Chapter 29

Kurt couldn't sit still.

He moved from his place between his parents to an open place beside Mercedes in the first forty minutes.

The New Directions all smiled at him. Mercedes held his hand, Tina complimented his sweater, Britanny told him a story about her new pet rabbit. But when Finn offered a quiet reassurance that Blaine was probably doing great, Kurt had to get up and move again.

He took up residence on the floor with the graduated Warblers. He noted dully that the current Warblers all pressed in a little closer. He wondered absently where Trip was.

Wes squeezed Kurt's shoulder, "Hey."

Kurt offered an empty smile, "Hi… how's school going?"

"Same old," Wes shrugged, "Happy to be done for the semester. You were taking classes at Ohio State, weren't you?"

Kurt frowned. He didn't remember telling anyone from Dalton about that, "Yeah, I'm done, too…I signed up for a couple more next semester, but…"

The unfinished sentence hung in the air.

Nick picked up the conversation, "You've been working, too, right? Doing something with art design or something like that?"

Kurt met his gaze with confusion. He definitely hadn't mentioned Anthropologie to Nick, "I…yeah. I worked as a design intern at Anthropologie. I just finished up with that, too…how'd you know about that?"

Nick shrugged, "Blaine told me."

Kurt blinked, "When?"

"We have a group message thing we've kept up on Facebook," Nick looked to the others for assurance. When a few of them nodded, he turned his attention back to Kurt, "We've tried keeping tabs on each other... it's been awhile though since any of us talked…people get caught up with life and, ya know, just forget to take the time…"

Kurt bit his lip; stared down at his lap, "When he'd talk did he…did he seem happy? I know it's hard to tell through writing, but did he sound okay?"

Jeff smiled, "He always had more to say than any of us combined. Mostly questions for all of us, but he liked to talk about you a lot—basically the same old Blaine."

A few of the boys laughed.

Kurt nodded numbly and pushed himself to his feet, "Excuse me."

He dropped down into one of the empty chairs beside David.

Dave turned to look at him, but he didn't smile, "Hey."

"Hey."

David was quiet for a moment before speaking again, "I had coffee by myself last night at like three."

Kurt glanced over at him and smiled a little, "Rachel and I had coffee at five."

"My dad came down and thought I was going crazy or something," David's mouth turned up into a smile, "I guess we forget not everyone's been on our sleeping schedule."

Kurt sighed; sank lower in his chair, "Have you talked to Trip? Is he coming?"

David snorted.

"Right. Sorry." Kurt rubbed his eyes and glanced up toward the television. It was playing on mute. Subtitles rolled across the bottom of the screen a few seconds late so that no one's mouths matched up to the words.

The clock grated out another minute. The ticking was too loud to go unnoticed and it reminded Kurt, yet again, another sixty seconds had passed that could be added to the other sets of sixty seconds that had come and gone and the more seconds that stacked up, the farther he felt from Blaine.

He was antsy again.

He got up and moved to a chair beside Elizabeth.

She offered a weak smile.

He returned it.

She reached out with the hand that wasn't clutched in John's and squeezed Kurt's, "Do you remember what you said to me the last time?"

Kurt's mouth twitched into a smile, "Sometimes it's nice to have someone to hold onto."

She smiled a little, too, and squeezed his hand once.

He didn't tell her that this didn't feel the same. That last time they'd sat together in a waiting room it had felt like a muted tangle of fear and confusion. Nightmarish in its haziness and almost unreal quality and how long the journey in front of them was going to be.

Today felt too real. Like the color had all been turned up too bright and it hurt to look at it. It felt too much like an ending. Kurt heard the clock grate out another minute. He gently pulled his hand free from Elizabeth's to rub his eyes, "How much time can one person spend in a waiting room?"

He hadn't meant to ask the question out loud, but suddenly most of the room was looking at him with a mixture of pity and fear.

"Talk to the right people, and they will happily argue life is but one big waiting room, my friend."

Everyone's heads swiveled to face the doorway.

Trip leaned on the doorframe with an unlit cigarette dangling between two fingers and a piece of gum in his mouth. He looked tired and a little disheveled, but when Kurt met his eyes he snapped his gum and managed an almost-smile.

"Waiting rooms inside waiting rooms," Kurt mumbled. He glanced up at the wall, "The clock on the wall of the metaphorical waiting room doesn't tick quite so loudly."

"It does for Blaine," Trip took a step inside the room and turned to look up.

"I hate that clock," Kurt dropped his head into his hands; pressed them in hard to his forehead, "I fucking hate it."

The clock was a black-rimmed thing with bold numbers and a white face that had faded cream with age. It lived behind a metal cage on the wall, and for every minute it ticked forward, it had to first move back a half step. When it grated out yet another minute, Trip rolled one shoulder and then the other, pocketed his cigarette, and crossed the room. He hooked a hand behind the back of a chair and dragging it toward the wall, he snapped his gum a few times, the sound bursting the quiet of the room like firecrackers, before climbing up on the chair.

One of the Warblers spoke up quietly, "You need a screw driver."

A slow smile pulled at the corner of Puck's mouth, "Or the corner of a credit card."

Trip held out a hand expectantly.

Puck's smile widened as he stood and offered a card.

It took a few tries and some murmured cursing, but with a loud creak, the cage suddenly came free in Trip's hands. He handed off both the card and metal to Puck.

He slid a hand experimentally around the side of the clock before giving it a soft shove. It didn't move.

He grabbed hold of it with both hands and pulled, but it remained fixed steadily in place.

"Maybe the credit card thing again," Puck suggested.

"It's attached to the wall," Trip's voice was quiet with disbelief. His hands dropped to his sides, "They put a metal cage around a clock that can't even be taken down."

The clock grated out another minute.

"Fuck you," Trip growled. He drummed his fingers against the face experimentally.

"Young man, don't you dare even think about breaking that clock. It's hospital property." Helen spoke for the first time, her voice thin but firm.

Trip looked over at her blankly before turning his attention back to the wall, "…grab me a newspaper off of the table."

The Warblers, still seated in the corner, looked around at one another, no one sure who should act. In the end, none of them had to.

David crossed the room quietly, the paper held out in one hand.

Trip met his eyes for a moment, "I only need one piece of it."

David pulled out a sheet, "Does that work?"

Trip took it silently and spread it out over the clock.

"Trip, you need tape or something," One of the younger Warblers frowned. He patted his pockets as though he might have some on hand, "You don't have anything to make it stick."

"You suffer from a bad case of functional fixedness," Trip plucked the gum from his mouth and set to work sticking down the corners of the paper, "And a lack of creativity."

Trip jumped down off of his chair and tipped his head back to study his work. An upside down month old section of the Sunday Comics stared back at him.

Everyone watched him, but he turned his attention only to Kurt, "That's the best I can do."

Kurt looked up from his hands at the comics on the wall and then at Trip, "You couldn't have picked something more quietly colored?"

"Like what? The obituaries?" Trip looked back up at the wall, "I'd call this my attempt at pleasant optimism, but Dave handed me the paper. I didn't pick it."

Kurt finally relaxed a little into his seat, "Where have you been?"

"D.C. for about twenty six hours," Trip shrugged, "Went home and pretty much just turned right back around. Mom and Dad are a bit miffed I won't be spending Christmas with them."

The clock ground out another minute. The entire room cringed.

Trip sighed, "Like I said, it's the best I can do."

"Thank you," Kurt spoke quietly.

"You can stay with me until the twenty sixth, Trip." One of the Warblers spoke up suddenly, "If you don't have somewhere else, that is. I don't think my parents will mind."

"You can come to my place after that through the thirtieth. I don't think my parents will care either." Tommy smiled a little.

"And my place after that until classes start again." A third added.

Trip looked at them in mild surprise before nodding, "Thanks."

Puck had moved back to his seat, the metal grating shoved haphazardly underneath the chairs.

Trip glanced at the open chair beside Kurt, but ended up turning toward the younger Warblers still seated in the corner. He breezed past David without so much as a sideways glance and took a seat between Tommy and Noah. He turned his gaze down to his shoes.

The room was silent again.

The ticking of the covered clock worked Kurt into a trance. He worked out rhythms with his fingers against his knee to count out each minute. Twelve taps with each finger, then twenty taps on his thumb, middle finger and pinkie, then thirty taps on his index and ring fingers. He worked out patterns until the numbers stopped making sense and each tap sent a memory skittering through his brain.

His palm tingling and a handprint on Blaine's cheek.

Blood running down the drain of the bathroom sink.

The taste of sweat and tears and paint mixing on his tongue.

Dry leaves crackling and YousmelllikeOctober.

A plate shattering on the kitchen floor.

Wet jeans stuck to his legs in an ER waiting room.

Graduation caps flying through the air.

Crackling speakers and too much crepe paper in the McKinley gym.

Applause ringing in his ears and hot stage lights burning his eyes.

Snow going down the collar of his jacket as Blaine tackled him into a snow bank.

The uncomfortable sting of a summer sunburn from too much time at the beach.

Another prom and MayIHaveThisDance

A too tight hug goodbye

A breathless, spinning kiss

Loud breathing and even louder shoes and a warm hand in his.

Honey colored eyes, turning to look up at him expectantly, at the base of a stairwell.

"Mister and Missus Anderson?"

Kurt's head snapped up. A doctor stood in the doorway. Kurt didn't recognize her, then again he probably wouldn't. He rarely actually saw any of the team that worked on Blaine. He took quick inventory of her and wasn't sure if he liked what he saw. She was too young and too pretty. Her skin was smooth, her posture perfect, and her nails well manicured. She wore hot pink Saucony tennis shoes and, for some reason, that detail bothered Kurt. He tried to meet her gaze, hoping to glean some of what she knew through even the shortest of glances, but her eyes were focused on John and Elizabeth as they crossed the room to her.

He didn't realize he was standing, too, until he felt himself swaying a little, his hands limp at his sides and prickling as though they'd been asleep.

"Well?" John slipped an arm around Elizabeth's waist, "Did it work? Did you get it?"

Her face remained a quiet neutral, "Yes, we were able to—"

Elizabeth let out a fluttery laugh, turned in closer to John's chest, "That's wonderful, Oh God, oh God, you got it. He could get better, he—"

As Elizabeth dissolved into a fit of fluttery laughter that sounded dangerously close to crying, and a relieved trickle of sound and hugging and exchanged smiles moved across the waiting room, Kurt kept his eyes on the doctor. The doctor glanced around the room. Her eyes moved from the Warblers camped out on the floor to Kurt to John and Elizabeth again, "Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, would you mind stepping out into the hall with me for a moment?"

Kurt tensed. Good news got announced to big rooms; good news got shouted to anyone who cared to hear it. Closed doors were bad; empty hallways were where you whispered, "I'm so sorry" and "we did everything we could". The tension that had just seemed to melt from the room came back in full force as the door clicked shut.

Kurt remained frozen in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the door, willing it to open. Willing Blaine to come walking through with a grin and dark curls and a song on his lips. Kurt jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Just hang tight, kid," Burt was beside him; his hand heavy and warm even through Kurt's sweater.

Kurt could hear his own breathing too loud in his ears. He had the curious sensation that all of his blood was pooling in his hands and feet. He glanced up at the clock to see how long it had been since John and Elizabeth had moved out to the hallway with the doctor who didn't have a name but had hot pink shoes, but the clock was covered. Kurt stared blankly at an upside down Heart of the City comic. He recognized it. He and Blaine had snacked on a bowl of plain Cheerios and read those same comics at his kitchen table. Blaine had spent most of the time arranging Cheerios into hearts and smiley faces on the table. He'd made a comment about the For Better or For Worse strip. Kurt couldn't remember what he said.

When the door opened again, Kurt jerked his head down so fast to look he felt something spasm in his neck.

John still had his arm around Elizabeth, but this time it looked like he was holding her up.

He cleared his throat once. Twice. When he opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out, he cleared his throat a third time.

"They think, because he's—" John coughed, "—because he's so small and his body has been fighting this so hard, there was some problems with his anesthesia…" another round of throat clearing, "…they, um, they'll know more about what's going to happen after some, um, some time has passed."

The room was eerily quiet.

It was Rachel who spoke first, her voice reedy and a little shrill, "What d-does that even mean?"

Elizabeth looked around the room, her eyes never fully focusing on anyone, "If you could all…if you could pray or keep Blaine in your thoughts, maybe it…maybe it could help."

The room was quiet again, no one sure what to do with the news.

John was staring hard at the floor, his arm still around Elizabeth, "You should all get home. Especially you kids…it's Christmastime, I'm sure your families would like to have you with them. We'll keep you all informed on Blaine once we know more."

After another weighted pause, people slowly stood. The younger Warblers shuffled out awkwardly, their eyes flitting from Kurt to the Andersons to one another. The Dalton alum stood in a solemn line by Elizabeth and John and offered a few murmured words before disappearing out the door.

Kurt still hadn't moved from his place in the middle of the room.

"I'll have my church pray for him, Kurt, like when your dad was sick," Mercedes hugged him tight.

"He's a fighter, he won't let this get him," Santana brushed a hand against the back of Kurt's wrist almost shyly.

"I know you're not religious, but I'm praying for both of you, bro." Puck clapped Kurt on the arm.

Quinn reached out and squeezed his hand. Her eyes met his, but neither one of them spoke.

Rachel threw her arms around his neck and cried until Finn pried her away. He squeezed Kurt's shoulder gently, "I'm going to take Rachel home. I'll see you back at the house, okay?"

David came next. He didn't touch Kurt, "Is there anything you want me to do?"

Kurt stared up at the comic on the wall, still trying to remember what it was Blaine had said, "There's nothing you can do."

David nodded a little, "Call if you need four AM coffee or something, okay?"

"Thank you, David," Kurt whispered.

Burt's hand on his shoulder had disappeared. He and Carol were huddled together speaking in low voices. Burt and John shook hands. Carol and Elizabeth hugged one another tightly.

Kurt turned his gaze back up to the comic. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. The only memory that came was the smell of Cheerios and coffee and Blaine's foot bumping his ankle under the table.

"Kurt," Burt's voice was suddenly right by his ear, "I told your friend he could stay at our place. Save the hassle of all of those kids trying to ask their parents and save him from moving around… I think it might be good for both of you."

Kurt tore his gaze away from the paper to look at Trip. He looked suddenly younger standing at Burt's side. He didn't know what to say, so he just nodded.

Burt squeezed his arm gently, "You wanna go say something to the Andersons?"

Kurt nodded again and walked over to John and Elizabeth wordlessly. He looked at each of them and tried to come up with something to say.

"The second we know something, you're the first one we'll call," Elizabeth tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace, "Before Henry or anyone else. We'll call you."

Kurt blinked hard, "I…thank you."

"He's a good boy," John spoke quietly. He nodded to himself.

Whether John's words were a revelation or justification for why Blaine should wake up, Kurt wasn't sure. He didn't know how he was supposed to respond. If he was supposed to respond at all. In the end he just met John's eyes for a brief second.

"You should get going," Elizabeth spoke again, her voice eerily soft, "We're supposed to be getting a blizzard sometime today. You have a long drive."

Kurt reached out on an impulse and squeezed her hand.

As he turned to leave, he stole a glance at Helen.

She stared back at him, expressionless.

He lifted a hand in a silent goodbye anyway and then suddenly he was in the hall, his father on one side with his hand bracing one of his arms and Carol walking in step on his other side. His shoes still made the same sound. They tap, squeak, groaned all the way to the parking lot where the air was still cold and the sun was still muted underneath grey clouds.

Kurt focused on the sameness: the concrete and the sound of engines running and the sight of his own breath that curled out over his tongue in white tendrils in the December air. He resisted the urge to reach up and try to grab one. The concrete was replaced with a black dashboard but he could still see his breath when he suddenly found himself in the passenger seat of Trip's car. He shivered against the cold of the seats and watched the rear bumper of his father's truck in front of them as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

Trip glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, "You want me to turn on some music or are you digging the silent thing right now?"

"We're in waiting room inside a waiting room inside a waiting room." Kurt mumbled.

Trip's mouth twitched at the corners as though he were about to smile, but the expression died prematurely, "Maybe the clocks will be quieter in this one."

"I hope so."

Trip turned on the radio.

Neither one of them spoke for the rest of the drive back to Lima.

Tuesday, December 22nd, 6:58AM

The first phone call came in the early morning hours the following day.

John was the one to make the call. He cleared his throat twice and coughed once.

Blaine was in the ICU.

He hadn't woken up.

Kurt spent the rest of the afternoon stretched out on the couch re-watching TiVo'd episodes of The Bachelorette from the previous summer. Rachel sat at the end of the couch with his feet in her lap, "We just have to keep hoping, Kurt, okay? We can't give up hope. It's only been a day. He's just recovering."

Kurt didn't answer.

"He's just recovering," Rachel said again.

"Please, don't talk," Kurt didn't look at her, "Please."

She stiffened for a moment, but then stroked a thumb against his ankle, "Okay."

He focused on the show, and when Rachel squeezed his toes gently, he pretended she was someone else.

Wednesday, December 23rd, 1:04PM

On the second day, Kurt received his phone call early in the afternoon.

It was John again. He only coughed once.

Blaine was still in the ICU.

Blaine still hadn't woken up.

Kurt busied himself for the rest of the day wrapping Christmas presents.

Trip laid on the couch and read aloud to him. When he ran out of pages and Kurt demanded he keep talking, he recited poetry until voice was hoarse.

When Kurt asked him to keep going, Trip had to apologize. He'd run out of words.

Thursday, December 24th, 6:13PM

On the third day, Kurt was still waiting for his phone as the sky began to fade to dark blues and grays.

He sat silently on the couch, the phone in his lap and Trip's feet pressed against his hip.

Finn was seated on the floor, all of his focus invested in a video game. From time to time, he leaned too far left and bumped a shoulder against Kurt's knee and every time he did, he'd jerk around to meet Kurt's eyes and apologize.

The fifth time it happened, Finn's elbow barely grazed Kurt's shin. As expected, he twisted around quickly, "I'm—"

"It's fine," Kurt snapped, "Stop saying you're sorry and just play. Your incessant apologies are way more annoying than you hitting into my leg."

Finn held his gaze, "Right, sorry, dude—wait, I mean, I, um—"

Kurt sighed, "You're about to get shot."

"Huh?"

"Your guy in the game. He's about to—wait, he's dead."

Finn snapped his head forward again and groaned, "I'm gonna have to start all over again."

Trip licked a thumb and flipped a page in his book, "Some might call that ability a luxury."

Finn frowned in confusion and then sudden understanding dawned on his features, "I didn't mean—"

Trip waved a hand at him, his eyes still focused on his page, "It was a joke. It's fine."

Finn nodded, still looking unsettled. He glanced down at the controller in his hand and then back up at Trip, "Hey, you wanna play?"

Trip finally looked up from his book, "Me?"

Finn nodded again, "I've got, like, five more controllers."

"…Sure," Trip dog-eared the page he was on and dropped the book down on a side table. He glanced back at Kurt a he settled down onto the floor in the space beside Finn, "You in?"

"Kurt won't play," Finn shoved a spare controller toward Trip, "Kinda defeats the purpose of having a brother."

Kurt kicked the side of his foot at Finn's side.

As the boys adjusted to being back in their parent's home for the holidays, the house had felt eerily normal. Christmas music still played over the stereo and the tree had still been decorated and lit up in the family room and an array of presents wrapped in pretty paper spilled out from beneath it like any other Christmas.

The differences in the Hudson-Hummel household were small; quiet little adjustments to make up for the thing nobody would really talk about. Family dinners happened every night. Carol was constantly hugging and kissing the boys, including Trip if she could catch him off guard. Despite the attempts at normalcy with the music, and the added boost of warmth with the meals and the upped affection, the house was quiet. Somber.

Carol walked into the family room carrying a plate laden with Christmas cookies. As far as Kurt could tell, when she wasn't hugging them, she was baking. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head, "Hungry?"

He wasn't, but he offered a small smile and selected a cookie at random from the plate.

She beamed at him, kissed his cheek this time, and put the plate down on the floor between Finn and Trip.

Kurt studied his cookie in silence. It was the silhouette of an angel, still warm in his hand and glazed with pretty pink icing.

Carol watched him, "The frosting recipe was your mother's, you know. It's absolutely wonderful."

Kurt nodded.

She reached out and squeezed his shoulder over the back of the couch.

Finn moaned when his side of the screen suddenly flushed red, "Dude, not cool, I was eating, I couldn't defend myself!"

"Then you shouldn't have been eating," Trip smiled a little before picking up a cookie for himself, "Or master multitasking."

"I call a redo."

"You can't redo, there's not some sort of rewind function to—"

Kurt's ringtone silenced the room.

Finn paused the game. Carol muted the music. No one spoke.

Kurt took a steadying breath, pressed the phone to his ear, "Hello?"

"Hello, Kurt," It was Elizabeth, "Merry Christmas Eve."

"You, too," Kurt stared down at the cookie still I his free hand. He and Blaine had attempted to make cookies the year before on a chance night alone. Kurt had burned a batch when he got caught up letting Blaine suck pretty colored frosting from his fingers.

"Blaine gave us a little scare this morning…something with his blood pressure," Elizabeth's breath skittered out across her tongue and crackled against Kurt's ear in the phone, "He's better now…or as good as he was before, I guess."

The silence hung between them.

"They're going to let us in to see him today," Her voice wavered a little, "even if he doesn't know we're there, he… he shouldn't be alone on Christmas… I think it'll be nice."

"No, he shouldn't." Kurt tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

She hesitated again, "I wish you could come in to see him, Kurt, I really do, he'd…he'd like it so much, but the hospital—"

Kurt closed his eyes, "I know. It's okay."

Another pause.

Kurt broke it this time, "I should let you go. Thank you for calling."

"I'll call again tomorrow."

Kurt lowered his phone back to his lap.

Finn watched him carefully, "So…he's still not awake?"

"No," Kurt didn't take his eyes off of the blackened screen of his phone, "He's not."

"I'm sorry, man," Finn reached out and touched Kurt's ankle gently.

Kurt was quiet for a moment, but then he slipped to the floor, "Hand me a controller."

Finn blinked, "Huh?"

"I want to play," Kurt stared hard at the television.

"Uh, yeah, okay," Finn scrambled to dig out a third controller and handed it over. He studied Kurt for another moment, "Are you—"

"Start the game."

Although a little reluctant, Finn did as he was told.

Carol stood quietly for a moment before reaching out and resting a hand on top of Kurt's head, "Let me know if you need anything, boys."

They played in silence save for the sounds of automated gunfire and the occasional small bit of dialogue from the characters on the screen.

Kurt was terrible but nobody commented on it.

Finn finally cast him a sideways glance when he started intentionally throwing his character in the way of gunfire, "Hey, Kurt?"

"Hm?" Kurt's eyes stayed on the screen.

"You okay?" Finn glanced between the television and Kurt, "The self-sacrifice thing can be kinda cool, but, um, you're not like saving anyone or anything most of the time."

Kurt's portion of screen turned red as he, yet again, flung himself on a grenade, "Just exercising the right to keep starting over."

No one questioned Kurt's decisions for the rest of the afternoon.

Friday, December 25th, 1:17AM

Kurt lay in his bed, his eyes focused on the empty cot on his floor. He strained his ears listening for the squeak of the front door and the creak of the stairs. He let out a frustrated sigh when he heard only silence. Until Trip and Carol got home, he had no choice but to remain prisoner to his bed.

Nights were the best and worst time of the day.

Nights meant his thoughts ricocheting off the sides of his skull and his stomach twisting with unmerited nausea and his breath catching funny until he finally gave up on sleep and retreated from his bed.

That was the bad part: the initial restlessness, the sleeplessness, the worry of his parents when they constantly found him in the early morning hours curled up on the couch or with his head cradled between his arms on the kitchen table where he'd finally drifted into an exhaustion-induced sleep.

The good part was that the night held a certain kind of comfort. It was quiet; peaceful. There were no eyes tracking his every movement, no offered words of comfort, no bustling activity or tasks he had to try to attend to. It was just him and the quiet complaints of the house. The floorboards groaned about the cold, the heater hummed about how hard it worked; the lights on the tree twinkled with quiet holiday optimism. Kurt would sit in his father's old recliner, his legs drawn up close and his cheek pressed to the soft fabric and a mug of decaf cradled between his hands while he listened to the house tell him about its day.

He felt a small kick of adrenaline when the telltale hum of the garage door finally met his ears. He listened hard. The front door creaked. Shoes were toed off and coats put in the closet. There was a momentary silence where words were most likely being exchanged. When he finally heard the groan of the stairs, he closed his eyes quickly to feign sleep. He remained perfectly still and tried to make his breathing look slow and even.

He heard Trip slip in. Heard the quiet zip of a suitcase.

Normally this was where there would be the quiet rustling of clothes as Trip slipped off his jeans and shirt. A swish, swish of fabric as he settled under the blankets on the cot, and finally, the sound of his breathing slowing, the signal both that Trip was asleep and that Kurt was free to go.

He was surprised when he felt a weight sink down on his mattress, the springs sighing softly. Even more surprised when a cold hand squeezed his shoulder, "I know you're awake, Hummel."

Kurt didn't move for a moment.

Trip shook him gently, "Come on, I can't sleep either. Get up."

Kurt considered feigning sleepy confusion, but it felt like too much of an effort. He pushed himself up on his elbows. He blinked at Trip in the dusky light from the hall, "You haven't even tried to sleep. You just got home."

"I know I won't be able to, so I'm not going to waste my time trying, come on," Trip pushed himself up off the mattress.

Kurt waited a moment and then followed him, mentally whispering quiet hellos back to the floorboards that groaned beneath his feet.

Trip was surprising both in his quickness and his quiet. By the time Kurt reached the family room, Trip was already kneeling in front of the tree pushing presents out from under the branches.

Kurt didn't help him.

After nearly every present had been pushed aside, Trip rolled from his knees to his back. He met Kurt's eyes and nodded to the open space beside him.

Kurt didn't move.

Trip shrugged, lay down, and pressed his ankles into the carpet until he'd wriggled his way partway under the tree.

Kurt glanced around and finally, with a sigh, lay down. When he'd managed to fit himself in beside Trip, their shoulders bumping and fallen pine needles pricking the bare skin of his neck, he turned his head to look at Trip.

Trip glanced at him, smiled a little, "I did this every Christmas when I was a kid."

Kurt watched the blur of lights through the branches, wondered idly what the odds were of a pine needle coming loose and falling in one of his eyes.

Trip tucked a hand behind his head, "It's like its own little place away from everything else—the lights and the ornaments and the smell… I hated holiday parties and all of that other shit that comes along with Christmas, but I always liked the tree."

"And apparently midnight mass," Kurt glanced over at him.

"And midnight mass," Trip nodded, "You should have come."

"I don't associate with churches."

Trip reached a hand up and touched the bottom of a red Christmas bulb. He coaxed it into spinning lazy circles, "Midnight Mass is nice; people aren't restless to just get the hell out of there like they are during the daytime services. It's quiet and there's candles and good music… it's like a bigger version of this. You'd have liked it."

Kurt turned his gaze back upward. He spied the bottom of a popsicle stick reindeer he'd made when he was six high up in the tree, "It's Christmas."

Trip pulled the red bulb from the branch and presented it to Kurt like a gift, "It is."

Kurt took the ornament; rolled it between his fingers, but kept his eyes on the branches above him, "It's just…strange. Parents pretend to be Santa Clause and kids get up at four in the morning to see their presents and people are so…so happy."

"And you're unhappy," Trip supplied.

"I don't feel anything," Kurt shook his head, "I get restless and anxious, but that's it. I sit out here every night and I feel… nothing."

"I think that's called shock," Trip laced his fingers across his ribs, "Or maybe it's three level waiting room syndrome."

"Maybe."

"So your inability to feel is the thing keeping you up all night every night?" Trip turned his head toward Kurt, eyebrows raised.

"No," Kurt replaced the bulb on its branch carefully, "I'm terrified of waking up to a world that's different than the one I closed my eyes on."

"Then you should've given up sleep a long time ago, pal, because you do wake up to a different world everyday."

Kurt inhaled another deep breath scented with pine, "You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," Trip agreed.

Kurt rubbed his fingers along the edge of the tree stand cover below them. His fingers caught on a snare in the fabric, "Why can't you sleep tonight?"

Trip was quiet for a moment, "I met Blaine on Christmas Day last year… and you know what's driving me fucking insane?"

Kurt glanced at Trip.

"I…I can't remember what he was wearing. He had on a grey Henley and red cardigan the next day, a blue striped sweater the day after that…but I don't remember what he was wearing on that fucking first day," Trip let out a quiet breathless laugh, but there was no humor in it, "and it's eating me alive."

"I can't remember what he said about a For Better or For Worse comic from almost a month ago."

"Unless he plans on telling us, I guess we'll never know," Trip smiled grimly, "Another waiting room."

"I'm so sick of waiting," Kurt spoke to the branches of the tree, "I feel like we've been waiting since that day in the parking lot for this thing to be over with…but at the same time I don't want it to end. I'm—"

"I know." Trip nodded.

Kurt let out a long breath, "I think I hate Christmas."

"Bah Humbug," Trip mumbled.

They both fell silent.

As the sun began to rise, the ornaments on the tree lost their gleam of joy and stopped whispering to Kurt about how much they loved the holidays; the light between the branches moved from inky black to hazy gray and finally milky blue; floorboards creaked upstairs beneath sleepy feet.

Despite Kurt's stillness, the retreat beneath the tree lost its magic. The night was nearly over.

His parents would come downstairs and coax him into drinking a cup of coffee and try to persuade him into a nap upstairs or at least on the couch.

Finn would fret and frown and trip over himself trying to simultaneously be helpful and stay out of the way.

His phone, at some point, would ring and he'd listen to John or Elizabeth wish him a Merry Christmas before telling him what he already knew.

There would be presents to open, quiet thank you's and embraces to exchange, strained smiles offered to one another for a holiday that didn't feel like a holiday.

Trip was right, whether he slept or not, the world was a new place.

Trip sighed and wriggled his shoulders out from under the tree. He tapped a finger against Kurt's shin, "Your dad's up. You coming out from under there or what?"

Kurt could feel a stiffness forming in his neck; a nagging ache making itself known in the small of his back from lying so long on the hard floor, but he didn't move. He couldn't, "I want to keep waiting."