Chapter 18

"Yeah… yeah, I'm sorry about the delay—I'll cut the cost of the labor in half, how's that sound?" Burt Hummel paced the floor of the kitchen.

Kurt watched the cord strain when his father neared one end of the kitchen. Once he came back closer to the cradle on the wall, Kurt spied his opportunity. He leaped over the slack cord and turned to wait impatiently to repeat the routine.

"Listen, I've got a sick wife and a first grader here, things are stretched a little thin—" Burt moved toward the stove to pour macaroni noodles into a colander in the sink. He shook out the water as he listened to the person on the other line.

Kurt hopped the cord again and watched his father pour the noodles back into the pan. He dashed over to the counter and tore open the cheese packet. This was his favorite part; this was when he got to help.

Burt didn't look at him as he lowered the pan for Kurt to pour the powder in, he frowned out the window, "Yup, uh huh, I understand…"

Kurt frowned when his father replaced the pan on the stove; the burner still turned on, "Hey, Dad—"

Burt covered the receiver, "I'm on the phone, Kurt."

Kurt glanced between the stove and his father and fell silent. He waited anxiously for his father to finish his conversation. There were more mumbled 'uh huh's' and 'of course' and 'I understand if you want to take your business elsewhere', and finally, 'Sorry, again'.

Burt slammed the receiver down in its cradle, "Shit."

Burt Hummel never swore. At least not in front of his six year-old. Kurt's eyes went wide at the sound of the word leaving his father's lips. He'd heard it before of course. It was always on TV, and the guys that worked for his dad at the auto shop said it sometimes, but Burt always yelled at them if Kurt was around to hear it, "You said a bad word, Dad."

"Right, shouldn't ever say it," Burt glanced over his shoulder at Kurt before pulling the pan off the stove. He looked down into it and sighed. He turned it for Kurt to see, "You think that's edible?"

Kurt wrinkled his nose at the orange-tinted glob glued to the bottom of the pan, "You aren't supposed to keep cooking it after you put the cheese stuff in."

"Why didn't you say that earlier?" Burt turned on the sink and tried to scrape the mess of macaroni and cheese into the garbage disposal.

"You were on the phone and said not to interrupt." Kurt glared at his father.

"Okay…well… peanut butter and jelly then." Burt abandoned the pan under the running water and moved to the cupboard.

Kurt heard his mother cough from the family room. He peaked around the door to look at her on the couch. His father had given him strict instructions not to get to close because he might make her sick. He tried to smile at her, but she wasn't looking, "Dad, when can I sit with Mommy again?"

"As soon as—" The phone rang again. Burt snagged it and cradled it between his ear and shoulder, "Hummel residence; this is Burt speaking…hey Jack, yeah, I'm coming in today. Waiting on the home health aid to get in and I've gotta get Kurt to school—no; I'm bringing him in late today, we had a rough morning…what? Did you check the engine?"

Kurt peaked back around the corner and tried to wave to his mother, but now her eyes were closed. She slept a lot. Kurt moved back toward his father's side and listened idly to Burt's side of the conversation. He liked Jack Mackenzie; he had been babysitting him a lot lately and Jack's house was fun. He had two daughters a couple years younger than Kurt, so they all watched Aladdin together and played house sometimes.

Burt handed the sandwich down to Kurt and moved away from him; a hand rubbing over his eyes, "I know… I know… you don't need to make the call; I'll deal with it—"

Kurt sighed. His father could never remember that he liked the bread cut in triangles, and today he hadn't even bothered to cut it at all. He climbed into a chair at the table and contemplated what excuse he could use to get out of going to school for the afternoon. He hated school. The other kids teased him and now that his mother was always sick and sleeping, he couldn't even go to her when he got off the bus for a hug to make it better.

The whistle of the teakettle made Kurt jump in his seat. His father pulled it off the burner, but didn't bother pouring the water into a mug. He was too absorbed in his phone call. He moved out the kitchen door; the cord straining after him.

Kurt gasped when he eyed his sandwich. The bread was green at the edges. He felt his stomach churn and he abandoned the thing on the table. He looked to where his father had disappeared before turning his gaze back to the kettle where steam was curling out of the spout in slow tendrils.

His father made his mother tea almost everyday. It made her mouth feel better or her throat or her tummy or something… Kurt listened to the strained notes in his father's voice as an idea took shape in his head. If he made the tea himself, he could probably bring it to his mommy and maybe even get a kiss and a hug for his efforts. He climbed out of his chair and pushed it over near the stove. He climbed onto the counter and pulled open the cupboard. He found the white mug with his handprint on it that he'd made for her last Mother's Day. It was her favorite. He put it down on the counter before climbing across the counter to another cupboard to find the tea bags. He stared at the boxes and tried to remember which one she liked best… he was pretty sure it was the kind in the yellow box with the picture of leaves on the front. He pulled out a bag and carefully climbed back onto his chair. He dropped the bag into the bottom of the cup before turning his attention to the teakettle. He wrapped both hands around the handle and lifted it carefully. It was a lot heavier than he thought it would be; his arms trembled when he tipped it over the mug. He opted to rest the spout against the lip of the cup to alleviate some of the weight in his hands, but then the cup was sliding. He panicked and reached out for the handle, but the pot was too heavy for just one of his little arms to balance; the spout slid and scalding water poured out over his hand.

With a yelp of pain at the sudden burn against his fingers, he let go of mug and kettle, sending both things crashing to the floor. He clutched his hand to his chest and stared down at the mess through tear-filled eyes.

Burt came rushing back around the corner. His eyes went wide and he cut his conversation off with a gruff, "I'll call you back."

He slammed the phone down in the cradle, "God dammit, Kurt, what the hell were you thinking!"

Kurt didn't know what hurt more—the sight of the shattered mug on the floor, his burning hand, or his father's words. Tears stung his eyes, "I-I j-just wanted to help. I'm s-s-sorry."

Burt's face melted into guilt. He stepped around the mess on the floor and gathered Kurt into his arms, his eyes flying down to the hand clutched to Kurt's chest, "Lemme see; did you hurt yourself?"

"I'm s-s-sorry!" Kurt wailed; he tried to turn away from his father in shame, but Burt held him steady.

"I'm not mad, buddy, just let me see your hand, okay? We'll talk about this, but I need to see that you're okay first." Burt coaxed Kurt's hand out with a gentle grip on his wrist.

Kurt's eyes went wide when he saw the red, welted skin of his own palm.

Burt muttered something before shoving Kurt's hand under the cold tap. He held Kurt there for a long minute before putting a washcloth in under the water and wrapping it around Kurt's hand, "Keep that on there for a bit."

Kurt held the cloth gingerly against the injured skin when his father set him down on the edge of the counter and turned his attention to mopping up the water on the floor and replacing the kettle on the stove.

When Burt moved to throw the shards of glass into the trashcan, Kurt's tears came faster, "C-can we t-try to glue it b-b-back together?"

Burt looked down at the remnants of the cup in his hands and sighed, "How about we make her a whole new one instead?"

Kurt nodded as best he could; cradled his hand closer to his chest until the washcloth stained a wet patch against his shirt.

Burt moved back to Kurt, "How's the hand?"

"It hurts," Kurt sniffled.

Burt rested his hands on either side of Kurt's waist, "I'm sorry I yelled, bud, I didn't mean it."

Kurt sniffled in response; the words still scalding his head and blistering his heart as much as the water against his palm.

Burt sighed and lifted Kurt from the counter; replaced him gently in a chair by the table. He looked down at the untouched sandwich; spied the moldy spots on the edge of the bread. He rubbed his eyes and sank down into a chair across from his son, "I'm gonna be straight with you, kid, okay?"

"'Kay," Kurt spoke in a small voice; looked up at his father's face through wet lashes.

Burt rested his elbows on his knees; looked down at the floor, "…stuff right now is tough, buddy…really tough."

Kurt nodded. He knew that.

"I'm behind at work, and taking care of you and your mom is a lot of work right now and I'm tired and I can't always do it all by myself."

Kurt remained motionless; tried not to breathe too loud. His father was invincible in his eyes. His dad could do anything—he could make a broken car come back to life; he could assemble Kurt's tea party table without even looking at the instructions; he always knew when Kurt was having a nightmare and exactly how to tight to hug him to make it better; he could make his mommy laugh even when she looked like she was going to cry. His father didn't ever ask for help.

Burt met Kurt's eyes, "But none of that's an excuse, okay? My job is to make things as good for you as I possibly can, and I know I haven't been doing that lately."

"You do a good job," Kurt whispered, "You're a really good dad."

Burt sighed—big and deep, "Sometimes… sometimes I get scared because it seems like all of this is too much and I need a helper... I've got the guys at the shop and that nice nurse Lindsey that comes by to help your mom, but sometimes… sometimes I need someone else to have my back."

"I was trying to help," Kurt looked down at his lap in shame, "I wanted to m-make mommy her tea."

"I know, and there's no excuse for the way I yelled at you. It wasn't you I was mad at. I just got—" Burt cut himself off; shook his head, "You and me are gonna help each other get through this, okay?"

"And mommy will help us, too." Kurt looked up from his lap to meet his father's eyes.

Burt pulled his baseball cap off; rubbed his head, "Lets have your mom focus on getting healthy; that'll be her job, okay?"

"What's my job?" Kurt stared intently at his father. He forgot about his burning hand because this was important. This was his chance to do something right.

Burt locked a hand on Kurt's shoulder; squeezed tight, "Your job is to keep being an awesome kid… and to yell at me when I try to poison you with expired food."

Kurt smiled a little, "Okay."

Burt dropped his hand from Kurt's shoulder and held it out to him, palm up, "We're gonna be okay as long as we help each other, okay?"

Kurt gripped his uninjured hand tight around his father's, "Okay."

Kurt had oil under his fingernails. Kurt Hummel had oil underneath his perfectly manicured, forever fussed over fingernails.

Well that wasn't entirely true; his nails were not nearly the perfect half moons that they used to be. They were short; jagged. A few were even a little pink around the top.

Kurt rubbed his eyes with his sleeve before holding a hand out in front of him to eye the nails mournfully, "I promise to start being better to you."

"Um… Kurt?"

Kurt startled a little at the voice behind him, "Oh, David. Finally back for your car?"

"Uh, yeah… your dad just went somewhere so I," David cleared his throat, "Decided to come in and pick it up."

"You waited outside the shop until you saw him leave to come in?" Kurt raised an eyebrow disdainfully.

David glared, "Can I get my keys or what?"

"Sure. They're in the front, come on," Kurt led them back to the front lobby, glancing over his shoulder as he walked, "How have you been getting around?"

"I walk." Karofsky mumbled.

Kurt slipped behind the front desk and started rooting through drawers, "They're in here somewhere. Give me a second to find them."

Karofsky shifted his weight from foot to foot on the other side of the desk, "…what's with your psycho friend?"

"Hmm?" Kurt frowned when he could find no sign of Karofsky's keys in the first drawer. That was the place they always kept keys… He tried the next own down.

Karofsky coughed, "The, um, the kid with the, you know… with the eyes."

Kurt snapped upright to fix Karofsky with an icy glare, "Trip Morgan."

Karofsky looked down at the floor, "Yeah him."

"Trip Morgan is a slimy, worthless virus who is going to have his lip ring torn out by yours truly the next time I see him." Kurt slammed the second drawer shut and pulled open a third.

"Oh." Karofsky said quietly. He asked for no explanation.

Kurt rooted through a tangle of rubber bands and paper clips. He looked up at David with narrowed eyes, "Why do you want to know?"

Karofsky flushed, "I didn't. He just… fucking weird kid is all."

"He's an asshole." Kurt said flatly. He shut the third drawer and turned his attention to a second set of drawers.

Karofsky looked at Kurt with mild surprise, "Wow, what'd he—"

Kurt's phone vibrated in his pocket. When he pulled it out and saw the caller ID he glared hard at the screen, "Speak of the devil."

"Wha—" David frowned, but Kurt was already answering his phone.

"You're dead to me."

"Fine, whatever, listen—"

"No, I will not listen, you listen," Kurt tore open another drawer, "You told me yesterday you'd go with Blaine to chemo since I couldn't and—"

"All right, yeah, but—"

"I don't remember saying I was finished speaking," Kurt snapped; he spied the keys immediately but was too consumed by his irritation to bother taking them out of the drawer; he opted to glare at them instead, "I asked if you could go with him and you said yes—"

"—I said—"

"You said yes, and then what happened Trip? Hmm? What do you think happened next?" David looked at Kurt in bewilderment as he slammed the keys down on the counter in front of him.

"Jesus Christ, could you calm down for—"

Kurt needed to do something; he needed to…he needed to pace. Yeah, that was it. He needed to stalk back and forth across the lobby because Trip Morgan was an asshole. Trip Morgan had actually been okay the past few days and even agreed to accompany Blaine to chemotherapy in light of Kurt's mandatory day of work to start compensating for the damage he'd done with his father's credit card. Trip Morgan had not shown up at the clinic yesterday. Kurt Hummel was going to make sure Trip Morgan knew that he was a dead man, "You don't get to tell me to calm down, you insufferable, two-faced little—"

"—Blaine's really sick."

Kurt halted so quickly he nearly tripped over the rug in front of the door, "What?"

"He's out of whatever thing makes him not puke," Trip said something to someone away from the receiver before adding, "And he's currently trying to vomit out his entire digestive system; thought you should know."

"Why didn't you say that right away?" Kurt snarled; he wasn't sure what infuriated him more—Trip's total calm or the fact that he was at Blaine's side when Kurt wasn't.

"I was busy getting my head bitten off," Trip replied coolly, "So you wanna come over or what?"

"You think you could manage to actually stay with him until I get there?" Kurt abandoned his pacing and opted to glare down at the linoleum instead.

"Jesus, yes, I'm not—"

"If you are mean to him right now, so help me—"

"This is fun and all, but I'm gonna go ahead and hang up."

Before Kurt could say another word, the line went silent on the other end. He let out a frustrated growl, "I loathe him."

"That was the guy? Blaine's friend?" Karofsky was still standing by the front desk.

"If you can even call him that," Kurt seethed; he moved back toward the door leading to the garage. He spied one of his father's employees, "Jack! Tell my dad I went to take care of something."

Karofsky watched him as he pulled his own keys from a hook on the wall and stripped off his coveralls, "You're…you're pretty bent out of shape about this."

"I was stupid enough to believe he actually cared enough to be a tiny bit selfless," Kurt made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, "Blaine sat at chemo by himself yesterday and had to sit on the phone with Rachel for company because Trip couldn't be bothered to so much as call him to let him know he wasn't showing up. He's a dead man."

"Was Blaine mad?"

"Blaine is like a golden retriever," Kurt sighed as he folded his coveralls into a neat square, "If you smile at him long enough, he'll believe you're his new best friend. Of course he wasn't."

Karofsky stared down at his keys. They remained untouched on the counter, "…I had kind of been under the impression he was a friend of yours, too."

Kurt glowered at David, "Are you trying to defend the person whose entire interaction with you consists of demanding a blowjob and then sucking your face off?"

"No, I was just—" David glowered and snatched his keys off the counter, "Forget I said anything."

"Whatever. Fine," Kurt brushed past him and pushed open the front door. He glanced over his shoulder at David, "My dad will be back soon, but if you want to stand around and chat with him about all your recent observations, feel free."

Kurt didn't wait to watch David half-trip, half-run out of the auto shop. He climbed into his car and pulled out his phone as soon as he was moving.

"Hello?"

"Rachel; it's me," Kurt glanced in his rearview mirror to see David shrinking into the distance; he was staring underneath the hood of his car, but Kurt couldn't be bothered to wonder why.

"Hey, do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, I'm sorry, Rachel, but I can't go to lunch with you and Quinn today."

"What? Why?"

"Blaine's really sick and Trip Morgan has a date with death."

"Kurt, please don't do anything particularly awful to him. I told Blaine I wasn't going to tell you about him not showing up."

"Too late. Plans for plastic wrap, garbage bags, and duct tape have already been made," Kurt replied flatly, "Now all I need is a boat and an ocean to dump the body in afterwards."

"Kurt, I understand you being irritated with him, but I really don't understand why you're so upset about this."

Kurt gripped the wheel a little harder with his free hand, "I don't expect you to understand. Just…I'm sorry about lunch; you girls should go without me, though, and we'll figure something out with the three of us another day."

"Lunch with just… just us?" Rachel sounded skeptical.

"You're the two who need to bond or something, right?" Kurt turned off onto a back road and switched his phone to his other ear, "You can talk about… talk about the time you almost had the same nose or something."

Rachel's voice was quiet, "…I still don't know about all of this, Kurt."

"Neither does she," Kurt sighed, "I really am sorry, Rachel, if you want I can call her and just ask about another day."

Rachel was silent for a long moment, "…No. No, I'll still go… but you owe me lunch."

"Deal. Say hi to Quinn for me."

"Give Blaine a kiss for me and tell him I'm still waiting on his e-mail."

"I don't even want to know what you two are scheming," Kurt rolled his eyes, "I'll talk to you later. Have fun."

Once he hung up, he pushed down on the gas pedal a little harder and focused in on the road. He was getting a little too good at the drive to New Albany. He'd mastered the art of slipping through yellow lights just as red flashed above his head. He knew which back roads he could take to avoid spots notoriously heavy on traffic and where the cops sat hidden at the bottoms of hills to trying catch speeders. He smirked at his clock when he pulled into the Anderson driveway. An hour and twenty minutes. Not bad at all.

He quickly wiped the smirk off his face when he got out of the car—he needed to take care of Blaine and murder Trip; the situation required the iciest of bitch glares. He let himself in the front door and went straight up the steps toward Blaine's room; the house was oddly silent outside the hum of the bathroom fan and the quiet murmur of voices trickling out from Blaine's open door.

"Lookie who's here, Blaine," Trip was sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor; Blaine was collapsed in his lap and shivering visibly.

Blaine cracked open an eye and looked up at Kurt; his voice was raspy, "H-hey."

Kurt smiled and knelt down in front of Blaine, "Hey yourself; how do you feel?"

"I feel like—" Blaine groaned.

Trip caught a hold of his arm and pulled him upright, "In the toilet, not my lap, please."

Kurt flinched when Blaine lurched forward to grip onto the side of the toilet. He knew better than to touch him.

He didn't move from his spot, but Trip kept his eyes trained on Blaine. He squeezed the heel of his foot and smiled, "The sound effects are nice, pal. Not as good as they were earlier, but not bad."

It was even worse than the first time Kurt had ever seen him sick—he just kept throwing up. Kurt's hand reached out to brush Blaine's leg without his permission, but Blaine was oblivious to the contact. Kurt met Trip's eyes with a glare, "How long has he been getting sick for?"

"He felt shitty when I got over here this morning, but he wasn't sick yet then; he's been hugging the toilet for a few hours," Trip shrugged, "His mom went to try to get a refill on his meds."

Blaine was panting for breath; his fingers dug hard into the white porcelain. Without warning, he collapsed back onto his heels; swaying precariously.

Trip touched a hand to his shoulder and helped him lower his head back down to his lap. He smiled and rubbed his hand over Blaine's back, "My how the tides have turned, hey buddy?"

Blaine groaned in response and curled his legs in tighter to his chest.

Trip looked up at Kurt again, apparently oblivious to the daggers he was throwing at him with his eyes, "Could you run down to the laundry room and get the blanket out of the dryer?"

Kurt blinked at him, "What?"

"A dryer is a thing you use to make wet clothes dry; it heats them up and—"

"Do you want me to kill you with my bare hands, because I'll do it." Kurt snapped.

"Jesus Christ you're a bitch today," Trip slipped an arm around Blaine's chest and half-lifted him off of him, "Fine, you sit with Princess Puke and I'll go get it."

" S'op manhanilin' me," Blaine mumbled; closing his eyes tighter.

Kurt glowered at Trip but quickly took his place beside Blaine. He stroked a hand down his side gently, "Sorry."

Kurt listened to the heavy sound of Trip jogging down the stairs and ghosted his fingers over the sweat-dampened fabric of Blaine's shirt, "You haven't gotten this sick in awhile—did you eat something—"

Blaine moaned, "Don' mention food."

"Okay, okay; sorry," Kurt backpedaled as quickly as he could, "Did something different happen than usual?"

Blaine's head twitched against his lap and when he didn't offer a verbal response to go with it, Kurt decided Blaine was shaking his head that no, nothing different had happened to bring on the sudden illness.

Trip was gone for nearly fifteen minutes before he reappeared in the bathroom door; a cream colored blanket draped over one arm.

Kurt glared at him, "Get lost?"

"I've been sitting here for hours with him. I needed to piss," He crouched down beside Blaine and Kurt and tilted his head to meet Blaine's eyes, "Look it what I got."

Blaine didn't open his eyes, but Trip didn't seem to mind. He draped the blanket over Blaine's body that was curled so tightly in upon itself, it looked almost painful. He groused when Trip jostled him.

"Relax, I'm tucking it under you so you're not laying on fucking tile." Trip worked carefully; shoving the blanket in under Blaine's knees and around his shoulders until he was cocooned in fleece.

Trip sat back to assess his work and gave a self-assured smile to Blaine when he relaxed a little beneath the blanket, "Good, right?"

"Mhm," Blaine burrowed in lower to the blanket and sighed.

Kurt watched Trip curiously; unsure of what to make of this sudden tenderness, "Trip Morgan does laundry?"

Trip sat down and rolled his eyes, "I shoved a blanket in the dryer to heat it up; that hardly qualifies as laundry."

"Trip knew I was col'," Blaine mumbled; a shadow of a smile passed over his mouth but was quickly replaced by a grimace.

"You were shaking so hard your teeth were chattering; doesn't take a fucking genius to figure out you needed to be warmed up, Anderson," Trip glanced up at Kurt, "And your boyfriend would have taken my face off if I let you die."

"I'm still going to tear your face off," Kurt said flatly, but then Blaine was scrambling to sit up and all of his attention went to him.

They did it two more times; three more times; four more times. Trip took the blanket back down to the dryer despite Blaine's protests and added a second one for good measure. When nearly an hour of the cycle had passed, Blaine finally collapsed a final time into Kurt's side. He let out a pathetic sounding whimper and Kurt was immediately stroking his cheek; squeezing his fingers, "What's wrong, Blaine?"

Blaine only burrowed under the blanket further in response until his eyes were hidden in the folds of the fabric.

"Blaine," Kurt coaxed him gently; rubbed slow circles in the small of his back, "What's the matter?"

"M' head," Blaine's voice came out muffled from underneath the blanket.

"Your head hurts?" Kurt tried to pull the blanket down off of Blaine's face, but he held tight.

Trip crawled in closer, grabbed Blaine by the shoulders and hauled him closer, "Put your head on my lap. Don't be a dick about it."

Blaine groaned, but had little choice in the matter with Trip pulling at him. He did, however, put up a fuss when Trip tore the blanket down off his face, "Trip!"

"Leave him alone!" Kurt snapped.

Trip ignored both of them and pressed his fingers lightly into the edge of Blaine's hairline, "Hold still."

Blaine moaned pathetically, "Go die."

"Shut up," Trip replied coolly. He rubbed his fingers lightly over Blaine's forehead before pressing his fingers in behind his head.

Blaine stilled and remained quiet.

Trip worked at it for another couple minutes, "Any better?"

"Mmm."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"You smell like cigarettes," Blaine rolled off Trip's lap and snuggled closer to Kurt, only to recoil again, "You smell like cologne."

Blaine ended up curled in the blanket with his head on the floor between them.

"You're an awful baby when you're sick," Trip nudged him lightly with his foot, "If you put half of the effort you put into griping into keeping your breakfast down, we'd have been finished with your little vomit-fest hours ago."

"Trip. Hall. Now." Kurt glared.

"Why?" Trip smiled innocently.

Kurt turned his attention to Blaine; he stroked a hand across his back, "Will you be okay for a few minutes alone?"

"Mhm." Blaine pulled the blanket back over his head.

"Don't puke in your little blanket cocoon; I'm not cleaning you up again." Trip warned.

Kurt grabbed Trip by the arm and half dragged him out of the room.

Trip tore his arm free, but he smirked, "I'm all for being dangerous, Hummel, but I don't know how I feel about getting handsy with you with Blaine in the next room."

Kurt jabbed a finger into Trip's chest, "You think you're so goddamn above it all, don't you? Trip Morgan, too fucking badass for the rest of us. Well, guess what, I have news for you, pal, I am not going to put up with your bullshit."

Trip glanced down at Kurt's finger and then back up to his face with irritation, "What's with the pent up rage routine, Hummel?"

"You know damn well why I'm angry with you!"

"What? Are you jealous I'm giving more attention to your boy toy than you?" Trip let out a loud laugh—a sound that was strangely lovely coming from him—but no, Kurt didn't want to think anything nice about him. Trip shook the hair from his eyes, still chuckling, "Trust me, Blaine is not my type when he's at his best, let alone with the look he has going right now."

"You're a terrible person, you know that?" Kurt was suddenly so livid he couldn't even process Trip opting to play dumb about the root of his fury, "Say shit about me if you want, but he doesn't deserve it. He has been nothing but good to you when everyone else is ready to run you down with their car."

"Everyone else being you?" Trip raised an eyebrow, unfettered by Kurt's ferocity.

"Everyone else being anyone who has the misfortune of crossing paths with you!" Kurt took a step closer, enjoying the couple inches of height he had on the other boy, "You are nothing but an insensitive, fucked up asshole in need of a haircut and someone to seriously kick your ass. I have no freaking clue why Blaine is so adamant about keeping you around when all you can do is be a dick to him. Do you have any fucking clue how hard things are for him right now? How much energy he puts into trying to hold onto himself? He shouldn't be wasting his time dealing with you and all the bullshit you create. He might be too kind to tell you to back the hell off, but I'm not."

Trip's smile fell. He studied Kurt quietly before tilting his head and finally speaking, "You wanna give me a hair cut?"

Kurt blinked, "Excuse me?"

"I asked if you'd cut my goddamn hair. My aunt and uncle say I can't keep it like this. Not up to the Dalton Dapper Factor I guess."

Kurt narrowed his eyes at him, "Did you stop listening at haircut or—"

"No, I fucking heard you Hummel, you just screamed in my face, but right now I'm asking if you're at all decent at cutting hair." Trip moved away from Kurt to rummage through the things on Blaine's desk.

Kurt flexed his fingers out and then clenched them into tight fists. He didn't even know what he was feeling anymore, "Why the hell would I want to cut your hair?"

Trip pulled a pair of scissors from a cup on the desktop and turned back toward Kurt, the scissors extended out toward him, "You cut my hair, I'll tell you a little story. Deal?"

Kurt glared down at the scissors. He wanted to tell Trip to get the hell out and never come back. He wanted to go deal with Blaine curled up on the floor. But he needed an ally…he needed… He brushed past Trip, "I'm not cutting your hair with those."

Trip stood idly in the doorway while Kurt went through the drawers underneath Blaine's sink, "Is that a yes?"

"Go get a chair." Kurt snapped, not looking up from his search. Trip apparently was happy enough to comply because the next thing Kurt heard was the scrape of a chair sliding across the linoleum. He straightened up and inspected Trip silently; contemplated still saying no...

Trip crouched down to peer at Blaine, "He's out cold."

"Let him sleep," Kurt moved behind the chair and glared down at Trip, "I'm waiting."

Trip raised himself into the chair; his eyes directed toward the far wall, "Ready when you are."

"I could chop it off horribly uneven and make you look completely ridiculous," Kurt threatened; the scissors held out over the top of Trip's head.

"You could," Trip agreed calmly.

Kurt stood still for another minute before finally lowering the scissors to Trip's head. He dragged a comb through a back session and snipped off a solid inch.

Trip didn't react in any particular way, so Kurt cut another and another. The sound of the scissors filled the silence.

"I got in trouble back home."

Kurt paused for a moment in his cutting, "…What for?"

"A lot of stuff," Trip sat perfectly still; his eyes glued to the wall.

They fell silent again apart from the slide of the scissors through Trip's hair. Kurt brushed away a few loose pieces of hair still clinging to the back of Trip's head. He bent down to check on Blaine who had flung his arm out above his head. He adjusted his arm into a slightly less awkward position and started in on the front if Trip's head.

"I had a drug…thing."

Kurt cut one spot a little too short. He moved back around Trip to try and even out the rest to match, "A problem?"

"Some might call it that," Trip shrugged.

Kurt cut slowly; carefully, "Turn so I can do the side."

Trip turned, and if his eyes weren't so vividly bright, Kurt would have missed the way they studied his face for a second in the mirror before going back down to stare at the sink, "the, um, the withdrawal with painkillers is a real bitch."

"Painkillers?" Kurt echoed vacantly. He brushed more hair from Trip's shoulders.

Trip started to nod, but Kurt stopped him with a firm hand on his head, "I met Blaine a week after I quit again."

"…Again?" Kurt echoed Trip a second time.

Trip shrugged; cleared his throat, "The whole grand escape to Ohio came with conditions…one being that I have to go to meetings where everyone sits around and cries about their feelings for two hours. Ensure I don't slip up or something."

Kurt caught Trip's gaze in the mirror, "Why didn't you just tell me that yesterday when I asked you to go with Blaine?"

"Because it's none of your goddamn business."

Kurt moved to stand back in front of Trip; he brushed the hair off his forehead and leveled the scissors carefully, "So why are you telling me now?"

Trip watched Kurt's face intently, "Because I want you to tell me something."

"What?"

"Why are you so fucking angry with me about this?"

Kurt glared at him, "Which part of Blaine was alone at—"

"Yeah, I got that part," Trip pushed Kurt's hands away from his hair, "But when have I ever done anything to prove I'd do anything better than that, huh? This isn't about me flaking on Blaine."

"Yes it is, you—"

"No. It's not," Trip frowned, "Those meetings don't do jack shit for me for the most part, but I do know a thing or two about people projecting their shit onto other things."

Kurt folded his arm across his chest and glared at Trip. He still had a spot left to finish cutting, but he was tempted to send him packing just as he was because he had no fucking right to—"You're right."

Trip looked mildly surprised, but then he was just staring again; waiting.

"Not entirely right, because I am really fucking pissed with you," Kurt moved back in closer; raised the scissors again.

"So what are you so bent out of shape about?"

Kurt clipped the final section, "It's none of your goddamn business."

"Touché." Trip eyed himself in the mirror; passed a hand through his hair. He turned and tilted his head up to look at Kurt again, "What do you think?"

Kurt was half-lost in thought; he glanced at Trip's head, "Better."

Trip turned back to the mirror and turned his head from side to side.

"You're in charge of picking up the hair. I'm not touching it." Kurt stepped gingerly around the mess and settled himself down beside Blaine.

Trip slid out of his chair and down to the floor. He lifted a lock of auburn hair and held it up to the side of Blaine's head, "We could make him a wig."

Kurt forced the smirk down that pulled at the corners of his mouth. He sighed, "Did Blaine know you were going to those meetings?"

Trip shrugged; busied himself cleaning up the floor.

"If he knew about the drug problem, why didn't you just tell him you couldn't go?"

More silence in response.

"Trip."

"I have my reasons." Trip was almost done cleaning; he dropped the last few locks into the trashcan.

"Those being?"

Trip straightened up and dragged the chair out of the bathroom. He looked at Kurt from the bedroom; his eyes flickered down to Blaine, "Thanks for the haircut, Hummel, but since you're here to play first mate to Captain Blaine and the S.S. Vomit, I'm gonna go."

"Trip, don't go; I need—"

He was gone down the steps faster than Kurt could even get to his feet.

Blaine shifted in closer to Kurt's leg; mumbled something in his sleep. Kurt glanced at his watch. Two o clock.

Kurt shook Blaine's shoulder gently, "Blaine, Blaine; wake up; you need to take your medicine, and we should probably get you to your bed. You'll be more comfortable there."

Blaine mumbled something incoherent again; turned his face into Kurt's thigh.

Kurt sighed, "Please, Blaine? I don't have it in me to fight you on this right now."

Blaine didn't move.

"Blaine," Kurt felt frustrated tears stinging his eyes, "Please."

To his relief, Blaine turned his head to squint at him through bleary eyes, "Huh?"

"Bed and medicine," Kurt shifted to his knees and hooked a hand under Blaine's arm until he was up on his knees too.

Blaine got to his feet shakily. He held tight to Kurt's arm.

"Can you walk to your bed?"

Blaine nodded a little; took a few drunken steps forward, "Just a little dizzy."

They made it safely back into the bedroom, and as soon as Kurt pulled the blankets back, Blaine curled into the mattress. He stared groggily at the bottles on his desktop.

Kurt picked up the pill organizer and shook two into his palm and found a half-filled bottle of water on the nightstand. He offered both to Blaine and watched intently when Blaine swallowed them down.

Blaine smiled hazily at Kurt and shifted sideways in the bed, "Lay with me?"

Kurt climbed in beside him and let Blaine nuzzle his too-hot body into his side. He was asleep again within minutes.

Kurt traced patterns over his back; stared up at the ceiling.

"I love you," Kurt touched a kiss to Blaine's head; whispered his secrets into the short, dark hair, "…but I need help."