Chapter 26

Twelve days after the fall out between Trip and David, Blaine and his mother were driving home from a doctor's appointment.

Blaine rested his head against the window. The glass was so cold that it almost hurt, but he didn't move away.

"Honey, are you feeling alright?" His mother's voice was strained with an effort not to cry; a thin attempt at keeping it together for Blaine's sake.

"Fine." Blaine took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out his mouth. He was vaguely aware that they were braked at a stoplight.

"Do you want to just go home today?"

"…No. We can go to the church," He sat up straighter and stared down at the red paper folder on his lap, "I…I need some time to think about stuff anyway."

She glanced at the folder, too; reached over and squeezed his knee, "You're going to be okay, baby; everything's going to be fine."

Blaine nodded mutely.

Going to the church was his mother's thing, really. They'd done it after nearly every doctor's appointment. She would disappear into the chapel or one of the little secluded corners of the church to light candles while Blaine was left to his own devices once he'd assured her at least three times that he was fine.

Usually he alternated between walking around the perimeter of the church looking at the station of the cross placards mounted on the walls or sitting in a pew and listening to the choir practice while his gaze drifted over dusty, stained glass windows. Today, he hoped for a choir practice; something to fill his head up.

Much to Blaine's disappointment, there was no music playing when they arrived; just the muted sounds of a few pairs of feet and the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat. There was apparently something happening before their arrival, though, because the air was thick and heavy with incense. The smell made Blaine's eyes burn and his head buzz.

"Sweetheart, is the smell—"

"It's okay…I'm okay," Blaine settled himself down in a pew a few rows from the front.

His mother watched him for a moment more before leaning in and kissing his cheek, "I'll be where I always am if you need anything. If you get dizzy though you can—"

"Call. I know," Blaine met her eyes and managed a small smile for her, "Go ahead."

He listened to the tap-tap-tap of her shoes on the floor until they faded and everything was quiet again.

Usually Blaine preferred a seat somewhere in the back, but for whatever reason, he'd opted to wander in a little closer than usual. He watched three elderly women in the very front row—blue-gray hair on top of bowed heads and rosary beads sliding slowly through arthritic fingers.

They were there every time Blaine was no matter when he had an appointment—always with their rosaries and their bowed heads and their silly old woman floral print dresses and, though he's never actually gotten close enough to check, Blaine imagined they all had that old lady smell of rose-scented lotion and perfume.

And he wondered every week what it was that they could possibly need to pray for so much. He figured they'd spent enough hours huddled together in their place to be forgiven for whatever transgressions they felt they were guilty of…maybe now they were just hiding out to avoid committing anything condemnation worthy before their days were up.

He shook his head. Those were the sort of thoughts that, when voiced, got him into trouble. They were the sorts of thoughts that had been deemed too morbid and too heavy by his parents.

"You should be thinking about college, honey, and sports and music. You get yourself too wound up in all of those dark ideas." Is what his mother liked to say.

He opted not to say any of those things to Kurt—Kurt was stressed enough just keeping afloat as it were. He could probably say them to Trip, but he was still trying to reel Trip back in from his sudden slip back into some old habits and he worried that musing over death and sin and hell were not the sort of things someone a little emotionally unstable needed to be hearing.

So he kept it all to himself; bottled it up and tried to pack it away with the other things he tried not to think about like his father not being able to look at him when he first came out and wet pavement outside a Sadie Hawkins dance and nightmares and 'you have cancer' and 'there was a mix up with filing, we're so sorry' and all the other creepy, crawly, heavy things that were best kept somewhere not so accessible.

But sometimes…sometimes he opened up that box in his mind and let himself look at what was inside and other times it just opened on its own.

He still had the folder with him—stuffed with too many brochures and glossy flyers and information printed off of the Internet on goldenrod colored paper. He flipped it open and slowly thumbed through the pages.

He knew what it said—they'd gone through all of it with the doctor before they left. Details, of course, were long gone, but he knew the important things.

He needed to take time to think.

He needed to talk and ask questions whenever they arose.

He needed to remember that he had medical professionals working on him who would do everything in their power to make everything go smoothly.

He needed to make some decisions. Big decisions. Frightening decisions. Decisions that required him to open up the box of Things-You-Should-Probably-Let-Be and start thinking about them again.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply—let his mind get a little fuzzy with the smoky, perfumed smell still hanging in the air. He pushed the folder off of his knees and lay down in the pew.

It wasn't comfortable—the whole thing was made of wood that smelled faintly of varnish and lemon-scented cleaner and it hurt his hip and his shoulder and even the side of his head. He didn't mind the discomfort though; he tucked an arm underneath his cheek to get away from the lemon-varnish smell and tried to think.

In truth, he'd made these decisions a long time ago. He'd been cementing them into place for days and weeks and months. But it had always been Just In Case.

It was written down in the back of the leather bound journal back home—buried underneath his paint box on the top shelf in his closet. All he really had to do was transfer certain little parts to the forms the doctor had given him…but still…

He didn't know how that thought ended. Just 'but still….'

He needed a plan; one of Trip's organizational structures set into steps that were neat and orderly and clean. Something to keep everyone calm. He inhaled another breath laced with incense and wood polish and started to make his mental list.

Step 1: Lay here and settle down

Step 2: Settle down mom

Step 3: Tell dad

Step 4: Make quiet exit while dad re-settles down mom

Step 5: Write that letter to Kurt

Step 6: Ask Trip to deal with the letter

Step 7: Make a new set of steps for how to tell Kurt

Step 8: Tell Kurt

Step 9: …

He had to stop and go back because he'd definitely already forgotten the first seven steps of the plan. In the end, he paired it down to something even he could remember.

Step 1: Write the letter

Step 2: Proceed from there

He recited the steps to himself over and over again until he was sure they were locked into place. He considered thinking about what to actually say in the letter, but that seemed like too much work for the moment…he contemplated praying a little or going on a walk around the church or maybe going to ask the old women what they did here everyday and why they—

"Blaine! Honey, are you alright?"

His mother's voice startled him into opening his eyes.

She was leaned over him—her face pale and laced with concern, though she relaxed a little when their eyes met, "Sweetie, do you not feel well?"

"I'm fine, just…thinking," Blaine pushed himself upright; rubbed his eyes, "Are you done?"

"With the candles, yes," she slipped into the space beside him, "I wouldn't mind sitting here with you for a few minutes though. Would that be alright?"

"Sure," Blaine managed a smile.

She folded her hands in her lap and stared toward the front solemnly.

Watching his mother, Blaine was oddly reminded of the three old women ahead of them. He didn't like it. He tipped his head down onto her shoulder partially because he knew she would like it and partially for himself. He couldn't see the tears, but he felt the shudder in her shoulder so, for good measure, he reached over and pulled one of her hands into his.

She twisted in and wrapped both arms around him much more fiercely than Blaine had expected. She rubbed his back; murmured in his ear, "Everything's going to be okay, baby, don't be scared. Everything's going to be okay."

It took her embrace for Blaine to realize that the shaking shoulders were not hers but his, and suddenly he was also aware of hot tears burning his cheeks. He wrapped his arms around her even tighter; took comfort in her hand smoothing soft circles on his back and the stream of assurances she murmured in his ear.

Once he'd settled down, she still held onto him, one hand rubbing soft circles on his back. Their position was as awkward and uncomfortable as Blaine had been earlier when he was lying down, but he knew she wouldn't pull away until he did. And he wasn't ready to move just yet. He may have been eighteen and capable of making adult decisions, sure, but sometimes…sometimes he just needed his mother.

Exactly thirteen days after the birthday party, Kurt's body finally decided it had had enough.

Kurt was used to the telltale signs of a virus coming on: a tickle in the back of his throat; a fatigue in his limbs; a strange foggy quality to his thinking. If any of those things had happened, Kurt would have been prepared for the oncoming sickness. Instead, it hit him full force like a freight train on a very unfortunate Thursday morning. He was chilled and achy and the fact that he was able to put on clothes at all was a feat he was a little stunned by and would have probably been proud of had his mind not been overwhelmed with just trying to move onto the next step of getting ready for the day.

David was up and seated at the kitchen table when Kurt dragged himself out of his room. He looked up from his untouched breakfast and frowned, "You look like hell."

"Still better than you," Kurt snapped. He stared into the fridge but ended up just shutting it again.

"I made coffee." David motioned a hand toward the pot on the counter.

Kurt poured himself a cup and slumped down into the chair across from Dave. He rested his elbows on the table and wrapped his hands tightly around the mug, "Couldn't sleep again?"

David shook his head; stared morosely down at his own cup.

"I'm going to lunch with him today," Kurt mumbled.

David looked up and stared at Kurt with a combination of desperation and jealousy, "You are?"

Kurt nodded; sniffled, "Any messages you want me to relay this time?"

David sat back in his chair; turned his head to watch Bocelli in his cage, "…no."

"No?" Kurt echoed, not sure if maybe he'd started hallucinating. David had been desperately trying to find a way to get to Trip in anyway he could—letters, calls, e-mails, messages delivered by Kurt and Blaine, flowers—but all to no avail except to irritate Trip enough to scribble out some fairly nasty notes out in response that Kurt could never bring himself to actually give to David.

David let out a long sigh, "He's made it pretty clear he's done with the whole thing."

"Have you tried actually going to see him, Dave?" Kurt took a sip of his coffee and grimaced; it tasted like too hot, dirty water.

David nodded, "Yeah, but the Warblers won't let me near him…it's good, I guess…that he has friends who are trying to take care of him."

"Blaine says he's been alright…but a little moodier than usual." Kurt offered.

David nodded but looked as depressed as ever.

Kurt glanced at his phone, "I've got to go; I'll see you tonight?"

David blinked himself out of whatever reverie he'd been involved in, "You're going to work?"

Kurt stood and blinked for a few seconds when his vision blurred, "No, I'm going to class. I work after lunch."

"You look like you're dying."

"I do not. I just need a little Advil and some water and I'll be fine," Kurt let go of the back of his chair and moved to the closet to pull out a jacket.

"If you set foot into your work, they're going to send you home."

"They will not," Kurt glared at Dave, "If anyone's getting sent home it'll be you because your misery is practically contagious."

David looked back down at his plate.

Kurt sighed, "I'll see what I can wheedle out of Trip and I'll report back."

"Thanks." Dave mumbled.

Kurt wasn't entirely sure how it was possible, but by the end of his lectures he felt even sicker. To make matters worse, he had a text from Trip.

Car problems. Do you want to cancel or come get me?

Kurt contemplated cancelling, but in the end typed out a quick message as he got back in his car.

Be there in twenty.

The roads were icy and the drive to Dalton was slow, but Kurt didn't mind—everything felt a little slow, really. He dry swallowed three more Advil once he was pulled into the parking lot outside the dorms.

He called Trip's phone and listened to it ring once…twice…a third time…a fourth…a fifth…

"Not here. Leave a message."

Kurt let out an irritated sigh, "Would it kill you to say your name so that people actually know if they called the right number? You are not a cool, jaded, badass. You're an obnoxious asshole with a stupid voicemail and now I have to get out of my car and come find you. Why are we friends?"

Kurt hung up, feeling decidedly a little better, but groaned as he left the warmth of his car to cross the parking lot. He pulled his jacket in a little more tightly around himself as he approached the doors—the halls in the dorms were notoriously cold.

His irritation lessened as he made his way up the steps. There was something comforting about being back in the familiar building…he paused outside of Blaine's old room and smiled fondly at the numbers. By the time he reached Trip's room (or what he was fairly sure was Trip's room anyway, he was in a better mood, and to make things even easier, the door was ajar.

"What the hell is the point of you even owning a phone if you're never going to answer it, Trip? I, being a near saint, drove all the way out here to pick you up and I came inside to get you, so you better have your sorry butt ready to—oh God."

Kurt stared, mouth agape, because the boy in the bed was most definitely not Trip, though his smirk was just as cunning and his eyes roved over Kurt's form in that same predatory fashion Trip had always been so fond of, "You...um, you're not Tommy or Trip…"

The boy's eyes finally met Kurt's; he leaned back on his elbows on the bed, bare chest exposed, "Neither are you, and I'm assuming you're not one of Tom's basketball buddies either. Are you one of Trip's playthings?"

Kurt managed to snap his mouth shut. He stood up a little taller and rested a hand on his hip, "No, but apparently you are…do you have a name?"

"Sebastian," The boy's smirk only grew; clearly amused, "What about you, do you have a name, or should I just call you gorgeous?"

"It's Kurt," Kurt muttered. He glanced around the room, "Where's Trip?"

"Bathroom," Sebastian nodded toward the open door Kurt had just come in through; he motioned a hand at the bed, "Now that we're acquainted, feel free to make yourself a little more comfortable while you wait."

Kurt sniffed; inspected his fingernails, "I think I'll just stand right here."

Sebastian shrugged; looked toward the window, "So if you're not fucking him then what exactly is your business with Morgan?"

"Lunch." Kurt spoke flatly.

"Hm," Sebastian looked amused.

A minute later, Trip came strolling through the door; his hair wet from a shower and his hands still busy pulling a shirt on over his head. He jumped a little at the sight of Kurt, "What're you doing here?"

"I take it you haven't been keeping an eye on your phone." Kurt snapped.

Trip glanced toward the phone on his desk and Sebastian in his bed before shrugging, "I've been busy."

"I can see that," Kurt looked pointedly at Sebastian and then back at Trip, "So are you coming or can I just go?"

"Give me five seconds to pull a pair of pants on and we can go."

Kurt let out an irritated sigh.

"I'll buy you lunch and everything, calm down," Trip rolled his eyes before looking back at Sebastian, "Are you still here for a reason?"

Seb raised an eyebrow, "I wasn't sure if you had plans to skip class or not, but now I see you've got other plans, too."

Trip shrugged and turned his attention to the closet.

Sebastian smirked as though mildly amused by Trip's coldness.

Trip pulled on a pair of jeans and his shoes before finally looking back at Seb, "Key's on the nightstand. Bring it down to Tom in the Senior Commons when you leave."

Sebastian tilted his head, "You gonna be around between class and Warbler practice?"

"Dunno. See ya around." Trip turned and disappeared from the room without another word, leaving Kurt to scramble to button his coat again before leaving the room.

"Bye, Kurt, hope to see you around again sometime soon." Sebastian gave him a coy smile.

Kurt mumbled a quick 'bye' before half-jogging after Trip.

Once in the car, they drove in silence apart from the radio—Trip seemed content not to say anything, and Kurt was still trying to wrap his head around what he'd just witnessed.

It wasn't until they were seated in a booth at their agreed upon restaurant and their menus had been taken away that Trip chose to speak.

He had a kids' menu and three crayons occupying his attention, but he glanced up at Kurt, "You look like hell."

"You have a hickey the size of Texas on your neck." Kurt retorted icily.

Trip shrugged; turned his attention back to coloring.

Kurt stared hard at the top of Trip's head, "Who is he?"

"Sebastian…Smythe, I think. Transferred in a couple weeks ago."

"You're screwing around with him and you don't even know his last name?"

Trip shrugged, "I've slept with people I've known less about."

"Are you two dat—"

Trip snorted.

"Right," Kurt was quiet for a moment, "…why are you doing this, Trip?"

"I like to color."

"You know what I'm asking about."

Trip didn't look up, "He's good in bed, I'm good in bed, and we both have a free period third hour. It's a decent set up for everyone involved."

Kurt sighed, "…Flip that over. I'll play tic-tac-toe with you."

Trip did as instructed and pushed a purple crayon across the table to Kurt. They played in silence until their food came.

Kurt stirred his spoon listlessly through his soup.

Trip was busily inhaling French fries, but he paused to watch Kurt, "I told you I'd pay for your meal, and you bought like the third cheapest thing you could get. Is not eating it your way of getting back at me for being an ass?"

"No, if that was my plan I would have bought everything and not eaten any of it," Kurt gave up on stirring his spoon around and sat back, "I'm just not very hungry."

Trip nodded, "You look as bad as Blaine right now."

"I'm going to choose to assume that's a compliment," Kurt glared.

Trip popped another fry into his mouth in response.

"I haven't seen you in awhile…I'm a little shocked to be saying this, but I miss having you over for homework."

Trip shrugged, "We've still been doing coffee."

"I guess…" Kurt picked up his water glass and took a sip, "…you still doing okay?"

Trip nodded, "Little more time on my hands now that sectionals are over...at least until practice for Regionals starts heating up."

"Judging by the smell of your clothes, you've been spending every minute of that free time smoking." Kurt glanced at Trip's shirt distastefully.

"Homework, smoking, and screwing; living the dream." Trip laughed, but it sounded strained.

"You're disgusting."

Trip grinned, "I'm Trip Morgan."

"What's the difference?"

Trip chewed noisily and with his mouth open before swallowing down another mouthful of food and winking.

"Why did we agree to having lunch together?" Kurt mumbled, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Because Blaine lives off of plain noodles and saltine crackers and makes a shitty lunch date," Trip turned his attention back to coloring, "And I had nothing better to do."

"Except screw around with a transfer whose last name you don't even know."

"Except that," Trip agreed.

Kurt shook his head and turned his attention back to trying to force a few spoonfuls of soup into his mouth.

After a few minutes, Trip got antsy—shifting in his seat and picking at what was left of the food on his plate, "Can I ask you something and you'll promise to answer the question and then drop the subject?"

Kurt studied Trip's face, "If it's about David…He's okay. He's sad."

Trip looked mildly relieved to not have to ask, but then his eyes were on his plate again.

"…He misses you."

"Don't." Trip snapped.

"He does, Trip, he's been moping around for weeks. Maybe if you'd just—"

"Hummel, I told you to drop it, now drop it!" Trip glared hard at Kurt.

Kurt glanced around at the few people sitting near them who had looked up at Trip's sudden outburst before looking back at Trip, "Fine."

Trip glared at him for another few seconds before relaxing, "Just…lets talk about something else."

"Like what?"

"Like what is Kurt Hummel gonna do with a whole day off?" Trip prodded the fries left on his plate but made no attempt to eat anymore.

"I don't have a day off. I still have work and the gym with Reese and I'm going over to Blaine's for a little while tonight…he had a doctor's appointment and he won't say anything about it, so I'm going to go weasel it out of him in person." Kurt managed another two mouthfuls of soup.

"You're joking, right?" Trip raised an eyebrow.

"No…usually he'll tell me a little bit about his appointments, but he literally won't say anything about it and—"

"I meant are you joking about your entire schedule."

Kurt frowned, "Why would that be funny?"

"You honestly think they'll let you in the store today? Or that you won't drop dead at the gym?" Trip smiled a little, but it looked almost sympathetic, "Do you need me to tell you again how incredibly god-awful you look right now?"

"I do not, and I'll be fine," Kurt growled, "I can't just put my life on hold because I have a little bit of a stuffy nose."

"What do you think is going to happen if you take one fucking afternoon off, Hummel?"

"I don't need it off!" Kurt let out an exasperated sigh, "I am fine."

"Right," Trip rolled his eyes, "Fine, whatever; go to work and scare all of the customers away and go to the gym with the peanut butter cup, but do you really think it's a good idea to get within one hundred feet of Blaine and his piece of shit immune system with your 'little bit of a stuffy nose'?"

Kurt opened his mouth to argue, but then shut it again; bit his lip. Trip was—as much as it pained Kurt to admit it—right, "…Maybe I'll hold off on going to see Blaine."

"Unless you want him to die from pneumonia." Trip agreed.

"Not funny."

"Not joking."

Kurt felt the sudden ridiculous urge to cry, "How long do you think I'll be sick for?"

"Are we admitting now that you're truly sick?" Trip quirked an eyebrow as he flagged down the waitress.

"Sick enough that I need to keep away from Blaine," Kurt's voice wavered.

Trip frowned, "Hey, come on, don't get all wishy-washy on me, I'm no good at handling that."

"I just want to know what's bothering him." Kurt sniffled. In all honesty feeling sick sort of made him weirdly more emotional than normal anyway, but adding to it that he couldn't see Blaine was seriously taxing on his will power to keep from crying.

Trip groaned, "Okay, okay, okay—tell you what, I'll check in on Blanderson as soon as my car is in working order, deal?"

Kurt shrugged and kept worrying his lip between his teeth.

"…and to keep you distracted and busy with your meddling…" Trip hesitated but finally let out a long sigh, "Tell David that I want him to move on and…and be happy. You can tell him I said that, alright?"

"He doesn't want to move on, he wants—"

"Then make him move on. Set him up or shove him into a club somewhere or something. I'm trying to do you a little bit of a favor here," Trip snapped. He shoved a few crumpled bills and some change onto the table beside the check before getting up out of the booth.

Kurt sat for another minute to regain his composure before following in Trip's path out to the car.

Trip was leaned against the passenger door; a cigarette in his mouth and his hands shoved deep in his pockets, "Tick tock, Hummel. The sooner you get to work, the sooner they can kick you right back out."

"Ha ha, you're hilarious." Kurt unlocked the doors and slid into the driver's seat. His heart still ached with the realization that he'd have to be keeping away from Blaine, "…do you know of any ways to get rid of a virus?"

"I have two words for you," Trip was staring forlornly out the window at the cigarette he'd had to abandon, "Bed rest."

"I have two for you, too," Kurt looked over his shoulder as he backed out of his parking space but managed to shoot Trip an icy look, "Fuck and you."

"That was three."

"I thought you were trying to talk me out of my misery," Kurt grumbled.

"Blind man leading a blind man, buddy, I'm no good at making people happy."

Kurt glanced over at Trip, "You know that's not true."

"I told you we were done talking about David, Kurt." Trip sank low in his seat; folded his arms.

"I was referring to Blaine."

Neither one of them said anything else for the rest of the drive.

Trip had been right. The second Kurt had showed up in the backroom, Darcy had taken one look at him and sent him home, and Reese had adamantly refused to let Kurt go to the gym with him. With little else to be said, Kurt had slunk back to his car and started making a mental plan for how to proceed through the next day or two (he would not, could not be sick for more than two days).

In the end, he found himself on the couch folding the final set of the paper cranes he needed for work.

The things were steadily taking over the apartment—overflowing from boxes and covering the table and lined up along the walls. David had turned into a better helper than Kurt could have ever imagined him to be once Trip was gone.

Kurt's work was slower and a little more sloppy than usual, but it also took up more mental energy (which Kurt was eternally grateful for). He tried to plan out what else he would do for the next couple days… there were Skype dates with Rachel to figure out the last minute details before she came home with Quinn a week from next Saturday for Christmas, Finn needed help writing a final paper; if he was stealthy about it, Kurt figured he could steal a few more minor projects from work that he could do from home, and of course there were his finals to study for…

Somewhere around his eighth crane and his mental plan for how to go about studying for finals—or at least that's when he assumed it happened—Kurt fell asleep.

When he woke up next, he found himself snuggled into the couch—one paper crane still half-finished caught in his hand, and a blanket draped over his body. He sat up and groaned—the medicine had definitely worn off and he was feeling the full affects of his illness.

His head ached, his throat was sore, his ears hurt—he stopped cataloguing his pains because, frankly, he just felt like shit.

David appeared beside him with three Advil and a glass of water, "I'd ask how you're feeling, but I think I can tell."

Kurt muttered his gratitude for the pills and water.

"Did they let you go into work?" David sat down in the open space where Kurt's legs had just been.

"They let me in and kicked me right back out." Kurt hugged the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter.

"Did you go to class and stuff?" David's eyes drifted over Kurt's newest cranes piled beside his feet.

"If by 'and stuff' you mean going to lunch with Trip, then yes, I did," Kurt rubbed his eyes, "…what time is it?"

"Almost seven."

"What?" Kurt's eyes went wide and he let out a groan, "I never even told Blaine I wasn't coming over."

"Your phone's been quiet since I got home." David shrugged.

Kurt could see his phone on the floor a few feet in front of him, but the effort to actually get off of the couch and pick it up seemed like a little too much effort, "…Trip's having car troubles. I had to go to Dalton to pick him up."

David nodded but said nothing.

Kurt shifted awkwardly in his place, not sure how much to say, "…He, um…he asked me to tell you something."

David turned to face him full on; his expression a mixture of hope and dread, "What'd he say?"

"He wants you to move on…he wants you to be happy." Kurt kept his expression carefully calm.

David's face fell; he shook his head stubbornly, "I don't want to move on. I just want him."

Kurt sighed, "I know."

David studied Kurt's face, "…you're not telling me something."

Kurt took a drink from his water glass to save him from speaking.

"Kurt, come on, tell me."

Kurt stared down at his lap, "I really don't think you want me to do that."

"Would you like it if I knew something about Blaine and didn't tell you?" Dave shot back.

Kurt fidgeted with the edge of his blanket, "Trip is… Trip's been sleeping with someone else. At Dalton."

Kurt immediately wished he had eased into the news a little more slowly because David looked as though he'd been slapped in the face, "W-what?"

"I'm sorry, Dave," Kurt sighed, "I don't think it means anything to him, it's—"

"Just a warm body," David mumbled, suddenly looking utterly defeated.

Kurt nodded, but the movement made it feel like his brain was being jarred inside his skull.

David let out a long breath, "…other than that…how is he?"

Kurt contemplated scooting in an inch closer to comfort Dave, but decided with his current state of health, he probably wouldn't appreciate the gesture, "He's okay. He's smoking a lot again, but he's doing well outside of that as far as I could tell."

David stared down at the paper cranes again and didn't say anything.

Kurt could feel the medicine finally starting to kick in—his limbs felt a little more movable and his head didn't feel like it was going to explode, "…May I suggest something?"

David shrugged noncommittally.

"Let me set you up—just for one date."

David turned his head to give Kurt a cynical frown, "...with who?"

"My friend Reese—he's sweet, he's gorgeous, he's single, and he just whined about needing to meet more guys like two days ago."

David looked positively miserable; "You think that's it then with Trip?"

"I don't know, David, he's not the easiest person to get to come around, but in the mean time it can't hurt to put yourself out there a little." Kurt insisted; finally getting up to retrieve his phone.

"You're calling him now?" David looked nervous.

"No, I'm sending him a text to tell him it was probably a good thing that he made me keep away from the gym and about how my amazing roommate who is taking care of me while I'm bedridden." Kurt replied coolly, already pulling up Reese's contact information.

"I gave you a blanket and Advil…and this is the couch."

"Never hurts to play up your good traits," Kurt typed out the message to Reese slowly—his eyes still a little bleary and the brightness of his phone's screen making his head ache a little, "Like building a resume."

"I'm not…I don't want to start dating anyone, Kurt."

"All three of us can go out to coffee and you can see what you think," Kurt hit send on his message, but rolled his eyes, "Or you could always get Sebastian's number for even fewer strings attached."

"Who?"

Kurt flinched and immediately regretted the words. He wondered vaguely if this was how Blaine felt when he said something he didn't mean to, "…no one."

David watched Kurt squirm uncomfortably, "That's the guy, isn't it? The one Trip's sleeping with."

Kurt bit his lip and nodded, "Yes. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, I didn't mean—"

"Is he good to him?" David cut Kurt off; his gaze intent.

"They…I don't think Trip puts much feeling into it. He doesn't really know him."

"He didn't know me either." David mumbled, slumping back into the couch.

"No, it's different…he seems like he just genuinely doesn't care with this guy, and Sebastian is, well, to phrase it gently…a total slut. And he has douche bag hair."

"You saw him?"

Kurt wanted to kick himself because he seriously just needed to stop talking, "Yeah, but, like I said, he has skeezy hair and a skeezy smile and overall he looks like one of those slimy crony type characters on Gossip Girl—you know the guys that stand in the background in totally clichéd Polos and chinos and laugh when Dan Humphrey or someone gets made fun of? That's him. Oh! And he also tries to talk like Chuck Bass—you know all slow and sort of sultry, but he can't pull it off and it's just—ew—I'm going to stop talking about him because it's making me nauseous."

David managed to force a shadow of a smile, "I don't watch Gossip Girl, but thanks for trying to make me feel better about it."

"So is that a yes to potential coffee date with Reese?"

David rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "Can it wait for a while…you're not really firing on all cylinders right now, anyway."

"Sure, Dave." Kurt smiled a little and nudged David's foot with his—the easiest contact he could make without spreading too many germs.

David nudged his foot back and smiled more fully, "You should rest or something—you'll get better faster."

"I don't need rest—I need a new immune system."

"I'll keep an eye out for one but until then maybe just try going to bed for a bit."

"Fine," Kurt grumbled. He could still fold his cranes and Skype with Rachel from his bed, so the semi-bed rest wouldn't be all that miserable.

He gathered up a few sheets of paper and got to his feet, but he'd barely made it an inch from the couch when his phone went off. He smiled a little at the text.

Glad to hear you're not on your deathbed. And roommate sounds like a sweet guy…do I get to meet him ever ;)? –Reese

Not a second later, Kurt had a second text that made him smile even more.

Heard you're sick. Wish I could come take care of you! Sending all my love and also cough drops and tea with honey and lots and lots of kisses XOXOXOXOXX -Blaine

And then a third text that actually made him laugh.

P.S. XOXOXOXOXOXOXXXXXXXX

He glanced back over his shoulder to where David was still sitting on the couch, staring glumly at his knees, "David?"

Dave looked up expectantly.

"Take a breath," Kurt smiled, "We're both going to feel better. Just give it time."

It took two days after its initial death rattle for Trip to get a diagnosis on what exactly was wrong with his car and another three for the problem to be fixed. It still made a little bit of a weird humming sound when he drove, but Trip was willing to take his chances driving to the Anderson's house.

He needed out of Dalton. He was getting claustrophobic and restless and that, in turn, was making him mean and cold and the Warblers weren't very appreciative of his brusqueness, nor was Sebastian.

Blaine was good at settling him down. Whether they chose to sit in silence or just talk about nothing, Blaine just sort of knew how to make everything a little bit better. There was someone else who had been even better at it, but Trip didn't want to think about that.

He pulled haphazardly up to the curb in front of Blaine's house and cursed the cold while he rang the doorbell a few too many times in a row.

Normally, Trip prided himself on having a decent poker face, but he'd be lying if he didn't say he jumped when he saw who answered the door.

Helen Anderson frowned at him from the other side of the screen, "I remember you."

Trip managed to regain his composure. He couldn't quite find it in himself to be as rude as he'd been during the summer, but he managed a smirk, "I'm a memorable person."

"If you're here to see Blaine, he's not feeling well." Helen's frown deepened as she watched Trip through the still-closed screen door.

Trip let out an irritated sigh because he really didn't feel like dealing with homophobic, bitchy old women, and it was fucking freezing out, "He knew I was coming over. He asked me to."

Helen stared at him for another few seconds before stepping aside and beckoning for him to come in.

Trip stepped through the door and toed his shoes off, "Thanks."

Helen stood a few feet away from Trip with her arms folded. She appraised him with pursed lips, "You look slightly more presentable than the last time we met, Mr. Morgan. I trust Dalton's been a good influence on you."

Trip glanced down at his uniform, "It's the blazer—makes even the worst of us look like decent guys."

"Hm," Helen didn't smile at the joke, "Blaine's in the family room. He's lying down."

Trip saluted Helen and grinned as he made his way out of the entryway. His smile softened a little when he made it to the family room.

Blaine was stretched out on the couch, his eyes on the television, but he seemed only half-focused. He looked up and smiled when he saw Trip, though, "Hey."

Trip sat down in an open chair, "Hey. You actually look a little better than your boyfriend did last time I saw him."

Blaine pushed himself up a little higher on the couch, "I've been Skyping with him—webcams don't do much for showing details, but he looks like he's been getting a lot better. He's going into work today…. speaking of which, shouldn't you be in class?"

Trip shrugged, "You were the one who asked me to come over. You never specified when."

"Trip." Blaine frowned.

"I needed to get out of there for a bit. I'm suffocating," Trip loosened his tie as though it were the source of his sudden discomfort, "I'll go back for my classes after lunch. I sort of promised your boyfriend I'd come check in on you when I got the chance."

Blaine nodded and sank back lower on the couch.

Trip watched him as he drew his legs in a little closer to himself, "You feeling okay?"

"Mm…vertigo." Blaine mumbled; closing his eyes for a moment.

Trip glanced toward the front of the house to ensure Helen wasn't within earshot, "I might have some stuff in my car if you're out."

"I'm not…I just haven't been using it lately," Blaine opened his eyes again, "Prescribed medications only right now…. besides, my grandma has the nose of a…a…"

"Dog?"

"Sure," Blaine smiled a little, "She'd know if I was smoking anything."

Trip nodded, "Didn't know your grandma was coming out here."

"She was going to come for Christmas," Blaine rubbed his eyes and yawned, "…but she ended up coming out a couple weeks early instead."

"Hm."

They were both silent for a few minutes.

Trip looked between the television and Blaine, "You're quiet."

"I'm dizzy," Blaine managed a small smile, "…and also working my way up to asking you to do me a favor."

Trip sat up a little straighter in his seat, "I probably owe you a favor or two. What's up?"

Blaine pushed himself up slowly; blinking once he was fully sitting. He glanced toward the door leading out of the room before reaching over for a book sitting on the nightstand.

"Am I reading to you? I'm excellent at reading out loud." Trip slid forward in his seat to try and see the title on the book.

"No," Blaine shook an envelope out from between the pages, "…do you still have your key to Kurt and David's place?"

Trip's smile fell, "…yes…"

Blaine nodded slowly; turned the envelope over in his hands, "You know Kurt's New York box?"

"You mean that cardboard box of shit you two have together? Yes, I'm familiar with it," Trip shifted in his seat, "Are you going to tell me what the hell you want me to do or not?"

"The box is in the back left corner of his closet…I need you to put this in there…but don't tell him about it." Blaine held out the envelope toward Trip.

Trip stood abruptly; glared down at the envelope, "Blaine, what's going on?"

"I just need you to do this one thing for me, Trip, I swear that's—"

"Tell me what the fuck is happening," Trip snapped, "Kurt said you had a shitty appointment last week and your grandma's here and being sort of decent and now you're asking me to deliver some secret letter to your boyfriend."

Blaine withdrew his hand; settled the envelope on his knees, "…if I tell you, will you please just put the letter in the box?"

Trip remained standing, but he nodded.

"I'm not…I'm not good at explaining this stuff…" Blaine talked down to his lap, but then met Trip's eyes, "But I'll do my best."

Trip remained frozen as Blaine talked. He didn't provide words when Blaine lost them nor did he snap at him when he lost his place in his story. He stared at him in silence, his hands clenched at his sides, until Blaine finished explaining everything.

When he was done, neither one of them said anything. Trip was mildly aware of the sound of a Geico commercial playing behind them, but it sounded muted and distorted. He swallowed and somehow managed to find his voice, "Does Kurt know?"

Blaine looked back down at his knees. He shook his head a little.

"Fuck, Blaine." Trip hissed.

Blaine rubbed a thumb over Kurt's name printed neatly across the front of the envelope, "…so will you do it?"

"You have to tell him."

Blaine looked up and suddenly looked even more tired, "Trip, you promised if I told you that you'd do it."

"You're a fucking idiot, you know that?" Trip took a step away from Blaine, "A fucking idiot."

"I'm going to tell him, Trip, just…not about the letter and—"

"And what, huh? You've been Skyping with him for almost a fucking week and haven't brought it up?" Trip was vaguely aware that he was yelling, "Who the fuck does that?"

"I'm not going to drop that on him over Skype, Trip, I wanted to give him a few days to—"

"To what? Be totally left in the dark with what's going on with you?" Trip glared at Blaine, "I thought you guys had some sort of fucking honesty pact or something. Neither one of you is—Jesus, forget it."

"Trip, please." Blaine pushed himself up off the couch; swayed precariously.

"I'll deliver your stupid letter, but you're not putting this off anymore. He deserves to know. People deserve to know what's happening when—Blaine?"

Blaine lifted a shaky hand and touched the side of his head as though suddenly disoriented. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came.

Trip made it to him just in time to catch one shoulder as Blaine dropped to the floor.

Four day after his first horrible day of bed rest and twelve hours after his most recent Skype Date with Blaine, Kurt was back at work.

"Well look at you up and moving again—you're like a new man." Reese laughed when Kurt did a short pirouette for him.

"I feel fantastic," Kurt clapped his hands together—in all honesty he still had a little bit of a stuffy nose, but that was something easily brushed aside, "Ungodly amounts of sleep, a little exercise, and a vitamin plan sent to me by one Miss Rachel Berry did the trick. Please tell me you have ten thousand things for me to do."

"Always," Reese grinned and handed over a bucket of buttons, "Find every red button you can—any shade and any shape, but they have to be red and not pink or orange."

Kurt didn't question why; he was too happy to have something to occupy his mind again. He settled in beside Reese and started pulling buttons, "What'd you do without me?"

"Bemoaned your absence mostly—Darcy sang your praises."

Kurt quirked an eyebrow, "No."

"Yes," Reese smiled a little, "Well, sort of. She mostly bitched and moaned about how terrible we were all doing and how not having you around was really hurting the team. It was sort of…abusive criticism laced with compliments."

"I'll take what I can get," Kurt smiled a little, "Just wait until the crane display goes up—I'll be the most celebrated intern in the history of Anthropologie interns."

Reese snorted, "Of course—they'll erect a statue made of buttons and cork and recycled glass in the front window in your honor."

"Which I'm sure you will happily help construct," Kurt sniffed indignantly, "…and they might have to make a special thank you placard or something for David for helping me so much."

"Ah, yes, the roommate—you said you wanted to talk about him," Reese raised an eyebrow, "I am fully prepared to listen."

Kurt smiled, "Well, he's a former football player."

"Good."

"I knew you'd like that—he's…a little shy, I guess you could say. He's working on it."

"Shy's not bad," Reese nodded slowly, "And obviously a decent guy if he's living with you."

"Obviously," Kurt smiled and rolled his eyes, "Though I will be honest, his sense of fashion is non-existent…he wears Levi's."

Reese flinched, "Ouch."

"Deal breaker ouch?" Kurt glanced up from his project to watch Reese's expression.

"…No, just ouch," Reese rolled a gold button slowly between his fingers; his expression thoughtful.

"So the three of us getting coffee sometime isn't out of the question?" Kurt pressed.

"Definitely not." Reese met Kurt's gaze and winked.

Kurt laughed a little, but then his smile slipped, "I do have to warn you, though, he just got out of a relationship so he's a little— speak of the Devil."

Reese followed Kurt's gaze to the boy walking toward them, "Is that David?"

"No," Kurt mumbled; he frowned, "Trip, what are you doing here?"

Trip looked agitated; anxious, "…shopping for a dress and some scented soaps."

"Ha ha. You're hilarious," Kurt rolled his eyes and motioned a hand toward Reese, "This is Reese. We work together."

Trip glanced at Reese and gave a short nod, "Trip."

"I've heard about you," Reese smiled; looked Trip over with obvious intrigue. He nudged Kurt's foot a little.

Trip turned his gaze back to Kurt, "Come with me. We need to talk."

Kurt frowned, "Trip, I just got to work—and aren't you supposed to be in class or something?"

"Cutting," Trip's eyes darted around the store, "Can we go?"

Kurt's frown deepened, "What' wrong with you? Are you on something?"

Trip's gaze snapped back to Kurt and he glared, "No."

"You're being…shifty and weird. What's wrong?" Kurt searched Trip's face.

Trip let out a loud sigh, "Fuck, can we just get out of here? It smells like vanilla and it's making me nauseous; seriously lets fucking go."

"Trip, I can't leave work; I just got here and I have a million things to do and—"

"Please?" Trip's expression softened a little but still held an odd intensity.

Reese reached over and squeezed Kurt's knee, "You guys can talk in the backroom. I'll cover for you with Darcy."

Kurt smiled his gratitude before turning his attention back to Trip, "Give me five minutes? Let me make sure my boss is actually out so she doesn't skin me alive for having a non-employee in her idea space or something."

Kurt had barely finished his sentence before Trip was already gone out the door.

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Just this once I hope he's smoking—he's way too edgy."

"Those eyes, oh my God, Kurt, I can see why your roommate would have a hard time letting him go; he's gorgeous," Reese twisted around to try and see out the front window, "But he is a little…manic or something."

"That is not even a tenth of the things wrong with him," Kurt rolled his eyes.

Reese laughed a little, "You can check if you want, but I'm ninety-nine percent sure Darcy is out on some sort of mission."

"I'll double check the back just in case; you never know where she might be lurking," Kurt smiled, "Thanks again for covering for me—I promise I'll make it quick; he probably just burned down a building or something and needs help covering his tracks."

Once he'd ensured the store was entirely Darcy-free, Kurt made his way back up to the front door.

Trip was pacing; a stream of smoke curling out behind him in the cold air and swirling in lazy clouds when he turned and walked back through it again.

"Seriously, are you sure you didn't take ecstasy or something? You're insane right now." Kurt leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms tightly across his chest in a feeble attempt to trap in his body heat.

"I'm always a little insane." Trip slowed his pacing; blew a cloud of smoke out his mouth.

"If you'd be so kind as to put out your cigarette, we can talk in the backroom, but I don't have long."

"Always busy," Trip muttered. He dropped his cigarette down and ground it out under a shoe before breezing past Kurt and into the store again, "God forbid you let your mind free up a little."

"Now you're being a pest, a psychopath, and an asshole." Kurt followed after Trip quickly.

When they were finally in the backroom, Trip's eyes drifted over the boxes and boxes of paper cranes Kurt had finally brought in, "They're done?"

Kurt looked at the boxes, too, "I still need to string them all up. I'm hoping I can do that today…I might have to stay late."

"Of course," Trip drummed his fingers on the side of his leg.

Kurt frowned when they both fell quiet and decided to try a topic change, "…What'd you think of Reese?"

"Who?" Trip frowned.

"Reese—cute guy you met less than ten minutes ago?"

Trip shrugged.

"I'm setting him up with David."

Trip finally met Kurt's eyes. He looked momentarily hurt but then he shrugged again.

"That was your suggestion, wasn't it? Set him up with someone new?" Kurt tilted his head to try and read Trip's face, "Trip."

"What?" Trip snapped.

"If you think maybe I shouldn't set him—"

"I don't fucking care what David does, Kurt."

"You seem like you do…you could come over tonight and talk—"

"Stop fucking meddling. Just stop," Trip glared at him, "What the fuck do you care who we spend our time with?"

"Trip, I'm just trying to help."

Trip laughed hollowly.

It was Kurt's turn to get angry, "You're the one who stormed in here and demanded we talk. Is this what you wanted to do? Have me try to tell you something while you just shut me down?"

"No, but this is usually how our conversations go, isn't it?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Honestly, Trip, if you're going to act like this, Blaine might be the better person for you to talk to right now—he's slightly more tolerant of your bullshit than I am."

Trip flexed his jaw, "You planning on going to see him?"

Kurt watched Trip's face carefully, "I'm still a little worried about getting him sick… maybe in a couple days. We Skype every night between six and eight—it's worked out fairly nicely actually, he talks to Rachel from five to six and I talk to her from eight to nine."

"What a lovely plan, Kurt, that's really very nice." Trip sneered.

"What the hell is your problem?" Kurt finally lost his temper; glared hard at Trip.

"My problem is that you think no one knows what you're doing when the truth is everyone fucking knows and we all play dumb and just let you keep going on and on with your stupid fucking schedule." Trip's expression was stormy; mean.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt spoke through gritted teeth, "Forgive me if I've offended you by having a lot of things going on during my day and—"

Trip was seething; shaking with barely contained rage, "Don't be so fucking stupid, Kurt. All of this is a big fucking façade."

"All of what?" Kurt shouted back; angry tears suddenly pricking the corners of his eyes. All he'd wanted from the day was the simple pleasure of his schedule; the sense of normalcy. Having a screaming match with Trip Morgan had not been a part of the plan.

"Everything! Blaine throws himself into fixing me like I'm some sort of project and you sit around folding a billion fucking pieces of paper!" Trip kicked a box of finished cranes, sending most of them flying through the air and crashing back to the floor in a crumpled mess, "You invest yourself in this stuff like it matters so you can pretend like you're moving forward; like shit is good and positive and fan-freaking-tastic, but guess what? It's not good; it sucks. Everything is shit and we're all stuck."

"Everything is not shit," Kurt clenched his fists hard; his nails bit into his palms, "Things are fine! We are not stuck."

"Fine, you're right; you're not stuck; you're just buried fucking neck-deep in bullshit."

"We are not! I don't know what your problem is, but—"

"You said it yourself last week. Blaine wouldn't tell you about the doctor's appointment."

"He was stressed out, he needed time to think about it." Kurt stared stubbornly down at the floor.

"Has he mentioned it since then?"

"No, we try to stay positive when we can only do the Skype thing, it's hard to—"

Trip let out a sharp, mean sounding laugh, "Of course, nothing's wrong at all. Gotta stay positive. Did he tell you his grandma is in town?"

"Of course he did," Kurt snapped, "What does that have to do with anything?"

Trip's expression moved from angry to something a little more solemn, "Here's how I see it."

"Do I even want to hear this?" Kurt spoke through gritted teeth; he didn't trust the lump still stuck in his throat to remain locked away without his conscious effort.

Trip ignored him, "You and Blaine are about to hit a crossroads of sorts. Because, lets face it, even if he gets better, the kid is going to be majorly fucked up for a long time."

"Shut—"

"No, you shut up and listen," Trip stepped in closer to Kurt, crushing paper cranes under his feet, "You know it as well as I do. It's not like one day he's gonna come home from the doctor and say 'Hey, baby, guess what? The cancer's gone! Go grab your little pre-packed box of New York shit and we'll drive off into the sunset together and pretend this never happened!'"

Kurt set his jaw; clamped his hands into even tighter fists, "He's doing better. He does better all the time—he almost never yells anymore."

"He's got a cold that's been around for months, he forgets words and never remembers them, and his feet fall asleep twice a day," Trip glowered at Kurt, "He doesn't yell because his head's too fucking busy trying to figure out how to make it down the stairs and yell hello to whoever's at the door at the same time."

"Shut up!" Kurt made to clamp his hands over his ears.

Trip grabbed his wrists; pinned his arms down to his sides, "No, you're going to fucking hear me. You're going to listen!"

"Trip, you're hurting me! Let go!" Kurt struggled hard; suddenly irrationally panicked.

"No," Trip's hands moved to his shoulders; he shook him once; hard, "Fucking look at me!"

He knew it was childish and stupid and pointless, but Kurt closed his eyes tight, "Trip, let go!"

"Blaine fainted this morning."

Kurt's eyes flew open. He stared dazedly at Trip's face, "…w-what?"

"He fainted." Trip's tone was still hard, but it was quieter. His grip on Kurt's shoulders loosened a little.

W-we talked last night, and he…he was f-fine," Kurt shook his head, but then the fear set in hard and fast and sent him into a near-frenzy of questions, "Is he hurt? Did he go to the hospital? When did he—"

Trip squeezed his arms, but this time it was a slightly reassuring gesture, "He's not hurt, he's still at home, but they might take him in to get him checked out. He thinks he got too dizzy or something. It happened when I was over."

"S-so…he's okay," Kurt took in a deep breath through his nose; let it out slowly, "It wasn't…it wasn't a big deal."

Trip's grip loosened, but he held on to Kurt's shoulders, "Make him tell you."

Kurt searched Trip's face, but all he could find was more exhaustion and more anger, "Tell me what?"

"The truth."

Kurt stepped away from Trip, "He doesn't lie to me. We don't do that to each other."

"That doesn't mean he isn't keeping things from you."

"He isn't keeping anything from me," Kurt glared, but his voice faltered, "I've seen him over Skype, and I've been with him all the time before that. He's sick; his immune system isn't good and the weather's hard on him. In the spring things will be easier."

Trip dragged a hand through his hair, "How do you keep doing this, huh? How do you keep telling yourself over and over again that things are going to be okay?"

"The same reason you still have David's jacket in the backseat of your car and the key to our apartment in your pocket," Kurt sat down slowly on the edge of a stool; suddenly not sure he could trust his knees not to give out on him, "Even when it's so hard that you want to scream, you still hold onto the hope that things will get better. Once you know how happy you're actually capable of being... you're willing to hurt if it means you can feel that again."

"When you do drugs, they call that 'chasing your first high'," Trip stared at Kurt for a moment longer before his gaze slid to the overturned box of paper cranes, "But you know what? Most people never reach it; they just end up a strung out, fucked up mess."

Kurt reached into his pocket traced and his fingers around the feather pin Blaine had given him for graduation. He'd taken to carrying it with him when he wasn't wearing it, and now he'd developed a bad habit of fidgeting with it constantly. He pulled it out and stared down at the pink gold of the metal; traced his thumb around the edge, "I think you're wrong."

Trip was quiet for a moment before taking a step in closer to Kurt. He placed a key down on Kurt's knee, "That's to your apartment."

"Trip, you don't have to give that back," Kurt spoke softly. He felt the almost hysterical urge to cry, though he was fairly sure it wasn't about the key.

"I stopped by and picked up Bocelli...I don't have anything left there that's mine," Trip's voice was quiet, "...and I left Dave's jacket in the hall closet."

Kurt looked up when he heard Trip's footsteps retreating, "Trip, wait."

Trip stopped at the door and turned to look at Kurt.

"Did…" Kurt closed his hand around the key and the pin and squeezed them both tightly in his palms, "D-did Blaine tell you what they said at the doctor's appointment?"

Trip held Kurt's gaze; his expression solemn, "Yes."

Kurt searched Trip's face desperately, "W-what did—what happened? Is he—"

"Go talk to him, Kurt," Trip turned away and pushed the door open, "Soon."

Kurt sat alone on the back room long after Trip was gone, unmoving.

Everything was muted save for a ringing in his ears, and Kurt could swear the earth was spinning just a little faster than it should be or it was tilted a little too much or maybe it was just him that wasn't quite in tune with the motions...And it wasn't going to straighten out; it wasn't going to slow.

As soon as the realization hit, Kurt was up and on his feet. He bumped into customers; he didn't stop to tell Reese where he was going; he breezed past Darcy as they crossed paths in the doorway—deaf to whatever she was shouting after him.

The schedule planned to the minute and packed down to the seconds was suddenly completely gone from his head. He had room for only two things in his mind.

Panic.

And Blaine.