Rachel woke up to a dark city's glistening outline against the last remnants of a sunset. Consider they'd stayed up so late and gone to bed somewhere around noon, waking up at midnight wasn't too bad a time to wake up.

However, waking up with a hangover - not the worst she'd ever had, but still not pleasant at all - and tangled in bed sheets with the sleeping form of her trouble friend's brother next to her didn't enhance the experience so much as freak her out really badly.

She covered her eyes uselessly; it was already nearly impossible to see because of the darkness of the time, but the few lights they'd left on in the kitchen and the living room were bright enough to send her head pounding back into her skull. She felt her bones everywhere but there slink further into brittleness, and the hammers kept attacking her brain relentlessly. Her stomach churned uneasily; she'd eaten an early dinner, no breakfast, and no lunch. It was past the point of growling and had begun stabbing her insides to get her to feed herself.

She briefly considered things - but only briefly. Concentration hurt. But in those brief moments, she thought about what Cooper might do. What she might do. If she made breakfast - which she should - should she make some for him too?

But then concentration pain hit and she bit back a groan not unlike the ones she'd released before she'd collapsed into drunken sleep and gave up on thinking, deciding that she might as well make breakfast for both of them. Her first task was to untangle herself from Cooper; she pulled her leg out from between his, and when he responded physically by shifting his legs, searching for hers, she took a deep breath and pulled herself out of the grasp of his arms, and, as quickly as she could, moved her pillow where he'd been holding her.

She felt cold when she was successfully standing in the night air in a silent apartment, but more than that, she felt dizzy. She took a few moments to make sure she was alright to walk, decided - for once in her life - not to be so over-dramatic and to just carry on without grumbling, and headed to the kitchen.

She'd been drunk. That much was painfully obvious. She passed the half-empty wine bottle still sitting on the coffee table and looked away; their glasses had been on her bedside table, and she raised a hand to run it through her hair and rub her temple when her bare feet barely escaped the leg of the , she'd been drunk; but not so drunk she couldn't remember. She'd only been slightly drunk, just enough to feel things she wouldn't feel otherwise and make decisions based off of that; she remembered talking, and flirting, and dancing, and then kissing and all other activities that kissing led to.

To be honest, Rachel had seriously missed getting properly laid. A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips at remembrance of the previous day - she opened the fridge and stuck her hand in, searching for the frozen packaged waffles she knew they had. Cooper was an undeniable relief and infinitely better than her hand (she had a sneaking suspicion that Santana had hidden her dildo when she'd still lived there, but like hell was she going to ask about it) and though she could never love him like she loved Finn, she had to admit that the sex was pretty damn awesome.

She found the waffles and drew them out of their box, ripping open the packaging with her teeth while she closed the fridge with her free hand. The crinkling/tearing sound seemed almost to echo in the silence of the place, and she paused for a moment to hear the stutter in Cooper's breathing, and then hear it return to its normal, smooth pace.

She stuck the waffles in the toaster, adjusted the time, and started the toasting process. She thought maybe that she'd overdone it, but every time she tried to make the timer run for a shorter time, whatever she had inside came out under-done. She wished there was a clear toaster, so you could see when your bread or waffles or bagels were done.

She shook her head. She'd gone from sex to toast in such a short amount of time mentally that it was almost disconcerting. She really shouldn't have expected anything less when she was hungover.

And then there was another stutter in Cooper's breathing - and then a murmur - and then sheets rustling - and then a grunt and a deep breath and feet hitting the floor when a blanket was tossed aside.

Rachel froze. She didn't know what to do at all, and she was in no state to consider her options, so she just froze. Cooper's footsteps grew closer and closer and then he came out from the curtain and stopped because he saw her. His eyes were bloodshot, but she knew hers were, too; he was stumbling around like she was, and his hand was in his hair, too, like hers had been. They were so remarkably similar it was almost unnerving.

"Hi," Cooper said after a beat - and even after waking up, his voice was clear. Like hers.

"Hi," she said back, and then fell silent again.

They both dissolved into laughter at the same time.

Kurt woke up around three in the morning. At first, he thought he'd woken up sky outside was glittering with the reflections of windows and the lights of New York, and the distant, dancing twinkles looked like fireflies in front of a thick velvet that was the sky. The air was crisp, and cool, and lovely, and Kurt reveled in it for a moment, closing his eyes again and breathing in.

The air around him smelled wonderful. The bed was unfamiliar and he was on the wrong side, but it was still a bed. He was snuggled warmly underneath the sheets, and they were fairly soft. Not so soft he felt smothered, but not coarse enough to be bothersome.

It took a few seconds for him to recognize Blaine in his arms, and when he did he felt a million steel cables that had been keeping his muscles tense snap; he snuggled further into the bedding and Blaine, his smile completely naturally spreading. Blaine's curls were tickling his chin, and Kurt could feel Blaine's hand on his shoulder, gripping him tightly, like he did when he needed to either hold or be held. His other arm must have been under him, because Kurt could feel Blaine's chest pressing into his side, and his toes pressed against his leg with their knees locked together.

The sheets were warm where they were, and Blaine's voice was the first thing Kurt heard, and it was talking to him, talking to him without anger, without sadness, just talking to him. Quickly. And his grip on his arm was a bit tighter than it needed to be. That meant he was awake, right? Oh, he was awake, too. Kurt's smile grew and he searched for Blaine's lips in his blindness, forgetting, in his sleepy, happy haze, that he had yet to open his eyes.

"Kurt, wake up. Kurt, I'm bleeding."

"What?" Kurt exhaled, his smile disappearing and his eyes flying open. Sure enough, the arm that was under Blaine was holding him up, and his palm - his injured palm - was held in front of him, above Kurt's chest - and the stitching had torn. Kurt sucked in a breath at the sight of his hand; he could actually see into the cut, see deep into the red, sticky substance that was pooling at the edges and that had started running itself through the lines of Blaine's palm. He choked on the "Oh, Blaine" he tried to say, and instead he just squeaked.

"I don't want to wake up Santana," Blaine said, his voice low, "And I know you can sew, Kurt. I just need stitching that's not going to tear."

"I thought you were supposed to bandage your hand before you slept?" Kurt whispered hoarsely after he swallowed, still unable to tear his eyes from his boyfriend's hand - Blaine's fingers twitched in response to his voice and curled in, and as a response the blood gushed a bit. Kurt's stomach would have been emptying itself, if there had been anything inside it.

"I was going to," Blaine sounded so ashamed of himself, "But I had a panic attack, and it took me a really long time to calm down, and by the time I did we forgot about it and just went to sleep."

"A panic attack?" Kurt's voice sounded a lot more dubious than he'd intended it too, and when Blaine hung his head a bit, Kurt looked up, only to miss his chance at meeting Blaine's eyes. "It's alright to have one, Blaine, it's just that you don't. What -"

"You read my journal again," Blaine muttered.

Kurt's blood ran cold before it starting burning, and he threw the covers off of them, moving quickly to his sewing kit under the bed. "I'll sterilize my sewing needle. In the meantime, try and keep it closed, hold a few tissues to it."

"Kurt, you read my journal."

"I know, sweetheart."

"Don't - don't call me that. You said you wouldn't read my journal. Just a couple weeks ago you said it."

Kurt opened his sewing kit with a snap and started looking for the materials, "Blaine, you need to hold something to the cut. Don't let yourself bleed out."

"Why did you read it?"

"I'm serious, Blaine. Get some tissues -"

"Kurt, I'm not -"

"That's right, you're not." Kurt snapped his sewing kit shut again and they both flinched at the sound against their whispers. "You're not getting anything to hold to the cut, and you're going to drip all over Santana's sheets."

"I'm not doing anything until you talk to me!"

Kurt looked up then, and saw everything there was to see in Blaine, and saw exactly how rigid he was with confusion; but he said, "We are talking. You woke me up to help you because you're bleeding, and I'm helping you for that. When I've patched you up we can talk."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Blaine clambered to Kurt's side of the bed and before Kurt knew what he was doing, he'd bent down and kissed him. His lips were soft, pliant from just waking up, and eager in a nervous kind of way; they pressed into Kurt's as tenderly as Blaine nuzzled their noses until Kurt's eyebrows fell and he dropped the needle and kissed Blaine square back. And though Blaine was bleeding, and though they'd just been fighting, and though kissing was the last thing Kurt expected to be doing, Blaine was kissing him, and he was kissing Blaine, and it shot just as much warmth into him as it had before the whole mess started.

HisBlaine was kissing him. Not the Blaine he'd been practically living with for the past month or so;hisBlaine. The Blaine that felt for Kurt like Kurt felt for him. The Blaine that felt.

And Blaine pulled away with something resembling a grin, and said, with no small measure of cockiness, "NowI'll find tissues."

Kurt just watched him walk into the living room in amazement and confusion before he remembered there was a needle on the ground he needed to sterilize.

Blaine's hand was tighter than it had been, and there was blood all over it, and it hurt like hell, but it was sewn together again. Kurt was running water from the sink over his needle as quietly as he could, and he'd left Blaine to sit on the couch alone.

Blaine wasn't sure how to proceed with the situation. On one hand, he knew that Kurt didn't distrust him... at the time he thought he had. If ever there was a time for Kurt to distrust him, it was then, after everything Blaine had said and done to encourage him to believe in his own distrust. It's amazing how thinking someone else doesn't trust you makes it seem like you don't trust them, because it either makes you realize you don't really, or it makes you both realize how much you do. Blaine was hoping for the latter. But the entire time, Kurt had insisted on silence, focusing intently on Blaine's palm and only looking away to keep himself from gagging (he said he needed to "breathe", but it was obvious). Blaine hadn't spoken to him and didn't know how to broach the subject without sounding accusatory.

He moved his hand, by habit, to his hair, and flinched when his injury met his forehead - he gasped on contact, and immediately bit his lip afterward, averting the pain from the stitches to his mouth.

"What?" Kurt asked, reappearing in the room suddenly and increasing his pace when he heard Blaine's intake of breath. "What hurts?"

"Nothing," Blaine said by habit, and then blinked and corrected himself. "I used my hand and didn't mean to, that's all."

"That's not nothing," Kurt scolded, taking up his earlier position in front of Blaine, but this time he didn't reach for his hand - he reached for his face, brought it closer to him gently, and then just barely brushed his lips against Blaine's cheek.

"What was that for?" Blaine asked when Kurt pulled away smiling.

"I was apologizing for reading your journal," Kurt explained, and Blaine understood the small smile.

"Ah."

"I did it," Kurt began, "because I didn't understand, and I knew it had answers."

"Answers I didn't give you," Blaine clarified.

Kurt nodded. "Yes. And that's not your fault, but Iamyour fiance. I want you to be as happy and healthy as possible, and I had only the smallest of hints as to why you wereunhappy andunhealthy." He paused. "Was that..?"

"No, you're fine."

"Okay." He steeled himself up again to continue speaking. "I know I shouldn't have read it, and I'm really sorry, Blaine. I understand most of everything now, I think, and I only have a few more questions -"

"You mean itdidn'ttell you everything you needed to know?" Blaine asked, slightly dumbstruck. "I put everything in there."

"I know," Kurt told him, and reached out for his good hand earnestly, taking it in his and rubbing his thumb over Blaine's knuckles soothingly like he always did. "But I think sometimes I just don't understand. You have a very chaotic mind space, Blaine, and mine is very organized. It's hard to make sense of everything, no matter how carefully I read."

Blaine swallowed and looked at how Kurt's eyes flickered all over his face; they grazed over his cheekbones, they dipped into his jaw, they skimmed his forehead - they studied him and they did it well, and knowingly; Kurt knew his face. He was just etching it into his mind again. "Alright. Ask away."

Kurt's eyes abruptly stopped their observation and stared straight at him in surprise. "Really?"

"You say we need to talk more and you're right," Blaine said.

Kurt returned to studying, but with narrowed eyes and unsure flickers, and Blaine was reminded in his gut why they were having problems.Once a cheater, always a cheater... Nevertheless, Kurt eventually shrugged slightly and drew in a breath and sighed, "Ooookay."

When he paused and didn't continue for a while, Blaine squeezed his hand, smiled reassuringly, and said, "Go on."

"Alright." Kurt nodded again, this time for himself. "Well, um, first thing's first... why did you start thinking I don't trust you?"

"Oh, that," Blaine said, and the most relief he'd ever put in a grin spread across his cheeks. "It was when I re-met Adam. I was about to come through the door and I heard you say 'Once a cheater, always a cheater', and I thought... yeah. But it's okay, Santana cleared it up for me."

"You thought -" Kurt broke himself off and tried really hard to fight a smile. "Wow. Okay."

"Yeah." And for the second time in the past day, Blaine Anderson giggled - and for the second time in the past day, he was still upset when he did.

"Okay, second," Kurt said, moving on quickly so they didn't have to dwell on it. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," Blaine furrowed his brow at the question. "Did I do something to -"

"Not anything in specific," Kurt tried to placate him, "It's just... this whole thing because you overheard a phrase out of context? I realize what it must have sounded like, but, Blaine, if you trusted me, you should've been able to ask me about it."

Blaine blinked five times before he understood. "No! I mean, yes, I trust you, I just - that was never my train of thought, Kurt, I thought that since you didn't trust me, me bringing it up would only make you think I was eavesdropping and -"

"B," Kurt's voice was amused when it cut him off, "You should probably lower your voice if you don't want to wake the girl sleeping in your bed."

Blaine snickered at the wording without thinking about it and Kurt was quick to join him. "Okay, sorry," Blaine murmured, quieter, his head downfallen and his eyes peering up from under his lashes. "I just... I trust you with everything, Kurt."

"Okay," Kurt told him. "So you'll trust that I'm being honest when I say I trust you?"

Blaine laughed silently and then said, "Yes."

"Good," Kurt smirked. "Now that that's out of the way, something just a tad more serious - what exactly happened with Eli?"

Blaine's laughter and breath were both gone as soon as Kurt saidhisname, because he could feelhimagain. The same way he felt him every time the name was said, or he read it, or he so much as thought it - it was as if those three letters brought back how his arms had been pinned beneath him and his legs had been held down and there had been the weight of someone he didn't want to feel the weight of on top of him. He could feelhisheart thrumming quickly, too quickly, his hips thrusting quickly, too quickly -

"Blaine!"

"I just had this conversation with Santana," Blaine gasped, wrenching himself away from Kurt without thinking about it, because Kurt's arms had started to feel likehis. Kurt looked absolutely, purely shocked, and Blaine wasn't sure what he'd done, but it had clearly curtailed their happy portion of their talk.

"You said I was right, that we needed to talk," Kurt defended himself.

"I know!" Blaine squeaked, his voice cracking and dancing up an octave, and he covered his ears and shut his eyes - but he still heard the constant thrumming ofhisheart and his own heart, and he still saw how Kurt fought back trembling because he didn't know how to help, and he still felt how each ridiculously painful breath filled his chest and slowly died, burning away, into something he needed to get rid of. "I know, I'm sorry."

"Just... tell me what hurts," Kurt's voice filtered between his fingers, and in it he found thathispulse disappeared. So he told Kurt, hoping against himself that it would drown everything out:

"I can feel myself breathing and it hurts."

"Breathing?"

"No, feeling."

Kurt's breathing was louder than Blaine's, but Blaine could feel every trickle of oxygen slither its way into his lungs and then leave as something else, something he couldn't use, something hot and something worthless, changed from the useful, capable thing it was before Blaine got to it. "I don't understand," Kurt said slowly. "I thought not feeling was the problem you were having?"

"I don't know," Blaine muttered, shaking his head, trying to get the pulse out of his ears, "I don't know, I don't know -"

"Blaine," Kurt said firmly, and then there were hands, soft hands, gentle ones, loving ones, covering his, and then fingers slotting themselves between his and pulling them from his ears. "Tell me what you told Santana."

So he did.

And he didn't cry. And he didn't look at Kurt. And he didn't open his eyes or stop shaking or stop hearing that damn heartbeat stronger, louder, than his, and he didn't stop feeling thathischest was on his stomach andhishands against his neck, holding him there, andhismouth was moaning Blaine's name and he felt it more than heard it, but then, when he finally had to say the word "Eli" - it all stopped.

It stopped because that was when Eli clambered off of him and told him to get dressed.

And also when Kurt told him he loved him.

Blaine didn't reply to either of them.

"Blaine?"
"You alright?"

"No."

"Baby?"
"Is it because I don't look like my profile picture?"

"No, I - "

"Blaine."

When Blaine looked up, Santana's face had joined Kurt's. And he was entirely - physically, mentally and emotionally - exhausted. He ached from the furthest curl on his head to the deepest cell in his body, and his eyes were wet and warm and stiff, and his arms were half-asleep, and he swore he could feel the bruises that had long ago faded away throbbing with freshness.

"Sorry," he choked, but his voice was as raw as it had been when Eli had finally allowed him to speak again. "They don't usually last that long."

"What don't usually last that long?" Santana asked him, in a voice far kinder than any Kurt seemed to have expected, because he gaped at her in bewilderment.

"The - the - I... remember... things," Blaine attempted to explain. "I guess... um, I... don't know."

"Would you call it a flashback?"

"I... guess?"

"Mm." Santana's face was impassive, but her voice was soft. "When did it start?"

"I don't... know."

"Kurt?"

"He grabbed the needle when I said E-"

"Stop," Santana hissed, snapping her fingers and making his eyebrows shoot up. Blaine took the information with a grain of salt - apparently he'd grabbed the needle, which would explain why it was on the floor, but he didn't remember doing it. "Don't. I avoided saying the name, and you need to."

"Why?"

"We found his trigger."

The plans had been meticulous.

They'd spent hours pouring their souls out over the internet together, looking at plane tickets, figuring out where to meet up, how their schedules would coincide. They'd spent a lot of long nights where there was nothing on the other end of the line for five minutes except clicking before somebody spoke with another idea. They'd spent weeks getting everything straightened out, from the time the first plane took off to when the last plane back home landed - and then she'd accidentally told Sam, and they had to figure out a way to fit him into the plans. And then they'd run into a transportation problem, and found their solution: Artie. There were backup hotel reservations, maps they all had, printout driving directions, exact change and an extra hundred dollars for each of them, and, in case even the smallest thing went off-schedule (nothing had so far), they had literally come up with a way to still meet up in New York, even if it took another three days.

So it wasn't all that surprising that while Brittany was on her second plane straight to New York, Tina had gotten off her first plane and met Sam at the train station, and together they'd boarded. Her luggage was light for the trip she was making, but it still weighed a ton after cleaning everything in her apartment before she left her roommate alone for a week and then doing nothing but let her arms sit and get sore on a plane for several hours. Her legs were fully functional again, and she was grateful for it; especially when she heard a loud, "TINA!" from a familiar voice, and turned to see her blond friend waving a sign with her picture on it above his head. Her old picture. From graduation.

She bit back a moan of exasperation and instead ran to him, dropping her suitcase beside her when she was close enough to launch herself into his arms. He dropped the sign to catch her, and spun her around, and though she and Sam had never been the closest, when Blaine wasn't around he was definitely her best friend; and she'd really, really missed hugging him.

And from there, it was another long ride, this time on a train. At least she had Sam; Brittany was going to be alone the whole trip, up until Artie picked her up at the airport in his cab.

But then they got to New York. Exactly on time. And Brittany sent them both a text saying she'd landed - exactly on time. And for the first time since waking up way too early in the morning, Tina smiled with a child-like excitement. She knew what had happened (Blaine had told Tina about his past self-harming himself, after Sam accidentally let it slip - but Tina didn't tell him that part), and she knew that Blaine was better. In fact, she'd texted him just the day prior, when he'd said he was making a surprise for Kurt, and then that he had to go to finish up. She'd texted him when she got off the plane, asking how things went, but she'd never gotten an answer. She'd then texted Kurt how he was, because they hadn't spoken in about two weeks, but he hadn't responded either - she assumed they were together and wanted to be alone.

Brittany was coming mostly for Santana but some for Kurt, Blaine, Artie and Rachel - Tina was coming mostly for Blaine but some for Kurt, Rachel, Artie and Santana, and Sam was doing the same as her. But whoever they were coming for, they were coming, and they were doing it together. Tina thought that both Brittany and Sam were being very mature about the whole thing; she knew how messy their breakup had been and how strange their friendship felt to them right now, but they were both behaving admirably.

And because they were behaving so admirably, when Brittany climbed out of her cab and helped Artie into his wheelchair in front of the apartment building where Sam and Tina were waiting for her, they all hugged just as tightly as the two of them had done earlier before they laughed and started bringing each other up-to-date on things you can't really talk about without being face-to-face, all the while heading into the building and up the elevator. Brittany had two bags as opposed to the one suitcase both Sam and Tina carried, but they didn't question her, because they'd all brought gifts - and Brittany had told them, due to air travel planning, how large hers were. Not what she'd gotten everyone, but that they were bigger than she could put in one bag. Artie's were each individually wrapped, something none of the rest of them had been able to do; he looked smug when they brought it up.

And then they were standing outside the door, and they checked the number each to make sure it was what it was the right one, and then all pulled out their phones, incapable of fighting their smiles of excitement. Tina's stomach was knotted in excitement and she was bouncing up and down - so was Brittany. Sam was tapping his foot anxiously, and Artie was biting his lip and looking at the door repeatedly. And then they all sent the New York four their texts in a single message:SURPRISE!

Tina shoved Sam out of the way and laughed, because then they both joined her in pounding on the door while Artie cheered them on from behind.

She heard Santana's voice say "Who the hell -" on the other side of the door, and they all stopped at that, and looked at each other, counted to three, and then, in unison, shouted, "YOU'VE GOT COMPANY!"

There were footsteps, a shout, a shuffle, and then the door was opening and Kurt's face was there, with Santana just over his shoulder and Blaine looking at them through his hands on the couch. None of them looked too happy, but when Blaine saw Tina at the forefront of the group, his face lit up, if only slightly; the first thing she noticed was that he was as pale as a ghost and looked ready to pass out and/or cry. "Blainey, what's wrong?" she asked immediately, and the smiles of her fellow suprisers behind her slipped. Kurt stepped aside automatically, and Tina barreled into the apartment - Blaine barely had time to open his arms before she was in them, her own arms wrapped around his torso and her head buried in his chest.

"Tina," he said instead of answering, exasperatedly and fondly, and kissed the top of her head. "I didn't know you were coming!"

"It was a surprise," Tina told him, and then she saw his hand. She didn't reach for it, because Blaine hadn't automatically hugged her with it, and that meant that it hurt. "What happened to your hand?"

"Britt -" Santana's voice was so much softer and tamer than Tina remembered, and she had to look up to see if it was actually Santana. But it was, and she was pulling Brittany into a hug tighter than the ones she'd had only minutes before, at the same time Sam told Kurt, "We didn't know you'd be here, we thought we'd have to go to you and Rachel's apartment. It's good to see you, man!"

"I'm back here, too!" Artie called. "What all's going on? Why is everyone so sad?"

Kurt was still and silent for a moment, and only when Brittany pulled away from Santana did he respond to Sam. "It's good to see you too, Sam, but you have absolutelyhorribletiming."

"Is Blaine okay?" Brittany whispered, just loudly enough for them to hear, and anyone who knew her knew that she'd asked Santana if she was okay when nobody was listening, and Santana had told her yes.

"He will be," Santana said firmly.

"That's not what I asked, Tana," Brittany reprimanded gently, before he tilted her head and leaned forward and pecked Santana's cheek.

"What's wrong with Blaine?" Sam added, moving past Kurt into the room and making a beeline for Blaine. "Dude?"

"Is he hurt?" Artie piped up.

"I'm fine," Blaine called back. "It's great to see you guys!" The smile he wore was so fragile that Sam wasted no time sitting his ass down on the other side of Blaine and hugging him, too - being careful to avoid the bandaged hand he saw. Blaine hugged him back, but only just; and only, he suspected, because he was expected to.

"We brought presents?" Artie offered weakly, holding his gifts up for Kurt to see. "See, we each have one for the four of you."

"Come on in, Artie, everyone else has," Kurt said, his eyes locked on Blaine. Blaine looked over top of Tina to Artie and beckoned him in. "We should probably tell you what's happened in the last twenty-four hours."