Chapter 30, Part 1

Kurt kneeled on a chair at the kitchen counter, humming to himself as he cut strawberries. He was getting good at making some smaller meals by himself and he especially prided himself on his breakfast creating abilities. Today it was waffles (admittedly, they were of the frozen Eggo variety) with strawberries, syrup, and powdered sugar.

The waffles sprang up in the toaster just as the teakettle began a low whistle. Perfect timing as usual. Kurt pushed the kettle off of the burner just as the whistle was turning into a more full-blown wail. He poured the water (carefully, he'd learned his lesson about burning himself with the water the hard way already) into a waiting mug. He dropped a teabag in before turning to tend to the toaster.

He'd placed the waffles on the plate and had just begun the slow process of artfully arranging strawberries around the edge when a voice caught him off guard.

"It smells wonderful in here, sweetie, what are you making over there?"

He was so startled that he dropped the strawberry in his hand. He bent quickly to pick it up, but it left a pink stain on the linoleum. He snatched a paper towel from off of the countertop, his eyes on his mother as he scrambled to wipe up the smudge, "Mom, what're you doing out of bed? I was going to bring your tea up in just a minute, I just got it off—"

She laughed and the sound was even more alarming than her sudden presence in the kitchen. It was big and full and happy. The way she used to laugh. "Calm down, honey, I came down to sit with you."

He looked her over and his confusion only grew. She wasn't in the blue silk pajamas she'd been wearing for almost the past two weeks. She had on lavender colored t-shirt and jeans (that were, admittedly, too big now) and she'd obviously taken the time to put make up on and even her wig.

"Do you have a doctor's appointment today?" Kurt frowned, "Dad already went to work, did he forget?"

"No, sweet boy, can't a girl just want to look nice and eat breakfast with the cutest boy she knows?" She winked.

He smiled a little, still feeling anxious. Saturday Mornings were as routine as Friday Nights. They meant listening to his dad leave for work at six, getting out of bed at six fifteen, peaking into his parents room to ensure his mother was still sleeping soundly, getting dressed, making breakfast for himself and tea for his mother, and then spending the rest of the morning on his father's side of the bed with his toys while she slept with a movie playing on the little TV mounted on the wall for background noise.

Routines were important. Routines were what made his abnormal life feel normal. But this particular breach in Saturday Morning Protocol wasn't the sort of break from normal he feared… it was a nice thing.

His smile widened a little and he went quickly over to the kitchen table to pull out a chair for her, "Sit down and I'll bring your tea to you. What do you want to eat?"

"You don't want my help?"

He shook his head adamantly. If she helped, she might get tired and need to go back to bed, or, worse, she might faint like she had that one time that felt like forever ago, "No, I can do it."

She smiled and sat down in the offered chair, "What are you eating?"

"Waffles with strawberries," He pointed to his plate on the counter, "I can make you something different though that won't hurt your tummy."

She propped her chin in her hands on the table, "Could you make me just plain waffles?"

He looked at her in mild surprise. She rarely stomached anything other than Ensure drinks that his father stockpiled above the refrigerator and the occasional piece of toast. He recovered from his surprise quickly, though, and went to the freezer.

He was on edge as he worked. When he brought her tea to her, she asked if he'd mind bringing the honey to the table (he couldn't remember the last time she'd put anything in her tea other than a squeeze of lemon), but he complied all the same. When her waffles had popped up and he'd brought both of their plates to the table, he watched her carefully.

He knew that she filled her plate for Friday Night Dinners but never did more than push her food around her plate. He knew she tried to make it seem like this was not so by occasionally lifting her empty fork to her mouth while he was talking so it would look like she was eating. He knew it was an effort for her to even make it down the stairs most days.

She pulled a piece of waffle free with her hands and popped it into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed; smiled, "You know, I don't think I've had waffles since before you were born."

"Dad buys them a lot," Kurt couldn't tear his eyes away from her long enough to take a bite of his own food.

"Does he?" She took another bite of her food; her head tilted thoughtfully, "If there's ever anything you want from the store, honey, just tell your dad and have him put it on the list, alright?"

He didn't tell her that he was usually the one that made the grocery lists, "Okay."

Her eyes drifted down to his plate, "Do you not like yours, baby? You haven't touched your food since you sat down."

"I…" He looked down at his untouched food. He'd ended up just dropping a handful of sloppily cut strawberries onto the middle of his plate. They were bloating his waffles with pink, sticky juice and the powdered sugar was congealing into a strange paste with the syrup, "I'm not really hungry anymore."

"No?" She'd finished one of her two waffles, but she didn't reach for the second, "Is something the matter, sweet boy?"

He shook his head, "No."

She studied him quietly, "Is having me down here confusing you?"

He met her eyes and felt a blush creep into his cheeks. Had he made it that obvious?

She smiled, "Mothers can read their baby's minds, remember?"

He smiled a little, too, but then looked back down at his plate, "I like you down here, I just wasn't used to it. Usually I bring you tea and then I eat breakfast and then I come sit with you."

"You have a routine you follow," Her voice was soft, understanding.

He nodded mutely.

She reached across the table and brushed her fingers over his, "Nothing's wrong, baby, I just feel very good today, and I wanted to come spend some time with you. Do you remember what you and I used to do on Saturday mornings?"

He looked up at her and smiled a little, "We baked."

"That's right, we did," She nodded toward the fridge, "Would you like to do that today?"

Kurt bit his lip. What if it made her too tired? Or what if she fainted like that one time? Or what if his dad came home and was upset because she was supposed to be resting?

"Honey, if you want, we can do what we normally do and relax in my bed," She squeezed his hand a little tighter, "But I promise I feel good enough to do this. If I need to rest, I'll tell you, okay? I'm not tricking you right now."

Kurt hesitated for a moment more before breaking out into a smile, "Lets do it."

"Have I ever showed you how to make pantry cookies?"

Kurt shook his head, "What're those?"

"You make cookies out of whatever you can find," She motioned a hand toward the pantry, "Go see what you think we can use."

Kurt craned his head back and looked over the shelves, "Oatmeal?"

He could hear her going to the sink with their plates, "Oatmeal works, what else?"

Kurt bit his lip, "Um…nothing."

"No chocolate chips? Toffee pieces? M&Ms? Peanuts?" She was opening the dishwasher.

"No… just cereal, bread, cans of soup, some beef jerky, and the tea."

"No peanut butter?"

"We ran out." Secretly, Kurt was relieved. He'd eaten more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches over the past few months than he cared to remember.

"Hm…I guess we're making oatmeal cookies then," His mother sighed, clearly disappointed.

"We're out of flour," Kurt felt strangely guilty as he peaked out of the cupboard to look at his mother, "I'm sorry, I should have told Dad."

"Oh, sweetheart, no, it's not your fault," She rested a hand on her hip; tapped her foot, "Do you want to have a tea party?"

Kurt lit up and bobbed his head up and down quickly.

She laughed, "I thought so…and you know what? It's a beautiful day, lets take it outside."

Together they managed to maneuver his little table and two chairs down the stairway and out the backdoor. By the time they made it outside, Kurt knew his mother was tired. He could see it etched into her face.

He reached for her hand and squeezed. Her palm was clammy, "Mommy, you sit here and rest. I'll get it set up, 'kay?"

She sank gratefully into one of the little chairs, "Thank you, sweetheart."

Kurt sang quietly to himself while he set up their table just right. Plastic scones and petit fours and cookies artfully arranged on tiny glass plates. Undersized teacups placed just so beside neatly folded napkins.

"You're so talented, Kurt," His mother spoke softly.

Kurt looked up, blushed a little, "I set it up a lot."

"Not just your tea set, but that is lovely, too," She smiled at him, " I was taling about your voice. It's beautiful."

Kurt's eyes dropped back down to the table, "Noah Puckerman says I sing like a girl."

She sighed and held out her arms to him, "Come here, baby, I want to talk to you about something."

Kurt stepped closer until his hips bumped her knees. He could feel his cheeks burning hot with sun and shame as he waited for her to speak.

She wrapped her hands gently around each of his arms, "Remember how Daddy and I have always told you everyone is special?"

Kurt nodded, "Like stars."

She brushed her thumbs over the soft skin in the bend of his arms, "Yes…but some stars shine a little brighter than others. You're like that, Kurt, you're extra special."

He smiled at the compliment.

"But sometimes, honey, people don't understand people who are a little different and they try to make you not shine so bright."

"So that I'll be just like them." Kurt wasn't sure that sounded so bad. It'd be kind of nice to have a bigger group of friends, "…what's wrong with that?"

She smiled and cupped a hand over his cheek, "You don't want to be just like them, Kurt."

"I kind of do," Kurt felt his cheeks warm and he wondered if his mother could feel the blush on her palm, "I'd have more friends."

"You're going to get something even better, Kurt," She stroked her thumb over his jaw, "You're going to find people who shine bright just like you. It might take longer to make friends than some of the other kids, but it'll be even more worth it."

Kurt considered the kids at school. There were some weird ones for sure—Rachel Berry who talked so loud and so much that their teacher had given her a limited number of times she was allowed to speak in a day. Tina Cohen-Chang who didn't talk at all. And that one kid who sat in the back and ate his boogers. He wasn't so sure they would be considered "bright stars", "I don't think I know anyone the exact same as me."

"No one ever will be, honey," She pressed a kiss to his forehead, "He'll be different from you, but he'll see how special you are and love you for it just like I do."

"How do you know it's gonna be a boy?" Kurt frowned. He usually only got along with his girl classmates, he hadn't really thought about this alleged extra special friend potentially being a boy.

"Sometimes mommies just know things," She gave him a funny smile, kissed his cheek, and finally released him, "So what kind of tea are we having today, special boy?"

Kurt smiled and took his place at the other side of the table.

They never talked about stars or tea parties or the special boy who would one day be Kurt's friend again.

David felt oddly heavy and relieved all at once. Like his shoulders were lighter but the tension in his muscles remained wound tight.

He'd returned to the apartment in Columbus on Christmas night. In Lima, he'd seen his father, he'd done everything he wanted to do; there was no point in staying. He'd outgrown the town, outgrown the skeletons and whispered memories of that place, and he wanted nothing more than to get back out, to return to the apartment where Kurt and Blaine turned the music up too loud and rolled up the rug in the family room so they could dance on the wood floor in their socks, where Trip lay stretched out in his bed with one foot dangling off the edge of the mattress while he talked about things and places David had never even heard of, where the four of them lived in a dysfunctional, noisy little bubble of bad coffee and scrapped paper cranes hiding underneath the kitchen table and ties over door handles to signify Do Not Enter.

But when David got back to the apartment, he knew it wouldn't be walking in on Trip standing on tiptoe in the kitchen to pull down a glass for water or Kurt seated on the floor with an open text book and Blaine stretched out on the couch behind him, tickling the back of Kurt's neck while he tried to study.

The rug would be neat on the floor, his bed empty, and the space would silent, and he couldn't help but wonder if this place would soon be just a whisper of a memory, too.

What he didn't expect were the flower arrangements. They say quiet and unassuming in the hallway just outside the door—two poinsettias, three vases of carnations, a bouquet of clown colored gerbera daisies, and a wreath that looked like it had been pulled from someone's wall. He brought them with him into the apartment and left them in the middle of the too empty family room floor before retreating to his bedroom where he wouldn't have to watch ghosts laugh and dance and flit around the rest of the apartment.

Kurt's return to the apartment the following morning would have been a surprise if David hadn't been shocked by a phone call even earlier that day.

His phone had rung at nearly six in the morning and he'd answered in a groggy mumble. When he recognized the voice on the other side of the line as Burt Hummel, he'd immediately sat up, smoothed his hair; listened carefully.

"Kurt's coming back to the apartment," He'd stated, his tone flat.

"Okay," David had replied, "I, um, does he have his key? Do I need to be listening for him?"

"Of course he has his key, he's a responsible kid," Burt had snapped.

"Right, um, right." David had nodded quickly as though Burt might actually be able to see him.

"I still don't know how I feel about you, Kid." Burt had growled.

David hadn't known what to say to that, so he'd mumbled, "Thank you for giving me a chance anyway."

Burt had been quiet for a moment and then he'd sighed, his breath loud against Dave's ear, "We wanted him to stay here for a couple more days. He's not fully himself right now…please…please try to keep an eye on him when you can."

David had nodded again, this time for himself, "Yeah, yeah, of course."

It was barely half an hour later that David heard the creak of the front door, Kurt's shoes on their entry mat, a suitcase being dragged across the floor.

David sat quietly on the couch and watched Kurt through his open bedroom door, "Hey."

Kurt shoved his still full suitcase into the bottom of his closet with a foot, "Hey."

"Wasn't expecting you back for a day or two." David watched as Kurt floated from his bedroom to the bathroom.

Kurt turned on the sink, stuck a wrist under the tap to inspect the temperature, "I'm not staying. I'm going to the hospital."

David perked up a little, "Did Blaine—"

"No." Kurt cupped his hands below the water and splashed it over his face.

"Oh," David wilted back against the couch, "I'm sorry."

Kurt scrubbed a towel over his face, "Me, too."

"So are you…are you just going to see him?"

"I can't see him," Kurt abandoned the towel on the counter, stared at himself for a moment in the mirror.

"What're you going to do, then?"

Kurt turned out of the bathroom. He stepped over the vases of flowers in the middle of the room without ever looking at them and went to the hall closet. He pulled out a jacket; shrugged it over his shoulders, "If I have to keep waiting, I'm going to do it as close to him as I can get."

And then he was gone.

David wondered if he should call Burt Hummel—tell him it was a little hard to keep an eye on Kurt when he ghosted in and out of their apartment so fast, he could have been missed in a blink, but instead he opted to wait it out. When midnight hit and Kurt still wasn't home, he reconsidered calling Burt and wondered absently how likely it was that Burt might actually kill him.

His phone debate was ended when Kurt slipped through the door not twenty minutes later.

"Where the hell have you been?" David flinched at the anxiety in his voice. He sounded like an upset parent.

Kurt blinked at him as though a little surprised to see him, "They wouldn't let me stay the night."

They stared at one another in silence.

"You going to bed?" David finally broke the quiet when he couldn't take Kurt's sad eyes on him anymore.

Kurt blinked, slow and doll-like, "I haven't been sleeping well."

David nodded slowly, "You gonna just stay up then?"

"I guess," Kurt glided into his room, but he was back a moment later, a leather bound journal cradled close to his chest. He burrowed himself between the arm and back of the other side of the couch and drew his knees up close to his chest, the book still secured in his arms like a security blanket.

David wondered if Kurt always moved so quietly or if he was just hyperaware of it. He glanced at the book face down on his own lap and then back at Kurt, "Are you, um, reading anything good?"

"Not yet," Kurt murmured, he laid his cheek against the back of the couch, "…it sounds different here."

David strained his ears. He couldn't hear anything, "Like the heater sounds louder? The dishwasher isn't running or anything."

"No," Kurt shook his head, "It's quieter."

"I guess it is…people might be gone for Christmas stuff still," David shrugged, "Did Rachel and Quinn go back to New York?"

"They're delaying their flights for a few days." Kurt pulled his knees in even closer, shivered.

David pulled the blanket off of the back of the couch and offered it wordlessly.

Kurt unhooked one hand from around the journal and took it. He looked at it with mild interest for a moment before looking back at David, "What's this for?"

"You looked cold," David stretched back over the arm of the couch and tried to see their thermostat in the dim light, "We could turn up the heat, I still had it set pretty low from when we were gone."

"It's okay," Kurt cocooned himself in the blanket, "I'm okay."

David watched him, "If you're not—"

"I am," Kurt cut him off, nodded again, "I'm okay."

David noted Kurt's foot poking out from under the blanket. He reached over, covered it, "Okay."

Eventually, David persuaded Kurt to go lie down for a few hours, but if he slept at all, David wasn't aware of it. Kurt was gone long before dawn and didn't return until late—his eyes glassy and blank, his movement mechanical and smooth—he spent the night floating from the kitchen to the bedroom to the bathroom to the family room. He'd perch for a moment on the edge of a chair beside the table, move to the couch where he'd stare down at the other end for a minute before getting up and going to the kitchen where he'd trace his fingers along the countertops.

David watched him quietly and tried to work out the method to Kurt's movements; a map for where he chose to go and why he went there. He felt something sharp twist somewhere behind his ribs with sudden realization.

Kurt was following memories of Blaine.

Blaine at the table with him eating a bowl of Cheerios and staring at the back of the cereal box.

Blaine napping on the couch, his feet cradled in Kurt's lap.

Blaine sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, kicking his feet against the cabinets below in a steady beat and singing along to the stereo while Kurt made chocolate dipped strawberries.

Blaine snaking his arms around Kurt's waist in the bathroom; nuzzling his nose into his neck and teasing him about the length of his face washing routine.

Blaine painted across Kurt's life, sewn in tight. And now missing.

David didn't try to persuade Kurt to sleep. Instead, he spent the night on the couch watching over Kurt between accidental naps.

Kurt spent the night wandering the apartment looking for Blaine.

When the morning of the seventh day finally came, David watched silently as Kurt continued his maze around the apartment.

He opened doors on cupboards only to close them again, pulled out drawers and stared into them like he was waiting for something to appear.

He disappeared into the bathroom where David heard a shower running. He strained his ear for a few minutes listening, trying to ensure Kurt was actually showering and not just watching the way the steam fogged over the mirror. When he heard nothing, he knocked quietly, "Hey, Kurt?"

"Yes?" The response was faint.

David rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "Are you…are you, um…you're actually taking a shower right now, right?"

"Yes."

David nearly breathed out a sigh of relief but then, just as fast, he couldn't. There was something depressing about Kurt's response. No snark, no indignation, no icy words thrown back in sudden irritation. Just a quiet, minimal response like there wasn't any fight left in him.

David waited patiently; though his usual patience with Kurt's dragged out getting ready routine was unnecessary.

Kurt styled his hair without fussing over any invisible loose strays, he dressed in a cream colored sweater and jeans without a stupid hat or artfully wrapped scarf, he adorned the sweater only with a pink-tinted gold feather pin. He didn't ask David for an opinion on his hair, his outfit, or how his ass looked in his jeans.

He spent a minute staring at himself in the mirror before pulling a jacket from the closet and buttoning himself inside with steady fingers.

When he finally lifted his keys from his nightstand and drifted toward the front door, David intercepted him and pulled the keys gently from his hand.

"I'll drive."

He didn't have to hold his breath and pray for minimal fighting. Kurt followed after him without complaint.

David watched Kurt out of the corner of his eye at every stoplight.

Kurt stared down at his hands in his lap like he wasn't entirely sure if they were his or not.

"I, um, I talked to your dad earlier this morning," David ventured, "…they're gonna meet us there."

Kurt kept staring at his lap. He nodded a little.

"Are you cold or anything? Do you want me to turn the heat up?"

"I'm fine." He whispered.

David reached over and punched the button for his seat heater anyway, "You want coffee or anything before we get there? I know you didn't exactly sleep last night."

"No, thank you." Kurt brushed the fingers of his left hand over the back of his right.

"I…" David let out a long breath, "Is there anything I can do? Do you want… I don't know, do you want something?"

"Blaine," Kurt's eyes moved to the window, "I want Blaine."

David cringed at his own stupidity, "Shit, Kurt, I'm sorry, I wasn't—"

Kurt shook his head.

They didn't talk for the rest of the ride over.

When they arrived at the hospital, David followed after Kurt as he navigated the halls and the elevators with practiced ease and soon they were back in another waiting room.

The waiting room, seven days after Blaine's surgery, was full once again.

It was a different room from the first one. The carpet brown instead of cream, the upholstery on the chairs dark red instead of blue, the television never turned on, the clock nearly silent.

David watched Kurt glide into a seat beside his father before seating himself in an empty chair.

His eyes glided over the room, taking inventory of the people there.

They younger Warblers were absent this time, but the older ones were all there. They sat straight in their seats, their hands folded neatly in their laps, and their eyes downcast.

Blaine's grandmother was absent—perhaps back home or just gone for coffee, David couldn't be sure.

The New Directions were all there—they sat in a row, heads leaned together and arms cast over shoulders and hands meshed together until they were just one long tangle of people.

He found Trip last. He was slouched low in a chair on the opposite side of the room. He held a lighter in his right hand, rhythmically dragging the pad of his thumb over the thumbwheel, but no flame ever appeared. He met David's gaze for a brief second, but then his attention was immediately back on his lighter.

Elizabeth and John Anderson were absent, buried somewhere deep in the honeycomb of hallways and rooms and people with Blaine and his doctors.

David looked up at the clock, wondered dully when exactly they'd extubate Blaine.

Maybe it had already happened.

Maybe he'd stopped breathing the second the tube had come out.

Maybe Elizabeth was crying into John's shoulder and Blaine's lips were already bluing.

Maybe the doctor with the hot pink tennis shoes and manicured nails was on her way down to the waiting room to tell them the bad news right now.

Or maybe Blaine had opened his eyes and frowned that worried frown that made his forehead wrinkle and his eyebrows draw in close together.

Maybe he'd looked up at all of those sad, shocked faces around him and apologized for scaring them all so much.

Maybe he was walking—no, running, he'd be running—down the hall at that exact moment to come and find Kurt.

Maybe…

John and Elizabeth appeared in the doorway below the clock, and for a moment David stared.

He only really knew them from a couple brief encounters—once when he'd stopped by the Andersons to awkwardly deliver a box of popsicles for Blaine and the last time he'd been at the hospital in a waiting room like the one they were in now. On both occasions, they'd been carefully put together; their hair neat, postures perfect, clothes immaculate.

Today they were both still dressed well, but they looked different…wilted. Their clothes were wrinkled; their postures weary. She folded an arm around herself to link fingers with the arm he had tucked around her waist. Neither one of them spoke for a moment.

"They…" Elizabeth started, but her voice faded to silence. Her eyes moved over everyone's faces like maybe one of them could explain something to her instead.

John picked it up, his voice was quiet, "They, um, they extubated him… he's…he's still breathing on his own which is…which is good, but he's been on, um, on a ventilation system where he was already breathing for himself in a sense, it just, it made it…"

John cleared his throat, opened his mouth, but no more words came. 

A tense silence hung in the room as though no one quite knew what to make of the news... or maybe nobody wanted to know.

"So now what?" One of the Warblers finally spoke, his voice trembling. David strained his memory searching for a name until he thought maybe he knew…no, he was sure, it was Wes.

Elizabeth spoke again, her voice brittle and quiet, "They, um, they're making sure…making sure he's comfortable. He's… he w-won't be in any pain."

David felt his stomach shift; felt the blood in his hands and feet suddenly rush too fast to his heart until he was dizzy and nauseous. He was vaguely aware of people crying.

He'd known it was a possibility, but it had never seemed real. When he thought of Blaine, small and sick and sewn back together somewhere in a hospital bed, it was always in terms of "when he wakes up", not "if". Never "if". 

That was never how it was supposed to turn out.

It wasn't supposed to go like this.

People weren't supposed to sit in a waiting room and wait for an eighteen year old kid to die, especially not when that kid was Blaine.

Blaine had a whole life ahead of him.

Blaine had New York and college and Kurt.

Or maybe he didn't. David tried to imagine an older Blaine—a Blaine with graying hair and crows feet at the corners of his eyes and the sharper features of someone older than twenty, but he couldn't. He could only see Blaine at the McKinley graduation—all dark curls and big eyes and a grin while he tickled Kurt's cheek with the tassel on his hat. Young.

Then again he couldn't see himself as an older adult either or Kurt or Trip or any of the other college kids in the room, but they weren't supposed to be able to see themselves as real adults. Not yet.

They were supposed to not care about being forty or aching joints or music that was too loud. They were supposed to be invincible and young, so young that aging didn't even occur to them.

It wasn't supposed to go like this.

Kurt was still sitting perfectly straight in his chair. He blinked at John and Elizabeth like maybe he hadn't quite heard them before turning to look at his father.

"I don't remember the last time I saw Mom."

For a moment the room was quiet again, everyone watching Kurt, but Kurt didn't seem to see any of them except Burt.

"The last thing I remember was taking the tea set outside on a Saturday morning with her—and then I didn't see her again," Kurt was staring hard at his father, "I don't remember ever seeing her again."

Burt's eyes shone wet and glossy, but he held Kurt's gaze and nodded, "She took a bad turn that night. You came to see her in the hospital."

"You can go see him, Kurt," Elizabeth spoke again, her voice whisper quiet, "They have him in a private room now, you can—"

Kurt shook his head, apparently unsatisfied with his father's response and Elizabeth's offer, "That's not… I got a day with Mom. I got one day and she got one day where it was like she wasn't sick at all, and that's the day I remember as the last time I saw her. That's, when you have to get sick like that, it's the one good thing. The one thing that's better than it happening fast like a car accident or something—you get to have a last really good day. Blaine didn't—he hasn't had his day, his day where he felt better all of the sudden so he could...he should still wake up, he's just--we just have to… maybe…"

The sound of chair legs scraping against the carpet and a sudden flash of movement caught David's attention. He tore his eyes away from Kurt just fast enough to see Trip disappearing out the door.

The quiet shattered. People were talking and crying and moving—some trying to placate Kurt, others trying to comfort one another, some still crying silently on there own. David wondered for a moment if the sound had been there all along and he'd just been ignoring it.

He got to his feet, but hesitated, torn as to which way to go.

Kurt was still in his chair, still blinking around at people like he couldn't quite understand what any of them were saying or why they kept trying to touch him. Burt had an arm around him, his mouth close to his ear so David couldn't discern what was being said.

With one final look back, David moved out of the waiting room and into the hallway. He glanced both ways and felt a small wave of relief when he saw Trip farther down the hall.

He walked slowly and tried to get a handle on the nausea still boiling in his stomach.

He passed patients in wheelchairs, doctors studying charts, and women in scrubs giggling together at a nurses' station.

Their lives weren't ending. Their people were still safe.

David thought dizzily about how many of them had sat in a waiting room like the one behind him, though. How many of them had watched hope shrink smaller and smaller.

David followed Trip's path until he arrived at a heavy metal door, CHAPEL painted in white block letters across the front, a wooden cross nailed above the doorframe. He wondered absently if the cross was attached to the wall like the clocks or if it could be easily removed. He pushed his way quietly through the door into the little space.

It wasn't like the rest of the hospital—it was all dark wood and flickering candles; maroon carpet and pretty statues glinting with gilded gold. The faint smell of antiseptic reminded David of the rest of their surroundings.

The chapel was nearly empty—a few scattered people sat on the pews with heads bowed and eyes closed.

Trip stood in the middle of the aisle, his posture neat, and his hands shaking at his sides.

David approached him quietly, "Hey."

Trip didn't look at him, "Shouldn't you be with Kurt?"

"He's got too many people hovering over him already," David glanced toward the front of the chapel then back at Trip, "I wanted to check on you."

"Today isn't about you or me. It's about Blaine," Trip swallowed, glared straight ahead, "I-it's about—it's not about me and you."

"I know," David almost reached out to touch his hand, but stopped himself, "That doesn't mean you're not hurting. You told me once…you told me he's your best friend."

Trip's eyes flickered toward him for a moment but then quickly back forward again, "Stop being so nice to me."

David allowed the back of his hand to graze Trip's, just enough contact to register the warmth of his fingers, "Why?"

Trip jerked his hand away, "I slept with someone."

David looked down at the floor, "I know."

"I've been sleeping with him a lot." Trip's hands flexed open then fisted shut again.

"I know." David said again. He watched Trip's hands instead of his face. His hands always said so much more than anything his face would ever give away, but his next words had David snapping his head back up.

Trip's voice was shaky; small, "Are you mad?"

David tried to search Trip's face, but his eyes were still focused firmly ahead, "No."

"Why not?" Trip finally looked at him, "Why aren't you upset with me?"

"I didn't say I wasn't upset," David spoke quietly; a little more mindful of the people around them than Trip, "I'm hurt and I'm sad…really freaking sad, but I'm not mad at you."

Trip's eyes moved forward again, "Maybe you should be."

"Why would I be mad at you?" David took a bold step closer.

Trip stared hard at the cross at the front of the church, his expression twisted with pain, "I'm not a good person, David. I don't go out of my way to do anything worthy of anyone's love. Not like Blaine."

"You're not a bad person; I've told you that before and I meant it," David swallowed, "And maybe you don't bend over backwards to try and make people like you but that doesn't mean that I… that I don't still love you."

"You shouldn't," Trip's jaw worked for a moment, "I don't deserve it."

"Yes, you do," David spoke quietly, "I wish I was braver for you or that I could take back what I did…I—I know it doesn't change anything—but, for whatever it's worth, I tried to find all of those guys while I was back in Lima…to tell them."

Trip was looking at him again, confusion and anger battling for control of his face, "What?"

David nodded, "Most of them were out of town, but…Azimio and a couple others were home. I told them the truth."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," David shifted his weight from one foot to the other, "It felt… It felt good."

Trip looked at him for a long time, "…I miss you, David."

"I miss you, too." Dave sniffled; swallowed thickly.

Trip closed his eyes; opened them again. Without warning, he sank to his knees. He lifted a shaky hand and touched it to his forehead; his chest; his left and right shoulder.

"W-what are you doing?" David looked around uncomfortably and then back down at Trip.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Trip whispered back; his head still bowed, his fingers laced together but held low as though they were too heavy to keep up.

"I guess I thought you didn't believe in this stuff," David avoided the eyes of the people that had suddenly peaked up from their prayers to watch.

"I have to believe in this stuff, David. I need it to be real," Trip's shoulders were beginning to tremble; "I have to believe that there's some sort of fucked up cosmic reason Blaine's five minutes from dead and I'm still alive after all of the shit I've pulled. I need to believe that there is a reason Kurt's in their looking like a fucking ghost while I get to have—"

With one last look around, David lowered himself to the ground too; he was still a solid head taller than Trip when they were both on their knees. He reached out a tentative hand to Trip's shoulder, "Hey, listen—"

The second David's fingers brushed his sleeve, Trip was collapsed into his chest; his hands gripping at Dave's shirt for some sort of support and a choked sob spilling out of his mouth, "It's n-n-not fair; it's s-so fucking unf-f-fair."

For a moment Dave stared down at the top of Trip's head in alarm; tried to process the scrabbling hands and the sound of Trip's voice choked with so much pain. Shocked by the display or not, David's arms went around him immediately to hold him close. He lowered them down until he was sitting on the backs of his heels and rocked them gently. He didn't know if he was doing this right—didn't know if there was a right way to do this; to comfort someone when they fall apart—all he knew was that Trip was crying and he wanted it to stop; he wanted to make it better, he had to make it better, "It's gonna be okay, shhh, it's all gonna be okay."

Trip's hand curled in tighter to David's shirt, "Y-you d-d-don't know that, you c-can't know th-that. B-Blaine's fucking d-d-dying, there's nothing o-okay about that."

David tried to come up with something, anything to say back, but there was nothing to be said that could make this better. He squeezed Trip in closer, buried his face in his hair and hoped like hell it would be enough.

It took a few minutes—though Dave would have waited hours and days and weeks if it were what needed to happen—but Trip eventually quieted until just his shoulders shook with the hiccup-y remnants of his crying.

Someone moved in closer and the smell of lavender temporarily caught David's attention. He looked up in surprise. It was Blaine's grandmother.

Her mouth was set in a thin line in a pale face, but her eyes were soft; sad.

Trip finally turned his face out from Dave's chest and looked up at Helen with guarded confusion. He sniffled and wiped the back of an arm over his eyes, "What?"

Her expression remained the same—old and tired and sad. She held out a neatly folded five-dollar bill, "Light some candles."

Trip glared at the money with red, bleary eyes, "I'm not praying for him to be forgiven for anything."

"I'm not asking you to," She reached out and took hold of one of Trip's wrists; folded the money into his palm, "God knows what's in his heart."

Trip let out a humorless laugh, "What? He's suddenly dying and you've come to terms with the fact that he's not some sort of damned, soulless monster? Great timing, Ms. A. Really, just fantastic."

"I never thought he was a monster," She whispered, "Blaine's always been a good boy."

Trip sneered, the money still crumpled loosely in his fist, "So what now? A few extra items on the pros side of the list for St. Peter's book to outweigh him being gay, is that what you're hoping for?"

She shook her head, "I don't know about that. I don't know what to make of any of this. I am giving you money to light candles for my grandson, I didn't say it was to ask for his forgiveness."

Trip's glare melted. His gaze moved between the money closed in his hand and Helen's face, "What am I supposed to pray for then?"

"That's your decision," Helen hesitated for a moment, "I only ask one thing of you."

Trip stared at her, waiting.

"Blow the candles out when you're done."

Trip frowned, "That kind of defeats the purpose of lighting them, doesn't it?"

Her gaze moved toward the bank of candles on the far wall, "When Blaine was a little boy, I used to take him to church with me…he always insisted that blowing the candles out got prayers to God faster. He thought they could travel up to Heaven with the smoke, I think."

Trip nodded, his gaze drifting back down to the money peeking out from his closed fist.

Helen studied them both for another minute before returning quietly to her place in the back of the chapel.

After a moment, Trip wiped his eyes again; swallowed hard. He braced himself on David's shoulder and pushed himself upright.

Dave stood and dug through his pockets. He held out a crumpled dollar to Trip, "That can buy a little one, can't it?"

Trip sniffled again; still trying to pull himself back together, "Why don't you light one?"

David glanced toward the front of the chapel and then looked down again, "I… I don't know what to do…I don't even know if I believe in this stuff."

"Come here," Trip pulled David toward a bank of candles.

David watched quietly as Trip pushed the money into a slotted metal box and pulled a long match from a cup.

Candlelight flickered off their faces as Trip dipped the match down into three tall candles. He offered the stick to Dave, "Pick one."

David looked unsurely between the smaller tea candles before settling on an open one. He lit it and watched the little flame sputter to life.

Trip took the match back from him; buried it low in the sand inside the cup. He sank back down to the ground, this time cross-legged.

David sat down slowly beside him, it'd been years since he'd been to church, but he was fairly sure sitting on the floor was not customary.

Trip's eyes were focused up on the statue beside the candles, but he reached out and pulled one of David's hands into his lap; folded it between both of his, "Do you know who that is?"

David looked up toward the painted ceramic face, "No."

Trip's gaze was tired; far off, "Me neither."

David looked between the statue and Trip's face, "…Now what?"

Trip bowed his head; closed his eyes, "I don't know."

They didn't say anything else to each other.

David felt his thoughts blurring and smudging at the edges as he stared at the hazy glow of too many candles above them and wondered how many of them had actually served their purpose.

When he felt eyes on him, he looked away from the candles, but it was not the quick looks from the people kneeling in the pews that had caught his attention; made that funny, ticklish feeling go up the back of his neck. It was the boy in the back; his face pale and vacant; his gaze so piercing David was sure he was looking in at his soul; inspecting the black marks.

"Kurt's here," He whispered quietly into Trip's ear.

Trip remained still for another minute before releasing David's hand. He stared up at the candles for a moment, crossed himself, and wiped the heel of his hand over his already dry eyes.

Kurt didn't move; didn't blink.

"Come on," Trip murmured. He pushed himself to his feet and pulled David up with him. He strode purposefully toward Kurt.

David approached a little more cautiously.

Kurt met Trip's eyes, "Sometimes… sometimes I wish I believed in a God."

Trip shook his head, "It doesn't make it any easier."

Kurt looked toward the front of the chapel; his eyes drifting over the candles, "It gives you someone to blame when things don't go the way you want them to."

Trip was quiet for a moment. He turned back to the bank of candles, he found the one David had lit and returned to the back of the chapel, the little candle cupped carefully in his palms.

The flame danced and sputtered as Trip moved, he held it up closer to Kurt, "Blow it out."

The light of it danced yellow and gold on Kurt's ashy skin. He stared down at the flame for a moment before letting out a soft breath.

The flame sputtered out and a coil of smoke soon stretched out from the blackened wick. It faded and disappeared a few feet above their heads.

They all watched the smoke as it faded, momentarily mesmerized.

David watched the space where it had faded before even reaching the ceiling. He wasn't sure about smoke carrying desperate prayers all the way to heaven, but maybe blowing them out got the prayers to God faster because a dead candle seems a little more urgent than one that's still burning. He wasn't sure if that was true or not. He wasn't even sure a candle did much of anything at all even if there was somebody listening to the prayers murmured over them.

"Blaine says that's how he pictures brain tumors," Kurt's eyes were on the candle, "The way the end of a candle wick looks when it gets big and deformed like that."

The wick had ballooned out into an ugly rounded growth. Kurt reached out and pinched it between his fingers. It crumbled and smudged the pads of his fingers black and gray.

Trip handed the candle off to David, his voice quiet, "Put it back and then get back over here."

David returned the candle to its place with the others. He glanced over the array of flames and hesitated for only a second before digging his hand down into his pocket. He fished out every spare piece of change he had and tucked it into the slotted box before relighting the candle.

When he returned to the back of the church, Kurt looked even more pale—his eyes too big and hands squeezed tight at his sides.

Trip turned Kurt with a gentle hand on his shoulder, "Come on. We're going for a drive."

David hesitated, not sure what to do.

Trip glanced back at him, his expression soft, "You, too."

They ventured out into the parking lot and were greeted with a fresh blanket of snow on the pavement, more falling from the sky as they walked.

Kurt halted abruptly, tipped his head up toward the sky. When a flake fell on his mouth, he licked his lips; let a stuttery, shaky breath out, "It's snowing."

Trip pressed a hand into his back gently, "Come on, my car's right here."

Kurt allowed himself to be arranged in the backseat, his eyes still focused on the sky even through the closed window.

David took the passenger seat. He tried to twist around to look at Kurt.

"Let him be," Trip spoke softly as he climbed into the driver's seat.

David nodded, but he glanced back anyway.

Kurt was stretched out across the seats, one hand tucked under his cheek, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Trip backed out of the parking space and started driving. He didn't turn down the road back toward the apartment or toward Lima.

He drove until the cars around them thinned to nothing, until the buildings turned to houses and then the houses turned to trees.

"Where are we going?" David murmured, his eyes scanning the side of the road for a sign.

"We're driving," Trip spared David a glance, but then his eyes were back on the road again, "Until we can't anymore."

With that, he turned on the stereo, hummed along.

"Isn't this a little morbid of a song selection?" David muttered.

Trip didn't answer. He turned up the volume and sang along; his voice filling their ears; filling the car. He twisted an arm behind him and reached a hand into the backseat.

David glanced back long enough to see Kurt latch onto it. He faced forward again, his eyes on the road and his head filled up with Trip's voice and too many thoughts. He didn't ask Trip where they were going again, he was getting used to feeling lost.

You and me have seen everything to see

From Bangkok to Calgary

And the soles of your shoes are all worn down

The time for sleep is now

It's nothing to cry about,

Cause we'll hold each other soon

In the blackest of rooms

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied,

Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you

When your soul embarks

Then I'll follow you into the dark