Chapter 15

Kurt was going to go straight home; he really was. He just… couldn't yet. He passed the sign for Lima and felt restless. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the first number he could think of.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Kurt… could you meet me?"

"Um, sure, when?"

"Right now at the Lima Bean?"

"Is everything okay?"

"It's… yes… I just… could you?"

"Sure, I'm leaving now."

He hung up and went straight there; parked haphazardly in a back spot and went in. He was immediately soothed by the familiar surroundings—the scent of coffee; the chatter of patrons; even the feel of the chair was a strange comfort. Constant; known.

He didn't have to wait long—barely five minutes later, he saw Quinn breezing through the door.

She smiled awkwardly at him, "When you asked about a coffee date sometime soon, I didn't realize it would be this soon."

"Life doesn't seem to be adhering to any sort of timeline I give it these days," Kurt smiled sadly at her, "What do you want to drink? I'm buying."

She told him her drink order and waited at the table until he returned. She smiled gratefully at him and took a sip of her iced tea before looking back at him curiously, "You know, you and I never really talked much in school."

Kurt looked down at his own cup; picked at the edge of his lid, "I know…"

She turned her straw around i; watched the ice slide in slow circles around it in lazy circles, "But we were both the pretty ones who couldn't quite keep it all together."

Kurt smiled humorlessly at her, "I guess so."

She smiled a little at him, "So what was so urgent you needed to call a fellow messed up pretty girl to keep for company?"

"I quit my internship," He blurted. There it was. He'd officially said it out loud for himself.

She looked at him in surprise.

"Blaine…" Kurt closed his eyes; opened them again, "His mom told me Sunday night they're not going to let him go. He's too sick. I figured he wouldn't be able to, and I'd been thinking about it, but then it was real and the idea of leaving him here was real and I just… I couldn't go without him. So I quit."

Quinn didn't say anything. She reached out and slipped her fingers around his hands still wrapped around his coffee cup.

Kurt looked down at her slender hand wrapped around his; maybe it was just because she looked so damn sad, but he was suddenly defensive, "What? No questions about 'what the hell was I thinking?'"

"No," She shook her head; her voice quiet, "Why would I ask that?"

"Because it's what everyone else is going to be asking," The words tasted bitter on his tongue, "Because I was one of the people that was actually supposed to get out of here,"

"When has 'supposed to' ever come true for us?" Quinn's thumb brushed across the back of his hand.

Kurt looked away; his eyes focused on the menu for a minute before blurring with tears, "Was I stupid for believing it would once high school was over? I really thought… I had the internship and I had Blaine, and Rachel and I put a deposit in for the apartment. I really believed things were going to be…"

"… Perfect," She finished for him; her fingers gripping his tighter.

He looked back at her and nodded; the first tears finding their way down his cheeks. A bitter laugh escaped his mouth, "It sounds so stupid now. Thinking everything would just be the way I wanted it just because high school was over."

"You could still have your dream…when Blaine's better; you can still go," She looked down at her cup and her hand slid from his. It rested on the table between them and Kurt wasn't sure why, but he thought of Pavarotti as he stared at her sad, wilted fingers against the wood.

"You could still have yours, too," Kurt offered quietly.

She smiled bitterly at him and shook her head, "I was supposed to marry my high school sweetheart and be a real estate agent."

"Was that really your dream or was that what you were willing to settle for?" Kurt took a chance and rested his hand atop hers on the table, "You could have dreamed bigger than that, Quinn."

Quinn gave him a fierce look he hadn't seen on her face since her Cheerio days, "What, so I could feel as shitty as you do right now? So having nothing going for me could hurt even worse?"

Kurt cringed but said nothing.

Almost as sudden as her ferocity had come, it melted to regret, "I didn't mean that."

"…I don't regret wanting what I wanted. I just regret not appreciating how nice things are when you feel untouchable," Kurt studied their hands on the table between them, "…and I don't have nothing. I have Blaine."

Quinn stared down at their hands too, "What are you going to do now?"

"…I'm not sure… work for my dad, maybe," Kurt cringed, "He just found out I quit the internship. I'm supposed to be at home right now having a talk with him."

"Your dad's a nice guy," Quinn slid her hand out from under Kurt's, "He'll understand."

Kurt wanted to hold her hand again; make her smile, "Thank you for meeting me like this… and listening."

She smiled faintly, "It's not like I had anything better to do. I don't think I got the job."

"Right, you were going to an interview," Kurt shook his head, "I'm sorry—I'm whining and whining about me, and I didn't even think to ask."

"You have good reasons to whine," She got up from her chair; her cup still clutched between her hands.

He followed her toward the door, "I'll take you out for a real coffee date sometime; we don't even have to count this one."

"I'd like that," She turned toward him as they approached their cars.

He reached out a hand to squeeze her arm, but then she was wrapping him in a hug. After a moment of confusion, he returned it.

"Love's not something many people get the opportunity to keep in their lives, Kurt," She let him go, but her hand held at his elbow, "At least being tied to this stupid town is worth it for you."

He nodded; sniffled, "Thanks again."

She got into her car, and he slowly made his way to his own but remained still in the passenger seat long after he saw Quinn's car disappear out of the lot and down the street. As always though, time kept moving, and the inevitable remained fixed. He started his engine and made the short drive home.

"You know you made Kurt sound like a fun guy, right?" Trip stretched languorously and lay back in the grass; a hand tucked behind his head. The sun was getting low in the sky but he and Blaine had remained out in the yard; watched Kurt pull out of the driveway with his music playing too loud.

"He is," Blaine squinted up at the sky; the blue was turning hazy and a soft edge of gold was taking hold. He let out a sigh, "He's been different since we found out I was sick."

"People tend to do that—get weird when shit gets hard." Trip yawned.

"He's not weird," Blaine turned his head to look at Trip, "He's just… sad. All the time, even when he's happy, he's sad."

"Are you two still fucking?" Trip asked casually.

"Jesus, Trip," Blaine gave him a reproachful frown.

"Well are you?"

Blaine sighed; he and Trip had never had a conventional friendship… if he could even really call it a friendship, he wasn't entirely sure, "… No."

Trip gave him a grim look.

"It's not like we don't want to or—" Blaine paused; tried to organize his thoughts to keep the words flowing, "We haven't really tried except for this morning…"

"And what happened this morning?"

"You." Blaine made a face at him.

Trip let out a peel of laughter, and Blaine remembered why he had ever liked Trip in the first place at the sound. "Aw Jesus, no wonder he hates me."

"His dislike might also have something to do with the fact that you're a complete dick," Blaine frowned at him, "You're being awful."

"You clearly don't have as good of a long term memory as you claim, buddy. I was way meaner to you when we met than I have been to your little twink of a boyfriend." Trip rolled onto his side.

"Don't fucking talk about him like that," Blaine snapped.

Trip raised an eyebrow at the venom in Blaine's tone.

Blaine took in a slow breath; closed his eyes, "You had good reason to be nasty with me. You don't with him."

Trip groaned and flopped back onto his back, "Jesus Christ, what is with you and being the patron saint of protecting the pathetic?"

"He isn't pathetic; he's the strongest person I know," Blaine smiled up at the sky.

"You need to meet more people." Trip muttered.

"I mean it; get to know him," Blaine turned his face toward Trip, "He surprises people."

"Hn," Trip grunted in response.

"You know you're not—" Fuck, what was the word? "… Pathetic either."

"I think the hesitation in your speech there might have been more a Freudian slip than a tumor thing," Trip cringed, "I still can't believe you have that shit growing in your head."

"Join the club," Blaine mumbled, but then added, louder, "I mean it though, Trip. You can have a fresh start here."

"Blaine, honey, come inside; it's going to be getting cold." His grandma called out from the front door.

"On my way," He called back, but he made no attempt to move from his place in the yard.

A moment later, he heard the sound of the screen door shutting; the creak of feet on the porch, and then Helen's voice; gentle but scolding, "Blaine, don't just lie there; you'll end up forgetting I even told you to come in."

Filter, filter, filter. He closed his eyes tight; tried to get a hold on the words already forming in his mouth—the snarky remarks about his ability to recognize his own body temperature; a nasty comment about the heat of hell. He didn't know if he could trust himself, so he opted to remain silent and just sit up.

He didn't miss the way she looked at Trip, and he wasn't sure if it was with equal or more distaste than the way she looked at Kurt. Trip stared back at her as he got to his feet, "I don't think we've ever had the pleasure of formally meeting."

Blaine knew that tone; Trip was either going to be dripping condescension or he was going to do something outrageous. He contemplated elbowing him hard in the side, but then his father was pulling into the driveway and he was distracted.

"I've heard about you." Was Helen's polite reply; her eyes saying more. I hear the whispers about you. I know what you did.

"Right, right; you live by Harry and Elaine," Trip smiled; tilted his head. He was definitely formulating something behind that Cheshire grin.

"Trip—" Blaine gave him a quick warning glance.

John squinted at Trip for a moment; trying to place him in his memory as he got out of his car and approached them, "I remember you from Maryland…Is it Tuck?"

"Trip," Trip smiled, "As in to catch your foot and fall flat on your face. As in what your kid did at some point this morning."

"I'll remember that," John's eyes flickered to Trip's lip ring once, and then over to Blaine, "Your mother called and told me about your head."

Blaine stopped himself from scowling and taking a step back when his father moved in closer; he was trying to do better with his father, not push him away even more. He held still and pushed his hat back for John to see the bruise, "It's fine."

John took another step forward; brushed his fingers over the spot. Blaine watched his face but couldn't read the expression. John smiled grimly at him, "Nothing worse than what you did when you were learning to walk."

"Gee, that's comforting," Blaine muttered. He hated feeling like a child; he hated it even more that he was now being compared to an infant.

"And nothing worse than what they typical drunk college kid gets at the bar," Trip chimed; clapping Blaine on the back.

Helen frowned at him from the porch, "Dinner will be ready soon."

John turned his attention out to the driveway, "Kurt didn't come over today?"

"No, he did. He had to go early though to deal with some stuff in Lima." Blaine shrugged, but in truth he was disappointed. He liked when Kurt stayed for dinner; nudged his foot under the table; brushed his fingers across Blaine's when he passed him something.

"Are you staying for dinner, Trip?" John looked him over again, and Blaine didn't miss the weariness in his face. Another friend of Blaine's his father would have to somehow learn to be patient with. Still… he was trying. That had to count for something.

"I think it should be a family dinner tonight, John," Helen gave him a pointed look, "It is Harry and Elaine's last night, after all and we haven't had a dinner without guests since we arrived."

Blaine closed his eyes; willed his mouth to remain closed too.

"Trip's parents are family friends of Elaine's—" John was reasoning gently and Blaine was grateful for his calm demeanor, but Trip cut him off smoothly.

"Gay-friend free dinner, I get it," Trip smiled up at her pleasantly.

Helen pursed her lips, "I never referred to anything having to do with lifestyle choices, young man, I was simply saying that—"

"Don't worry, really, we can be honest with each other," Trip turned his smile toward John.

"Trip," Blaine muttered his name sharply.

Trip ignored him, "And honestly, I think you're making excellent progress with my buddy Blaine, here."

Helen's face was a mixture of irritation and confusion.

Without warning, Trip turned toward Blaine with his same devilish smile.

"Trip, what—" Blaine wasn't entirely sure how it happened. One second Trip was a solid foot away; grinning at him, and the next he could taste smoke and feel a touch of cold metal against the side of his mouth. Trip was kissing him. Trip was fucking kissing him. He shoved him away hard; scrambled back a step, "Trip, what the hell!"

Trip wiped his mouth and turned his smile back up to Helen, "See? Rejecting gay kisses. I bet by this time tomorrow he'll be wearing socks under his shoes and marathoning episodes of Man Vs. Wild."

Helen stared at him, her cheeks red and her mouth hanging open in muted horror.

Trip clapped a hand on Blaine's arm, "I should be shoving off. Sorry about the kiss, I just haven't received the help you have with my impulses; I couldn't resist. See you tomorrow?"

Blaine blinked at him; nodded slowly as Trip made his way around to the driver's door of his car, "…Yeah. Tomorrow."

"Who knows, maybe I'll kiss Kurt tomorrow," Trip rested his arms on top of his car and smiled thoughtfully, "Or maybe I'll kiss you, Ms. A. Who knows what I'll do—I'm gay; I'm a savage, unpredictable heathen!"

Blaine watched his car peel away from the curb and tried to replay the past five minutes in his head; maybe he'd misinterpreted something; had some sort of tumor mess up in his head and hallucinated or something… when he looked at his father's white face though, he bit back a laugh. It had definitely happened.

Helen recovered slowly; folded her arms across her chest; glared at Blaine, "You should consider keeping better company, Blaine."

Blaine smiled absently at her, "Jesus hung out with prostitutes. I think I'm doing okay with my friends."

She gave him another pointed look before going back into the house without another word.

It was going to be a long dinner.

His father and Carol were already at the kitchen table when he got home. He folded his arms awkwardly across his chest and stared down at the floor.

"Come here and sit down, kid." Burt motioned a hand to the chair opposite them.

Kurt met Finn's eyes as he rushed from the kitchen in an attempt at avoiding the impending 'Big Talk'. He tripped on the rug in the family room as he scurried toward the stares.

Kurt glanced after him before slowly slipping into the chair his father had indicated. He said nothing.

Burt watched him for a long minute before pulling a piece of paper from his pocket, "Dear Mr. Hummel, We're sorry to hear you will not be joining us for the fall intern training program. While we understand that certain private matters may take precedent at this time in your life, we would like to reiterate the fact that, once deferred, your application will be resubmitted with others who were not hired and no preferential treatment will be given should you decide to reapply in the future."

Kurt set his jaw so tight it made the tendons in his neck ache. He would not cry. He couldn't.

"What the hell were you thinking, Kurt?" Burt's eyes burned into the top of Kurt's head as he stared down at the table, "You threw away your best chance of breaking out of here just like that? A three-line e-mail to this Colette lady telling her you quit and not a word to anyone about it? To me?"

Kurt flinched but remained silent. He focused on a purple-tinted smudge on the tabletop—jam, maybe, from someone's toast that morning that had evaded Carol's washcloth.

"Kurt, this thing was a huge deal to you; you ran around the house shouting about it for an hour when you got the letter!" Burt waved the paper between them, "And just like that you go and give it up? All that work for nothing?"

"It was not for nothing," Kurt's fingers pressed into his palms, he looked up to meet his father's gaze, "I did not give it up for nothing."

"It's Blaine," Carol said quietly; sad understanding creasing her mouth down into a frown.

Burt glanced toward Carol before looking back to Kurt; waiting.

Kurt nodded almost imperceptibly; his voice came out small, "Mrs. Anderson told me they can't let him go."

"So you quit your internship. Just like that," Burt watched him intently.

Kurt felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, "I can't just leave him."

"Blaine has an entire network of people here who can take care of him, Kurt, he has—"

"He needs me," Kurt snapped; the tears burning even hotter behind his eyes, "And I need him, too."

"I'm not saying you two would have to break up, but Kurt, you've got yourself buried so deep in all this—"

"By 'all this' you mean the person I love having cancer, right?" Kurt dug his nails into his palms even harder.

Burt let out an exasperated sigh, "Don't act like I'm trying to be heartless toward you right now, Kurt, you know it's not like that. Who pays for you to drive down there everyday, huh?"

Kurt turned his gaze back down to the table and scowled at the jam stain.

"What I'm trying to say, buddy, is that you haven't even given yourself a chance to take a step back and really evaluate things," Burt's voice was calmer, gentle even, "I know right now this feels like the only thing that makes sense, but what about five months from now? When Rachel's in the city and your friends are gone to school and you're still here; how are you going to feel then?"

Kurt remained mute.

"It's not going to be fair to you or to Blaine if you start to feel resentful because you gave up all your plans to stick it out in Ohio," Burt reached a hand across the table toward his son despite Kurt's hands being buried in his lap; it rested there within Kurt's view as he spoke, "I know you think what you're doing is the only thing you can do to show you love him, but what if isn't?"

Kurt stared down at his father's hand; the perpetual gray shadow of oil in the edges of his nail beds that could never really be fully scrubbed out; the wedding band on his left hand. He wanted to hold his hand; cry out how badly he wanted the city, how much it hurt to think of the internship—pretty, shiny silk that he'd let slide through his fingers. But no, that was only a piece of the picture; there were things he could never let go of; things that, no matter how slippery, he could never loosen his hold on, "You knew mom was going to die and you never left her, did you?"

Burt's fingers jerked out in a little jolt of surprise, "Kurt, Blaine's not going to—"

"I'm not talking about Blaine, I'm talking about Mom," Kurt broke his gaze from his father's hand to meet his eyes intently, "You knew things weren't going to last, but it never even occurred to you to try and run away, did it? And you can't say it's because you had me to look out for. Whether or not I had been in the picture, you would have stayed with her to the end, right?"

Burt searched Kurt's eyes, "Kurt—"

"Right?" Kurt pounded a fist on the table. He knew it was childish, but he needed to do something to make himself heard; show his frustration.

Burt held his gaze, "Yes, I would have stayed. We were married, Kurt, I made a promise to her, and I—"

Kurt saw the understanding flash across his face before Burt looked away. He spoke steadily, "and you loved her."

Burt didn't move at first, but then his head nodded slightly; his voice was quiet, "Yes."

"I love him just like you loved her, Dad."

"You're so young, Kurt." Burt studied his son sadly.

"You were seventeen when you met Mom." Kurt snapped.

"I wasn't saying you were too young to love someone the way you do," Burt reached out again, this time wrapping his hand around Kurt's, "I'm saying you're young to be carrying this kind of weight on your shoulders."

"Well I've been accustomed to a heavy load for a long time, haven't I?" Kurt regretted the iciness in his tone immediately when his father's hand shrank back from his own.

Kurt could hear the heavy sound of Finn's footsteps somewhere above them, but the kitchen was silent. Carol's eyes were on Burt ,and Burt's eyes on the table.

"All right," Burt finally spoke; his tone weary.

Kurt wasn't sure what that meant. He had not asked for permission, and while the idea of his father's disapproval knotted his stomach, he didn't require it.

Burt met Kurt's eyes again, "But you're not going to see him tomorrow."

"Dad!" Kurt half-stood, but Burt was already motioning for him to sit back down.

"Hey, listen, I'm not trying to be mean, but you need a day off from this whether you want it or not," Burt reached into his pocket and slid something across the table.

Kurt sat back down slowly, eyeing the silver plastic of his father's credit card, "What's that for?"

"You are going to take one day and you're going to go do what you did before Blaine got sick; you're going to do what a kid is supposed to be doing with his summer—go to the mall; get lunch with some of your friends," Burt nodded toward the card, "You can even get something for Blaine if you want."

"But I can't talk to him tomorrow," Kurt tried to process the offer; untangle its implications.

"I never said that. Text him if you want, but I'm trusting you to stay out of New Albany."

Kurt rubbed his finger over the top of the card; felt the imprint of his father's name and the neat line of numbers, "Why don't you want me to see him?"

"Kurt," Burt sighed, "I'm not trying to punish you; I just need you to take off the blinders for a day and remember you have an entire life. You can't let him being sick wipe all of that away."

Kurt closed his fingers around the credit card and slid it into his pocket, "…okay."

"Okay?" Burt tried to meet Kurt's gaze.

Kurt complied and met his father's eyes and nodded, "I'll stay away from him for the day."

"First thing Thursday you can go right back over," Burt assured him, "I can even call his parents so he knows you're not there because of me."

"No, no, don't do that," Kurt shook his head quickly, "I haven't told him yet about the internship—I'll come up with something to say to him myself."

"He's going to figure out something's off when you're not packed to leave in September, Kurt; you need to talk to him," Carol spoke gently.

Burt raised a hand to quiet her, "Let him worry about that another day. Starting now, you focus on you, Kurt; got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Kurt was suddenly exhausted, "Can I go to my room now?"

"Sure, buddy," Burt motioned a hand toward the stairs; releasing Kurt from the table and their talk.

Kurt stood and moved toward the steps, but paused, "Dad?"

Burt looked up at him expectantly from the table.

"… Thank you for…." Kurt chewed at his lip for a second, "For the credit card."

"You're welcome," Burt smiled, "Try not to bankrupt me though, all right?"

"Yeah, sure," Kurt tried to offer a smile, but it felt stiff and out of place, so he gave up and jogged up the stairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom. He shut the door behind him and stretched out on his back across the bed, sighing at the loveliness of finally being alone for a moment.

Someone knocked on the door and he fought off the urge to groan out loud, "What?"

The door cracked open, "Can I come in?"

Kurt sat up quickly, "Rachel, I didn't know you were here."

She slipped in and leaned her back against the closed door, "I didn't want to just leave you here to have to get in trouble because I ratted you out."

"Well look at you following through with the mess you made; some might say you've done some maturing since sophomore year, Rachel." He didn't know why he was being mean, but he couldn't help it.

"I don't regret doing it," She looked down at her shoes—awful, shiny black Mary Janes that Kurt decided needed to be burned as soon as possible, "You need someone to lean on too, Kurt. Blaine's not the only one getting eaten up by this."

"It is not eating him up, he's going to be fine," Kurt snapped; glowering at her.

"I didn't mean to say he's not going to get better," Rachel looked up at him quickly; her eyes were shining with tears, "But Kurt, you haven't acted like this since before you met Blaine—you're distant and you're losing weight and you get mean so no one sees how much you're hurting."

He looked away from her; clenched his teeth to try and still the familiar lump growing in his throat, "I'm fine."

Rachel moved in closer; sat down on the edge of the bed, "You can say that as much as you want, but everyone knows it Kurt, and no one would think you're weak for falling apart, after what's already happened with your dad and your mom… It's understandable if you're sad."

Kurt pulled his knees up to his chest; chewed at his thumbnail, "I'm sad, you're right. But I don't have to fall apart."

She was quiet again, but, finally, she moved in closer; rested her head on his shoulder, "You're sure?"

He jumped when he bit into his cuticle and drew blood, "I'm positive."

Rachel was quiet for a long time, "What'd your dad say?"

"I have to take a day off from Blaine tomorrow." Kurt started in on chewing the nail of his index finger, "I'm being sent on a mandatory trip to the mall."

Rachel smiled, "That's not so bad, is it?"

"I guess not… I'll buy you a new pair of shoes to wear in the city so the ones currently on your feet never again see the light of day." He tipped his head down onto hers to study her feet.

"Who's going to insult my entire wardrobe and dress me for auditions in New York?" Rachel teased, but her voice trembled.

Kurt pulled his hand from his mouth and wrapped his arms around her, "I'm going to figure something out, Rachel, I swear."

"Don't worry about it, you have enough on your plate," Rachel wiped quickly at her eyes, "I'll… I'll work around it. It'll be a great story for my memoir someday."

"No, really, I can—" An idea suddenly started taking shape in his mind, "I have an idea."

Wolves. No…that wasn't true. Just one wolf. Big and gray and smelling like wet dog, and it was following him, or was he following it? He didn't know. They walked through misty fields; Blaine's feet bare and caked with mud. He was aware of his toes being painfully cold and he wished he'd had the foresight to put on shoes, but still they pressed on toward the horizon. He'd been here before, and he didn't like being back. It was lonely here; quiet and grey and dead, the only sound coming from the rustle of tall yellow grass brushing his sides; crunching below his feet and letting more cold, wet earth coat his skin.

"I wish you talked," Blaine muttered but, of course, was greeted with silence. He hated that big gray dog almost more than he hated the field. He was constantly torn between taking comfort in the knowledge of something else living at his side and being terrified the thing would turn and lunge at him. Tear apart his skin with heavy paws; sink his teeth into his throat. He side-stepped away from it, but it just followed closer.

They never went anywhere. Never progressed further one direction or the other. They just…walked. Blaine passed the time asking questions that fell on uncaring ears.

"How come we're the only ones here?" Blaine spread his fingers and let the grass catch against his palm; tangle at his wrist.

More silence.

He looked around; up at the low, gray sky, down at the cold, wet earth; out at the endless field of misty browns and grays. A particularly thick piece of grass snagged hard on his hand and held tight until it pulled free from the ground, still twisted around his fingers. Blaine toyed with it between both hands; weaving it into a strip of knots. A thought flickered through his head, "Why do we walk at all. Why don't we just stand still ever?"

It was a tantalizing thought; to break from the routine; the endless trek into nothingness. Blaine halted abruptly and looked around as though it might change something of the scenery.

The wolf turned to watch him; nose twitching; black eyes studying his still form. It growled—a low rumble of sound deep in its throat that made Blaine shiver, but he remained still, staring back at the big dog. It growled again; this time curling it's lips back to show yellowed teeth; a guttural sounding bark passing out its mouth. It didn't speak, but the message was clear enough. Keep walking.

"You could go," Blaine swallowed hard; the knots of his blade of grass pressing hard into his palm as he gripped it hard in his fist, "You don't have to stay with me."

It snarled again, took a step toward him. Snapped its teeth.

Blaine shook his head resolutely, but now he was frightened and sure that he'd rather risk loneliness than the violence of his companion, "I'm not going."

Suddenly it lunged and seemed so much bigger; hulking and powerful—all gleaming teeth and dangerous claws. Blaine stumbled back a step and fell with a cry.

It bore down on him—its smell overwhelming and it's growling so loud it filled Blaine's ears. He could do nothing but close his eyes and wait for the inevitable. His ears were filled with the sound of something familiar then…his name; it was his name he heard being called over and over again...

"Blaine… Blaine, honey, it's time to get up."

He woke with a start; his skin clammy and his head aching. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling; what time was it? A familiar hand stroked his head, "Morning, sleepyhead. I know you're tired, but you have a doctor's appointment."

He turned his head and blinked at his mother, "Chemo's on Thursday."

"This is the appointment I just scheduled yesterday," She sat down on the edge of his bed, "Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." He rooted through his sleep-muddled brain to actually find the memory.

"You need to get up, sweetie, we have to be out of here no later than eight."

"All right, I'll get up. I'll meet you downstairs." He yawned.

"Will you actually get up if I leave, or will you roll over and go back to sleep?"

He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to pick up that nightmare where it left off, "I'll get up. Scouts' honor."

"You were never a boy scout," She smiled, "and you've tried that trick before on me."

"Well then on my honor," Blaine lazily crossed his heart with a finger.

"Fine, just try not to dawdle," She kissed his forehead and disappeared out of the room. He knew he'd done well today by her smile; there were other days she left with tears in her eyes or her jaw set tight.

He rolled onto his back and held up his right hand above his face; watched his thumb tick against his palm—caught in some bizarre state of rapture all its own. He splayed out his fingers; pulled them in close to his palm; repeated the gesture. It was the same routine every morning—a half-hearted attempt to ease the little spasm of muscles, but it didn't really bother him all that much to have it happen, not anymore anyway. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and finally kicked his feet over the side of the bed. They were too warm from sleeping with socks on. He peeled them off and dropped them down onto the bed before shuffling to the bathroom. Real or not—he still had that smell in his nose and he wanted it out. He cranked on the faucet of the bathtub and switched it over to the showerhead. If he was lucky, he could get in the shower before his mother decided to try and start asking him questions through the bathroom door. He peeled off his pajama pants and shirt. He turned to inspect himself in the mirror and he flinched.

He could get used to the twitch in his hand; the momentary fog that lurked around the corners of his head when he first woke up; the constant unease of his stomach. He could not get used to his hair. He was grateful for his eyebrows and his eyelashes still holding on for dear life, but the top of his head still bothered him. He tilted it from side to side; inspected the spot that had been steadily thinning above his left ear and touched it tenderly. It didn't look any worse from the previous night's sleep, and he was grateful for at least that. He ran his fingers over the back of his head, holding his breath as he waited for the soft hair to give way to smooth, bare skin. He let out a long breath when he'd traced his entire scalp. Everything was still there. He took one last look at himself when the mirror began to fog over and memorized his face before slipping behind the shower curtain. He jumped back when the water scalded his skin and quickly turned down the temperature before tentatively stepping back under the steady flow of water. He let it run over his shoulders; over his knees; pool at his toes, and enjoyed the heat for a long minute before reaching for shampoo. He smiled to himself—Kurt had invested in a whole slew of hair care products he swore were going to make Blaine's hair grow back faster—or maybe they were just supposed to let him keep the hair he still had… Blaine couldn't remember, but the thought of anything Kurt made him happy. He poured the soap into his palm and could practically hear Kurt—completely assured in his product choices.

"Good hair doesn't just happen, Blaine, it requires a rigid routine and quality care. Look at mine; do you think I buy generic brand shampoo and just hope for the best? No."

He shook his head. He could think about Kurt later; he needed to go through his day. A lot road on whether or not he could parrot things discussed the previous day. Reiterating plans to take Natalie and Ava to the park; asking about the lunch meeting his father had held; any little detail he could dredge up was treated like a miracle by his parents. He rolled his eyes to himself, but started in on the process anyway; running through the events of the day slowly as he massaged shampoo into his scalp; prodding at the memories for anything important. Breakfast… he didn't remember eating breakfast yesterday, but that didn't matter—he ate toast every morning. Then there'd been watching his parents have a muted argument near the garage door… listening to his grandmother talk about the beach house that remained lonely and vacant somewhere out East and how it had come into the family in the first place—he didn't remember the details, but he was fairly sure he wouldn't have noted the details of that particular tale even pre-cancer…what else… he'd played with the girls; hit his head on the table—the doctor's appointment today... Kurt came over; Kurt wore his maroon colored vest; Kurt looked sad and tired… Trip! Trip was in Ohio and Kurt didn't like him. Blaine giggled aloud to himself. He had planned on easing Kurt into the idea of Trip—trying to explain his abrasiveness; his aggressiveness, but life rarely lent itself to adhering to his plans, now did it?

He let out a gasp of surprise, his mental itinerary abruptly cut short, and quickly pulled his hands away from his head; a patch of short dark hair mixed with the suds in his palms. He groaned and rinsed them clean; watched it all disappear down the drain. He washed his body; made a face when he brushed a washcloth over the ugly bruised place where the PICC line had been and turned off the water. The shower didn't seem so comforting anymore.

He patted his skin dry; inspected himself in the mirror a second time. The patch of hair had come from that damn spot. The spot by his left ear he had known was going to fall out, but it still made something in his heart sink. He turned his attention to his body—the hollow below his sternum; the increasing knobbiness of his elbows. He knew it was vain; he knew he should feel happy or blessed or whatever that he was alive; that he was fortunate to be receiving treatment that was considered the top of the medical line, but studying his sallow skin; the marked up crooks of his arms; the pink of his scalp in stark contrast to the dark hair around it; that ridiculous bruise on his forehead—purple and already yellowing around the edges… he turned away from the mirror and allowed himself his moment of bitterness—the same few seconds he'd given himself each day to be horribly upset about something petty and shallow. He let the moment pass and then rolled his shoulders and bounced on his toes. He felt good today, he decided. He wrapped his towel around his waist and went back into his bedroom to ready himself for the day. He pushed through the shirts in his closet idly; settled on a kelly green polo that Kurt claimed to loathe and giggled to himself; there was something ridiculously sexy about Kurt when he was irritated, and the shirt was sure to illicit some sort of reaction. He paired it with dark jeans before pulling on a pair of Sperrys and tugging the navy blue beanie over his head. He studied his reflection in the floor length mirror.

He made a face at himself, "This is about as good as it gets."

He went to his desk, ignored the weekly pill organizer his mother had set out, and picked the pills from the orange bottles himself—he hated that pill organizer. A big blue letter on each little box signifying the day and time; the pills sorted out neatly in the correct dosage; like he couldn't handle reading directions on the side of the bottle; like he'd forget a routine that was as regimented into his schedule as brushing his teeth. He glanced at the contents of the bottles through the orange plastic—big, little, round, capsules, blue, green, white; a whole carnival selection of pills—the nausea one was empty; he'd have to warn his mother; she'd be pleased with his attention to detail. Another gold star for Blaine. Blaine closed his hand around the pills; careful to not drop any, as he made his way down the steps.

"You're up early," John was in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, I feel great," Blaine went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, "Doctor's appointment today."

"Did you take—"

"Taking them now." Blaine cupped his palm to his mouth and chased it with a quick gulp from the water bottle.

"Your mother would kill you if she saw you trying to down all of those at once." John frowned.

"She's not down here though, is she?" Blaine smiled faintly and went to the cupboard to pull out the bread…maybe he'd even have two pieces of toast…

"You sleep all right last night?"

Blaine dropped the bread down into the toaster and shrugged, "Fine. Weird dreams."

"You should tell your grandma about them; she likes to analyze dreams," Blaine listened to the sound of John turning a page in his newspaper.

"She'll attribute them all to God trying to tell me to like girls," Blaine smiled humorlessly down at the toaster.

"Is she still giving you trouble for that?" John's voice was flat; tired.

He wanted to say no; he knew he should say no, "She leaves books by my bed."

"She what?"

Blaine flinched. Thinking pause. Stop and think before you open your fucking mouth. He couldn't think of how to respond so he shrugged; met his father's eyes briefly.

John let out a long sigh, "I'll talk to her."

"It's fine," Blaine shrugged, "Just… don't tell mom about it."

John studied him curiously, and Blaine, not knowing what to do under that look, turned to the cupboard for a plate.

"When's Kurt coming over?"

Blaine glanced over his shoulder at his father. It was strange, hearing his father voice an interest in Kurt; voice Kurt's name at all… "Dunno, this afternoon probably."

John got up and rinsed his coffee mug in the sink, "…are you sure you don't want me to—"

"No, it's fine, she won't be here that much—fuck that's hot!" Blaine dropped the toast down onto his plate quickly and stuck his burned fingers into his mouth.

"Language," John patted him on the shoulder, "I'm going to work; I'll be home around five tonight. Good luck at the doctors; try not to kill the nurse if she has to prick your finger."

"I'll do my best," Blaine smiled grimly and waved his father off.

Elizabeth and John passed one another in the doorway. He touched a kiss to her cheek, "I'll see you later tonight."

Blaine wanted that. Wanted to kiss Kurt goodbye in the kitchen of his and Rachel's little apartment before he left for classes. Go home to him at night; wake up to him in the morning. His parents didn't have to know he wasn't sleeping in his dorm room…

"You look happy," Elizabeth turned her gaze toward Blaine.

"I'm thinking about Kurt," he blurted.

She laughed as she crossed the kitchen to the coffee pot, "I'm not sure if you meant to tell me that or not, but it was sweet either way…. Two pieces of toast this morning?"

"I'm feeling ambitious," Blaine gave her a dry smile and pulled off a corner of the bread to pop into his mouth.

"Do the best you can," She patted his hand as she went to the counter to retrieve the car keys.

"If the best I can do today is two pieces of toast for breakfast, I'm going to be in big trouble at the doctor's office."

She dropped down the jar of peanut butter beside his plate.

"What's this for?" Blaine turned the jar around in his hands.

"Doing better than just two pieces of toast," She kissed his cheek, "You have lots of chances to top your bests, Blaine."

Blaine spread peanut butter across one piece of bread; smiled with his mother when he licked the knife clean.

But once they'd left home and were pulling into the parking lot of the clinic, he had no more smiles to spare for her. Toast and brain scans didn't seem quite so comparable when his heart was beating so hard in his chest he was sure he could feel it striking his ribs. Still, as he sat down in a chair in the waiting room and felt too much food sitting heavily in his stomach, he closed his eyes and willed good news.

Kurt jolted awake. The first thing he was aware of was that he hadn't showered the night before. Ew. Ew, ew, ew. The next was that he'd fallen asleep on top of his comforter; his laptop beneath his face and his cell phone tucked awkwardly underneath his stomach. He pulled it out and checked the time. 9:53. Had he really slept that late? He dropped his phone down and decided not to fuss over the time. He needed to shower. Now.

He cranked up the water and hopped in before the water even had time to heat up. His muscles tensed beneath the icy water, but soon enough, it turned warmer and his body relaxed under the pressure of it hitting his back and shoulders. He filled his palm with shampoo and scrubbed hard at his scalp. He hadn't forgotten about his mandatory day away from Blaine but that didn't mean he'd acclimated to the idea—he hadn't even texted Blaine yet to tell him he wasn't coming over. He'd been busy making other plans late into the night, and Blaine was usually in bed no later than ten. He contemplated how to go about telling Blaine… for today he'd say his father asked him to help out around the shop; that was easy enough, but he needed to come clean about New York and soon; he needed to call the Andersons; figure out when they were telling Blaine about his dorm already being given up; the tuition return probably pending… Kurt stepped under the stream of water again; felt the suds slide down the back of his calves and cursed himself again for falling asleep without rinsing himself off of the day last night. He'd have to spend extra time on his moisturizing routine to make up for the breach in his schedule… he shampooed his hair again; conditioned it; washed his body and toweled off before inspecting himself in the mirror. He'd be lying if he said he didn't like checking himself out—he was proud of his body now; he'd worked hard on it—lifting with Finn and Puck from time to time (with his Ipod in, of course, to drain out their conversation), followed the monthly workouts in Cosmo; eaten a protein-rich diet, and the results were pleasing. He wasn't built by anyone's standards, but he looked good—his stomach was tight; his arms small but neatly sculpted; only his thighs still gave him pause as he looked himself over.

He winked at himself once in the mirror; tilted his head. Too bad he couldn't see Blaine today; he was feeling particularly sexy. Maybe he'd start off with that as a text to Blaine before saying he couldn't come over; tease him a little…

He styled his hair and selected his outfit before going to fetch his phone to text Blaine, but Blaine had already beaten him to it.

When are you coming over? –Blaine

Damn, you weren't supposed to ask me that until after I texted you to tell you I'm feeling sexier than usual today ;) –Kurt

He hit send, but then, almost simultaneously, his phone was vibrating in his palm to signal another new text from Blaine. It had to have been sent before Kurt had sent his own; delayed by some odd clash of cell phone signals or something—there was no way Blaine had already read his message, let alone responded. Blaine was confined to using only his left hand and it proved to be a time consuming process, especially when he worked to avoid typos.

I need you.

Kurt's heart ache in his chest and he desperately wanted to take back his last message. He typed out a response quickly.

Are you okay?

He waited impatiently for the response. It didn't take as long as usual.

No.

I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you.

Kurt grabbed his keys from his nightstand and jogged down the steps; his phone nested between his shoulder and his ear while he listened to it ring.

"Hummel's Auto—"

"Finn, could you put my dad on the phone?"

"Uh, sure, hold on."

Kurt listened to Finn fumble with the phone for a minute before shouting for Burt. A moment later, his father's voice filled his ear, "If you already maxed out the credit card—"

"Dad, I need to go to Blaine's."

Burt let out a long sigh on his side of the line, "Kurt, we talked about this. Is it really so bad to spend the day—"

"Something's wrong though, Dad. He's upset about something—please?" Kurt was already in the car and speeding past the Lima limits. He was going whether his father said yes or not, "I'll do the Me Day thing tomorrow even; he's supposed to have chemo, but I'll tell his friend Trip to go with him. He needs me today though, Dad, he asked for me to be with him."

There was a long pause on Burt's end of the line. Kurt could hear the sounds of the shop in the background—men's voices; clanking tools; the hum of an engine, "…All right."

"Thank you, Dad," Kurt closed his eyes for a brief second in relief.

"Just try and be home for supper tonight, all right?" Burt sounded tired, "We don't see much of you anymore."

You'll be seeing plenty of me all school year. "I will. I love you."

"Love you, too, buddy. Drive safe and give Blaine our best."

Kurt dropped his phone down into the passenger seat, but he didn't turn his music on to fill the silence as he usually did. He picked his brain for what could possibly be bothering Blaine.

Maybe his grandma… not his dad, things had been going well between Blaine and John… he didn't sound angry; he seemed upset, hurting…

Kurt felt his heart leap into his throat. The doctor's appointment. He'd completely forgotten about Blaine's doctor's appointment. He pushed his foot down harder on the gas pedal and the car sped up, but his mind moved faster. What could they have found in the check up? More cancer? Ineffective treatment? Something else?

He drove faster still; flew through a stop sign; ignored the slurred sound of a car's horn somewhere behind him. He made it to New Albany in record time. His sense of distress only worsened when he saw John's car parked in the open garage. He decided to scrap good manners and went straight through the garage door without so much as a knock.

Helen saw him first; she looked him over without a word.

"Where's Blaine?" Kurt demanded breathlessly.

"The family room with his parents." She responded quietly.

Kurt was not comforted by her lack of iciness. He brushed past her and into the family room.

John and Elizabeth were seated side-by-side on the couch—John was in his work suit; he looked tired.

Blaine was in the chair across from them; sitting oddly straight in his seat; his arms folded tight against his chest. His eyes met Kurt's and a wash of relief colored his face.

Kurt moved in closer and sat down on the armrest. He brushed a hand over the back of Blaine's neck, not caring who it might make uncomfortable, "What's wrong?"

"They did some fast lab work today and took a second look at his last set of scans," Elizabeth spoke for Blaine when his only response was to tip his head in closer to Kurt's side, "They don't think the treatment's been aggressive enough."

Kurt stretched his hand out farther until his arm was fully draped over Blaine's shoulders; he swallowed to keep his voice from shaking, "So what do they want to do?"

"They need to wait for his newest lab work to get back, but they think they want to try a different drug," Elizabeth paused and John's hand moved to her knee, "And they think a second surgery is probably going to be necessary somewhere down the line."

They'd known it was a possibility, but it still made Kurt oddly light headed. He squeezed his hand down around Blaine's shoulder and shifted in closer. Blaine was looking up at him—sad; tired.

He still had his hat on, but Kurt touched a kiss to the top of it anyway, "It's okay. It'll be okay."

Blaine was quiet for a while, "I still don't…would I have to come home for something like that? Can they do it in the city?"

Kurt was sure his heart skipped a beat. He still thought he was going. He still thought Kurt was going. Blaine's thick headedness could be painfully frustrating at times, but it had never stung so bad as it did in that moment.

Elizabeth and John exchanged a long look before she nodded almost imperceptibly.

"What?" Blaine looked between them; suspicion clouding his face.

"Blaine…" John met Blaine's eyes and held his gaze, "You're not going to New York."

Blaine startled, "W—what?"

"Blaine, we can't let you—"

"No," Blaine was shaking his head, "Please, no."

Elizabeth looked at him sadly, "Blaine, baby, it's for the best—going to school on top of the chemo and the cancer, even if we end up not having to do the surgery, it's going to be too much—"

"So let me go to New York for the year and work," Blaine looked between the desperately. Kurt tightened his grip on Blaine's shoulder, he was sure Blaine knew the argument was irrational, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"Honey, you can't. It's too much. If you really want to be doing something, we can try to get you a job around here, or you could enroll in a few courses at the community college in Westerville—"

"Please," He was crying; tears sliding down his cheeks and off his chin.

"We're not trying to be cruel, Blaine," John spoke softly.

"I can't stay here; I c-can't let this thing hold me here," Kurt felt Blaine slip out from under his arm, and he was suddenly on his knees in front of his father, he looked up at him through tear-soaked lashes, "m-maybe a community college in the City—I just need to get away—"

"Going to New York won't make any of this go away, Blaine," John touched a tentative hand to the top of his head, "I wish it could, but it won't. We'll send you next year when things are better, I promise."

Blaine sank back down until he was sitting on the carpet, he stared down at a loose string on the bottom of his jeans with miserable eyes, "What if it isn't gone next year?"

"It'll be gone by next year." John said assuredly, though his eyes spoke a different story.

Blaine was silent. Kurt could only see his back—clad in that awful bright green shirt that was the color of Astroturf and tacky St. Patrick's Day decorations and trembling with his quiet crying. He slid down off the arm of the chair and sat back on his heels beside Blaine. He placed a hand on his back, but otherwise left him untouched.

Kurt felt the tears before he realized he was crying, just like he heard the words before he realized he was speaking them, "I'm not going either."