Rating: PG, at most.
Warnings: Mentions of claustrophobia, panic attacks, Blaine's bullying at his old school. Fluff.
Summary: One thing that seems fairly obvious about getting a slushie thrown at you is that it will be cold. Kurt/Blaine.
Author's Note: I wrote a slushie!fic! I've had this headcanon for a while and I really wanted to explore it. I managed to write this in about an hour but I need to go to sleep so I'm posting it now. Comments are lovely! :3
One thing that seems fairly obvious about getting a slushie thrown at you is that it will be cold. Slushies are, after all, made with ice, and this particular one (raspberry, but dyed an obnoxious shade of artificial dark blue) is probably ten minutes fresh from the machine in the cafeteria. Maybe even five.
Blaine had been walking to Kurt’s locker after lunch period, eyes locked on his boyfriend’s head tilted downwards while he studied his timetable. He got to less than ten paces away from him when suddenly something wet and freezing smacked into him, drenching his shirt.
Jeers and cruel laughter left him gaping and lost in the middle of the hallway. He vaguely registered Kurt shouting his name and pulling on his hands. His voice seemed distant, as if it was coming from the other end of a phone call or from out of a window. And then-
Blaine is fourteen, short and skinny in comparison to the bulky junior football team members who barrel him into the porta-potty. He protests loudly, kicking and struggling and trying to keep the door open with his hands.
“No, no, no, please,” he yells, the soles of his feet thumping uselessly on the quarterback’s thigh. “Just throw me in the dumpster, like usual. Please!”
They do not heed his cries and soon they are shoving the door closed, cutting off the dim daylight from outside and leaving Blaine hunched, trembling, on the floor. He tries to bury his face in his knees, eyes screwed tightly shut, but his breath comes faster, hitching in his chest.
Eventually he throws his head back, gasping for air that cannot be obtained from the dark, warm space inside his drawn-up legs and chest.
The walls are grey, grimy, plastic. They reek of sweat and moulding rain, and Blaine knows that the dark clouds that hover over his school will break soon. The walls are too close, now, inching further towards him until he blinks and they start again.
He is breathing too quickly – there isn’t enough air in here, he thinks. There isn’t enough air.
I can’t breathe.
Dark. Then cold. So cold.
“Blaine? Blaine, wake up.”
His mother was stroking his hair back from his forehead.
“Blaine, are you all right? Blaine? Blaine, look at me.”
“I am looking at you.” He mumbled. His mother’s eyes aren’t blue.
Kurt stared at him, eyes wide and full of something quiet, hurting. He was patting a towel over Blaine’s head, trying to get the wet part of the slushie out of it before he could rinse it away in the sink.
“Where’d you go?” he murmured, setting the towel down and cupping Blaine’s cheek with his hand. “We’ve been here for five minutes now.”
“I think,” his voice was raspy, weak. “I think I had a flashback, or something. The slushie must have… triggered it. I don’t know.”
Kurt bit his lip, eyes still huge but getting wetter, now. “Here, bend over so I can wash it out of your hair.”
Blaine obeyed silently, wincing at the coolness of the water but allowing Kurt to comb his long fingers through his curls. The slushie had reacted oddly with the gel and he hoped he wasn’t stuck with blue hair, or something.
“Hmm,” Kurt massages his scalp carefully. “It’s all coming out, at least. Plus the gel.”
Blaine made an unhappy noise, frowning slightly even though Kurt couldn’t see him.
“I like you without your gel,” Kurt said softly. “You have lovely hair, Blaine.”
Kurt’s fingertips were firm but not overzealous as they swept rhythmically over Blaine’s scalp. The water was warmer, now, dripping over his nose and chin, and the icy chill of the slushie was gone.
“Did the corn syrup get in your eyes, honey?” Kurt asked quietly, finally, switching off the tap and squeezing Blaine’s hair so the excess water would run out. “Do your eyes burn?”
“Not really,” Blaine replied. “I closed them in time.”
“Good. That’s the worst part,” Kurt reached for the towel again and pulled Blaine to the correct posture again. “I’m so sorry, Blaine.”
“Was it you who slushied me, then?” Blaine smiles brightly, nudging Kurt’s palm with his nose when his boyfriend starts to pat his hair and face dry again. “Kurt, you have nothing to be sorry for.”
Kurt’s eyes were much too moist again and Blaine leaned forward to loop his arms around his waist.
“I’m okay,” he whispered. “I had a flashback to when I got locked in a porta-potty at my old school and because I’m kind of claustrophobic I had a panic attack and passed out and got hypothermia because it was February. It was the cold.”
Kurt sniffled and pressed his mouth to Blaine’s collarbone. “That’s awful.”
“It was horrible and grey and grimy inside.”
“That’s even worse.”
Blaine laughed, and then let go. “What should I do about my shirt?”
Kurt was already pulling a blue t-shirt out of his bag. “I got this out of my locker when I saw you getting slushied. You’ll need a change of clothes in your locker every day.”
“I can do that,” Blaine tugged his now ruined shirt over his head and flushed when Kurt’s eyes raked over his chest. “Thank you.”
Kurt pulled the simple, baby-blue shirt down so that the hem rested at his hips and smiled. “There.”
“Presentable?” Blaine twirled and eyed himself in the mirror. “It’s not too tight, is it?”
Something mischievous gleamed in Kurt’s eye. “Not at all. It goes nicely with your jeans, too.”
Blaine beamed at his boyfriend and kissed him on the cheek. “Come on. We’ve got Calculus.”
Kurt hitched his bag onto his shoulder and handed Blaine his before linking their fingers together and pulling him out into the hallway.
Eyes slid over them, wary and cold. Somebody sniggered. The jocks who had thrown the raspberry slushie at Blaine glared menacingly.
Blaine and Kurt walked on.