“And you have my cell?”

“Yes, Kurt.”

“And my office number?”

“Yes, Kurt.”

“And Rachel’s number and all other emergency contacts, which are all on the fridge if you need them -?“

“No, you’ve only told me five hundred times, I think I need to hear it all again,” Blaine groans, letting his head fall back against the couch.

Kurt takes a deep breath. “Just making sure,” he says, a little frantic as he tugs Amelia into her little red coat. She’s already going to be late for school, which means he’ll technically be late for work, but they can just deal with it.

In a way, it’s a relief to be going back to work. He’ll get so much more work done there, and he’s been going a little stir crazy in this apartment with only Blaine, silent and unapproachable, for company all day (though it has done wonders for keeping the house in order.) However, it’s just as nerve-wracking.

He doesn’t know what to expect from leaving Blaine on his own - chances are that everything will be fine, that Blaine will lie in bed all day long anyway, but what if he doesn’t. What if something goes wrong, what if…?

What if Blaine takes this chance to hurt himself again? Yes, he’s locked the medicine cabinet and the knife drawer, but those aren’t the only ways to kill yourself. The bandages on Blaine’s arms are gone now, just a few stitches in the big, recent cuts remaining, but Kurt can’t bring himself to look them yet. Every thin silvery mark is a reminder of waking up to the news that Blaine had nearly died, the fear that had gripped him, like an icy hand around his lungs stealing his breath.

They haven’t talked about it; Blaine doesn’t offer up the information and Kurt is scared to hear it.

“I don’t have to go,” Kurt says, already regretting the decision to go back to work. “I can take more time off.”

“No, you can’t, you’ve been gone too long already.”

“So what?”

Amelia stomps her foot. “Daddy, I’m gonna be late,” she whines.

“Just a minute, honey.” Kurt looks at Blaine one more time, brow furrowed in concern. “I’ll only go if you’re sure you’ll be okay.”

Blaine rolls his eyes in place of a response.

“Blaine,” Kurt says. “Promise you won’t do anything.” He leaves that open to interpretation.

“Yeah.” Blaine doesn’t look away from the TV, though his eyes are unfocused, not taking in any of whatever mindless talk show is flashing before his eyes.

It’s all he can do, though he wishes there was more. “Take care of yourself.”

“Mmmhmm.”

Kurt sighs. “Come on, Amelia.”

Throughout the day, he can’t shake the dread he feels, no matter how much he tries to convince himself that he’s just being paranoid.

--

With picking Amelia up and grocery shopping after work, it’s getting dark by the time Kurt finally fits the key into the lock on the apartment door. That’s the first thing that makes him uneasy - why would Blaine lock the door?

He shakes it off. Chances are Blaine has just been spending the day in the guest room and doesn’t want to deal with other people. Kurt can understand that. He steps inside, followed by Amelia, setting the groceries on the kitchen floor. “I’m home,” he calls out when he doesn’t see Blaine on the living room couch. “Everything go okay?”

No response. Kurt frowns and puts the milk in the fridge, batting Amelia’s hands away when she immediately starts digging for treats. “Blaine?” His voice rings through the apartment, and Kurt feels a twist in his gut. “Amelia, why don’t you play in the living room?” She complies.

He leaves the groceries where they sit and goes through each room in the apartment. Bathroom, his own room, Amelia’s room, laundry room - nothing. He holds his breath as he pushes open the door to the guest room.

Yes, he’s relieved not to see Blaine hanging from the ceiling or something, but the fact that Blaine isn’t there just makes him panic more. He has a sudden morbid, horrible thought, the memory of a nightmare at the edges of his mind, and he rushes out to the balcony, connected to the apartment through a sliding door in the living room. When he peers over the railing, he fully expects to see a broken body, and can only breathe again when all he sees are brown, neglected shrubberies below.

But where could he have gone? The city is so huge, and he could have gone anywhere since that morning, and oh, god, Kurt left him alone. What was he thinking?

Frantic as he scrolls through his contacts, Kurt holds his phone up to his ear, muttering, “pick up pick up pick the fuck up” as it rings.

It takes a while, and Kurt is fully prepared to leave a panicked voicemail, when suddenly a voice says in his ear, “H’llo?”

“Blaine!” Kurt closes his eyes and lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Blaine, where are you right now?”

“Or hello as some people used to say,” Blaine says, almost laughing, but not quite. His voice is slurred in a way that’s all too familiar, and Kurt feels a spark of anger in the midst of his worry.

“Damn it, Blaine, just tell me where you are.”

“Uhhh. Dunno.”

“You don’t know?” Kurt can hear the throb of music behind Blaine’s voice, and other voices behind that. At least he’s in public, for now, but there’s no mistaking what sort of place he’s in.

“Can’t remember the name.”

“Blaine…”

“Not far. Walked here. Oh, oh! I’m at Kilroy’s Bar and Grill. Well. That’s what the sign says...”

Kurt sighs. “Amelia, put your coat back on,” he says. “Stay right where you are, okay Blaine?”

“Fiiiine.” Blaine resigns, and then all sound disappears when he hangs up. Kurt goes to Amelia, who struggles with her coat, and helps her slip her arms back into the sleeves.

“Where are we going?” She asks.

“To get your stupid father,” Kurt growls. Her winter clothes are right by the door, so he shoves a hat on her head, slightly taming her wild hair, and a pair of mittens on her hands for good measure - he can see flurries starting to form outside the window, and curses Blaine’s timing. If she ends up catching a cold because of Blaine’s fucking idiocy he is going to have hell to pay.

“Uh-ohhh. Do you have to put Papa in time-out?”

“I just might. Come on. “

He grips her hand tight as they walk down the now dark street, out of the neighborhood and past little shops and restaurants. Amelia complains, of course, but he ignores it - he can’t leave her alone and he has to find Blaine.

Holding onto his daughter, he turns into the first bar he sees, in all its tacky, neon-lit glory. When he tries to go in the door, the bouncer immediately holds up a hand. “Hey, man, no kids.”

“What - no, no, I’m not here to drink,” Kurt insists. The bouncer doesn’t budge. “We’re just looking for her dad.”

“I can’t let her in.”

“Well, then, have you seen him? A little shorter than me, curly brown hair - come on, he shouldn’t be here. He’s an alcoholic. I just need to take him home.”

“Sorry, bro, not my problem.”

Kurt groans aloud. Then he pulls out his phone, dialing Blaine’s number again. This time he picks up immediately. “Blaine, can you please just come to the door?” He snaps. “They won’t let me in.”

“Don’t want to,” Blaine says. “I didn’t finish my drink.”

Peeking out from behind Kurt’s legs, Amelia stares wide-eyed up at the bouncer and into the crowded, trashy bar behind him. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t see this part of Blaine’s life. All worry has faded away. Kurt is beyond pissed. “Damn it, Blaine, just get out here now,” he practically snarls.

Amelia gasps and claps her hands over her ears. “Daddy, you said a bad word!”

“Now!”

“Alright, alright!”

Kurt doesn’t have to wait long. Less than five minutes of clutching Amelia’s hand to keep her from running off (she’s far too curious sometimes, and is prone to wander without thinking of the consequences) and impatiently tapping his foot later, Blaine appears, bleary eyed and messy-haired and staggering just enough to show that he’s drunk.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Kurt holds finger up to his lips and shushes him. “Don’t. Say. Anything.” He hisses before turning on his heel and starting the walk back home. Blaine trails a few steps behind them, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes locked on the ground.

Kurt cannot believe this is happening. All that time of keeping Blaine away from alcohol, wasted. But what can he do? Lock Blaine up in the house? He’d go insane within a day. It’s inhumane. Beside him, Amelia complains of being tired, and Kurt scoops her into his arms and carries her the rest of the way, thankful for how light and tiny she is. Normally he doesn’t carry her everywhere, doesn’t want to spoil her, but he doesn’t have it in him to argue this time.

It’s just so frustrating. He’d thought that they were actually getting somewhere, that Blaine was going to start getting better. The depression, the alcoholism, it’s linked - Blaine is sad, so he drinks, which makes him sadder, which makes him want to drink more. To fix one he has to fix both. And Kurt can accept how difficult it is to quit an addiction - but Blaine doesn’t even seem to care, and that’s the worst part.

Blaine falls onto the couch when they get back into the apartment and stares up at the ceiling, not bothering to take off his winter coat. Amelia watches him, looking as though she wants to talk but not knowing what to say. This has thrown off his entire evening; they haven’t even done dinner. The poor girl must be starving by now. “What do you want for dinner, Amelia?” Kurt asks tiredly.

“Peanut butter and jelly!”

“Wonderful. Go play in your room or do homework or something for a while and I’ll bring it to you.”

Her eyes widen. “I get to eat in my room?”

“You can eat on your bed for all I care, just stay in your room for a while.”

She claps her hands in delight and runs off. Kurt pointedly doesn’t look at Blaine, though he knows that Blaine is watching him, as he gets out the ingredients for her sandwich, glaring at the jar of peanut butter as if it’s personally offended him.

Blaine stands up, swaying a little, and says, “Kurt…”

“What were you thinking?” Kurt snaps. He sloppily lathers one slice of bread with peanut butter. “What the hell was going through your mind?”

“I - I just wanted a drink.”

“You. Are. An. Alcoholic.” Blaine flinches, though Kurt doesn’t know if it’s because of what he says, or the harshness in his tone. “You have to stop this, Blaine, you cannot do this again.”

“Fuck you, you can’t control me -“

“Do you have any idea how scared I was?” Kurt’s voice grows in volume, in the back of his mind, he thinks about Amelia and how she’ll be able to hear them from her room, but he can’t seem to make himself quieter. “I didn’t know where you were or what you had done, I thought I was going to find you dead in a fucking alleyway somewhere, - but that’s what you want, right? You’re trying to drink yourself to death?”

“Why the fuck do you care?” Blaine shouts. “Why should I care what you think of me? You left. You kicked me out. You ended it. So don’t act like you give a shit about me!”

“This isn’t about us! It’s about you! You’re my responsibility and I can’t take care of you if the minute I step out of the house you’re doing the exact opposite of what you need to do to get better! What am I going to have to do, Blaine, lock you up? Take you to work with me? Do you need me to skip another few weeks of work to babysit you -“

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Too fucking bad!”

“Stop fighting!”

Kurt startles. Amelia is standing in the hallway, fingers in her ears, staring at the two of them with wide, watery eyes. “Stop it, stop it,” she whimpers. “Daddies aren’t supposed to fight.”

Blaine turns away. Kurt has to put a hand on the counter to steady himself, taking deep breathes that do little to actually calm him down. Amelia continues, “Miss James says that instead of arguing we have to come to a - a compromise.” She stumbles over the word, face screwing up in concentration. “My friend Max is good at compromises. He’s five and a half. Daddies are old. So daddies should be better at it than Max.”

A short, humorless laugh escapes Kurt’s lips. He steps forward, kneeling down in front of Amelia to pull her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that, sweetheart. Papa and I are just… being stupid.”

“Uh-huh,” she agrees, and Kurt has to squeeze her tighter. It’s not fair. She deserves better fathers, ones that don’t scream in each other’s faces. “Can I have my sammich now?”

“I’ll finish it right away.” He pulls back a little to press a kiss to her forehead. “Give Papa and me a little space?”

“Kay.”

“I love you.”

She darts back to her room, happier again after a hug and the promise of a sandwich. Kurt goes back into the kitchen, refusing to look at Blaine as he tries to finish Amelia’s meal with shaking hands. He feels sick to his stomach.

After the third attempt of trying to scoop up the jam with a butter knife and having it fall back into the jar due to trembling hands - he swears under his breath in frustration - another hand covers his, stopping him. “Let me do it,” Blaine says, training his voice into gentleness now, and Kurt silently steps aside. The sandwich Blaine makes is a little sloppy, but he cuts off the crust and slices it into triangles, just the way their daughter likes it. Because even though he’s a complete fuckup, Kurt thinks, bitterly and maybe a little too harsh, he’s still the perfect fucking father in Amelia’s eyes.

Kurt can’t do a single thing right.

“Don’t cry,” Blaine says softly. “Please.” Kurt doesn’t notice the burning in his eyes until Blaine mentions it, and wipes an escaping tear away.

“I know I need to stop letting you affect me so much,” Kurt says, only half speaking to Blaine. “But I just can’t.” Blaine doesn’t answer. Kurt lifts his chin, trying to look into Blaine’s eyes. “And it’s because I care. I do, Blaine, it’s why you make me so angry when you pull shit like this - god, I just, I love you, but I hate you when you’re drunk.”

The admission slips out too easily, too quickly, to take back. It surprises him how easy it is to say. It’s too much to think about now, so Kurt just doesn’t. He shoves it to the back of his mind so that he can try to forget it.

He only hopes that Blaine is too drunk to remember this in the morning.

“I know.”

“So why do you make me feel so awful about caring?”

Blaine looks terrified, for an instant, vulnerable. “Because you shouldn’t,” he says, the look in his eyes desperate, almost pleading.

What? Like Blaine is trying to protect him by keeping him at a distance, by being a complete asshole? For some reason it only makes Kurt angrier, which is probably what Blaine wants, damn him.

“Well, tough,” Kurt says. He takes the sandwich and a deep breath. “I’m going to take this to Amelia. Then I am going to go to sleep. And you are not going to sneak out of this house ever again.”

Blaine just nods.

No matter how long Kurt keeps his eyes closed that night, no matter how tired he is every time he falls asleep he’s plagued by nightmares of falling, and after a while, he just stares at the darkness of his ceiling, trying not to think of anything at all.

--

Kurt stumbles out of his room at dawn, exhausted from trying to sleep, ironic as that is. Usually Blaine is up by now, drinking coffee at the kitchen counter, but not this morning. He only has a moment of worry before he catches sight of Blaine outside on the balcony.

His immediate thought is one of Blaine jumping. He’s just sitting there, though, on one of the lawn chairs that Kurt rarely uses. Forgetting about coffee for now, Kurt steps out into the brisk morning air.

Blaine doesn’t look up as Kurt shuts the glass door behind him and sits down. He has a cigarette held loosely between his fingers (where he got it and the lighter in his other hand, Kurt has no idea) but hasn’t lit it yet, and looks surprisingly alert for how hung-over he should be. Maybe Blaine has gotten so used to hangovers over the years that it’s like a normal state for him. Maybe being sober is more like a hangover.

He catches Kurt looking and shrugs. “A guy has to have at least one vice.” He gestures with the cigarette. Once Kurt would have made him throw them out, so that he wouldn’t damage his voice, but Blaine doesn’t sing anymore, not for years. He lights it and takes a drag, the smoke curling up and around his lips, tantalizing before he coughs around it, harsh enough to make Kurt wince by association. He leaves it to smolder on the little table between the two lawn chairs, giving it a disgusted look. “Ugh.” His voice is throaty from the smoke he’d inhaled.

“If you’re going to smoke I wish you’d go with marijuana.” Kurt says - he’s too tired to argue against smoking in general. They had both experimented with it once or twice in college, and while it had never done much for Kurt - just made him sleepy, more than anything - he had liked watching Blaine get all giggly and extra-affectionate. So very long ago, it feels like. “It’s better. In that it won’t kill you, unlike most every other vice.”

Blaine gives him a sideways glance. “That’s part of the appeal.”

“Don’t.” Kurt’s eyes narrow. Blaine just shrugs, turning away again to watch the sunrise over the skyscrapers. He picks up the cigarette again, pondering it, before tossing it over the railing.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, after a long, drawn out silence. He doesn't say what he's apologizing for and he doesn't need to.

Kurt closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "I'm not going to say that it's okay," he says. He wonders what Blaine remembers from last night - hopefully not much. "You know it's not. Nothing about this is."

"I know." Kurt turns to look at him, watches him. The light of the morning sun makes the shadows under his eyes seem harsher, how thin he’s gotten more obvious. Blaine's eyes are rimmed with red, his hair shaggy and full of split ends, his jaw covered in scruff. He's a mess, and so tired, and still the most beautiful thing Kurt has ever seen. "Kurt?”

“Yes?”

“I know... that I'm not okay. I keep saying I am, but I’m not. I know that I need to stop feeling like this, like - like I'm falling to pieces every day, like I’m dead already. I need to actually let the therapy do me some good and I need to -" he falters. "To stop the drinking. For good this time. I know all of that."

Kurt nods. He watches Blaine in silence, waiting for him to keep going. "I just don't know how." Blaine finally whispers, his voice breaking.

"Just ask." Kurt says, trying to meet Blaine's eyes.

Blaine swallows thickly, trying to speak but unable to make the words come out. "Help me. Please." He chokes on the words, as if they're physically painful to say. It's obviously a relief even as it hurts - his shoulders slump, an unbearable weight lifted from them. He needed this. He needed to be the one to ask for help, not to have it forced on him. He watches Kurt with wide, frightened eyes - actually afraid that Kurt will refuse. As if he could.

Kurt reaches across the table and takes Blaine’s hand, squeezing tight. He nods, once - and is rewarded with a smile. It isn't much, a quick turn-up of the lips, barely there at all, but it reaches Blaine's eyes, which is more than can be said for any smile or laugh Kurt has seen on his face in years now.

“I think you should make another appointment with Naomi,” Kurt says.

“Kurt…” Blaine’s protest, if it can be called that, is barely even half-hearted.

“She’s a professional, Blaine; she helps people through things like this every day. I’m here for you, no matter what, I’m going to help you, but - there are some things I just don’t understand, and she will.”

“I don’t know what to say. To her or you or anyone.” Blaine blinks, swallows, stares down at his lap. “God. When did I turn into this?” He croaks.

“You’re going to feel better, Blaine,” Kurt says. A day ago, he wouldn’t have been able to say it. But admitting that he needs help, needs Kurt - it gives Kurt a lot more hope than he’s had in a while.