Chapter 27

The whole world is made of senses. Sights and feelings and tastes and smells and sounds—even at seven years old, Kurt could close his eyes and conjure up any place he had ever been and put it all back together again. The Cohen-Chang's family room—milky white carpet and a floral-print couch that sighed when you sank into silky slide of the cushions. His own backyard—it smelled like leaves or cut grass or clean snow depending on the season—but Kurt could feel the rough wood of the fence snagging on his fingertips if he imagined it hard enough.

It's not just places. People are made up of senses too—they have certain feels and looks and smells that are all their own.

His mother smelled like the bottle of perfume that sat on top of her dresser. Kurt liked that bottle; liked the smooth lines of the glass; the neat little square label on the front; liked the pale yellow, gold of the perfume inside. More than anything he liked the smell. It was the smell of his hiding place in the back of his parent's closet and butterfly kisses on the tip of his nose and hugs to make everything better after a bad day at school. It was the smell of his mother and love and everything soothing.

One Tuesday—Kurt didn't know why it should be different than any other Tuesday—the smell became especially important. He walked through the front door humming a song to himself—more and more he found himself liking music; liking the way it could tell stories and the way it could bubble up out of his mouth. He dropped his backpack down by the door and made his way to the family room, talking before he was even fully in the room, "Know what I thought today, Mom?"

She was on the couch where she always was. She looked tired; frail, but she smiled for Kurt, "What'd you think today, beautiful boy?"

"We learned about cursive handwriting; I can sign my name like how you and dad do almost." Kurt told her proudly; he contemplated going back to his backpack to fetch his practice sheet so he could show her, but he was afraid he'd lose his great thought if he didn't tell her right away.

"Can you? That's wonderful." She slid over to make room for him on the couch; patted the cushion lightly to indicate where he should sit.

He fit himself in at her side and smiled up at her, "After cursive we had music and I was thinking about how talking and music are kind of like the normal writing and the cursive kind."

"How so?" His mother smiled; stroked a hand through his hair.

"Singing is like pretty talking and cursive is like pretty regular writing." Kurt beamed because it was true—music connected everything together in pretty, curving loops of sound; took the boring, blocky talking and made it into something nice to look at.

"That's beautiful, sweetheart; you're so smart," She pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

He didn't mind when she lingered; didn't comment when she inhaled the smell of him as deep as she could, and when she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him onto her lap, he hugged her back.

"I love you very much, Kurt." Her voice sounded funny.

"I love you, too, Mom." Kurt returned the hug; even more pleased with his music-writing comparison now that it seemed to be getting him extra special attention.

At the sound of the stairs creaking, he looked up in surprise to see his father appearing around the corner—his face tired and drawn and a little old like it always was those days, "Did you have no cars to fix today, Dad?"

Burt managed a smile for Kurt, but it looked strained, "Always cars to fix, buddy, just had some more important things to deal with."

Kurt nodded like he understood, "Wanna know what I thought of today that I told Mom about?"

"What's that?" Burt rubbed a hand over his eyes.

Kurt repeated his cursive writing is to block writing as singing is to talking comparison, but his father barely smiled.

"That's true, kid; good thinking." Burt cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes yet again.

Kurt giggled in delight when his father sat down beside him and his mother and wrapped his arms around both of them tight because, in Kurt's opinion, family hugs were the best.

His parents hugged around him and it was warm and nice and his father's shirt was soft on his cheek and even though his mother felt a little sharp with her thin frame, it was all still rather comforting.

When Burt pulled away, Kurt's mother held onto his hand; squeezed it tight.

Kurt looked between them with a smile and thought they were almost as in love as the princes and princesses in Disney movies and that was kind of nice.

His mother smoothed a hand over the collar of Kurt's shirt, "Kurt, sweetheart, come upstairs with me for a minute, I want to show you something."

Kurt slid off of his mother's lap—she hadn't carried him for a long time. She was scared she'd faint like that one time earlier in the fall and hurt Kurt in the process, and secretly Kurt was afraid he was too big and might hurt her if she picked him up.

They walked hand in hand up the stairs first to her room where she picked up the bottle of perfume off of the dresser and then across the hall to Kurt's room.

"What're we doing?" Kurt sat down on his bed and watched her curiously.

She smiled and held out the bottle to Kurt, "I've seen you smelling this before."

Kurt blushed, suddenly feeling guilty, "I know it's glass so it could break and I shoud've asked first, but I promise I'm always really careful…sorry."

"You're not in trouble, honey," She laughed a little and kissed his cheek, "I had an idea that I wanted to share with you."

Kurt's whole body relaxed and he smiled, "What?"

"Hand me your pillow," She motioned a hand toward the head of his bed.

Kurt handed it over quickly and watched as she sprayed the very edge of his pillowcase with the perfume, "What's that for?"

"If you ever miss me or you're scared at night, you can find this corner of your pillow and close your eyes and pretend I'm right there with you," She smiled; held out the pillow.

Kurt took it and inhaled deeply; the smell was still so strong, it tickled his nose a little. He looked up at her and smiled, "That was a good idea."

"I'm glad you think so." She smiled; squeezed his knee.

Burt appeared in the doorway, "What're you two up to?"

"Mom sprayed my pillow with her perfume for in case I have bad dreams at night," Kurt pointed to the edge of his pillowcase for his father to see, "It's like when you and her come home from dates and you come in to kiss me goodnight—it smells like that. I can close my eyes really tight and pretend that; isn't that a good idea?"

Kurt watched in alarm when his father's eyes suddenly shone with tears, "Th-that's a great idea, bud."

"Dad, what's wrong?" Kurt looked between his parents feeling suddenly anxious.

Burt pulled himself back together before any of the tears could actually fall. He coughed into his hand, "Nothing, kiddo; you got homework that needs doing?"

Kurt nodded reluctantly, "I have a spelling worksheet."

Before he could get off of the bed to go back to fetch his backpack, his mother stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, "Before you do your homework, there's something I want you to do."

Kurt frowned, "What?"

A smile blossomed across her face, "Go out and play. Little boys aren't allowed to do homework until they've had a little bit of fun."

He beamed at her and leaned in to give her a quick kiss, "Love you, Mom."

"And I love you," She smiled, but it looked sad.

Late that night, Kurt lay awake in his bed; his nose a few inches from the place that smelled like his mother, but he couldn't sleep. His nightlight was on and his covers were all straight and he had the right weekly rotation of stuffed animals lined up beside him and his dad had even left the door open just the perfect amount, but still, Kurt was restless. Something was…off; nagging at him.

After what felt like a million years of rolling from his back to his front to his side, Kurt slid his feet out of the bed and crept toward the hallway. He could still see the sliver of light creeping out from under his parent's bedroom door, so he tiptoed as quietly as possible over to it and pressed his ear close.

"—He's too young; let him be happy—"

"—Betrayed if he find out we didn't tell him."

"I'm trying to make this easy for him, Burt, he's only—"

"—know you're not sick anymore—"

Kurt couldn't stop himself; didn't care that he'd be caught eavesdropping. He threw open their bedroom door.

He was confused for a moment; they both looked like they had been crying, but his mother wiped her eyes quickly, "Kurt, honey, what are you doing out of bed?"

He couldn't bring himself to feel bad about sneaking around outside the door; he was still too breathless with what he'd overheard to think about anything else, "I couldn't sleep, but then I heard you guys talking and that you're not sick anymore!"

His parents looked at—stared at him—in mute horror.

Kurt looked between them, "I heard you say it, Dad, I heard you say 'know you're not sick anymore' to Mom."

His parents finally tore their eyes away from him to look at one another.

They did that sometimes—stared at each other without saying anything but it was like they were talking. Kurt wondered if when you got married if you could read each other's minds…maybe that's how people decided to get babies…

Kurt's mother interrupted his musings; she pulled back the comforter on their bed a little, "Come sit with us, Kurt, we need to talk about something."

Kurt climbed eagerly into the space between his parents. Maybe they could go on a real spring break trip now that his mom was feeling better; maybe they could plan it right now, but then Kurt was worried he might really be tired for school in the morning because there's no way he's going to be able to fall asleep if he's excited about a vacation and—

"Kurt, I think you misunderstood what I was talking to your mom about." Burt spoke after a long silence.

Kurt frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Your mom…" Burt looked away for a moment and then back at Kurt, "She's still sick, bud."

Kurt felt something catch in his throat, "B-but you said—you s-said she wasn't."

His mother wrapped an arm around his shoulders, "He meant I won't be feeling sick from my medicines anymore, honey."

Kurt tried to swallow down his disappointment…this was still okay news, after all. If his mother didn't feel sick, then maybe she could play with him more, "…so does that mean you're starting to get better though? Dad says you get sick 'cause your medicine's so strong, so is it less strong cause you're not so sick anymore?"

His mother swallowed thickly, "No, honey, it's…"

His parents exchanged another look and then it was Burt who was talking, "Your mom's not going to be taking that medicine anymore 'cause it's not working so good."

Kurt frowned, "Are you gonna take a new medicine that works better? Maybe the stuff I take for my throat could be good—it tastes like bubblegum, too, so it's not so bad to take and I always feel better when we get that from the doctor."

His mother smiled a little, "No, honey, I don't think that will help with cancer."

"Oh," Kurt looked down at the blanket pulled over his lap in confusion as he tried to puzzle over the whole thing before looking back up to his mother, "…so how are you supposed to get better if you don't take your medicine? You always say that even when medicine tastes gross I have to take it or I'll never get better."

In response, she wrapped both arms around him; rubbed a hand over his back, "We're going to just focus on loving each other as much as we can for awhile; can you help us do that?"

Kurt wasn't entirely sure how loving someone could make them not have cancer anymore—and then he fretted that maybe he should have been loving his mother more so she got better faster—but he just hugged her back and nodded, "Yeah."

They had another family hug—even better and tighter than the one from when Kurt had gotten home from school.

When Burt pulled away, he smiled at Kurt, "Do you want to sleep in our bed tonight, kiddo?"

Kurt's eyes went wide; his parents almost never let him sleep in their bed anymore and besides that he felt like maybe sleeping with your parents was something for only little kids and babies, but the offer was too tempting, "Could I?"

"Sure, Kid, at least just for tonight." Burt leaned over and turned off the bedside lamp.

Kurt settled down between his parents—pressed a little closer to his mother than his father—and felt a near-immediate exhaustion spread over his limbs.

The sheets were cool and soft around him and the quiet sounds of floors creaking and the wind outside lulled Kurt closer and closer to sleep.

His thoughts turned hazy and laced with the edge of dreams. Kurt imagined Disney World and the ocean and hotels with swimming pools and his whole family taking pictures with Mickey Mouse and building sandcastles and all of the other cool things people got to do when they went on trips. Before sleep could overtake him entirely; Kurt made himself a promise that he was going to love his mother so much that she'd be better again by the time summer vacation started.

He snuggled in a few inches closer to his mother, inhaled deeply, and drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.

The drive to the Anderson's was a blur—a blur of terror and memories he didn't want. A blur of hurt and a twisting stomach and ears ringing so loud, Kurt thought he might go deaf.

When he pulled into the driveway, he didn't bother locking his car—he threw himself out of his seat and made for the door. He tripped over the top porch step—caught his ankle funny on the wood—but if it hurt, the pain went unnoticed. He stormed through the front door without knocking.

Elizabeth saw him first as she came out of the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand and an orange prescription bottle in the other, "Kurt? Honey, are you al—"

"Where is he?" Kurt choked on the words; his whole chest and throat were so constricted, he was a little shocked they had even made it out of his mouth.

"He's upstairs, but—"

Kurt turned on his heel and half-ran up the steps.

Blaine was sitting on the edge of his bed with a mug of something steaming balanced on his knees. His eyes were already on the doorway as Kurt turned into his room. He put his mug down on the nightstand and pushed himself to his feet a little unsteadily.

Kurt stood barely a foot inside the door, breathing too hard and his heart pounding against his ribs. Every inch of him felt tight and tense and like it might shatter, "What aren't you telling me?"

Blaine flinched at the volume behind Kurt's voice.

Kurt didn't care. He didn't care if Blaine had a headache or if his voice was too high and too tight and near hysterical; He shouted even louder, "Tell me!"

Blaine approached him slowly; searched his face for how much he already knew, "Tell you what?"

The sound registered before anything else. A loud smack. Undeniable. Irrevocable.

It took a moment for Kurt to make sense of what had happened. The pink handprint on Blaine's cheek; his eyes wide and confused as though he, too, wasn't entirely sure what had just happened. And finally—just barely—Kurt felt the soft prickling sting of his own palm still poised in the air.

Neither one of them moved for a moment; neither one spoke.

Kurt's hand dropped to his side, but he didn't know what else to do; couldn't get his brain to process anything except you just hit Blaine, you just hit Blaine, you just hit Blaine—

Blaine recovered first. He took a tentative step toward Kurt and reached up both hands to his face. His voice was quiet as he thumbed away the tears on Kurt's cheeks, "Don't cry. Please don't cry."

The second he felt it—warm, familiar fingers against his skin—Kurt broke. He threw his arms around Blaine's neck; sobbed and tried to gulp in air all at once, "Oh G-god, I'm s-s-so s-sorry, I d-didn't mean t-to do—I'd n-never—Oh G-g-god, B-Blaine, I—"

"Shh," Blaine hugged him back as tight as he could, "Shh, it's okay."

"No i-it's n-n-not, I j-just hit you! I hi-i-it you a-and I—"

"Hey, stop and breathe," Blaine murmured; his voice calm and warm as though everything was okay. Like Kurt hadn't just slapped him across the face. Like nothing was wrong at all, "Shh, deep breaths. We're okay."

Instead of calming down, Kurt cried even harder, "N-n-no we're n-not, Trip s-s-said you're n-not t-t-telling—"

"Okay, shh, alright," Blaine smoothed a hand over his back, "You're right, we need to talk."

Kurt let out a strangled whimper.

"What's going on in here?" Helen appeared in the door; glared at Kurt, "If you're upsetting Blaine—"

"He's not," Blaine cut her off coolly, "He's fine."

"You shouldn't be out of bed, Blaine." Helen reprimanded him, but there was no venom in her tone.

Kurt tore himself free from Blaine's hold, finally getting a grip at Helen's words. He sniffled and tried to calm his breathing, "Sh-she's right, you should be l-lying down."

For once, Blaine didn't argue. He held tight to Kurt's hand and moved back toward his bed. He glanced up at Helen, "Grandma, could you close the door, please?"

Kurt was sure she'd refuse. He waited for her to launch into a talk on their relationship or closed doors and temptation or—

"Call if you need anything," She cast a cold glance toward Kurt, but then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The sudden passiveness was the opposite of comforting. Kurt closed his eyes tight; tried to find his center. If he was scared, then Blaine had to be terrified; he needed to calm down; he needed to be able to hear what Blaine was going to say.

When he opened his eyes, Blaine was watching him from his place on the bed, "Come sit down."

Kurt pulled up the desk chair and sat down stiffly. He couldn't bring himself to sit on the bed.

Blaine looked at the space between them, but didn't comment on it. Instead, he sank a little lower against his headboard; rubbed his eyes, "…what did Trip say?"

"Does it matter?" Kurt whispered; his eyes moved to Blaine's nightstand where the abandoned mug now sat. The faint smell of peppermint hit Kurt's nose.

"He told you I'm not telling you things."

Kurt nodded stiffly.

"Anything else? Did he tell you what I'm not…what I'm not…"

"Saying," Kurt filled quietly, "…he said you fainted."

Blaine nodded, "It was only a couple minutes. I got too dizzy and all of the sudden I just…passed out, I guess. My mom called the doctor; he didn't make me come in. just said I should lie down."

"Would you have told me it happened if Trip hadn't?" Kurt finally looked over to meet Blaine's gaze.

Blaine looked down at his lap, "…probably not."

"Why, Blaine?" Kurt fought the urge to start crying again, "Why are you keeping secrets?"

"The fainting thing…it wasn't a big deal…I wanted—there are bigger things I need to tell you, so adding that just didn't seem necessary or…" Blaine swallowed, "…important."

"What does seem important?" Kurt's voice wavered.

Neither one of them said anything for a minute.

Kurt stared at his handprint still blotchy against Blaine's cheek.

Blaine caught him looking and reached over toward the edge of the bed, "It's okay."

"No, it's not," Kurt whispered. He withdrew his hands from the edge of the bed and out of Blaine's reach. He felt his voice get caught in his throat again, "None of this is okay, Blaine, we both know that."

Blaine nodded and looked down at his lap, "…open the drawer on my nightstand."

Kurt did as instructed. He was familiar with that drawer. It was where Blaine kept everything that didn't have a home somewhere else. It was where condoms and lube got hidden in old Hot Wheels carrier cases and got lost underneath stacks of pictures and ten year-old McDonald's toys that Blaine refused to get rid of.

Over the past few months, the occasional emptied pill bottle and the yellow stress ball had found a home in the drawer, too, but today there was something even newer.

Kurt lifted the journal out carefully, but the soft leather of the covers still flopped in his hand, "Is this what you want?"

Blaine glanced over and nodded, "…and there's a folder on my desk…could you grab that too, please?"

Kurt stood on feet that suddenly felt like they weren't attached properly; like they weren't his. He moved mechanically to the desk and stared down at the things littered across the top. He lifted the red folder and turned to face Blaine, "This one?"

Blaine nodded.

Kurt returned to his seat; rested the folder on the bed beside the journal and waited.

Blaine looked down at the items; studied them quietly, "…I had a doctors appointment last Wednesday."

Kurt nodded; held his breath.

Blaine was still staring at the folder, "…It wasn't good."

Kurt closed his eyes.

"They, um…" Blaine paused for what felt like an hour, a day, a year, "…they're going to do a second surgery."

Kurt's eyes flew open, "That's it?"

Blaine looked up at him with mild alarm.

"Th-they're—" Kurt felt near-euphoric, 'They're not discontinuing treatment?"

Blaine's face fell, "No, they're not, but Kurt—"

Kurt let out a fluttery laugh, "I thought—I thought that's what you were going to tell me. I thought you were going to say it wasn't working, so you were going to discontinue and—"

"Kurt, stop," Blaine looked like he was in physical pain, "Please…please stop and let me finish. You wanted me to be honest."

Kurt froze—his jubilation halted to an angry stop.

Blaine held his gaze carefully, "It's not…it's not like the first surgery."

Kurt stared at him mutely.

"They didn't…" Blaine rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "…they really argued about whether or not to do it."

"…What?"

"I'm not as strong as I was when we did the first one—that's pretty obvious," Blaine tried to smile a little, but when Kurt just stared back at him, his face went solemn again, "It ended up being a pros and cons battle and the pros in favor of the surgery won…barely."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying…" Blaine was quiet for a long moment. He took in a shaky breath and let it out, "I'm saying you really need to say 'I love you, too' before the surgery this time."

Kurt was vaguely aware of a rushing, ringing sound starting in his ears; he fought it hard and tried to focus as Blaine pushed the journal closer to him.

"They had me refill out my advanced directive forms for if…for if something happens," Blaine was speaking slowly as though to a small child (not that Kurt felt much bigger than when he was seven), "I put a lot of thought into it—I've been putting a lot of thought into it in case it ever got to this point—and I made some decisions."

"What kind of decisions?" Kurt heard himself say.

Blaine reached over and flipped open the journal with shaky fingers to one of the last pages, "I… this isn't exactly what it says—the forms are different—but it explains…it explains why in here."

"Why what, Blaine?" Kurt felt a new sob building in his chest; growing along with the rushing sound in his ears.

"If…if something happens and they have to put me on life support or something," Blaine traced his fingers over the penned words on the page as though reading the message there beneath the pads of his fingers, "…one week, and they'll take me off of a vent. They'd keep me on comfort care but—"

"No."

"Kurt, this is for the best, I told you, I explained why right here if—"

"I don't want you to die," Kurt's voice came out in a strangled sob; he clenched his hands pathetically into the edge of the comforter beside his knees, "Please, Blaine—you can't. You just can't."

Blaine smiled sadly, "Everybody dies Kurt… our parents will die, our friends, our enemies, even you… nobody escapes it; it's not a matter of if, it's just a matter of when."

"Why now then, why not later? You're eighteen. We're eighteen." Kurt only cried harder. His chest, his head; his whole body hurt with the sobs that wracked it.

"There' no guarantee I'm going to die, Kurt, but it's…a bigger possibility than it was. I made the decision because I don't want to be some shell of myself that you're hung up on visiting for years on end hoping I might come back. You need to live, you need to be able to—"

"No!"

Blaine quieted for a moment; studied Kurt's face as though memorizing it.. He stretched a hand out on the bed toward Kurt again even though he was out of reach, "No matter what, it's going to be okay."

"How can you say that?" Kurt sobbed, "How can you even begin to say that?"

"Because I believe it." Blaine drew his hand back in toward his lap.

"How can anything be okay?" Kurt tried to take in deep breaths to calm himself, but all they did was fuel his tears, "How can I ever be okay without you?"

"You have so much to live for Kurt; you're going to do so many amazing things," Blaine smiled, "You'll be more than okay whether I'm around or not."

Kurt met Blaine's gaze abruptly, he reached out and finally squeezed Blaine's hand tightly between his own hoping for one last chance to change it all, "I don't need it—any of it; I don't need New York or fame or music—I'll trade all of it for you, I will; I swear. Just don't sign the papers. Don't, please, just don't."

Blaine sighed, "Kurt, it doesn't work that way; it's not a game where we get to just trade pieces to get things to happen the way we want… and they're your dreams; don't just pawn them off like they aren't important."

"You are my dream," Kurt held Blaine's palm against his face, tears caught on their hands and forged new paths around them down his face; he could taste them on his mouth, "None of it matters if I can't share it with you. Please, Blaine, please don't make me do this alone again. I can't."

"You can do it," Blaine managed a small smile.

"I don't want to." Kurt shook his head hard, "I don't want a life that doesn't include you."

Blaine suddenly frowned, "Don't be one of those people, Kurt."

Kurt met his eyes with confusion.

"Everybody dies but not everybody lives; don't let that be you," Blaine held his gaze, "That can't be you. You don't get to die just because I do."

"Is there a good chance that will happen?" Kurt cut him off; anger and hurt and agony swirling inside him, "Is there a good chance something bad is going to happen?"

Blaine held his gaze but didn't say anything.

Kurt didn't need him to say it. He could see it—he'd seen it in Trip's near hysteria at the store and the fear in Helen's face and now the solemn, quietness of Blaine's eyes. He squeezed his hands tight in his lap, "You promised me you wouldn't give up."

"I'm not, Kurt, I just—"

"You promised you wouldn't stop fighting this!" Kurt was on his feet.

"Would you listen to me?" Blaine's voice rose, too, his expression suddenly distraught, "You told me to talk to you and now you won't even hear me."

Kurt remained standing, glaring, "Why didn't you tell me? Why would you keep something like that a secret?"

Blaine closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again his expression was guilty, sad, "I was going to tell you. I was. I just… I wanted to wait until I could see you in person and…"

"And what?" Kurt snapped, suddenly irrationally angry again, "And you thought I was so stupid that I wouldn't know something was wrong? And you didn't think I could handle it? And—"

"No!"

"Then what, Blaine?" Kurt sniffled; scrubbed the tears off his cheeks with the back of a hand, "I stayed here with you, remember? I stayed here because I love you and I wanted us to do this together, but we keep having the same problems and the same fights over and over again. Why is it so hard for you to believe I can handle this?"

"Of course I know you can handle it. You're…you're the strongest person I know," Blaine looked like Kurt had slapped him all over again.

Kurt was crying yet again, but this time he made no effort to wipe away the tears; he sniffled hard, "Do you have any idea how infuriating you are? Do you have any idea how much I want to run out of here and run over to you at the exact same time?"

Blaine was suddenly crying too, his expression stricken and sad, "I didn't tell you because…it was selfish. I did it for me."

Kurt stared at him hard but said nothing.

"I did it…" Blaine tipped his head back as though gravity alone could keep the tears at bay, "I did it because I w-wanted to be able to pretend for a few days that we were okay. That's what we've been d-doing, isn't it? Trying to make things as okay as they can be? I just… I wanted the happiest thing in my life to stay good for a little while longer because I knew once we both knew, it would be…it would be just there all of the time and I didn't…I didn't want that."

"It was still there. You still knew." Kurt's voice wavered.

Blaine nodded, "But you didn't, so I could pretend I didn't, too…you know how when you have a really bad cold or the flu or something and the first day you're a little healthier—like you still have a stuffed up nose and your tired or whatever—you feel like you're the healthiest you've ever been? It's all…it's all relative, ya know? I'm sick…and I'm so fucking tired of being sick, but it's…things have been great for us and as long as you didn't know it was like…it was like things were good."

Kurt finally reached up to brush the tears off his face, "That's stupid."

"It's stupid," Blaine agreed quietly, "but you wanted the truth, and that's the truth."

Kurt swallowed hard; blinked down at his shoes.

Blaine watched him, "…will you come over here?"

Kurt shook his head.

"You won't come sit by me?" Blaine's voice was edged with a quiet hurt.

"I have a cold." Kurt's voice caught funny in his throat.

"You let me hold you before."

"That was stupid of me."

"So we can agree that we're both a little stupid?"

Kurt looked up to see Blaine smiling a little, but his eyes still shone with tears.

Blaine's smile faltered, "You won't kill me, Kurt."

A quiet whimper escaped Kurt's control.

"Please," Blaine reached a hand out lamely toward him, "Please, Kurt. Please come over here."

Kurt crossed the room and huddled into Blaine's side on the bed and started crying all over again.

Blaine cried, too, but he was preoccupied pressing kisses wherever he could land them on Kurt's face, "God, I've missed you. I've missed you so much."

Kurt took a calming breath; took solace in the familiar feeling of the harsh edges of Blaine's elbows and shoulders and hips, "I've missed you, too."

Kurt pulled away just far enough to study Blaine's face. He took in the pale skin around his mouth; the fever-heated flush in his cheeks, "You don't feel good."

Blaine shook his head, "No, but I'm feeling a lot better now."

Kurt's eyes lingered on Blaine's cheek. He pressed a kiss to the now invisible place where his palm had met Blaine's cheek, "I'm so sorry."

Blaine shrugged, "Don't be. I think I needed it."

Kurt shook his head, but sighed, "I could have probably used it more than you. I'm a little surprised Trip didn't slap me earlier today."

Blaine smiled a little, "Trip wouldn't ever hit you."

"He was pretty upset today. I wouldn't have put it past him." When Kurt felt a small movement against his wrist, he turned his gaze down to Blaine's hand. His thumb and pointer finger were still twitching rhythmically in their little dance, and, since Kurt had last seen him, his other fingers seemed to have joined in, a small quick movement in toward his palm and out again. Blaine followed his gaze.

"It got worse yesterday—" Blaine mumbled, "…don't know why; it'll probably settle down eventually, or I hope it will or—"

Kurt slipped his hand into Blaine's, closing his other one over the top of Blaine's fingers to hold them still around his own hand, "I don't see a thing."

Blaine smiled gratefully; he closed his eyes.

"Are you tired?" Kurt rubbed his thumb across Blaine's lightly. He was torn between bursting into another round of tearful bargaining and letting the guilt in his stomach bully him back into letting Blaine be..

Blaine's eyes remained closed but a ghost of a smile traced his mouth, "I'm always tired."

"I guess you're right…" Kurt slid in a little closer to Blaine's side.

Blaine rubbed his eyes with his free hand, "We were talking about Trip."

Kurt smiled; squeezed Blaine's hand between both of his a little tighter, "That's right. About him being upset."

Blaine nodded, "He's emotional—he doesn't like feeling upset like that. I'll talk to him and—"

"Trip has plenty of people to keep him company for a few hours," Kurt touched a kiss on Blaine's cheek again, "For now, you just need to rest. Save up your strength."

Blaine didn't put up a fight. He slid a little lower on the bed; smiled up at Kurt, "You'll stay?"

Kurt slid down beside him and nuzzled in closer, "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

Blaine smiled a little; closed his eyes, "…that journal's for you. Every single embarrassing entry is open for your reading pleasure."

Kurt swallowed hard when he felt a sudden sob building in his throat. He pulled at Blaine's arm, "Roll onto your stomach."

"Why?" Blaine murmured, already nearly asleep.

"I'll rub your back," Kurt pulled gently at him again, and I want to hold you.

Blaine didn't have the energy to argue. He shifted himself as best he could into Kurt's side, but then took the offered help until his head rested between Kurt's shoulder and chest; Kurt looped his arm under Blaine's neck and around his shoulder—he rubbed circles gently into his back—he could feel the soft arc of each rib beneath his fingers.

Kurt's tears were finally under control; he focused on Blaine cuddled into his side. Despite his tears finally abating, the hurt just got worse—a buzzing in his ears; a bad taste in his mouth; his stomach twisting itself in knots. Blaine had fallen asleep almost the moment he was nestled against Kurt—his forehead damp with sweat, but his thin body shivering against Kurt's. Kurt reached down and pulled a blanket up higher around his shoulders; tucked him in just a little closer to his own body. He turned his face down into Blaine's head and inhaled deeply—he knew that smell better than any other in the world—he knew it even better than he knew the taste of Blaine's mouth. Still, he kept his nose buried in the soft, short hair because one day he might not be able to. One day he might miss that smell and realize it was gone from memory—just as untouchable as the rest of Blaine.

He stifled the tears that threatened to start again by pressing his lips against Blaine's head.

For the first time in a long time, Kurt wished he were someone who prayed.