And Kurt is standing there, right in front of the door that is the only way in or out. Hair styled in a messy, casual way; dressed in a shirt and jacket and soaked, absolutely soaked, in blood. His whole body is covered in splashes and smears of brown-red; steeped into his clothes in great swathes. His face, strangely, is practically clean; there are only the tiny splatters and spots across his perfect pale features, not a massive smear around his mouth. Instead, Kurt’s lips are decorated with a delighted, ecstatic grin. Stretching his smile wide across his face, eyes sparkling and bright and blue.
He’s here. In person, in real life; not over the phone or behind a barrier, but real and murderous and in front of him right now. There is absolutely nothing between them.
When he speaks, Kurt’s voice takes on a high, sing-song quality; like a child winning at hide and seek after a very long game. Smirking and self-satisfied and very, very pleased with himself.
“Got you,” says Kurt, his lips stretched into a wide, sinister smile as he tilts his head and stares, and there is nowhere left for Blaine to run.
I nearly had a heart attack when this heppened.