note: A continuation of a little drabble series that the absolutely amazing Vanessa wrote, that stuck in my mind and pulled at my heart and wouldn’t let me go. So she graciously gave me permission to continue her idea.

warnings: Injuries caused by a fire

Read her parts first here: one, two, three, four

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The house is quiet. The sort of quiet that only happens when you notice it. The quiet that makes you shift, makes you bite your lip and wring your hands. The quiet the settles in and won’t disappear and so you tread around it carefully, afraid.

The floorboards creak as Kurt makes his way to Blaine’s new room, the sound loud and startling and Kurt flinches. Looks around even though he knows no one else is home. He wipes sweating palms on his jeans, takes another creaking step, pauses in front of the closed door. He was here yesterday, had forced himself into Blaine’s room, stayed by his side until.

Until.

The house is suddenly suffocating and Kurt wants to run. Maybe if he runs fast enough he can rewind time, can stop the candle from falling over, put the batteries back in the fire detector, do anything.

But he can’t.

The doorknob is cool in his fingers, and there’s a click as he takes a deep breath and turns it, pushing the door open. Blaine’s new room is small and bare, filled with only a twin bed and a tiny dresser. There’s no pictures, no robots or books or trophies. The fire ate everything.

Kurt swallows past the painful lump in his throat, crosses the room, sits in the small wooden chair pulled beside the bed. Blaine’s sleeping, curled up into a ball, covers lopsided over his shoulder. His face is relaxed, lips slightly parted. He looks peaceful and Kurt can’t bring himself to wake him up.

So he sits, listens to the soft inhale and exhale, the rustle of fabric when Blaine’s arm twitches, and he looks. It’s dark, the only light coming through the tiny cracks in the blinds, but he can still see. Can see the scars, the way Blaine’s skin twists and turns up the side of his face, angry and painful. Can see the patch behind his ear where hair will never grow again. Can see where the burns disappear under his shirt, the fabric stark and smooth against the tortured skin.

Kurt waits.

Blaine stirs, blinks, licks his lips.

“Good morning, sleepy,” Kurt whispers, reaches to stroke a thumb across Blaine’s hand. Blaine snatches his hand back, breath catching and eyes widening.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, hands fumbling with the covers, trying to pull them over his face. Kurt aches, stills Blaine’s hands with his own.

“Please don’t,” his voice is soft, pleading. “We did this yesterday.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Blaine mutters, sounds so broken.

“I know.”

Blaine’s silent, stares at Kurt’s hand over his.

“Don’t you have school?”

“I skipped.”

“Why?”

Kurt lifts his hand, brushes it over Blaine’s cheekbone, traces down his jaw.

“Because I wanted to see you.”

Blaine’s eyes drift over to meet Kurt’s, warm and honey and sad.

“I’m scared.”

And Kurt doesn’t see the burns, doesn’t see the scars and lost hair and empty room. He sees the small, broken, hurting boy in the bed, the boy who is hiding himself from the world, alone in his dark room.

So he crawls into the tiny bed, ignores Blaine’s protest, wraps him in his arms, presses a kiss to the spot behind his ear, holds him as close as he can..

“It’s okay to be scared.”