There had been a time when being with Blaine was the best thing ever.

For example, prom didn't go too well. Not the senior prom, but the junior prom, where he'd been crowned queen. Going home that night, Blaine had driven him, and Kurt had been unable to shake the unhappiness. He'd turned the night into a success and Blaine's gallant display of affection that led to them dancing together was beyond brave and touching and Kurt could not have been more grateful for that, but...

Blaine kissed him good-night and asked if he wanted him to stay, or if he wanted to stay over. But Kurt knew his parents were home that night, and he really just wanted some time to reassure his dad he was fine, so he told Blaine to go home. Burt thanked Blaine for being responsible with his son when Kurt opened the door and announced his presence, and then Blaine left.

But Blaine had, of course, known he was unhappy. And so the next night, after Kurt had sat in bed with chocolate and an old movie marathon all day, texting Blaine random lyrics from songs he listened to in the musicals, at around eight, Blaine texted him to open the door.

Kurt had gone downstairs and done so and there was Blaine, dressed in his tuxedo, holding a guitar case and a box and beaming at him. Kurt had asked him what was going on and Blaine had responded only that he should put on his prom clothes and wait in his room.

So Kurt did. He changed slowly and carefully and brushed his hair again and washed his face and hands and then sat on his bed, barely sitting still because of his excitement. When Blaine knocked on his bedroom door, his eyes were excited and his smile was impossibly wider, and Kurt wondered what the hell was going on but said nothing; he trusted Blaine completely, and this was obviously a good surprise.

Nothing prepared him for the sight of the backyard. Twinkling lights had been strung up around the trees and the old swing set, and in the dwindling twilight it had seemed like the faint breeze making the small, plastic lanterns dance carried away everything, even his shock, and left him standing bare and raw and completely in love with Blaine. But that wasn't all; Blaine had taken his hand, his fingers so warm in his own, and led him over to the swing set, where he told Kurt to sat down. And then he pulled out a guitar and began to play.

It was soft and it was gentle and it was a song Kurt knew but couldn't remember exactly and it was perfect. It was like a lullaby, but instead of lulling him to sleep it only stirred his awareness further, and he had never been more certain that he really, truly loved Blaine. And then, miraculously, he'd finished and helped Kurt back to his feet and started to dance slowly, their limbs moving in time to the other's, Blaine's lips finding his neck and murmuring sweet sentiments as he kissed lightly below his jawline. Kurt, in turn, had thanked him and begun listing all the things he'd done right since they'd known each other and rewarding him with a brief kiss after each one.

It was with horror now that Kurt realized his listing those things were probably something that strongly influenced his journal, and it was with even more horror that he realized he was still holding the journal in his hands.

He'd hidden it in his bag all day for fear Rachel might find it at the apartment and change her mind and take it back, and/or tell him it was there. Blaine had had no idea when they'd spoken in the halls, and they'd discussed classes and his head and whether or not he was okay. He hadn't answered the last question because he had to get to class, though Kurt suspected it was honestly because he didn't want Kurt to know the answer.

"We're here," the man said gruffly, and Kurt handed him the cash he owed and stepped out. The journal was in his grasp, his bag slung over his shoulder, and he hurried through the hospital doors.

Santana was looking at her feet, her face contorted into an emotion he wasn't sure was real, her hands clasped over her knee which rested on top of the other. Rachel sat tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair and changing her pose every couple of seconds along with her facial expression. Both girls avidly avoided looking at each other - but when he came in they looked up and their stares became identical, worried, anxious and grief-stricken.

"How is he?" Kurt demanded, flopping down into the seat they had between them, forcing them to look at least somewhat at each other if they wanted to keep looking at him.

"He should be coming out soon," Rachel answered before Santana had a chance. "A doctor came out a little while ago to say they were re-doing the stitches and that he'd be out quickly."

"So he can come home?" This was far better than he'd hoped.

Rachel nodded.

"Oh, good," Kurt heaved a deep breath, feeling a tiny but of the anxiety lift. "How bad is it?"

"They relocated his shoulder," Santana said, cutting off Rachel, who had opened her mouth and shut it again with a snap. "They had to re-do the stitches, his concussion is worse, he's got a black eye and a busted lip but nothing too major, and lost way too much blood."

Kurt shook his head free of the images that had started forming... Blaine pale, Blaine dying... "Is that all?"

"He also shocked some of his nerves," Rachel rushed out before Santana, and Kurt wondered, not for the first time, exactly what had happened between them. "When he landed he did it in a way that jabbed his spine with so much force it kind of stilled the movement in his lower body. They had a better way of telling it, but that's the basics of it. He should be back to normal by tomorrow... at least that way." She bit her lip, a Rachel Berry trademark quirk she didn't seem to notice she did so often.

Kurt took a deep breath. "None of this sounds like it's possible."

"The doctors said it's rare that someone gets by so lucky when something like this happens," Santana deadpanned, and then rolled her eyes and huffed. "Bastards." She eyed the book in his hands without speaking and met his eyes. "How far?"

"I have thirty-two pages left that are written on."

"I don't think you should read that, Kurt." It was Rachel this time, and she wasn't even looking at him, she was looking at the journal. "You might be tempted to tell people its contents, people who, no matter how much we love them, shouldn't be told until Blaine does it himself."

"I didn't mean to!" Santana burst out, and all the stares flew towards them. "I was being cynical, it's what I do. It was a reflex."

"A reflex to tell Sam about something in Blaine's personal journal?" Rachel demanded, and Kurt had the vague idea that this had been what their fight had been about. And it was unresolved.

"What did you tell Sam?" Kurt asked, turning to look at Santana.

"She told him Blaine cuts," Rachel whispered darkly.

Kurt's very blood stopped running and froze through at hearing the words out loud. How did Rachel know? Oh, she must have overheard Santana say it. But why had Santana said it? And to Sam, of all people? Over the phone? And suddenly his blood was rushing through him and burning hot and he saw red, the betrayal on Blaine's part angering him far past the amount of anger he had a right to have.

He said nothing. He sat there and stewed in his fury while they waited for a reaction. He had calmed himself by the time his vision became normal again, and said simply, "She shouldn't have, but we'll see what Blaine has to say about it before I judge." I'm judging you seven ways to Sunday, Satan, he thought towards her, but he didn't say it aloud.

Santana nodded, taking in his reaction and shooting him a grateful and somewhat cocky smile. "Thank you, Hummel."

"Shut it, Santana," Rachel snapped, and Santana raised her eyebrows, a retort just beginning to roll off her tongue, when a voice interrupted them.

"Friends of Blaine Anderson?"

"Us!" Kurt nearly squealed, sitting up as straight as a flagpole, looking eagerly at the doctor. "Where is he? How is he?"

The doctor smiled kindly; this was not the same one as before, he was certain. "He's doing great for someone in his situation," she said, her voice warm though methodical. "We have him in a wheelchair for now so he doesn't strain his legs trying to walk through the stun, but he should be able to walk normally by this time tomorrow. It wasn't a bad stun at all. He's rather lucky to have fallen so well, especially in his current state." There was that word again: Lucky. Kurt sure as hell didn't feel lucky. "His shoulder is patched up nicely and the stitching shouldn't come undone this time, considering that now it's under a bandage. He shouldn't move his shoulder," the doctor told them seriously. "So no school for him for a couple days, at least until the concussion begins to subside. It wasn't too bad of one before but this made it worse, so it may be a while before he can go to class."

"He's going to get so behind," Rachel muttered. They ignored her.

"He is able to come home tonight," the doctor awarded them with the news, though they already knew it; regardless, Santana took a breath as though it were her first clean one in years, and Kurt felt the same way. The doctor smiled. "They told me his roommate would fight like the damned if he couldn't, but she won't have to."

"And they were right," Santana said, sitting back in the chair, her normalcy returning, becoming the Santana they knew and loved again. "It's a good thing, too."

"I assume you're the roommate?" the doctor asked her.

"You assume correctly," Santana confirmed.

"Then you'll be the one signing these forms," the doctor said, and beckoned her aside to explain to her.

"You can't honestly mean to say you're okay with her telling Sam... and me, I guess," Rachel intoned.

"No, I'm not, not at all." Kurt wasn't going to lie. "But I'm going to let Blaine decide how to react before I do."

Rachel was about to prattle on about how she was right, he could tell, so he opened the journal and began to read, despite her disapproving grunt.

He picked up where he left off, steeling himself against what he was sure would be even more horrible. He'd stopped reading early into the morning and the lack of sleep was getting to him, but he couldn't really make himself care. He was frazzled and tired and emotionally wrung out but he needed to read it. At this point he really didn't care if Blaine saw.

Right:
Woke up
Finished homework
Didn't ignore people
Ate ALL of lunch
Helped Marley eat HER lunch
Helped Unique get away from bullies
Stopped a fight between Ryder and Jake
Got Mr. Schue to admit he missed Finn
Convinced Sam that Santana is a good person
Finally met Lord Tubbington
Helped Brittany get grades up
Sent Rachel a song list for her audition like she asked
Didn't tell Kurt what was wrong

Wrong:
Woke up
Barely finished homework on time/probably failed
Couldn't block out mean people
Ate so much lunch I felt sick
Felt like a hypocrite helping Marley eat
Threatened the bullies messing with Unique
Accidentally shoved Jake away from Ryder too hard
Pestered Mr. Schue
Didn't let go of the Santana thing with Sam
Scared away Lord Tubbington
Got frustrated at Brittany when it wasn't her fault
Took too long replying to Rachel's e-mail
Talked to Kurt
Didn't tell Kurt what was wrong
Refused to admit something is still wrong
Didn't understand what was wrong
Couldn't figure out what was wrong
Something is wrong
Something is very wrong
I want to fix it but I don't know how
I'm scared I'm scared
Stop talking to yourself there's nothing to be scared of
You're scared of yourself
There's nothing to be scared of
Stop talking to yourself
You're a freak
Stop crying
Stop
Stop
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong
Stop crying
Didn't stop crying
Didn't text Kurt back for an hour and a half
Cut again
I thought I was getting better?
Got worse
I'm sorry
STOP

The 'Right' list was longer than he'd ever seen it, but everything put on it was contradicted below, and Kurt knew that the wrongs meant more to Blaine than the rights. Kurt shook his head, making the tears that dangled on his eyelashes spray off, and he blinked ferociously. It took so little to set him off these days.

Kurt wondered when Blaine had ever cried so much. He put that he cried on nearly ever page since around the time Chandler happened and Kurt wondered if he actually cried or if he deluded himself into thinking he was crying or shouting at himself and in actuality just sat there having a war over realities in his head. The thought was more disturbing than he liked. And with good reason.

Kurt closed the book just as the door swung open. Stuffing it into his bag quickly, he saw legs wearing familiar shoes and pants be wheeled out, and just as Blaine's head rounded the corner, Kurt hitched the bag over his shoulder and leapt to his feet.

Blaine wouldn't even look at Kurt.

The entire ride home, the whole time Kurt had tried talking to him in the lobby, when Kurt and Rachel had bid them goodbye in the cab, Blaine hadn't spoken a word to Kurt and scarcely a word to anyone else, either, and hadn't even raised his head to meet Kurt's confused eyes. If he had, perhaps he'd have felt guilty; Kurt was hurt and confused and nervous about the blatant ignoring of himself and Santana wanted to know what caused it.

Of course, she wanted to know a lot of things, so when she wheeled Blaine into their apartment, the first thing she did was say, "What happened?"

Blaine looked at her - glanced, really - before hanging his head again. "You know what happened."

"Not that," Santana said, closing the door, "I mean what happened to make you have such a meltdown?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Blaine said, raising his chin just a little. "I was injured, it's normal to cry when injured."

"Anderson, I'm not going to fight about this, and you're not -"

"Not what?" he cut across her, meeting her eyes again, this time not looking away, his jaw set and his golden-flecked orbs flashes dangerously. "Not up to fighting? I can fight. And why wouldn't you fight? I know it doesn't go against your moral code or whatever. I know you like it. But why wouldn't you?" He raised his eyebrows. "Because ever since you read my journal you're not treating me like you used to."

"That's not true," Santana denied.

"This would be why I didn't tell anyone, or did you not think of that?" Blaine threw at her, his tone cutting, vicious, and she really was getting angry, her pulse quickening and color flooding to her cheeks. "Because I'm still the same person I was, it's just that you didn't know the person I was, and now that you do you're not acting the same towards me."

"That's not why I'm treating you differently!"

"THEN WHY?!" Blaine was past all reason and Santana didn't need to even rile him up; for someone who had stayed so quiet during the journey here he was remarkably vocal now. "WHY ARE YOU BEING SO NICE TO ME?!"

"Because you're my family and I have love for you, despite your horrible fashion choices and ugly gelling tendencies and perpetual cheeriness."

"See?" Blaine pointed to her. "There's Santana. Making fun of me. That's fine, you do that. But don't baby me or ask me what I need or -"

"So don't take care of you?" Santana cocked her head to the side and crossed her arms.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me!" But it was without any conviction that the words were loosed, and the finger pointing to her shook.

"Obviously you do, Gel Head, or you wouldn't have called Kurt's phone," Santana dug her heels into the floor, rocking back and then forward. "You just don't want anyone to. And you know what? I can get behind that. I can understand not wanting help, but that doesn't mean you don't need it."

"Don't start."

"We can't just say 'don't start' every time a topic you don't want to talk about comes up," Santana spit out the words as if venomous, and Blaine reacted like they were.

"And why not?"

"Because if we do that nothing will ever get discussed." They both knew she was right.

"Nothing needs to be discussed." His tone was authoritative, but Santana had a basic disregard for authority she'd acquired long ago that burst out at the words.

"Something does. A lot of things do, actually."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, Santana." His face seemed made of steel for all the emotion it showed. "I'm not -"

"You just said you were up to fighting," Santana pointed out.

"Well I -"

"You deserve help, Blaine."

That pulled him up short, and Santana knew why. The whole concept of his deserving things that weren't bad was foreign and unbelievably to him; besides Kurt, who had ever told him what she just had? And not even Kurt would say that anymore because of what Blaine had done when Kurt had been too busy to do so.

Blaine was a sad, sad boy. Not a man, not a child, but a boy. Someone old enough to understand the tragedies of the world but not mature enough to understand that not all of them were caused by something interior to their lives. No matter what happened, be it getting a bad grade because of a prejudiced teacher or simply getting food poisoning, it was always going to be his fault in his head. A boy.

And he did deserve help. He deserved help more than she did because he gave it out so often and so freely. And then there were times like today when it seemed impossible, and he'd just either shut down or break down. He'd broken down earlier and he was doing the opposite now and it broke her heart just a little to know that he was shredding himself inside.

"Why?"

It was a simple question, but it was all the more painful because of that. Why did he deserve help? Why? What had he ever done to deserve it? What good had he brought or done that entitled him to the care of and from others? And he didn't mean it to contest what she said, he meant it as an honest question. He really didn't know.

But at least he wanted to know. That was something.

"Because you're good."

Santana had the feeling he'd heard it before, maybe in a different context, because the sigh that followed the words was tired, but not physically.

"No, I mean it," she pressed. "No matter how irritating you are, you're only irritating because I'm a bitch and you're a decent human being."

"You're not a bitch," Blaine frowned, immediately taking up the defensive.

He can defend me but not himself.

"Hell yes I am," she argued fervently. "And I like being a bitch, it's fine. Which is why you being so decent all the time is irritating. You love everybody until they give you a reason not to and after that you keep giving them second chances. You're forgiving, and honest - almost too honest - and you love everyone so much." Jealousy colored her voice at the end.

Blaine eyed her critically. "You do too, Santana."

Santana grimaced. "I love very few people with as much intensity as you love everyone," Santana corrected. "And you know, that's alright. That's how and who I am."

"And this is how I am," Blaine said, spreading his arms. "And I am fine."

"Blaine."

"I get so uncomfortable when you call me that," Blaine joked lightly; she didn't laugh.

"I'm serious," she told him. "You're a good person. Why is that so hard to believe? What is it about your head that twists every good thing that happens into something bad?"

"What is it about everyone else that has them convinced that the bad things I do are acceptable?" Blaine defied.

Santana didn't know where it came from and how risky it was, especially considering Kurt had his journal, but she said, "I'll prove it to you that you're wrong about yourself."

"How?"

"We're going to make lists," she answered. "We're going to go through all the good and bad things we've done today and we're going to write it down, and we're going to do it with each other." She turned on her heel and marched toward the printer they had hooked up on the wall, and took a sheet out of it. "On one side we'll do mine," she explained, and turned back to face him, seeing his eyes lock on the paper. "And on the other we'll do yours. Me first."

Santana nearly jogged back over to him, her skin nearly jumping off of her with uncertainty. What was she doing? Would this even work? What if it didn't? But Blaine seemed willing enough, even if he wasn't entirely sold on the idea and possibly more than a little mortified.

Shoving aside her doubts, she wheeled him to the table and sat down in the chair beside him, placing the paper down and picking up one of the four spilled pens from their tipped pencil mug. "Okay," she said, "To start off, do you want to do wrongs or rights?"

"Rights," Blaine answered automatically. "I always start with rights."

"I noticed." He flinched. "Sorry."

"It's fine," but he didn't mean it and they could both tell.

"Okay," she repeated."How about we just go through things we did today and say whether they're bad or good, instead?"

"Works for me."

"Good." She took a deep breath. "To start off, the first thing I did this morning was answer Puck's call."

"Right," Blaine declared.

"Why?"

He seemed taken aback. "Because you responded to someone who's important to you?"

"Good enough," she said, and wrote Answered Puck's call on the 'right' side. "He wanted to know how you were doing, by the way. I said you were okay. We should probably call him later and tell him..."

"Something tells me he already knows," Blaine commented dryly. "Go on."

And on they went, analyzing all the little details of her day and deciding whether they were right or wrong. Blaine seemed reluctant to put anything in the 'wrong' category when it came to her, and while that was touching, it was also worrisome; those who can admit to no fault in others can admit to no justice in themselves. Santana told Blaine about how she forced a rude customer to leave the store and how her boss high-fived her afterwards and Blaine laughed and told her to put it on both lists because despite the fact that she was in the right she was really rude about accomplishing the feat, and so she did. And when they got to her not answering her phone, Santana didn't bother asking his opinion before writing it on the 'wrong' list, and continued before he could speak.

Over all, her list was pretty even. Santana liked that. There were a few things Blaine had argued for that she couldn't argue against that she was unhappy with, but aside from that it was nice to see that she was such a balanced human being. It was a nice reminder and she liked it and that massively annoying warm feeling spread through her again. She didn't often get it and when she used it to was because her family had done something truly stupendous for her. Familial love, she scoffed at herself in her head, how weakening. But she'd never felt stronger.

And then they got to his list.

The first thing he said was, "Woke up. Both."

Santana looked at him silently, long enough for him to bring his eyes from the paper to her, and then murmured, "Right." She wrote it down on the first list and watched him purse his lips. "Because if you hadn't woken up we wouldn't have a list to make."

He nodded once, the movement miniscule, and then continued. "Missed breakfast."

"Wrong," Santana supplied for him. "Most important meal of the day. I'll make it for you tomorrow, how's that?"

"You don't have to..."

"If I don't, will you make it yourself?"

Blaine looked at her sheepishly. "Probably not."

"So yes, yes I do," she finalized. "Alright, next?"

"Took my meds."

That was when Santana twitched in her spot. "Without food?"

"Yeah." Blaine looked even more sheepish. "I know it's not what I should have done, but I was running late."

Santana studied him for a while longer, not remarking on his excuse, not telling him that his professor would have understood given the circumstances, not saying anything, just letting her eyes roam around him and take in everything they could. "Alright. Taking your meds goes on both, then."

"Oh." His shoulders slumped. "I thought I did that right."

"You did," she told him, "But you also did it wrong because you didn't eat before you took them. It's unhealthy. You need something to help digest it with."

Blaine nodded but she was pretty sure he didn't care. "Okay. And then I went to class."

"Right," Santana said as the wrote it under that category. "Next?"

"I took notes?"

"Right. Next?"

"I asked Kurt if he wanted to grab lunch."

"Right. Next?"

"I was disappointed when he said he was busy."

"Right. N-"

"How was that right?"

Santana turned to him, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "How was it wrong?"

"It's not my place to be disappointed when Kurt's got something planned," Blaine explained. "I'm only inconveniencing him by asking and getting out of line by not liking the response."

Oh my god, he actually thinks this is true. "You went after something you wanted and accepted his response politely without any outward display of being let down," she rephrased. "If there's any reason it's wrong it's because you didn't keep going after it."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"And that -" she pointed to him to emphasize her point, "- is what's wrong. But that's his doing, not yours. Being disappointed is just feeling something bad about someone else, Blaine. It happens and it's not your fault."

"It's not my fault?"

"It's not your fault," she said again, and for the first time since maybe she'd met him, his eyes lit up with a tinge of a type of hope she'd not seen in him before. "Next?"

"I ate lunch."

"All of it?"

"Yes."

"Did you feel sick?"

"No."

"Right. Next?"

He actually grinned before sobering and continuing; she missed the grin as soon as it was gone. "I went back to class."

"Right. Next?"

"I came home when my classes were finished."

"Right. Next?"

"I went to take my medicine."

"Right. Next?"

He paused and her stomach twisted sickeningly when that hope flickered out of him. "I... fell."

"Neither."

"Neither?" He looked at her in total bewilderment. "Is that even possible?"

Was he so far gone that he believed that? She wished she could tell herself no. "Not everything falls into a category of either 'wrong' or 'right'. Sometimes things just are."

"Oh." He sat back in his wheelchair, and he seemed to be staring into a voice where things just were for a moment before snapping back to reality. "Okay. Next I called you."

Santana sighed. "Right. I'm just going to put 'Tried to get help' under right and leave it at that, okay?"

"Why is it right?"

"I said it once and I'll say it again and next time I'll draw you a picture," she teased. "You deserve help, Blaine."

It struck him much as it did the first time, and much like the first time she found herself wondering just how long he'd had to go without the help he so needed. "Right. Okay. Um, and then I kind of... fell apart when Rachel picked up."

Santana set down the pen and turned the face him, face-to-face, her shoulder square and her demeanor somber. "Can you tell me why?"

"I, um..." he gulped. "I was hurt... and helpless... and I didn't think anyone would find me until you came home and that could have been hours. And I didn't want you to have to find me like that because you would have been really scared and for no good reason because I'm not worth getting scared over -" It took a lot of restraint to hold back interrupting him, "- and then Rachel was coming and she was scared and I couldn't move or answer her questions and I was scared and everything was scary and -"

"Take a breath," she commanded gently, and he did, cutting off his words and inhaling a huge gasp of air.

And then he plunged forward as if he hadn't even needed to breath, growing steadily more upset as he did so. His hands began to shake as he gestured with them, he flinched in pain every time he moved his shoulder, and the worst part was that tears began welling in his dulling eyes. Santana recalled the experience later as if she were being electrocuted, because she'd just found out that Blaine cried a lot but hadn't known because he hid it, and he was finally showing her he trusted her enough to do it in front of her. Either that, or it hurt so badly he couldn't hide. Both were equally grievous. "And then she got here and I couldn't help her and she kept telling me to be quiet but I couldn't because I don't know why, and then when I did get quiet it was because everything was disappearing, and then I thought about Kurt disappearing and I... I-I could... c-couldn't m-make myself..."

"Shh, honey," Santana tried to say, but her voice broke right before the petname. She slid off her chair and took Blaine's hands in hers and held them. As soon as her fingers grazed over his skin, the first tear loosed its way from his eyes and fell with a tiny, flattening splash onto his cheek, where it rolled down, glinting in the light. "It's all going to be okay."

He hiccuped and squeezed her hands tightly, keeping his grip for much longer than she though he would. "N-No..."

"You are brave," she told him, before she could stop herself. "You are brave, I swear."

"I'm... I-I'm..." He hiccuped again and another tear fell, and this time he dropped his head so his chin rested against his neck and his shoulders shook.

"You are brave," she repeated, "and you are okay."

"N-No I'm n-not." She'd never head him try to speak when crying before, but the effect was something like he was being drowned.

"You will be, then." She was sure of it - okay, so maybe she wasn't, but she'd make herself sure of it. "You will be as okay as you are nice, and caring, and strong, and talented, and skilled, and hard-working, and determined, and brave."

"I'm n-not brave, though," he choked, and she could see that he had shut his eyes so tightly his entire face wrinkled with his eyelids, and yet the tears didn't stop coming. "I'm n-not brave."

"You are so brave." It was one of the most truthful things she'd ever said. "You're not cowardly. You're not fearless. You are considerate and you put other people before yourself all the time, but you're brave. You're the bravest person I have ever met."

"B-But... I-I wouldn't... I can't..."

"You don't have to do anything right now except believe me."

And something shifted. The air, so still around them, became just the tiniest bit more occupied, filled with something had been missing - and that same something, undefinable in any language and by any person but known by almost all, was there in his face when he looked up. Not just his face, but all of him: He thrummed with the energy, he moved with it even staying still, and his sobs were inclusive of a feeling almost like being happy. "I'll be okay?"

"Yes," she giggled tearfully, her soft laughter riddled with the same kind of cries he let go now. "Yes, I promise. Yes."

The knock on the door made Blaine jump. Santana was at work and took her keys, so it was either Kurt, Rachel, or someone completely random or lost. He'd been awakened that morning by Santana making him breakfast. Eggs and waffles, and they'd eaten them together, which was the first time in days that they'd shared a meal. It was nice. Santana was as blunt and Santana-esque as usual, but she chose her words specifically to make sure what she said couldn't possibly be construed into something negative. But even that couldn't last; she'd taken off right before noon, because she had a waiting shift before her shift as bartender, and he was left alone again.

It was a good kind of alone, a thin kind that seemed both heavy and light, but now it was being interrupted.

He stood and walked to the door, peering out the peephole. He didn't see anything - but then, he had to stretch to see through it. It was really high up and it was not his fault he was so short. But nonetheless he sighed and opened it, looking to see who it was.

"Hi!" Kurt said brightly, shouldering a huge bag. "How are you?"

"Kurt," Blaine greeted, "What are you doing here?"

"Classes are over," Kurt said, pointing at a clock. Blaine knew he was right, he'd seen the time when walking to the door, but that wasn't the only objection to Kurt's being there.

"Don't you have to go to work?" Blaine asked. "It's Tuesday."

"Isabelle gave me the next three days off," Kurt smiled at him. "I was already ahead of where I needed to be in my workload and I'm not going to be behind at all until Friday, so I'm off to take care of you."

"Take care of me?"

"Yes," Kurt drew the word out slowly. "Take care of you. You know, you? The one with a concussion bad enough to keep him house-ridden?"

"Oh," Blaine murmured. "Right. Sorry, I keep forgetting about that stuff."

"What stuff?" Kurt asked, momentarily distracted.

"Oh, just..." Blaine struggled to find the words for it. "Good... stuff... I guess." He shook his head. "Sorry, that was really not descriptive at all. Did you want to come in?" He stepped to the side and gestured with one arm for Kurt to enter.

"Yes, thank you," Kurt replied, stepping inside gracefully and allowing Blaine to close the door behind him. "I brought entertainment. Popcorn, old but timeless musicals, and some of our old Warblers tapes." He set his bag down on the chair and began digging through it, looking for the items he listed.

"Our old Warblers tapes?"

"Mm," Kurt confirmed, glancing up to smile at Blaine and only smiling wider when he noticed the grin the other boy was fighting. "I found the videos of your first 'Teenage Dream' that the other boys had taken and posted on youtube, too, if you got tired of the television and wanted some good old internet."

"What songs did you find taped?" Blaine asked, moving further into the apartment, which already seemed livelier with Kurt inside it.

"Almost all from the time I transferred to Dalton to when I transferred back," Kurt answered him, rummaging in the bag some more and then pulling out several DVD cases. Some were official, with covers and titles, and others were just little CD holders with words written on them. "Do you want to watch these, or something else? Or both? We could work our way through them over the next three days, if you'd like I'm okay with that. What do you want to do?"

Blaine was lost. Totally, hopelessly lost. Kurt's voice hadn't stopped making his head spin, and not in a way that scared him; Kurt's eyes were vivacious today, bright and cheery, and his beaming at Blaine didn't help matters. Not to mention that his pants were ridiculously tight again, and his shirt-and-vest combination clung to the contours of his figure, slimming, and his presence seemed to command the room. It certainly commanded Blaine.

"Blaine?"

"Hm? Sorry," Blaine said, raising a hand to his forehead automatically. "I kind got lost. Say it again?"

Kurt smirked, but his eyes grew concern. "Have you taken your medication?"

"Yes, I did, " Blaine said, gesturing to the bottle of pills sitting on the nightstand. "I'm just waiting for them to take effect. I was a little late, but I did take them."

Kurt rolled his eyes fondly. "You're a ditz, Blaine Warbler."

That old nickname gripped his lungs so tightly he felt all the air rush out of his chest. "Yeah, a ditz."

"So," Kurt said, turning back to the bag. "We could watch the musicals, or watch our own oldies. We need to make the popcorn ourselves, it's not microwave, much cheaper -" and it was a tradition they had that they'd been forced to break last year when Kurt was in New York and Blaine wasn't, and Blaine felt his lips spread widely at the mention of it "- and we could look up Warbler videos on youtube."

"We could sing," Blaine suggested. "I haven't had a chance to really sing since last week."

Kurt's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "Last week?!" he squeaked. "That is unacceptable!"

"My guitar's in my room," Blaine said, pointing. "My violin and keyboard are in my closet. Did you want to sing something already written, or..."

"What else would we sing?" Kurt asked, confused, when Blaine trailed off.

"Well, it's... I've written a song or two myself," he said, and Kurt's face rearranged itself to look casual and respectful but he could see the excitement crinkling the corners of his eyes, "but then I've also re-written lyrics to a couple songs to fit my situation. I was -"

"Sing, sing sing sing," Kurt demanded, pointing and nearly jumping up and down. "Sing anything. Your own song, if you want. Or wait! One I know. Wait, no, a mix of the two. The last option."

Blaine heard the last part and chuckled, because by then he was emerging from the small curtained-off area that served as his room while carrying the guitar he'd spoken of. "You know this, but I re-wrote the lyrics," he said, not bothering to introduce it. It was a song everyone knew, really, but nobody knew this version.

Kurt waited impatiently for him to begin and Blaine felt the air take on a new form. It was odd, but it was pleasant, and it helped his fingers strum the chords. Kurt's brow furrowed instantly; he recognized it, of course he did, but he couldn't place it. He'd forgotten what song it was. Blaine chuckled and Kurt mock-glared."

"Hey there Kurt Hummel, what's it like it New York city?" Blaine sang, and Kurt clamped a hand over his mouth, riddled with excitement. Blaine absolutely loved seeing him so joyful; his anticipation for something good always brought out an adorable happiness in him and it was not only contagious but seemed to last for hours. "I'm a thousand miles away, but boy, tonight you look so pretty, yes you do."

Kurt started dancing in place and Blaine had to remind himself not to stare. You have no right to stare anymore. The thought was sobering and Blaine's smile slipped. Kurt noticed. Blaine brought the smile back. Kurt didn't believe it.

"Times Square can't shine as bright as you, I swear it's true," Blaine told him, and the words were honest.

"Hey there Kurt Hummel, don't you worry about the distance;
I'm right here if you get lonely, give this song another listen -
close your eyes. Listen to my voice, it's my disguise.
I'm by your side."

Kurt swayed back and forth and Blaine almost forgot the chorus - but then he remembered, and even if it was a little late, neither of them cared. Blaine had seen Kurt look at him like that more times than he'd ever expected to, and he was wrenched in his very core because Kurt was looking at him like he loved him.

"Oh, it's what you do to me!"

Not with contempt, not with hatred.

"Oh, it's what you do to me."

Not with anything he'd come to expect after the break-up.

"Oh, it's what you do to me!"

In fact, his eyes were almost glittering now, the lights dancing in the sheen of liquid that covered the blue already deep enough to have been saltwater itself.

"Oh, it's what you do to me."

And his lips were frowning now, but there was laughter playing at the edges. Blaine's whole body felt like it was thrumming, and maybe it was the music and song that he was causing and maybe it was Kurt, but whatever it was he wanted more and had been deprived of it for far too long.

"What you do to me."

Kurt shook his head just softly enough for Blaine to remember that No, he doesn't love me anymore. Not like that.

"Hey there Kurt Hummel, I know sometimes it gets hard,
but believe me, I will love you no matter how far apart
we get for good; we'll have the life we knew we would,
my heart is good."

Kurt shook his head again and this time the laughter became more prominent in his face; but so did the tears, and that had Blaine confused. He'd been so excited just moments ago - well, a minute and a half really - but now he was standing there, as still and rigid as a statue, not to mention just as handsome, his entirety giving off so many different signs Blaine didn't know how to read him.

Knowing what the next verse was, Blaine almost stopped singing; but then he also decided that no, he had to go on, but he almost went back to the original verse just to avoid the lyrics change he made. It was no longer relevant or even possible, what he'd re-written, but no, Kurt had wanted this. Right?

"Hey there Kurt Hummel, I've got so much left to say.
If every single kiss I shared with you would take your breath away
I'd do it all. Even more in love with me you'd fall -
We'll have it all."

Kurt's hands were shaking. He wasn't okay. Kurt wasn't okay, why wasn't Kurt okay?

Blaine's fingers fell from the guitar and he placed it on the ground beside him, holding it up loosely with his palm. "Kurt?"

"Why did you stop?"

And now his voice was shaking, too. What had he done? He hadn't meant to, he really hadn't meant to upset him. How had he upset him? Was it the words? It was the words, wasn't it? He knew he should have stuck with something else. This was old and moot by now and only brought up bad memories. "Because you're upset."

"No, Blaine," and Kurt shook his head again. "I'm happy."

"But you look sad."

"It's a sad kind of happy," was the only response he got.