Chapter 30, Part 2

Kurt was suffocating. Or maybe he was going insane. Or maybe it was both—drowning in his own insanity.

His father was talking in his ear. Murmuring things about his mother and loss and support.

Rachel was on her knees on the floor beside him sobbing. She kept reaching out toward him—her hands hovering over his knees, but then retracting back again. In the end, she melted into Finn's chest and fell apart.

Kurt blinked around at them. It was a strange sight.

Quinn's eyes were dry, but she kept clasping and unclasping a hand over her mouth like maybe she was suffocating, too.

Kurt hadn't ever seen Puck cry, but he was crying now. Big, gulping sobs while he hugged his arms around himself.

Tina, Mike, and Mercedes were standing beside him. Mercedes had her head pressed against Puck's bicep and Tina was sobbing inconsolably into Mike's chest. Mike just looked shell-shocked. Like maybe he'd left the room when Elizabeth and John had delivered the news and only just returned to the mess and didn't know what to do with it.

The Warblers hadn't moved from their chairs. They looked around at one another blankly, helplessly—Kurt had a flash of a memory of that same look on some of their faces when Blaine had stepped forward to perform his solo at graduation. No one stepped forward this time to make it okay.

He thought about reminding them all that Blaine was still alive, but coordinating the thought with his mouth was too confusing,

And suddenly the attention and the touching and the choking, wet, too much crying and too much sound was simply too much everything. Kurt stood, shrugging off his father and his friends as he went, "I need…space. I need space, please…I—"

John and Elizabeth were both still there, both trying to say something to him. He ignored them.

He needed out.

He needed out now.

He was running—running fast and loud down a hallway to he didn't know where.

He ran through the halls and felt a sudden agitation. No one was scolding him and telling him to walk, no one was paying him any mind at all.

This wasn't junior prom.

No one was chasing him.

No one was going to scream after him to stop.

No one was going to help him make this better.

No one would because no one could.

No one could because no one was Blaine.

Kurt slowed to a stop, his chest tight and his throat burning as he tried to catch his breath. He tried to find that quiet place in his head again—the place where he could float through the hours and let the current of the days push him wherever they wanted him. The space where he didn't have to think about feeling cheated out of one final good day, where one-sided conversations and cold hands didn't have to be considered, where there was never any thought about funerals and who would sing and who would speak and plastic folding chairs at the Anderson's while people milled around in black whispering about how—No. He wouldn't think about that.

He walked until he felt the calming chill of his head blurring at the edges, smudging like watercolor until everything bled together in soft shades. He didn't know how he got to the Chapel; didn't know what prompted him to go in, but he did.

Trip and David were huddled together.

Kurt studied them—suddenly fascinated by the way David's shoulder was just the right height for Trip's head to rest against.

David saw him first. He looked sad and guilty and a thousand other things.

Kurt stared at him, wondered if David knew Trip's head and his shoulder were the perfect heights for one another.

And then they were up, walking toward him.

"I wish I believed in a God," He told Trip.

"It doesn't make it any easier," Trip returned softly.

Kurt knew Trip was wrong. It would help. People who believed in a God could assure themselves that when an eighteen-year-old kid died, there was a bigger meaning behind it. They could look at rainbows and doves and cords that happened to be tangled on the floor in a perfect circle and a thousand other mundane things as signs of their loved one still being with them. Still tapping them on the shoulder and tickling them with little signs and symbols everywhere.

He believed all of those things were benefits of having some mystical deity in the sky, but Kurt only provided Trip with his primary desire for a belief in a higher power, "It gives you someone to blame when things don't go the way you want them to."

Trip's response was to bring him a candle and request he blow it out.

Kurt complied—things were easier that way. Arguments required being engaged and talking more and having feelings and Kurt didn't want any of those things.

But his thinking would not be turned off as he stared at the deadened candle.

"I think this is what the thing inside my head looks like," Blaine hunched over a candle at the kitchen table, spun it lazily between his hands.

Kurt glanced up from his textbook, "Your brain looks like a candle?"

"Just the wick," Blaine blew out the flame out, coughing and snuffling a little when a cloud of smoke met his nose.

Kurt pried the candle out of Blaine's hands and peaked inside. The wick of the candle was twisted into a knotty looking growth at the top, "This looks disgusting, but I doubt that's what a tumor looks like."

Blaine tried to make a grab for the candle. He pouted when Kurt easily lifted it out of his reach, "That is totally what it would look like if we could see it."

Kurt lowered the candle back to the tabletop and rolled his eyes, "You could Google pictures of brain tumors, and I'm pretty sure that whatever you would find would look nothing like that."

Blaine leaned in close to Kurt to study the wick again, his ear grazed Kurt's cheek as he shook his head, "I don't need Google. I have this candle. Come on, you totally think that's what it looks like."

Kurt snorted, bumped his shoulder lightly against Blaine's, "Well then it would appear our Autumn Nights candle has cancer. How unfortunate."

Blaine reached into the jar and squeezed the wick. When he pulled his hand away, the wick was straight and neat again. He grinned at Kurt and showed off his smudged fingers, "Cancer cured. Simple as that."

"You're a miracle worker, Dr. Anderson," Kurt returned his smile, this time touching his socked toes to Blaine's bare ankle underneath the table. Little touches were important—little bumps and kisses and cuddles were an essential part of them being KurtandBlaine. It had been that way since they were only friends.

Blaine reached out and grabbed hold of Kurt's wrists, his thumbs sweeping over the soft skin in little arcs, "You can be, too."

"Yeah?" Kurt allowed Blaine to manipulate his hands until they were pressed to either side of his head.

"Yeah," Blaine pressed his hands over Kurt's, tangled their feet between their chairs, "On the count of three, push. Same principle as the candle, we'll just make the cancer disintegrate. After we've cured me, we can go find someone to sell the idea to, deal?"

Kurt fanned his fingers across Blaine's head, scooted in a little closer, "Deal."

"Alright, count of three," Blaine sat up a little straighter, his fingers still tracing patterns on the backs of Kurt's knuckles, "one, two—"

Kurt pressed his hands in gently, leaned forward, and touched a kiss to Blaine's mouth.

When he pulled away, Blaine's cheeks were flushed pink and a smile was already pulling at his mouth, "Mmm, I think you missed a spot."

Kurt laughed, "Show me where."

Blaine pointed to his forehead, "Right…right there, I think."

Kurt kissed the spot.

"And here, definitely here." Blaine pointed to a place just behind his right ear.

Kurt kissed it, pausing to give the shell of Blaine's ear a gentle nip.

Blaine sighed, "Maybe one more on the mouth just to be sure you got it all."

Kurt reached up a hand to Blaine's chin, pressed another kiss to his mouth.

Blaine sat back in his chair with a blissful smile. He tangled their feet together between them on the floor, "All better."

"There's just one little problem," Kurt lifted a hand to show off the black smudges transferred from Blaine's fingers, "You gave me the candle cancer."

Blaine sat up straighter, took Kurt's hand between both of his. He rubbed his fingers across the black mark, "I can fix that."

"Work quick, doctor, I think it's spreading." Kurt threw his other hand across his forehead in mock distress.

Blaine lifted Kurt's hand to his mouth, pressed a wet kiss to the spot. When he pulled away, Kurt's hand was clean again. He smiled, "See? Fixed."

"You just ingested candle cancer," Kurt sighed, "You just re-infected yourself."

"It was worth it," Blaine turned Kurt's hand over in his, pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb, "And you can always fix me again."

He tried to shake the memory from his head, but it stuck and seeped deeper into his head; twisted something in his chest. He looked at Trip, "I need to go."

"Okay, we'll go then," Trip nodded, but he wasn't moving fast enough.

"Trip," Kurt fisted his hands until his nails bit into his palms, "Now. I need to get out of here right now."

And just like that they were in the car, the vinyl of the seatbelt pressed into Kurt's cheek and the metal of the buckle icy cold against his neck.

Trip turned on the music loud and twisted an arm behind him to reach a hand into the backseat, palm up and open. Kurt didn't contemplate the gesture. He latched his fingers around Trip's and held on tight.

His fingers went numb and time stopped making sense.

They drove until the angry yellow light above the gas meter told them they'd be stranded if they went any further. Somewhere during the drive—Kurt didn't know when or where—they'd pulled over so David could drive and Trip had climbed in the backseat; shoving at Kurt until his head was cradled in his lap. Kurt didn't snap at him when he smoothed his fingers through his hair; he didn't hear the words to the endless string of songs bubbling out of Trip's mouth. He found Trip's free hand again and squeezed it hard; focused on Trip's hand pressing back against his with equally painful pressure. He was dimly aware of the car coming to a stop; a quiet dialogue back and forth between David and Trip.

"—I'm not making him go back there—"

"—Car's there; don't have a way to get a hold of his dad—"

"—Got Hudson's number."

"Kurt," Trip was prying his hand free from Kurt's; pushing at him to sit up, "Come on, buddy, help me out here; I can't carry you in."

Kurt sat up; his head feeling too heavy and his eyes burning. He looked out the window and vaguely registered they weren't at the hospital. They were in front of his and David's apartment building. It was too bright; too white outside, so he turned his gaze back to the floor. A pack of cigarettes peaking out from under the passenger seat caught his eye. He stared at the cardboard; tried to make out the surgeon general's warning printed across the top. Cold air licked at his too hot cheeks when Trip pushed the door open and slid out of the car.

Trip sighed when Kurt didn't move right away, "Listen, if you want to go back to the hospital, we can go there, but we're gonna have to at least move to Dave's car. I'll be lucky to make it out of the parking lot with the fumes left in my gas tank."

Kurt leaned over and closed his hand around the cardboard box. He held it out to Trip.

Trip blinked at it for a moment. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, "Nah, man, that's okay. I don't need them…we'll throw them in the trash on the way in, yeah?"

Kurt dropped his hand back to his lap. He pushed himself forward until snow creaked beneath his shoes and then his knees seemed to emit the same creaky sound as he pushed himself upright. He was out in the lot; surrounded by frigid air that was painful and comforting all at once. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep until his nose and throat ached with the cold.

David and Trip didn't rush him. They stood and waited in silence, Trip pressed close to Dave's side; stamping his feet occasionally for the added warmth.

When Kurt turned toward the building and started walking, they followed him wordlessly, David only stepping forward to pass his keycard over the sensor when they reached the front doors.

The elevator ride was silent. Kurt stood an inch from the doors the entire ride up. Trip and Dave didn't stand a chance from preventing him from seeing the display outside their door.

It took a moment for Kurt to register what the mess was outside their apartment door. When he did figure it out, he was only more confused.

Flowers. Bouquets, baskets; vines and blooms sculpted into hearts and crosses—they spilled out from the door and blocked the hallway. A clear marker to anyone who attempted to pass that tragedy had struck the Hummel-Karofsky apartment. The heady scent of roses was so strong it hit their noses the second the elevator opened up onto the third floor.

Kurt stared down at them; his eyes drifting from an 'Our Sympathies' banner draped over a particularly ostentatious wreath of pine sprigs and poinsettias to a plate of chocolate chip cookies wrapped in glossy cellophane.

"People have been dropping stuff off for a couple days now… this is the most I've seen out here though," David spoke quietly; looking almost guilty, "I was talking to some of the neighbors when I went to get our mail yesterday. I guess Mrs. Shepherd from 3K found out, and the news sort of spread through the building...I don't know if you've, um, if you've seen them, but we have more inside."

Kurt didn't look up from the display, "Do you have your key?"

"Oh, um, yeah," David stepped gingerly over the cookies and a few of the bouquet and leaned over awkwardly to push the door open. He half-hopped, half-tripped into the apartment. He looked out at Trip and Kurt, "We can deal with all of it later, if—"

Kurt leaned over and picked up the thing that had caught his attention first. A dozen pink roses packed tight in a glass vase. The blooms were lush and bright amidst the more subdued whites and reds and the occasional tasteful arrangement of lilies. He stepped nimbly through the other arrangements and into the apartment. The other bouquets David had mentioned sat awkwardly in the middle of the family room floor; a garden of blooms in lonely glass containers. Kurt sat down in front of them; his own vase cradled between his crossed legs.

Trip came in after him, the wreath slung over his shoulder and a vase of lilies in each hand. He settled it all down beside Kurt before going back to retrieve more.

David came next, the plate of cookies in one hand and a pot of carnations in the other, "I had just gotten back form Lima the first time some of them showed up, so I just put them down in here on my way out the door… once more started coming, I didn't know where you'd want them, and I didn't want to bug you about it, so I just—"

"They're fine here." Kurt traced his fingers over a petal. His cold fingers looked too wind chapped and red beside the delicate pink.

Trip and David made trip after trip from the hall to the family room. By the time they closed the door and joined Kurt on the floor, the apartment was nearly claustrophobic with the cloying scent of cut flowers.

Kurt looked over the masses of flowers, "Why are they all here?"

"I don't think there's many people around who can claim to know Blaine without knowing you, too," Trip pulled a card from one of the arrangements, "Do you know a Will Schuster and Emma Pillsbury?"

"They're teachers at our high school," David filled when Kurt's response was only to pull another card from the tangle of flowers, "They probably met Blaine at glee club stuff."

Kurt pulled a third card out of a bouquet; a fourth; a fifth.

"Kurt?" David spoke tentatively as he watched Kurt slide his finger down the seam of another envelope and shake out the card inside.

"They all think he's dead." Kurt didn't look up from the card in his hands. He read the message out loud; his voice flat, "Thinking of you during this difficult time."

Trip and David exchanged a look, but before either one could speak, Kurt had gathered up the stack of cards accumulating at his side.

"'My deepest sympathies'; 'May your heart and soul find peace and comfort'; 'Our hearts go out to you in your time of sorrow'," He flicked each one to the floor with an easy snap of his wrist as he finished reading them.

David reached out to touch Kurt's knee, "Kurt, they're trying to say they know you're going through a hard time, it doesn't mean they think he's—"

"'Our deepest condolences go out to you during your time of grieving'; 'Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, but love leaves a memory no one can steal'; 'Sorry for your loss'," Kurt's eyes burned with tears again as he dropped the last of the cards beside him. Anger boiled in his blood; made his skin feel like it didn't fit right; it itched and he had the insatiable urge to scratch it raw, "I don't know about you, but that little rhyme made me feel much better."

David nodded slowly, "Kurt, Blaine's not—"

"Don't," Kurt flinched; wrapped his fingers around the neck of the vase still in his lap, "Please, don't…don't say his name. I don't—"

"Okay." David nodded, his grip on Kurt's knee tightening briefly before letting go.

They sat in silence; the heady scent of flowers making them all dizzy.

Kurt traced his fingers over the rim of the vase, "Most hospice services take flower donations from people who don't want to keep them."

"Is that what you want to do with these?" Trip pulled a lily from a display; stroked a thumb over the purple vein of color down the center of a petal.

Kurt slid his hand up from the vase to the flowers; felt his skin snag on a thorn, "…no."

"What do you want to do then?"

Kurt slid his hand up further; rubbed his fingers over the top of the biggest bloom. He slid a finger down between the folds of pink and plucked a petal free. He pressed it between his thumb and index finger, the perfume emanating off of it even stronger when it bruised beneath the press of his hand. He dropped it the ground before pulling another. When he finished with one flower, he moved on to the next; a chant forming with each petal that fell. He'll wake up, he won't, he'll wake up, he won't, he'll wake up, he won't…

When he groped for another flower and found the vase filled with only naked stems, he wasted no time contemplating the pink shreds of tattered roses littering his lap. He shoved the vase aside and pulled another one into his lap. It's a nightmare, it's real, it's a nightmare, it's real…

He worked in silence; systematically plucking petals from daisies; beheading carnations; tearing tangles of greenery from wire frames. He heard the sigh of the couch cushions when David sat down; registered Trip's legs disappearing toward his bedroom and returning a moment later, but he ignored them both. He needed to destroy the flowers. One by one, he deconstructed each and every floral creation.

When the only thing left was empty vases, he looked around at the aftermath of his work. The floor was covered in a confetti of bleeding, broken petals and the perfume of their deaths saturated the air.

Kurt sat quietly; a picture of perfect posture amidst the emptied vases and mangled flowers. His voice sounded small in his ears; as wrecked as the roses, "I don't know what to do now."

He registered something drop down into his lap and he reached out to touch it instinctively. It was Blaine's journal.

Trip was crouched low beside him. His gaze flickered to David on the couch, "Get out."

"What?" David looked at him in mild disbelief.

"You heard me," Trip was calm, his voice flat.

"Why?" David frowned at him, "Where am I supposed to be going, we're—"

"I said get the fuck out!" Trip shouted.

David jumped at the sudden ferocity and tried to comply, but he fumbled awkwardly and ended up tripping over a vase that went skittering across the floor.

Trip startled at the noise and then let out an exasperated sigh.

David glanced at the vase as though he was contemplating putting it back, but he seemed to think better of it. He glanced at Kurt again before moving toward the door.

"Wait in the hall, I'll be out in a second," Trip's tone was gentle again, but he waved an impatient hand at the now opened front door.

David slid out quietly, but then looked back again, "Do I need my keys?"

"No."

When the door finally clicked shut, Trip shook his head, "He can be so dense."

Kurt watched as Trip pushed himself back upright, "Where are we going?"

"We are not going anywhere. You're staying here," Trip was at the stereo. He flipped through a stack of CDs with quick fingers and placed one in the player before turning back to face Kurt, "I'll take David for a walk down the halls or something. You have twenty minutes to do whatever you need to do."

"Trip, I don't understand; I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing," Kurt looked between the worn, leather journal in his lap and Trip's face.

"It's not what you're supposed to do, it's what you need to do," With that, Trip pushed play on the stereo and moved toward the front door. He glanced back at Kurt, "Twenty minutes."

Kurt stared helplessly at the door, but when it was obvious Trip wasn't coming back, he looked around the empty apartment feeling suddenly anxious. He was alone. He was alone and he didn't like it. He considered calling Trip and telling him to come back, but when he pulled his phone from his pocket, he knew he wasn't going to do it. He stared down at the screen of his cell—his background was a picture of Blaine from a day back in October when they'd sat out in that stupid leaf pile one final time before turning it into a bonfire—his cheeks were pink and his smile was painfully happy. Kurt pocketed his phone again and turned his attention to the journal.

He opened it with shaky fingers and a slow nausea boiling in the pit of his stomach. His hands moved automatically; flipping through the pages while his eyes scanned the entries. Most of the ones at the beginning were short. Quick lines to note what had happened under a hastily marked date in blue pen.

'Got a solo today for the Warblers! First one!'

'Failed a Calc midterm. Need to get a tutor.'

'A on Calc Final! Thank God for Trent'

'Mom and Dad coming for dinner tomorrow'

'Dad didn't come last night. Hung up with work stuff. Not surprised. Mom and I went to an Italian place nearby.'

The entries went on and on like that, most crammed seven or eight to a page. Kurt paused when he reached a familiar date where there was a longer block of text scribbled underneath.

Weird day. A guy came to spy on the Warblers. His name's Kurt. We had coffee. He's getting bullied at his school…I don't know what to do. Gave him my number and I'm hoping for the best…I think I'm going to text him. Make sure he's doing okay.

Tried 'Teenage Dream' today in front of a crowd—everyone seemed to like it. Kurt liked it. Maybe we'll do it for Sectionals?

Kurt smiled a little and paged farther forward.

Kurt transferred today. He's having a hard time, I think. He looks lonely…might go talk to one of the guidance counselors to see if they can flip French with my study period so I can take him for coffee in the mornings. Might cheer him up? He's got a nice smile. I wish I could see it more.

Crashed my car into a fire hydrant yesterday. Need to call Dad and tell him. Should be interesting.

Kurt frowned. He didn't remember Blaine ever mentioning the run in with the fire hydrant, but he most definitely remembered those morning coffee runs that started when Blaine's Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings suddenly opened up about a week after his transfer. He swallowed down a sudden lump in his throat and kept going. The entries were more of the same—a little longer than they used to be, usually at least four or five sentences—and filled with his name.

'…Kurt and I went to see The Sound of Music…'

'…went shopping with Kurt and got…'

'Grabbed dinner with Kurt and one of his friends…'

'…football game at Kurt's old school last night and…'

Kurt paused on an entry about a trip to the bookstore they'd taken some time in January of their junior year. It had been a silly, mindless trip, but Blaine had written a short paragraph about the experience anyway. Kurt had a vague memory of he and Blaine cuddling together on the couch for the first time, a murmured thought about how good it was to not be lonely anymore. He felt a smile pull at his mouth at the mental picture of Blaine sitting on his bed back at Dalton with the journal on the knees. He probably chewed on the end of his pen while he thought about what to note about his day before scribbling down the quick paragraphs.

Kurt lifted the notebook closer to his face and inhaled. Maybe he was imagining it, but he could swear the pages held the faint smell of Blaine's cologne. He lowered it back to his lap and flipped past the entries a little faster. There was a date he was watching for; a particular thing he needed to see.

I don't know how this happened. I don't know how it didn't happen sooner.

I'm completely head over heels crazy about Kurt.

I don't even know how I looked at him before today without feeling like my heart was going to explode. Is that normal? Liking someone so much that it physically hurts? I had the chance to have him a few weeks ago, and I told him I just wanted to be friends, so now he's probably moved on and is over it or whatever and, I mean, he's gorgeous. He could have anyone. I don't think he knows that, though. I shouldn't be happy about that. I want him to know how beautiful he is, I really do….I just really, really want for him to care because it's me versus someone else saying it, is that bad? I should probably just be wishing he's happy no matter what with whoever he wants, and I do sort of want that. That sounds bad. I do want that, forget the 'sort of ' part. I want him to be happy and in love and for someone to take care of him the way he deserves to be taken care of…. I'd just really like to be the person that makes all of those things happen for him, and I might even get a little conniving if anyone stands in my way. Again, bad. Really, really, awful bad. I think I'm supposed to be feeling a little more selfless right now… I want to do something for him. I want to make him smile. I want to go find him and tell him how I feel. I want to hold his hand and stare at him for hours and kiss him. Can I do that? Is that a selfish thing to want? If it's not what he wants, I'd be okay to just pine over him for forever… right? Hopefully. I'd rather find out he's at least willing to give me a chance… I'm going to talk to Wes about it. I just re-read this. I'm not making any sense. Yikes.

Kurt's mouth twitched into a smile as he flipped through the next few pages.

They weren't diary entries…they were practice speeches. Kurt recognized the message behind the words as Blaine's little monologue from that day in the Senior Commons. Some of the speeches were beautiful, but most of them were giggle worthy. Lines like 'you make my heart sing' and 'when two people come together…' and 'soul mates' (that one was hastily crossed out with 'too soon. Get a hold of yourself' scribbled next to it). He felt a sharp stab in his chest when he realized Blaine's actual words never showed up in the journal. Maybe he'd written out the speech and torn it from the journal to carry around in his pocket so he could practice, or maybe he'd written it in a different notebook entirely…or maybe he'd made it up on the spot. Kurt closed his eyes for a moment before pushing on to the next entry.

March 15, 2011

I kissed him. He kissed me back.

I'm not even sure what else to say—I thought I'd fill pages talking about this—I've got entire novels of thoughts running through my head, but, I don't know how to put it down on paper—I wish I could store things in here other than just words. What he tastes like, what he smells like; the color of his eyes, what it feels like when he smiles…I wish I could save him in here forever so I could keep looking again and again and feeling all of this again and again…. But then again, maybe I can—not save him in here—but I can have this everyday. Have him everyday. I didn't know I could feel like this—he makes my whole world shine brighter and I'd do anything to give him even a fraction of the happiness he gives me. I love him. I can't tell him that yet—I just kissed him this afternoon, after all. Wait, I want to see it again.

I kissed him.

I kissed Kurt Hummel.

Kurt Hummel kissed me.

Kurt and I kissed!

I forgot what I was even writing about…oh, right, I can't say that I love him already, but I can show him, right? The more I try and write about this, the harder it gets to stay focused—it makes me feel too alive, too full of energy—like I can't just sit here and write, I need to dosomething, though I'm not entirely sure what to do because Kurt's back in Lima until morning—I'd text him but it's three in the morning and I'm not sure he'd appreciate it… I should probably be asleep, too, but all I can do is lie here and think about today, about him… I really should try for sleep. I thought writing some of this down might help me get some of the adrenaline out of my system, but it's just making me more excited and making me miss Kurt who I saw like nine hours ago, so you'd think I could manage myself for under a day, but I can't, I'm counting down the hours until seven thirty when I can see him again tomorrow, well, it's three in the morning, so today I guess. Seriously, I need to stop writing this and try to go to bed.

I kissed Kurt Hummel!

For a moment Kurt forgot where he was and he smiled at the memory. He'd done it, too—laid awake all night because he didn't ever want that perfect day to end, counted the hours until he'd be back at school with Blaine from the minute he'd pulled out of the Dalton parking lot. And Blaine had loved him from that very first day…. He brushed his fingers over the words and felt the indentation of the penned letters beneath his fingers. He pushed forward slowly through the entries. The day Blaine actually said I love you was a shockingly short entry.

There was a Lima Bean receipt pressed between the pages with the date at the top.

I know I've been planning on making some big Grand Gesture when I finally decided to tell him, and I still think flowers would have been nice, but I just couldn't not say it today. He's so smart and strong and just…so completely Kurt, and all of the sudden I just knew it didn't matter if there were flowers or serenades or hot air balloons or stars or anything else. It was Kurt, and he just needed to know, and I needed to say it. We were out to coffee and he was telling me about New York, and I just looked at him and said it and, for me, it felt just as perfect as if I had done a bunch of showy stuff to go along with it. Maybe that's how love really is though…the thing that makes even the most normal moments unbelievably beautiful. Or maybe that's just a quality unique to Kurt. I'm happy either way.

He loves me, too. I don't think I need anything else for the rest of life except to know that.

Kurt saw a wet spot hit the page. It made a letter 'e' blur and expand. He lifted a hand quickly to his face and scrubbed away the tears before they could ruin any of the other letters. He moved through the pages a little faster. The entries turned a little shorter again, but still all at least a paragraph and never without his name included in them somewhere.

He felt a sick churning in his stomach as Blaine's handwriting suddenly seemed to turn slightly sloppier somewhere in April of their senior year. There was no mention in the entries about headaches or a tremor in his hand or sudden long bouts of sleepiness. The only whisper of a clue hung in an entry the day after Blaine's physics final.

I failed my physics final…I'm irritated but more than anything I'm sort of freaked out. I knew that stuff and all of the sudden I just didn't. It was like someone just wiped that spot in my head clean. I haven't told anyone yet. My parents are going to be furious. I'm going to tell Kurt first. He always knows what to say to make things feel okay. Back to studying even harder for my other finals, I guess.

There were a few entries from After, but for some reason Kurt couldn't read them. Blaine's innermost feelings about being sick seemed too personal to read even if Blaine had given Kurt the diary. He flipped through the entries without really seeing them until he spied a date from only a few weeks ago. He didn't want to read what was there. He really, really, really didn't want to…. but something drew him in; told him to just look once.

He found the first entry after the set of blank pages and let out a slow breath. It was a list of songs. Kurt would have pawned it off as a set list idea meant for Trip, but these songs all held a theme… He flipped forward another page and another and another.

Music gave way to senseless words.

Senseless words gave way to lists.

Lists gave way to plans and requests.

I want to be cremated not buried. I know it sounds stupid, but the idea of being buried makes me claustrophobic. Being burned up really isn't that appealing either, but I'd prefer that to a traditional burial. I don't mind if you still want to do the empty casket at the funeral if it's somehow helpful for you, but please don't think I expect it. Seems a little silly to me to spend thousands of dollars on an empty box…

If it's really important to Grandma, I don't care if it's in a Catholic church as long as they don't imply anything about me burning in hell for being gay or something. If for some reason you'd prefer to have a service through some other religious body, I don't mind. I trust your judgment.

Please don't hold onto my clothes forever. It's depressing and it won't change anything. Keep them for a while if you need to, but then please donate them. I can't come up with anything in particular you'd want to save, but if there's something that comes immediately to mind that you'd like to keep, that's okay, but if there's nothing you want, that's okay, too. Carry me in your heart the same way I'll carry you in mine. Please do offer my red Dalton sweatshirt to Kurt, though. Not the newer one. The one with the hole in the cuff of the sleeve and the paint stain on the collar.

Kurt felt something tightening in his chest. Winding up and pulling tighter and tighter as he flipped through the pages. He held his breath when he hit a set of letters.

Hi Mom, please don't find a way to blame this on yourself…

Listen Dad, there's a lot of things I never said…,

Rachel, do you remember what you said to me at Santana's eighteenth birthday party?…

Dear Grandma, I know we haven't always seen eye to eye…

Thank you Wes…

Before you can shred this to pieces, hear me out, Trip…

Kurt didn't read them. He flipped through the pages quickly, only skimming the names at the tops of the pages and the first lines. When he hit blank paper again, he went back and double checked to make sure he hadn't missed something. He licked his thumb and index finger and made sure none of the pages were sticking together, he re-read the first line of each letter, he flipped through the short section of blank pages at the end to make sure there wasn't one more hidden letter in there somewhere, but the rest of the pages were unmarked.

Kurt felt the muscles in his chest constricting even tighter; the air leaving his lungs too fast and too shallow like someone had kicked him in the stomach.

There was no letter for him.

No last message.

Nothing.

The floor tilted under him as Kurt stared down at the blank pages. This would be his life, too. A life that held no traces of honey eyes and those familiar arms wrapped around him; only empty hands and whispered secrets that fell unheard on a cold pillow. White blank pages where Blaine should be.

It was unfair.

It was so fucking unfair.

Hadn't Kurt been strong for all of those years? Hadn't he been patient and lonely while everyone else moved around him in their tangos of relationships and friends and love triangles while he sat quietly by himself in the back of the choir room? He had been ready to give up the belief he'd ever find someone; he'd been prepared to resign himself to a life that didn't quite meet expectations just in time for someone to grab his hand and pull him down a varnish-scented hallway without a care in the world, and, just like that, every careful wall had come crumbling down around his heart without a second thought.

For a minute—a fleeting, blinding, white-hot pause—Kurt hated Blaine. Really, truly hated him. He hated him for making him fall in love. He hated him for always saying the right thing even when it was the wrong thing. He hated that the he was his first thought in the morning and the last thing he thought about at night. He hated him for having the power to shatter his entire life. He hated him because there was no way he could ever stop loving him no matter how bad it hurt.

Something hot and angry boiled in his chest and filled up his head and tore apart his heart, and all he could hold onto was how fucking unfair it was. He looked around the room wildly and wished someone else were there. On an impulse of fury, he threw the journal across the room, but he felt no satisfaction at seeing it hit the wall and crumple to the floor with the pages fanned open across the ground.

It didn't matter that he couldn't look at the words anymore; they were tattooed to his brain like everything else about Blaine was. The past two years played on fast-forward through his head over and over and it was hurting worse and worse and worse—

He didn't know where the sound was coming from at first. A loud, almost spectral keening noise like he had never heard. But it was not the primitiveness of such a noise or even the volume that startled Kurt the most; it was the brokenness of it; a sound like someone was being burned alive and shredded into pieces. He didn't realize the sound was coming from his own mouth until he could feel it burning in his chest, straining his lungs and clawing his throat raw. The scream consumed his entire mind; his entire body.

He didn't know when he stood up. He didn't know when he started throwing the vases or when he cut his hand or when Trip and David had come back in the apartment, but suddenly there were hands around his wrists.

He met Trip's eyes and gave him his fiercest glare. He knew he looked crazy. He was still screaming and crying and bleeding, but he didn't care. Trip didn't look particularly phased either, and, for some reason, that was even more infuriating.

"I HATE YOU! I FUCKING HATE YOU!" Kurt screamed; fought hard against Trip's grip around his wrists, "YOU'RE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, YOU DIDN'T DESERVE BLAINE. WHY DID YOU STAY? WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST FUCKING GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM? WE WERE OKAY. EVERYTHING WAS OKAY BEFORE."

The words made no sense and they were unfair and they weren't true, but Kurt didn't care. He wanted someone he could berate. He needed his words to hurt someone; he wanted just a fraction of the pain he felt, just one shard of glass mangling his heart, to be expelled with his voice and into someone else. He couldn't hurt like this alone.

He got one wrist free and curled his hand into a fist. He swung hard and Trip made no effort to duck out of the way. With no real sense of aim, Kurt's hand connected somewhere between Trip's jaw and ear. Trip flinched but regained control of both of Kurt's arms, "Fuck, you hit hard. Shh, okay, okay. Come on, take a breath."

The smallest of fears crept into Kurt's brain that he may never stop screaming; that he would be stranded letting the broken notes of his soul pour out of his mouth for forever, but then, all at once, he was collapsing, his fingers biting into Trip's back and his forehead pressed half against the hot, damp skin of Trip's neck and the cotton of his t-shirt. No sooner had the scream finished than the tears began. They were almost worse. They took up all his breath and filled his lungs with a burning, wet ache and they made his knees turn boneless.

Trip held him up long enough to get him to the couch. He didn't seem to be bothered by Kurt's nails digging into his back. He held on tight and murmured something quietly to David about bandages and a broom and 'turn down the music a little, would you?'

Somehow, the keening died down to hiccupping, gasping sobs and then finally to silent, shivering tears. Kurt's head was still buried in Trip's shoulder; a blanket had been draped over his legs where they were tucked up beside him on the couch. David was kneeling on the floor, putting towels down over puddles of water.

Multicolored shards of glass and broken flower stems littered the floor and there were already three towels spread out over puddles of water; one of the side tables was overturned. Kurt's eyes moved slowly over the damage he'd done.

"Not bad for twenty minutes work," Trip murmured; one of his hands still smoothing over Kurt's back, "I'm honestly kind of impressed. Imagine what you could have done with half an hour."

Kurt hiccupped and risked a glance up at Trip. A red bruise was forming near his jaw. It wasn't big, but the mark was dark and angry.

"You hit harder than I thought you would," Trip smiled a little.

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered. His throat burned dry and his voice cracked.

"I promised you a free hit," Trip shrugged.

Kurt's gaze went back to David who was now dropping shards of glass into a garbage bag, "I'm—"

"Nothing to be sorry for, Kurt," David offered a smile before turning his attention back to cleaning.

Kurt pushed himself further away from Trip, "I…I c-can help. You sh-shouldn't have t-to do—"

"Shut up and stay put," Trip caught a hold of his arm, "Just take a breath, buddy."

Kurt's head throbbed dully. He lifted a hand to his face and could feel the puffiness in his cheeks. He registered dimly that his injured hand had been bandaged. All of his mess—the flowers and the glass and his bloodied palm—it could all be fixed. In an hour everything could be as good as new. He swallowed dryly and looked back at Trip, "It's not fair."

Trip nodded, "It's not."

Kurt rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

Trip pulled gently at his arm, "Just rest for now. We'll figure out what to do next in a bit."

Kurt allowed himself to be settled down on the couch until his head was on a pillow in Trip's lap and the blanket had been replaced over his body. He stared straight ahead without really seeing, "I'm so tired."

Trip didn't respond. He hummed along to the music still playing and tapped out the rhythm against Kurt's side.

Kurt closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep. He couldn't. He focused on his breathing and the present moment.

Trip smelled like no cologne that Kurt could identify in his fuzzy brain…it was a strange combination of wood smoke and sandalwood. It was a pleasant change from the overpowering smell of flowers that was starting to make Kurt a little nauseous.

He could hear David still cleaning—the quiet clink of glass dropping on glass and the crinkle of plastic moved around the room. After what seemed like forever, Kurt felt the air shift around him as David breezed past. The bag settled down somewhere behind the couch.

The world was nice without sight; easier. Just smells and sounds and touch, unburdened just a little bit without harsh light and movements that demanded tracking.

The sink was running and then the floor was creaking as David returned to the family room. Kurt registered the faint tinkling of ice clinking against glass right above his head.

"He's asleep," Trip murmured.

"It's for you."

There was a momentary silence and the quiet sound of a kiss.

David sat down on the floor. Kurt could sense him close by, "What're we going to do?"

"Right now?" Kurt heard Trip set the glass down on the side table that had apparently been righted again, "I don't know. Let him sleep and we'll figure it out as we go."

"You should put ice on that bruise."

"It's fine."

Silence.

"Do you think Blaine will make it?"

Kurt listened, but all he could hear was the hum of the heater and music. Trip didn't say anything.

David let out a long breath, "Poor Kurt."

"When my whole life got shot to hell, the worst part wasn't feeling like people had turned on me or having people hate me, it was feeling like I didn't have anybody…" Trip's hand pressed a little harder into Kurt's side, "We can't let that happen to him, we can't let him think he's alone. We have to take care of him."

Kurt felt David's hand come up close. It brushed his fingers when he squeezed Trip's knee, "I'll take care of both of you."

There was another pause.

"David?" Trip's voice was quiet; his finger still brushing idly over Kurt's side, "…I love you, too."

Kurt refocused his attention on the music; let his mind drift. He didn't think of Blaine. He thought of his mother—the sight of her smile and the feeling of a shiny black dress she liked to wear for date nights that was slippery in Kurt's fingers when he helped her zip it up and the sound of her laugh he only remembered because of old home movies and the first night home after her funeral when the house had felt wrong and empty and the dizzying smell of her perfume when he buried his face in that special spot on his pillowcase. More than anything he thought about the missing memory of that final moment. The hiccup of nothing between eating dry waffles at the table and her sitting across from him with a mug of tea to watching a casket being lowered into the ground.

Kurt opened his eyes; pushed himself upright.

David looked surprised but then managed a small smile, "Quick nap."

Kurt ignored him. His eyes drifted over the freshly cleaned floor, "I can live without him, you know."

The other two remained silent. Their eyes moving between Kurt's pale face and the floor as though they shouldn't be looking.

Kurt nodded almost imperceptibly; a tear escaping one eye and tracking down his cheek, "I know how this works. You get your heart ripped out, and it hurts so much that it feels like you can't even remember how to breathe and it hurts all the time…but that's not the worst part. The worst part is when it's been a couple weeks and it's not on your mind all the time so you forget sometimes that they're gone…but then you remember—you see something you want to tell them about, or you just want to hold their hand—and then you remember you can't and it's like losing them all over again."

David looked down at his lap, working his jaw to keep the tears at bay. Trip stared hard at Kurt, motionless.

"But then it gets easier," Kurt sniffled; drew his knees into his chest, "y-you still keep having to remember it, but it doesn't hurt quite as m-much as time goes by. It gets w-worse sometimes when you remember…when you remember you won't ever see them again. How big it is for them to be gone; to never be coming back—I've done it before. I know—in my head, I know—I could do it again if I did it before, right? … You think someone's your whole world, but you can still put things back together."

He met Trip's eyes; the tears coming in earnest now, and saw mirrored tears slipping down Trip's face

Yes, Kurt knew what this would be. A world where he moved and breathed and felt and Blaine didn't and wasn't and couldn't. And yet he would be everywhere. The crunch of autumn leaves beneath Kurt's feet; the aroma of coffee and new books; the touch of a wool scarf to his arm. The world was so impossibly full of Blaine—little pieces of him woven in so tightly with everything else. Without him… without him Kurt could only remember shades of gray and his feet that rarely felt the ground below them. Blaine was color and warmth and laughter. Blaine was life. Kurt choked on a sob; shook his head. He turned his face down into his knees; let the tears fall freely; let the possibility; the ugly, ugly potential, wash over him.

But for every new wave that crashed over him and eroded at his nerves and pulled at his heart, he felt a hard resolve forming, too, drying his tears and steadying his trembling shoulders. When the tears had stopped, he let go of his legs; let the tense muscles complain and spasm as he stretched them out and pushed himself to his feet. He met Trip's eyes again; his voice whisper quiet, "I want to go back to the hospital."