Chapter 31

The camping trip had been Blaine's idea.

Fresh air! He'd exclaimed.

Mosquitos. Kurt had groaned.

Sharing a sleeping bag. Blaine had smirked.

Sleeping on the cold ground. Kurt had sniffed.

Cute hiking boots. Blaine had tempted.

Mud on everything. Kurt had snapped.

Fine. Blaine had conceded.

Fine? Kurt had narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

Fine. Blaine had shrugged, stared at his shoes.

Fine. Kurt had agreed, still wary of an argument too easily won.

My parents will be out of town for the weekend. Blaine had looked back up.

Oh? Kurt had smirked.

And so the camping trip had been vetoed in favor of a plush weekend at the Anderson's eating leftovers from a catered work party earlier in the week and watching Project Runway on the too big television in the family room. Or so Kurt had thought.

He bristled once Blaine dragged him out into the backyard, "Blaine, what the hell is this?"

Blaine grinned, rubbed his hands together, "This is compromise."

"This is a tent," Kurt huffed, glaring at the big taupe and green thing now taking up a large section of the Anderson's backyard.

"A tent that is a mere fifteen feet from my house," Blaine bobbed his head up and down, clearly pleased with himself, "You can wash, moisturize, and use the bathroom all in the comforts of a well-equipped home, and sleep out here with me."

"Which part of 'I don't sleep on the ground' did you miss earlier this week?"

"I didn't miss it, I shoved an air mattress in there," Blaine grinned, "Anything else?"

"Blaine," Kurt groaned.

"Kurt," Blaine took a step in closer, his eyes flickered to Kurt's mouth, "I can make it worth your while, I promise."

Kurt folded his arms. Glared.

Blaine's gaze moved back to meet Kurt's, even his damn eyes were smiling, "I'll make you a deal—if after two hours you want to go back in the house, we'll do it. No argument on my side."

Kurt wrinkled his nose, "Not even one of your sad, Bambi-eyed faces?"

Blaine held up both hands in a show of surrender, "Not even a disappointed sigh."

"Fine. Your time starts now." Kurt glanced around the yard, the grass turning blue-green in the gathering dark, "And I am highly prone to mosquito bites. Just an FYI."

"We've got the tiki torch things out, you'll be fine," Blaine clapped his hands together, "Now get naked."

"Excuse you," Kurt huffed, "Just because I agreed to slum it out here with you doesn't mean you don't have to romance me out of my clothes first, Blaine Anderson. We're not cavemen."

Blaine laughed and tugged off his own shirt, "We are, in fact, far from it. Did I forget to mention my parents installed a hot tub under the deck this week?"

Kurt kept his face carefully neutral, but his eyes drifted to the space under the deck where, sure enough, a hot tub was taking up the space where an old patio set used to reside, "Hot tub?"

"Mhm," Blaine was peeling off his pants, his eyes still on Kurt, "And I may or may not have commandeered a bottle of champagne from that party earlier this week and maybe some chocolate covered strawberries, but I could just—"

Kurt peeled off his t-shirt, already moving toward the hot tub, "Is there a reason you're still in your underwear?"

They spent the next hour drinking champagne from plastic wine glasses and feeding each other strawberries.

They learned the neighbors couldn't see the tub unless they actually ventured out into their yard, that champagne, when spilled, does not destroy a hot tub or react in any particular way with chlorine (at least not right away), that Kurt was ticklish in a very specific spot on his neck, that they both got far tipsier naked and surrounded by hot water than they did in any other situation, and tiki torches suck at keeping away mosquitoes.

When the heat proved too much and the bugs too irritating, they dashed back across the yard into the tent, whooping and giggling until they were tangled together inside the tent, all dripping limbs and laughing mouths until wet skin sliding against wet skin turned giggles into gasps and the tangling of hands in hair and legs wrapped up together turned more purposeful.

Kurt was loud, Blaine was louder, neither cared if the neighbors heard.

They lay together in the afterglow; panting and blinking dazedly up at the top of the tent.

Blaine rolled onto his stomach, trailed lazy kisses from Kurt's cheek to his neck to his shoulder; nipped lightly at his collarbone, "You're amazing."

"Tell me something I don't know," Kurt looped an arm up around Blaine's shoulders and pulled him closer until Blaine's head was tucked against his chest, stubble and still wet hair tickling his skin, "You're not so bad yourself."

"Mm," Blaine traced a heart against Kurt's side, "Can we cross tent sex off of our bucket list?"

Kurt giggled, "We don't have a bucket list."

"We should change that," Blaine mumbled, "We could already cross off bed sex, kitchen sex, floor sex, wall sex, back of the car sex—"

Kurt tangled his fingers in Blaine's hair, "and now tent sex. I see your point."

"We'll add more," Blaine traced an eighth note over the top of the heart, "tiny apartment sex, hallway sex, library sex, shower sex—"

"The shower is already crossed off," Kurt pulled at Blaine's hair gently, "I highly doubt you've forgotten that."

"I haven't," Blaine agreed, tipping his head up to look at Kurt, "But we could still go do it again right now and maybe start making subcategories—make sure we each get a turn, ya know?"

Kurt laughed, "How very considerate of you."

"Actually, it's very selfish," Blaine tipped his chin down, kissed Kurt's chest, "So what do you say?"

"I say we wait until morning to cross that off of the list."

Blaine pushed himself up on his elbows to look at Kurt's face, "Does that mean you want to stay in the tent?"

Kurt made a show of sighing and rolling his eyes, "For you, because I'm such a fantastic boyfriend, I suppose I could spend one night in a tent."

Blaine leaned forward, effectively digging his elbows into Kurt's ribs, and pressed a sloppy kiss to his mouth, "I love you."

"And obviously I love you, too," Kurt rolled his eyes again.

They spent the night napping and whispering any secrets that hadn't yet been shared, giggling and teasing and fighting for the driest of the blankets until tickling and jokes were forgotten in favor of kisses and sweaty skin.

By the time the sun rose, the tent was too hot and too damp. Kurt had forgotten this part of camping—the mysterious dampness that soaked into everything, the plastic-y mildew smell that would stick to pillows and blankets and clothes for days.

He sat up, felt the vertebrae in his spine clicking into place, his muscles complaining dully from a night spent on the ground and too much sex (that was a lie, there was no such thing as too much sex). He touched his fingers to his cheek experimentally where his skin was sticky and hot. He'd definitely have a breakout after this.

Blaine was napping, face down in his pillow and one arm still hugged around Kurt's waist. His hair was matted to his forehead, his skin flushed and damp, his mouth open a little. He snuffled; shifted a little closer to Kurt's side, settled back down.

Kurt watched him and wondered how it was possible he loved him even more now than he had yesterday or the day before. He reached out, touched his sticky neck, "I love you so much."

Blaine cracked an eye open, squinted up at him, "Hm?"

"Nothing," Kurt took his hand back, "Just admiring your stuffy nose breathing."

"Mm, too much humidity," Blaine wrapped his arm tighter around Kurt's waist and pulled himself in even closer, kissed Kurt's hip, "G'morning."

"Morning," Kurt eased himself back down onto his back, curled his hands around Blaine's forearm still draped over him.

"Did I wake you up?" Blaine mumbled; yawned.

"No, but the stench of this tent did," Kurt wrinkled his nose but smiled, "It smells absolutely awful."

"We smell absolutely awful," Blaine added with a sleepy smile.

"Speak for yourself," Kurt huffed.

Blaine's smile widened. He pressed a kiss to Kurt's shoulder, "Fine, I smell bad, you smell fantastic—Eau de Tent cologne. We'll bottle it and make a fortune."

"Mildew with a hint of sex?" Kurt laughed quietly. Blaine's lips were chapped against his arm, but the kisses still felt nice.

"And a dash of sweat," Blaine nested his chin on Kurt's shoulder, "And for the female perfume version, we'll add a little chlorine smell."

"We're going to get so rich," Kurt smiled and then added with a groan, "I'm so hungry."

"I want coffee," Blaine moaned, then corrected, "Iced coffee. Or just the ice. I'm so dehydrated, I think I might die."

"Go make us breakfast," Kurt pried Blaine's arm off of him, nudged his ankle with his foot.

"Mm, too lazy," Blaine smiled.

Kurt kicked him a little harder, "You're the host, you have to do it."

"Do not," Blaine pulled the blanket over his head, but then immediately pulled it back down, his nose wrinkled, "Jesus, it really does smell awful in here, and I love you like crazy, but you're contributing to it just as much as I am."

Kurt kicked at Blaine's legs, "Get out of here and make me breakfast, you insufferable asshole, or you won't be allowed close enough to ever smell me again."

Blaine laughed and finally shoved himself upright and crawled toward the opening of the tent, he unzipped it and stuck his head out with a sigh, "Oh my God, it's like getting to breathe for the first time ever. It's beautiful out today."

Kurt giggled, "All I can see is your very white ass and your terrible shorts tan lines,"

Blaine wiggled his ass a little, "Nice, right?"

"How do you plan on getting inside? Our clothes are still by the hot tub." Kurt propped himself on his elbows.

"The same way you're going to do it if you ever want your breakfast," Blaine shifted up until he was crouched at the opening of the tent, "Run!"

Kurt gasped and then laughed as Blaine suddenly took off across the yard. He lay still for another minute—listening to the faint sounds of Blaine's feet pounding up the steps to the deck, the slamming of the door, someone mowing their lawn somewhere in the neighborhood.

When the draw of a shower and food proved too tantalizing and the smell of the tent too offensive, he carefully wrapped himself in one of the blankets and made his way inside.

He ignored the sounds of Blaine fussing with something in the kitchen in favor of going straight to the bathroom for a shower. He scrubbed himself clean, glad to be rid of too many hours worth of chlorine and sweat dried on sweat and God only knew what else, but also a nagging sort of disappointment. There was something nice about being covered in Blaine—Blaine panting and sweating, Blaine coming, Blaine dragging wet, shaky kisses against his calves, his shoulders, his back. It was strangely filthy and lovely all at once. Still, Kurt scrubbed himself raw before climbing out of the shower and venturing to Blaine's room to dig through his yet-to-be touched overnight bag.

Once dressed, he skipped down the steps, feeling decidedly better, "I'm ready to be wowed with my breakfast, Mr. Anderson."

"You'll be wowed alright," Blaine called back, clearly pleased with himself. At some point, he'd managed to dress himself in a pair of jeans and an undershirt, but he looked otherwise just as disheveled as he had in the tent.

Kurt glanced at the stove (clean, untouched) and then at the counter (again, clean) and finally at the table (…empty). He met Blaine's gaze and frowned, "Care to tell me where my three course meal is?"

Blaine lifted a teal cooler onto the counter, grinned, "Would you be so kind, Mr. Hummel, as to accompany me on a picnic on the green?"

Kurt grinned, looped a hand through Blaine's arm, "I'd be delighted."

They ventured back out to the yard where Blaine spread out a clean blanket for them to sit on before plopping down, his legs curved around the cooler.

Kurt sat down, folded his hands in his lap, "Wow me, Blaine."

Blaine nodded and slid back the lid of the cooler, "First and foremost, I have for our hydration needs, a carton of orange juice."

"Lovely." Kurt took the offered carton and settled it down at his side, "What else?"

"Course one," Blaine reached into the cooler and pulled out a Tupperware, "leftover vegetables from that dinner party complete with three different varieties of dipping sauces."

Kurt snorted, "Okay…"

"Second course," Blaine shoved the Tupperware of veggies off to the side and fished his hands down into the cooler again to pull out another Tupperware, "more dinner party leftovers. These happen to be tragically small cheesecakes."

Kurt giggled, "I like cheesecake, but I have yet to be blown away my your breakfast creating abilities, Blaine."

"I know, I saved the best for last," Blaine reached into the cooler again, this time pulling out a box, "the piece de resistance of the meal: Lucky Charms that may or may not be stale."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, "Well you certainly managed to surprise me."

"I promised I would," Blaine shoved the cooler aside, "Feel free to eat the courses out of order."

Kurt's eyes drifted over their fare, "Do I get a plate or at least a cup for my juice?"

Blaine cringed, "Forgot."

"That's fine," Kurt unscrewed the lid from the orange juice and tipped the carton up to his mouth, "This is perfect."

They ignored the vegetables entirely, fought over who got the last of the lemon cheesecake bites (Blaine licked it, Kurt still ate it), and chased handfuls of stale Lucky Charms with gulps from the orange juice carton.

Kurt lay back on the blanket, smiled up at the sun, feeling decidedly better now that he was clean and full. When he felt a familiar tickle on his face beneath the heat of the sun, "You're staring."

"You don't know that, your eyes are closed." Blaine's voice was soft.

"I can feel you looking at me," Kurt tucked a hand behind his head, "If you make a snotty remark about my hair not being done, I'll dump the rest of the orange juice on your head."

"Your hair looks perfect," Blaine was quiet for a moment, "Kurt?"

"Blaine?" Kurt smiled.

"Do you ever have…have moments where for a few seconds you see your whole life laid out in front of you?"

Kurt finally opened his eyes.

Blaine was watching him intently.

Kurt smiled a little, "I know what I want to happen, is that what you mean?"

Blaine shook his head but then stopped, "I…sort of. I mean like those moments where it's just—maybe I just want it so bad, I convince myself it's like a premonition."

Kurt frowned, "You look terribly upset for someone who wants something so bad he thinks he might be seeing the future."

Blaine's mouth twitched into a smile, "I don't like letting myself want things. I don't like getting overly excited about stuff that…if it doesn't work out, I hate that. I get—"

Kurt reached out and squeezed Blaine's ankle gently, "I know."

Blaine nodded, his eyes moving from Kurt out to the tent.

"So what is this big thing you want, hm?" Kurt brushed his fingers gently along Blaine's leg.

Blaine shook his head.

"Saying it out loud doesn't make it more or less real, Blaine. And you can't tease something like that and then expect me not to harass it out of you." Kurt made to push himself up, but Blaine stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Kurt watched him. Waited.

"I want…" Blaine was looking at him again, his eyes intense, "I want to eat stale cereal and drink orange juice out of the carton."

Kurt smiled a little, "You could make that happen."

"I want to wake up in dirty sheets and know you're there, too," Blaine still looked anxious.

Kurt's smile widened, "I could make that happen."

Blaine reached out, touched his face, "I want to be able to look at you and see you just like this for forever."

Kurt reached out, cupped his hand over Blaine's, "Blaine, you can have all of those things. I want those things, too, you don't have to worry about me going anywhere."

Blaine was still frowning. His eyes moved down to the emptied cereal box, "Forever's a long time…we're young."

"Hey, look at me," Kurt finally pushed himself upright, squeezed Blaine's hand between both of his, "You're worrying about something that isn't a problem, okay? Remember what we talked about last night?"

Blaine bit his lip, nodded.

Kurt squeezed his hand, pressed it back against his cheek, "You won't disappoint me. You can screw up as many times as you want so long as you'll forgive my shortcomings, too."

Blaine looked at him again, but he said nothing.

"You're right, we're young, we don't know anything about the world," Kurt turned his cheek, pressed a kiss to Blaine's palm and closed his fingers around it, "But I know I love you and I'll keep loving you for as long of forever as we have, okay?"

Blaine blinked back tears, his mouth turned up into a feeble smile, "You know something about the world."

"A few things, actually," Kurt teased.

"How'd I get to be with someone so wise, huh?" Blaine finally relaxed—the tension in his shoulders easing, and his smile moving up toward his eyes.

"Even wise people have a soft spot for a pretty face and a decent singing voice."

"Decent?" Blaine raised an eyebrow, "I'm more than decent."

Kurt shrugged.

Blaine picked up the juice carton and, without so much as a second's hesitation, dumped it over Kurt's head.

Kurt gasped and blinked as juice trickled down his face; drenched his collar.

Blaine stood quickly, grinning, "I know for a fact that the shirt you're wearing is actually mine and you promised to love me forever."

"Forever is going to get a lot shorter if I kill you," Kurt lunged at Blaine's legs, and, in a stroke of luck, caught hold of both and brought Blaine toppling back down to the blanket.

Blaine covered his face with his hands, "You promised to forgive me when I screw up!"

"I didn't say I wouldn't punish you first," Kurt sat down on Blaine's stomach, pried his hands off of his face.

Blaine let out a semi-hysterical giggle, "Please don't hurt me."

Kurt leaned down, suppressed a giggle when Blaine's eyes slammed shut, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before rolling off of him.

Blaine lay still, blinking, "That's it? You're not going to dump ranch in my hair? Tickle me to death? Kick me in the shins?"

"Not today," Kurt stretched out on his stomach, pulled at Blaine's arm until he could use it as a pillow, "Today your good deeds outweigh your bad."

They were both quiet for a while, summer sounds of children playing and sprinklers running lulling Kurt into a near sleep.

"Kurt?" Blaine murmured.

"If you're going to complain that your arm is going numb, I don't care," Kurt yawned.

Blaine let out a quiet breathy laugh, "No, I wanted to say thank you."

"For making your arm fall asleep?"

"For camping with me and drinking orange juice out of the carton," Blaine smiled a little, "For loving me for forever. I promise I won't always be as much of an idiot as I am now."

"The day you stop being able to talk me into letting you get away with dumping orange juice on my head and convincing me to eat ten thousand calories worth of cheesecake before ten in the morning is the day I no longer want to be with you."

"You're seriously amazing." Blaine used his arm tucked under Kurt to drag him closer.

"I'm aware," Kurt nested himself in close to Blaine's side, "Now let me sleep. It's hard enough to nap when I'm covered in orange juice without you chatting in my ear."

Blaine sighed, quiet and blissful, "I—"

"Shh, I know," Kurt pressed a hand against Blaine's chest. "Same here."

Kurt lay stretched out between three chairs in the waiting room, his head nested on his arm, a borrowed hospital blanket draped over his body.

At the doorway, people were arguing in hushed whispers.

"He can stay here, really, he's no trouble and the staff doesn't mind—"

"—Been nowhere but that chair next to his bed and this waiting room for two days, he needs to be home. He needs to actually rest—"

"—Apartment's closer. If something happens and he can't be here, it's going to crush him."

"—My son, I need to watch after him right now, if we bring him back to the house, no matter what happens, what's done is done whether he gets to the hospital in two hours or ten minutes."

"—Really, just let him stay, we don't mind, Blaine would like—"

"Blaine would like him to be healthy and this is not healthy for him."

There was a pause as everyone turned to look at him.

Kurt stared back.

"What do you want to do, Kurt?" Trip spoke up. He ignored the glare from Burt.

Kurt closed his eyes, tried to find the energy to sit up and speak. In the end, doing both things proved to be too much effort. He didn't move, "I could… I could stay here for the day and go back to the apartment tonight…Dad, you could stay with us."

The group looked around at one another, weighing how the idea settled with the others.

"It's already seven, buddy," Burt spoke up, his voice gentle, "You wanna stick around for another half hour and then head out?"

Kurt nodded. Nodding was easy. Nodding didn't require an argument.

He'd weaved his way quietly between the waiting room and Blaine's hospital room for hours that he'd given up on counting. He counted plenty of other things, though.

Forty-six chairs in the waiting room.

Thirty-seven steps to get from the waiting room to Blaine's bedside.

Thirteen Styrofoam cups of coffee turning cold wherever Kurt left them.

Five pieces of dry toast he'd dutifully swallowed down under his father's watchful gaze.

Three different nurses that came to fuss with machines.

One time the hitch in Blaine's breathing had made Kurt's heart stop.

He followed the familiar path from the waiting room to Blaine's room, took his seat beside the bed.

"Hey, you," he tried to keep his tone warm, soft.

He filled in Blaine's smile and then a puzzled frown, 'something's different.'

Kurt brushed a thumb over his own wrist, "I've been wearing your Dalton sweatshirt…your mom brought it for me. It still smells like you."

Blaine would nod, 'Ah.'

He rubbed his fingers over Blaine's knuckles, "Your hands are dry. They should really be putting some lotion on them…"

He listened to Blaine's breathing.

"They're cold, too," He wrapped Blaine's hand in both of his, "I've never gotten used to your hands being cold—they were always so warm before. Not your feet though, you've always had cold feet."

More silence.

"Remember how, after we camped out in your backyard last summer, we both fell asleep out in the grass? We got those awful sunburns and even the tops of your feet were burned, but they were still cold," Kurt closed his eyes, "That was a good day, though… one of my favorites. Yours, too, apparently. I saw it in your journal."

He opened his eyes, studied Blaine's face, "I keep trying to memorize you… I still can't remember the last time I saw my mom—the last thing I remember about her was her teaching me how to hold a teacup with my pinkie out, and its been driving me insane…"

He turned his gaze down to Blaine's too dry, too cold hand, "but maybe…maybe I don't want to remember you like this either, maybe I want to remember you sleeping with your mouth open in that tent in your backyard—can I go out of order like that?"

He filled Blaine raising his eyebrows, shrugging a little, 'You can do whatever you want to do.'

He nodded to himself, "Maybe I will."

He traced the sleeve of Blaine's hospital gown, rolled the thin fabric between his thumb and index finger, "I just… I keep thinking of that day. Y-you told me you had that vision of your whole life laid out—you thought—maybe you're right, maybe it's just because I want it so much, but I keep seeing that, too."

He paused, "I just…I feel like we're getting so cheated. I—I want to eat cold take out with you and dance with you and let you take me camping for real. I…I want to fight with you and make up with you and have awful days just so going home to you is even better than it is on a normal day. I want a life with you. There's so much of forever left for us, Blaine."

Blaine wouldn't know what to say to that. There was nothing Kurt could color in.

Kurt took in a breath, let it out, "I'm sorry, this isn't… this shouldn't be about me."

Another pause.

"I'm supposed to be going home tonight…could you maybe…could you try to be here when I come back tomorrow? I know I said you could—but I just—please be here in the morning," Kurt pulled Blaine hand back into his, " I… I hope you aren't hurting… I hope you're not scared. Don't be scared, alright? There's always someone in here to hold your hand. You won't be alone."

There was a soft knock from the doorway, Kurt recognized his father's voice, "Hey, bud, you about ready to go?"

Kurt pressed another kiss to Blaine's palm—like the hours, he'd lost track of the number of kisses he'd placed there—and lowered it back to the bed, "I love you."

He turned and left the room with his father.

He didn't look back.

The hours between arriving back at the apartment and the rushed trip back to the hospital all bled together.

David murmured something about more flowers—if Kurt wanted to shred them apart, they were in Dave's room.

Kurt declined the offer with a quiet plea not to see them at all.

Burt sat on the couch with him, the television off, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, the other around Kurt's shoulders.

At some point they had gotten out of the car—Trip had cursed the ice and the landlord who hadn't put salt down. Burt had reprimanded his language.

Carol had kissed Burt, Kurt, and Trip goodbye, told them she'd have her phone beside her all night.

At some point there had been another piece of toast shoved into his hand that he may or may not have eaten. He couldn't remember.

However the time went—if Carol said goodbye at the hospital or came along to the apartment, if he'd eaten (or not eaten) in the car or in the kitchen, if the memory of sitting on the couch with his father was old and not a part of the evening at all—all Kurt knew was that it ended in his bed, where he eventually slept, deep and hard.

He must have slept, because in order to wake up, there had to have been actual sleep…right?

He opened his eyes and stared into the dark. Something had woken him up. He rifted through his memories—he'd had no dreams; he'd slept the deep, heavy slumber of someone drugged (so it had to be real sleep, he assured himself). He checked his phone—no missed calls; no wrongly set alarm. He was just…awake. He looked again at his phone—2:57.

He got up and went to the bathroom; turned on the shower. He wasn't sure why he was awake, but he was sure he wouldn't be falling back asleep. He turned his phone up loud and left it on the floor just outside the shower before climbing in behind the curtain. He washed himself slowly; the smell of Blaine's cologne slid off his skin with the suds and swirled around his toes before disappearing down the drain. He toweled off; fixed his hair; wandered back out into his room.

He moved with all the quiet of a cat—smooth, almost choreographed movements from his vanity to his closet to his mirror. He chose his outfit on autopilot—a white, tight shirt; dark jeans; a black vest. He sat at his vanity and stared into his drawer of accessories. He pulled out a few broaches that would go with his outfit—a pretty, silver key; something with an intricate little web of chains; a black spider—he toyed with them; ran his fingers over their edges, but in the end replaced them all and rifled through the rest. He pulled out the rose gold feather.

It didn't match.

He put it on.

He tucked his phone into his pocket and sat down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he wished he had agreed to go back to his home in Lima where Finn and Carol were. Where he could go to Finn's room and knock on the door and be greeted by a sleep mussed, confused Finn.

But it wouldn't be like in high school. Finn would probably still let him come in. He'd still sit in the chair in the corner and yawn and blink and wait for Kurt to tell him what was wrong, but it still wouldn't be the same. The room would devoid of the usual Finn mess of videogames and dirtied plates on the floor—the posters and pillows gone to his dorm room at school. The room would be different, the problems different. It would only make things worse to be back in the house where things had been so hard but so easy.

. He pushed himself up off his bed and out the door. He closed the door noiselessly and moved across the family room—a perfect ghost as he passed his sleeping father. He found himself in the kitchen. Everything was so quiet… Trip and David curled up in Dave's bed together, his father so exhausted from the past week, that Kurt could have probably slammed his door and not received a reaction. But still, he worked to not disturb those who could still sleep.

He moved automatically—pulled the coffee grounds and a filter from the pantry; plugged in the coffee pot. He listened to the hiss of the water heating and soon the familiar heady scent filled his nose. He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it limply at his side while he watched the pot fill silently. It sputtered and steamed long after it was done brewing, and Kurt remained still; closed his eyes; inhaled deeply.

He heard the groan of the wood floor and then the snap of a switch. Suddenly, the kitchen was bathed in light, "Kurt, it's three in the morning, what are you doing up?"

Kurt turned to face his father; he blinked against the sudden brightness in the room.

Burt's eyes drifted down to Kurt's hand and then quickly back up to his eyes; his face suddenly looked strained, "Did something happen?"

Kurt looked down at his phone, too. He shook his head slowly, but his heart was suddenly pounding too hard against his ribs. His movements felt…foggy.

"So what are you doing up, bud?" Burt walked over to the cupboard and pulled out two mugs. He filled them both from the pot and set them on the counter, but Kurt remained where he was.

"You wanna have a seat and talk about it?" Burt sat down and pushed the stool out beside him. He met Kurt's eyes and frowned; concern laced his voice, "Hey, Kurt, you're crying—what—"

Kurt's phone lit up in his hand; the automated notes of I Can't Help Falling In Love, soft and sweet, split the quiet of the room in half.

He answered the call and raised it to his ear with a shaky hand, "Hello?"

Burt watched him with bated breath. He tried to guess at what the person on the other side of the call was saying, but the task proved near impossible because Kurt wasn't saying anything at all. Burt settled for reading his body language, but that proved even harder. His shoulders were shaking and his face was ashy white.

"I'll be there soon." Kurt finally whispered. He lowered the phone from his ear without saying goodbye. He didn't look at Burt; he looked around the kitchen like he wasn't entirely sure where he was.

Burt Hummel was not a crier. Okay, maybe he'd gotten a little misty eyed during Rudy once, but the last time he'd really cried had been the night of his wife's funeral. He'd sat in Kurt's little twin bed with him and held him. When he'd been sure Kurt was lost to the safety of his unconscious, he had let himself cry. He'd been careful to be quiet about it. But he could still feel the lump in his throat; the sting of tears burning his eyes; Kurt's warm little body pressed close to his side and his hand wound around a handful of his shirt to assure he wouldn't lose his father to the night, too.

But now here he was, years later, and that same tightness pulled at his throat; tears slid warm and slow down his cheeks as he waited for Kurt to say something; do something, "Kurt—"

"Will you, um," Kurt still wasn't looking at him; his voice shook, "Could you d-drive me to the hospital?"

Burt got up immediately. He found the keys and one of Kurt's jackets. Kurt was standing beside the front door; he swayed on his feet as though he were near fainting.

"Here, bud, put this on," Burt quietly held out the jacket toward his son. The coat was a loud, sunny shade of yellow and Burt wished he had had the foresight to at least pick something more subdued, but it had been the first jacket-like thing he'd seen in the hall closet. It looked all wrong around Kurt—cheerful and vibrant against Kurt's shaking little frame.

He ushered him into the hall and left him outside the elevator, "I'm going to write a note for Trip and David, alright? You hang tight."

He moved back into the apartment, glancing over his shoulder twice to make sure Kurt was still there.

Once he was back inside, he searched frantically for a piece of paper. In the end, he unfolded a paper crane he found sitting on top of the refrigerator and scribbling out an explanation of their disappearance and his phone number as fast as he could. Leaving Kurt alone for too long made something anxious twist in his stomach.

But his fear was without warrant, when he got back to the hall, Kurt was still there, leaning against the wall.

Once Burt had managed to maneuver Kurt through the steps of getting on the elevator, crossing the parking lot—and god dammit, Trip was right, they really needed to put some salt down—and into car, he turned to face Kurt again, "You hanging in there, buddy?"

Kurt gave a small nod, shivered.

Burt blasted the heat—when it blew a burst of icy air into their faces, he cursed, but Kurt didn't react; didn't even flinch away.

"It'll heat up pretty quick," Burt offered only to fill the silence as he backed out of the garage and into the dark.

There was no answer from the passenger's seat.

After a few miles, the cab of the car was finally heated, but Kurt remained stoic—his face unreadable and his hands folded quietly in his lap. Burt reached over to turn on the radio and glanced at his son again to try and gauge if the sound would be considered an obstruction to whatever was passing through Kurt's head. When Kurt's eyes only remained focused straight ahead, he decided it was worth the risk.

Kurt blinked at the radio, startled for a moment from his daze, "I…"

Burt looked over at him quickly, "You what?"

Kurt closed his eyes tight, clenched his hands in his lap. Burt had to turn down the music to hear him speak, "I need…I, if I don't s-see for m-myself, it's not—it's not real. I don't…I have to see."

Burt clenched his teeth, "I'm getting you there as fast as I can, alright? I promise I'll get you there, just hold on."

When they pulled into the parking lot, Kurt didn't get out right away. He closed his eyes; folded his hands even tighter. If Burt didn't know any better, he could have sworn Kurt was praying.

Kurt opened his eyes slowly. He unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the car without so much as a sideways glance.

Burt followed behind him, but it became an increasingly difficult task in the icy parking lot. A fresh coat of snow was falling; silent and sparkling in the orange glow of the lights; it stuck to Kurt's hair, but he made no attempt to brush it off.

The closer Kurt got to the hospital, the faster he walked. By the time he got inside, he was stumbling up the steps in a half jog.

Burt chased after him, prepared to catch him the second he fell apart, but, despite his sudden clumsiness and shaking hands, Kurt made it all the way up.

The nurse at the front station smiled tiredly when Kurt moved past her and further down the hall.

Wait…smiled?

Burt contemplated stopping and berating her. Telling her not everyone wants a goddamn smile when they're stumbling into the hospital at three thirty in the morning, but Kurt was already at Blaine's door and Burt couldn't let himself risk not being there when he saw whatever was in the room.

He jogged the last stretch of hall, but it was too late. Kurt was inside.

He rushed through the door; breathless and a little too warm and dreading what came next.

He had known he wouldn't be able to prepare himself for a moment like this. He had known he'd never be able to wrap his head around the level of feeling this would cause. Still, what he saw in the dim light of the hospital room was not even a shadow of what he had expected, what he'd been bracing himself for for weeks.

The Anderson's were sitting in the same spot they had always occupied on the near side of the bed, their backs to Burt, their bodies huddled close together—John's arm tight around Elizabeth's shoulders and his head resting against hers.

Kurt was sobbing; hard, loud sounds that shook his entire body—he was trying to say something, but his whole body was invested in his tears and apparently had no room for words. He held one of Blaine's hands between both of his; pressed it to his chest hard as though he needed him physically close just to keep his own heart beating.

The world felt fuzzy or too slow or too something…dream like. Yes, that was it. And maybe it was a dream because this image didn't make sense; it couldn't make sense.

Burt tried to replay the past couple hours in his mind—Kurt in the kitchen with that broken, knowing look in his eyes; Kurt's hands unmoving and dead in his lap on the car ride over; tripping up the steps. The nurse smiling when she should have been crying, too...but now that didn't feel like the most incongruent piece of the story anymore—not with Kurt sobbing and the lights low and the air thick with so many feelings.

No, the strangest part was Blaine. Too small Blaine with IVs in his arms and his head still bandaged and his eyes; Oh God, his eyes…

"I'm here; I'm right here." Kurt pressed Blaine's hand to his mouth and then to his cheek. He tried to steady his breathing and still the tears. When they just kept coming, he turned his cheek closer into Blaine's palm, but he stared hard down at the boy in the bed as though looking away for even a second would mean never looking back. He let out a sound caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh and Burt realized he had indeed missed something—something that cemented the picture in place; made it real.

The hand against Kurt's cheek moved. Infinitesimal little twitches so that pads of fingers pressed in closer, tried to form to the contours of Kurt's face…no, that wasn't it. They were trying to brush away tears. The tears kept falling and the movements only made more come, but still the fingers moved in little jerks, small and careful.

Kurt let out another broken sounding laugh. Elizabeth and John kept looking between the bed and one another, but Kurt's attention never faltered.

Kurt pressed a hand tight over the top of Blaine's, the other one still curved around his wrist, holding Blaine in place, cementing him against his skin, "I'm here. I'm right here, I'm still here, we're still here—I love you, I love you, do you know how much? I love you."

Kurt kissed fingers and knuckles and every spot of skin he could, blind to where his lips fell, but not seeming to care.

Burt swallowed hard as he stepped in even closer and felt something akin to dizziness wash over him. He hooked a hand carefully over the end of the bed, a little afraid of falling.

Blaine's mouth was quiet, as was the rest of his body, but Kurt didn't seem to be paying any mind to the bed or the mouth or quiet feet and hands.

He was staring into eyes.

Wet eyes,

Tired eyes,

Muddled, confused eyes,

Eyes saying more than a mouth ever could,

Because they stared back into Kurt's.

Because they were Blaine's.

That was message enough.