispatch last night, or how their entire night’s worth of records somehow got wiped. Very embarrassing. Doesn’t really inspire confidence in the system.”
It feels as though a bucket of cold water has been dumped over Blaine’s head. His breath slams hard in his chest, a choked exclamation getting lost in his throat.
“You didn’t,” Blaine whispers, horrible suspicion clenching at his chest. “You couldn’t, you – they’d know. God, please – tell me you didn’t hurt anyone else, please –”
“No one else died, if that’s what you’re wondering,” answers Kurt in a bored tone of voice. The idle scritch-scritch-scritch of a hand up and down the door. “A few people got knocked around. What does it really matter?”
“You’re lying, they have cameras, they’d know –”
“I’m not very photogenic,” Kurt jeers, enunciating the words slowly and huffing. “Honestly, Blaine, what did you think was going to happen when you made that call? Tell me, honestly, I’m dying to hear.” He puts on a simpering tone. “Did you think the police would swoop in and save the day and make the big bad wolf go away again? Did you honestly think there wouldn’t be repercussions?” He laughs, high and sneering and biting. “You’re a privileged, stupid little boy.”
“Shut the hell up,” snaps Blaine, righteous fury and anger and guiltguiltguiltguiltguilt making him bolder than he is. “Stop it, stop talking.”
“Why?” asks Kurt. “Hitting a little too close to home?”
“You’re a monster,” says Blaine with conviction, lips tight and heart pounding in his chest. “You’re a creature out of a storybook. A nightmare. You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I, now?”
“You don’t –”
“What brand is your coat, Blaine?”
There is a pause.
“What?” chokes Blaine, feeling thrown off and wrong-footed and confused. “I don’t – what does that have to do with anything, you’re –”
“The heavy black one you had on last night. What brand is it?” There is a steadiness in Kurt’s voice that doesn’t shake even with the ridiculous content of the sentence. He doesn’t say anything else, just waits silently for Blaine to respond as though it’s a question that matters. As though he hasn’t killed three people, and wants to kill another. Wants to kill him.
“I don’t know, ” says Blaine incredulously after it becomes apparent that Kurt is not going to speak until he responds. He throws up his hands in the air, furious and lost and irritated. “What does it matter what –?”
“I’m guessing you got it as a present,” continues Kurt smoothly, sounding almost haughty with certainty. “From a family member, probably a parent. On Christmas, or your birthday, or something else completely typical. And you were grateful because it could keep you warm, and it looked nice, and it meant that the person you got it from cared about you. Does that sound about right?”
“I... what?” says Blaine quietly, feeling cold and blinking at the accuracy. “How...?” But Kurt cuts him off before he can continue.
“That coat is from the Marc Jacobs 2015 winter line, Blaine. It’s designer, and expensive, and a status symbol you’ve been throwing around without even realizing it. It cost over seven hundred dollars, but I bet you never even checked the label, did you?”
“I... I don’t...” he says weakly, feeling very much at sea.
“Privileged and stupid, I could tell from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” Kurt laughs, a hint of something playful and almost... affectionate?... seeping into his tone. “Don’t be hurt, beautiful thing. I find it endearing despite my better judgement.”
There is a small, wet sound that Blaine’s ears can barely pick up, and all at once he realizes that Kurt is licking his lips. When he speaks again, his voice is darker. More heated.
“And...” Kurt murmurs softly, stroking a hand over the wood and humming in the back of his throat. “... I think you know just how much I’d like to lay eyes on you again, lovely one. So warm and bright and human, Blaine. So mine.”
A long silence hangs in the air, after that. Heavy and impenetrable and full of too many hidden implications and secret meanings for Blaine to fully understand.
“Why do you say things like that?” asks Blaine eventually, shaking his head and inhaling deeply. His voice sounds small and shaky to his own ears.
It is impossible to maintain the heat of his outrage; it slips through his fingers like water, pouring out onto the ground and impossible to retrieve. He can’t talk to someone like this, there’s no point. Kurt evades and mocks and doesn’t take anything seriously, and it’s like trying to argue with a brick wall.
“You...” Blaine begins, swallowing hard and crossing his arms in front of himself. “You kill people, and mock me, and then act as though... as though you like me. When all you want from me is... is....”
He can’t bring himself to speak the words out loud, though. Can’t talk about killing and being killed because it makes him remember the dream. Makes him remember how it felt to be trapped, pinned down beneath Kurt on the bed with his throat torn into and spilling out hot blood as Kurt lapped it up. The way Kurt hadn’t stopped fucking into him as he drank. The splashing heat deep inside, Kurt’s groans as he sucked at the wound and Blaine’s world went dizzy and everything hurt before it started to fade and dim and dull around the edges.
“Of course I like you, Blaine,” says Kurt, sounding low and carefully neutral in a way that makes Blaine shiver. “I like you more than you can possibly imagine.”
“Then leave me alone,” whispers Blaine pleadingly, feeling so alone and twisted up and with no idea of what to do. He lets out a shaky breath, raking a hand through his messy curls and blinking hard. His glasses feel more fogged up than they should for the temperature. “Please, you just – you killed people, and hurt them, and I – I can’t –”
“Don’t be upset at me for doing what comes naturally, sweetheart,” says Kurt quickly, seeming to shift effortlessly from coyness to ice. “Blame yourself for making it happen.”
“No,” says Blaine, trying to bite the word out with force and spite and hatred – but it gets lost in his throat, choked up, and winds up coming out as little more than a whisper. A plaintive denial, reedy and weak and childish. Guilt flares in his chest at the reminder, searing and awful and unfathomable inside of him. He wraps his arms around himself, blinking hard and shaking his head. “No, no, no –”
“You did,” insists Kurt, complete conviction dripping from the words. He sounds dangerous, and sure, and ever-so-slightly amused. “You knew this could happen and you called them anyways. Sent them right to the beast without a hope. You were the one who killed them; I just did the heavy lifting.” His laugh dances on the air, high and chiming and sharp. “You’re so selfish, Blaine. I love it.”
“Stop it. Stop it, please...”
“You are, though. Isn’t that wonderful? So very selfish, pretty thing.” Kurt hums, mocking and insidious. “I like that about you. You try to act so nice and kind with those big puppy-dog eyes, but underneath it all there’s something ruthless about you, isn’t there?”
“Don’t.” Blaine is begging now, voice quiet and his face screwed up and hot. The guilt is a ball of terrible heat inside of him, hot and flaring and he doesn’t want to look at it. Doesn’t want to have to think about it because he knows it’s his fault. He feels so small, turned in on himself, and he has never felt more utterly helpless and exposed. More vulnerable. Not even out in the street, or running away, or during Kurt’s hissed threats last night. He swipes a hand over his eyes to smear away the wetness before it can slide down his cheek. “I didn’t mean to, I...”
Blaine tries to suppress the sob, but it’s no good. It’s all too much, too awful, and he falls back into the chair feebly as it all swells up in his throat like bile. Everything is blurry and twisted up and tight, and he hates himself so much for this. For not being able to be strong. His face feels wet.
“I’m sorry,” Blaine hears himself say out loud, voice small and scared and useless. He has no idea who he’s talking to; the dead police officers, the dispatch workers, himself. Kurt. He can’t shove the tears down fast enough, now. Can barely feel them over the horrible buzzing in his ears and the terrible, terrible blame sitting heavy in his stomach. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please...”
“Shhh,” Kurt murmurs in a hushed, private tone. The strange noise of comfort seems to roll off his lips as easily as anything else. The slide of his hand over the door is clearly audible; smooth and soft. Tiny circles, like a person would rub into someone’s back. He almost sounds... sad, but no, that’s not it. Not quite. “Shhh, beautiful thing, it’s okay. It’s all okay.”
For a stark and sudden moment, all Blaine wants to do is throw the door open and step outside. To let Kurt shove him up against a wall and sink his teeth in, to make him hurt in the way he hurts inside. To kill him right here, right now, because he deserves it more than those poor people ever could.
“I had to teach you a lesson, pretty one,” coos Kurt soothingly, and he must be pressed right up against the door because he sounds so close. Blaine flinches, squeezing his arms tight around himself at that term of endearment again as though to physically ward it away. “I had to show you what happens when you don’t play by the rules. If you bring other people into this, Blaine, they get hurt. They die. You don’t want that to happen again, do you?”
“No,” Blaine assures him quickly, feeling so completely defeated it’s almost like not feeling anything at all. He shakes his head, curls twisting weakly around his ears. “Please.”
There is a long, considering pause.
“Good boy,” murmurs Kurt in approval, and Blaine crumples.
His head falls into his hands in defeat at the sweet, rewarding words that are wrong, so wrong, so awful. Kurt sounds so gentle, so calm, so kind. As though if Blaine let him inside, he’d scoop him up in his arms and hold him close and whisper gentle reassurances in his ear. As though he would card his hands through Blaine’s curls and kiss his forehead and hold him close.
And Blaine wants that. Wants to be held more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. He’s more alone than ever, and completely helpless, and Kurt sounds so understanding...
“Please,” says Blaine, voice thin and straining. “It’s... it’s not fair. You’re – you’re everywhere. Outside, in my head, in my mind...”
“Am I, now?” asks Kurt too quickly, his voice losing its comforting edge and at once filled with sudden sharp interest instead. He sounds intrigued, and leading, and very much pleased with himself. Blaine winces at the mistake, mentally kicking himself for giving something away that he shouldn’t have. Wake up, he tells himself sharply. Get a hold of yourself.
Part of him had begun to think that Kurt had been somehow giving him the dreams on purpose somehow, channelling something into his head during the night, but... Kurt had sounded pleasantly surprised at the information. Self-satisfied, like the cat who got the cream. Blaine almost expects gloating, but Kurt doesn’t say anything else. Just makes a soft, fascinated noise and lets silence fill the space between them.
It lasts for so long that Blaine almost starts to think that Kurt has left without saying goodbye – but as if on command, the sound of one nail being pulled twistingly down the doorframe jolts him out of the quiet and back into the present.
“You don’t have to feel this way, you know,” says Kurt softly – and the comforting tone is back again, schooling back into place. There is something almost apologetic in his tone. “You don’t have to feel bad anymore. Or lonely. It can all be over, Blaine, I promise. I can make it quick – almost painless. Or at least as painless as it can be. But...” He trails off, making a low noise in his throat. “If you keep doing this – running, and hiding, and making me wait... it’s just going making things more difficult.”
“For you,” says Blaine quietly, spite twisting up into the words. His mouth twists into a grimace.
“No, beautiful thing. For you.” The scrape of the nails is absent, as though Kurt has realized the habit and is forcing his hands to remain still. In a moment of stunned comprehension, it occurs to Blaine to wonder if Kurt is even doing it intentionally, or if it’s just instinctual for him to do whatever he can to frighten his prey. Blaine imagines Kurt leaning against the door, lips almost pressed up against it with his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. “All you have to do is invite me inside, and then you won’t have to worry about any of this again.”
The determined, ever-so-human part of him that isn’t drowned out by fear or hopelessness or guilt clings tighter as a result of the speech. Holds on fast to life out of instinct, out of being afraid and helpless and backed right into a corner.
Mind racing, Blaine clings to what he now knows. For whatever reason, Kurt can’t come out during the day – which means that Blaine can run. Get in a cab in the morning and go as fast as he can to the airport, buy a ticket out of here. Leave this city in the dust without a trace, find a way to transfer to another school to finish his degree. Staying with his parents is out of the question – Kurt knows their city, and he can’t believe he let slip so much about himself before it all, what an idiot he was – but Wes in Massachusetts will probably let him crash without too much notice. He’ll tuck himself away, far away. Get himself out of here before Kurt can find a way to catch him.
Wrapped up in his own desperate thoughts of escape and run and hide, Blaine doesn’t respond. And after a few minutes, Kurt lets out an amused laugh.
“We can do this for now, if you want. I’ll play the game. But know that if you run, Blaine – if you try to escape, or go get help, or leave? I will chase you.” The utter conviction in that high, clear voice gives Blaine chills that shake him right down to his centre. Blaine isn’t sure if he actually does suck in a quick breath of air, but Kurt continues on anyways.
“I’ll never stop, and I’ll never slow down. I won’t let anything get in my way. I could find you anywhere; it wouldn’t even be a challenge, lovely one. I would enjoy it.” Kurt lets out an almost sensual moan, deep in his throat, and it makes un-memories trail along the edges of Blaine’s brain.
The scrape of a single fingernail trailing fondly down the doorframe scratches along Blaine’s ears.
“I was hoping we could do this the easy way, Blaine. Nice and simple and straightforward, but no. You have to be stubborn. It’s one of the things I love best about you.” Kurt makes sound in his throat, and his tone hardens. “But it is happening, pretty thing. Whether you want it to or not. I can do this for years, Blaine. The waiting, the following.” He hums. “How long can you last?”
And with the slightest sound of shifting fabric outside in the hallway, Kurt is gone. No more voice, no more nails. Just the emptiness of the space, hollow without the monster to fill it up and make it far too real.
Shaking, Blaine lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding in. The walls of his apartment feel tight and small around him. He lets out a gasp of relief, trying very hard to ignore how much like a sob the noise comes out as.
Continue here to part two.