Chapter 8

The storm is coming, but I don't mind

People are dying, I close my blinds

Kurt had seen Blaine's surgery marked on a white board when he'd gone to fetch coffee for himself and Elizabeth. "B. Anderson., Craniotomy, Dr. Cameron/Dr. Borgia, 7:00, OR3". He had stopped in his tracks to stare up at the sloppy green writing tucked between an L. Rodriguez having a tracheotomy performed and a C. Cornell having a laminectomy. Two hours. Two hours until B. Anderson in OR3 was a reality. He barely registered the white lab coats that paused beside him to stare up at the board with equal fascination before turning on their heel and moving on with the early morning rush. He watched as a nurse strode up and erased an N. Ledens from a slot below Blaine's. He wondered briefly if the surgery had been cancelled or if something had happened to the patient but then quickly stifled the thought.

All in a days work for the people here, he assured himself and tore his eyes away from the board to hurry back to Blaine's room, the Styrofoam cups were quickly cooling in his hands. He balanced a cup precariously atop the other while he turned the handle and carefully pushed the door open.

Everything was exactly the way he had left it down to the air in the room that seemed to hum with tension.

Blaine held a grey plastic hand mirror; he tilted it slowly side to side, regarding the top of his head as though trying to commit it to memory.

At her son's request, Elizabeth had scavenged for the mirror until one of the nurses had produced one from a desk drawer along with an electric razor. She had returned to the room, pulled a chair silently to the center of the floor and regarded Blaine sadly. Blaine had slipped out of his hospital bed—a visible shudder shaking his shoulders when his bare feet touched cold linoleum—and shuffled over to sit down. His mother handed him the mirror wordlessly and moved to stand behind him; one hand held the razor limply at her side, the other squeezed his shoulder, "Whenever you're ready."

It had been nearly twenty minutes since Kurt left the room, and still Blaine stared into the silvery glass.

Elizabeth met Kurt's eyes and he saw the hurt there; the torture at having to be the one to do this to her son. Her hand dropped from Blaine's shoulder to take the offered cup with a quiet voice, "Thank you."

Kurt watched Blaine quietly before turning his gaze back to Elizabeth. She was clutching the cup close to her chest, watching Blaine with nearly heartbroken eyes.

Kurt set his own cup down on the window ledge, "Let me."

She and Blaine both looked at him with surprise. She hesitated for the briefest of moments, "… are you sure—"

"I'm positive," Kurt extended a hand toward her.

She rolled the thing in her hand; testing the feel of it there for one more minute before handing it over to Kurt.

"Could you go call Dad again, Mom?" Blaine murmured. It was the nicest way he could think to ask her to leave.

She looked even more reluctant, "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Blaine nodded.

She moved to stand in front of him, stroke a tentative hand through his dark curls and press a kiss to the top of his head. She stepped out quickly, but Kurt didn't miss the tears already slipping down her cheeks as she made her way to the door.

Kurt stood silently beside Blaine's chair. He swayed a little on his feet from near exhaustion, but remained as still he could.

Blaine lowered the mirror and rubbed his eyes—despite his nearly daylong sleep, he had remained as restless as Kurt throughout the night; falling into fitful naps only to wake disoriented and frightened. He stared down at the grey plastic back of the mirror until his vision blurred with tears. He clasped a hand over his mouth when a sob hitched in his throat.

Kurt knelt down in front of him. He lay the razor down on the ground and rested both hands on Blaine's knees, "Hey."

Blaine brushed the tears from his cheeks roughly, "I'm sorry; I know this is petty and stupid and I—"

"It's not stupid," Kurt squeezed his knees.

Blaine lifted the mirror again and touched his other hand to his head; traced the space between his ear and hairline.

"Your hair grows faster than anyone I know," Kurt assured him, "It'll be grown back in by, like, tomorrow."

"Chemo." Blaine stated bluntly.

"Some people don't lose their hair from chemo," Kurt folded his arms across Blaine's lap and rested his chin on them, "but if you do, then we'll just have to wait for it to come back when you're in remission."

There was a long pause. Blaine rested a hand on Kurt's head and continued to stare into the mirror. Kurt remained quiet; waiting.

"You'll still love me when I'm as bald as Chris Daughtry?" Blaine finally broke the silence. He tried to make his tone light, but his mouth was set in a frown and his voice wavered.

Kurt smiled up at him, "I happen to think Chris Daughtry is very cute."

Blaine met Kurt's eyes for a brief second before looking away again, unconvinced. He blinked back a fresh set of tears that were already stinging the corners of his eyes and making his throat tight, "Let's just get this over with."

Kurt didn't move right away, he watched the sad look on Blaine's face and made a decision. He took in a deep breath, and when he let it out, his voice came out with it; quiet but steady, "I remember when my mother's hair fell out."

Blaine immediately looked up to meet his eyes again.

Kurt wanted to look away, the memory of his mother paired with looking into Blaine's familiar honey colored eyes was overwhelming, but he held his gaze as best he could, "She had beautiful hair—she used to buy those little packs of colored barrettes just so I could brush her hair and put them in all over the place; she even let me put one in my hair once when we were having a day for just the two of us," Kurt stood slowly, picking the razor up off the ground as he got to his feet, "After her hair was gone, she started buying those little jewels with the sticky backs, and we'd decorate bandanas for her to wear."

Kurt reached out and pressed his hand into Blaine's hair like he had so many times before. He memorized the feeling of his fingers getting tangled in those dark curls before retracting his hand and moving to stand behind Blaine, all the while talking, reliving that moment with his mother in the bathroom. There were times he forgot the feeling of her arms around him or what she looked like when she smiled, but over the hum of the razor as he clicked it on, he could smell the faint chemical scent of drying nail polish and feel the carpet of his parent's room beneath his legs. He continued talking as the first dark locks fell to the ground beside his feet.

All that I know is

I'm breathing now

He was lying on the floor, his feet kicked up in the air above him so he could admire the polish his mother had put on his toes without him even needing to ask. He had sat quietly at her side while she had applied a pretty shade of pink to her own toes.

"Your father thinks this color was made for sixteen year old girls," She told him with a conspiratorial smile, "he says it looks like bubble gum."

"I like it," Kurt leaned in even closer to watch, "it looks happy."

Her smile widened, "I think it does, too."

She had finished her final coat and then lifted his feet into her lap without explanation and unscrewed the cap on the little glass bottle once again. He'd watched with sheer delight as she touched the brush to each of his toes carefully before blowing on them.

He remained as still as he could, ever mindful of his shiny pink nails, while she did her make up in the bathroom. It was her and his father's date night—a night Kurt both loathed and adored. He hated being left at one of his dad's friend's houses where he was condemned to playing with Tonka trucks and answering endless questions about why he didn't want to join a baseball team, but he lived for sitting in the bathroom doorway and watching his mother get ready. She would spill out her make up bag across the counter, turn on a CD, and sing to him while she curled her hair and put on her mascara. He loved poking through the tubes and bottles on the counter and helping her zip the back of her dress, but most of all he loved listening to her sing.

He rubbed at his face when the scent of hairspray tickled his nose and closed his eyes while he listened to the sweet sound of her voice. He knew the sounds of her getting ready—unscrewing the lids from eye shadow containers, a brush running through her hair, the spritz of her perfume bottle; the plug of the curling iron being shoved into the outlet.

He took comfort in the familiar routine until a soft gasp broke the normal flow of sound and then her voice, trembling, "Kurt, honey, could you go get your father for me?"

"Why?" He opened his eyes and rolled onto his stomach to look at her; she had one hand clasped over the back of her head, the other closed tightly against her chest.

"Please, honey, just do it for mommy. Tell him to come up here," She didn't look at him; her eyes were glued to her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and squinted at her clasped hand where familiar tendrils of warm brown hair peaked out over the edges of her fingers. His eyes went wide and he scrambled to his feet. He tripped over himself trying to get to the stairs, "Dad! Dad! Mom needs you quick!"

"What's wrong? What happened?" Burt was rushing up the steps before Kurt could even make it to the first landing.

"I don't know, I think," Kurt tried to catch a breath in his tight chest as he turned around to dash after his father back into the bedroom, "I-I think something happened to her hair."

Burt slowed his pace. A look passed over his face—sad; calm—as he made his way to the bathroom. She was leaned against the counter much the same way Kurt had left her, but her eyes were wet and red.

Kurt peaked around the doorway; frightened and confused as his parents gazed at one another.

Burt gently took hold of his wife's wrist and pulled her hand down from its place on her head.

Kurt bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out in despair over the bald patch of skin where a lovely wave of brown hair had once been, but his father had no such reaction. He used both hands to tip his wife's head down and pressed a kiss to the spot.

To Kurt's utter shock, when his mother tipped her head back up, though her eyes were still wet, she smiled at her husband; squeezed both his hands between hers, "Will you help me get rid of the rest of it? I don't want to walk around with just one big patch missing."

And so, with music still playing and Kurt lying on the floor rubbing a finger over one of his ruined toenails, his parents had set to work cutting her hair and murmuring stories to one another Kurt could not quite hear.

It was like any other date night. His father teased his mother about the number of heels she tried on; she chided him for spoiling his dinner when he went to get a snack out of the cupboard; they both admired Kurt's toes after his mother mended the ruined one with a fresh coat of paint. The only difference of the night was that, when it came time to leave the house, Kurt was brought along to dinner.

I want to change the world, instead I sleep.

I want to believe in more than you and me.

The silence seemed strangely loud when Kurt clicked off the razor. Blaine sat stock still, his eyes directed at the wall.

Kurt walked around the chair and reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from Blaine's shoulder, "You know what the strange thing is?"

Blaine shook his head, but his eyes went down to his lap. He had his arms folded across his middle tightly as though he felt naked; exposed.

"After that very first time, I didn't really notice that her hair was gone," Kurt tilted his head; smiled, "I always thought it was her hair that made her so beautiful to me, but it wasn't. It was just… her."

Blaine looked up at him again, his eyes misty and his jaw set tight.

Kurt cupped Blaine's face in his hands and pressed a kiss to the top of his head before pulling away to look into his eyes, "It's the same for you, too. I'm looking at you and nothing's different."

Blaine's hand came up to catch the back of Kurt's neck; he pulled him in and kissed him deeply; his voice shook as he broke away from the kiss, "Thank you."

Kurt tipped his forehead in against Blaine's. They remained that way—heads touching and hands clutched together—until Elizabeth was slipping back in the door. Her hand clenched down a little tighter around her phone—the only sign of distress Kurt could note—before she moved over to Blaine and pulled him into a tight hug.

Kurt stood quietly by while Elizabeth held her son close and murmured quiet things that Kurt was sure she had whispered to Blaine as a little boy when he awoke from a nightmare, "Sweet boy, darling boy; Everything is going to be all right."

Kurt swallowed down the knot he could feel forming in his throat, and, in the end, looked away from the display of affection until it had passed.

They sat together and talked as the minutes until seven ticked by too quickly.

"Your father will be on the next plane home," Elizabeth had spoken assuredly, as though her husband's mere presence would somehow make things easier.

Blaine had nodded his head absently; a hand constantly going up to touch the side of his head.

Kurt watched the clock religiously until it was time. The minutes seemed to flow to quickly; sand between Kurt's fingers until, all at once, he wasn't sitting in the metal folding chair picking at the peeling blue paint on the leg; he was walking alongside Blaine's bed, trying to look calm and collected as they halted at the doors of the OR.

"This is our stop," the intern pushing the bed smiled pleasantly at Kurt and Elizabeth, signaling them to say their goodbyes and clear out of his way.

Elizabeth leaned down and kissed Blaine's forehead. For once, she didn't have to rub away a lipstick print; her makeup had been gone from within the hour she had first entered the hospital, "Mommy loves you, sweetheart; I'll be with you again as soon as I can, all right?"

In any other circumstance, Blaine would have groaned over his mother's coddling; rolled his eyes at her sentimentality. Instead he looked up at her with frightened eyes and nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

When Kurt reached out a hand, Blaine's fingers locked so tightly around his it hurt; his voice trembled as he looked up at him, "I'm scared."

Me too. Kurt forced a smile; squeezed Blaine's hand back gently, "Don't be."

Blaine didn't lessen the strength of his grip, "I… I love you."

"I know you do," Kurt knew that tone. It was a just-in-case-I-can't-say-it-again sentiment; a sad message offered when one fears the worst. Kurt pulled Blaine's hand up to his mouth and brushed a quick kiss across his knuckles, "And I expect you to tell me again when this is all over."

Blaine's hold on his hand loosened just a little; the smallest of smiles shadowed his mouth, "You're not going to tell me you love me too?"

"No, I'm not." Kurt wanted terribly to press a kiss to Blaine's mouth; sob the words out a thousand times over, but instead he settled for just holding his hand a little bit tighter, "I'll tell you after the surgery."

Blaine tried for a better smile, "I'll see you later?"

Kurt gave Blaine's hand one last squeeze in answer, but as soon as his palm was cold and empty and the doors were swinging closed, he felt a twist of anxiety in his chest; a sensation that only grew stronger as he and Elizabeth were led to a waiting area. He sat a few chairs down from her and slumped low in the seat. He tried to slip into a nap, but, despite his exhaustion, sleep would not find him. He opened his eyes and looked over at Elizabeth.

She was entirely her own person apart from her husband and her son: green eyes, blond hair the color of honey; only her tiny frame insinuated her DNA had had anything to do with Blaine's creation. He had always been a smaller carbon copy of his father in Kurt's eyes, but, watching her in the waiting room, Kurt couldn't help but note the way the set of her shoulder's matched Blaine's when he was stressed, the same tired expression, the same frown line between her eyebrows. Looking down at her hands, though, he is reminded of his father in a similar waiting room with similar limp, defeated hands hanging off the armrests of his chair.

But all that I know is I'm breathing.

All I can do is keep breathing.

All we can do is keep breathing now.

He hadn't wanted to bring anything with to the hospital, nor had he wanted to lay a finger on his breakfast that morning. But, at his mother's request, he had nibbled at the edge of a waffle and brought the coloring book and crayons along with for the long wait ahead.

Kurt splayed out on his stomach on the floor, but as he flipped through the black and white pages of the book, he was uninspired. His thoughts were on his mother. His mother who he had last seen on a hospital bed, blowing him a kiss as she was pushed away through sliding doors, leaving him to wait with his father. Kurt had strained his ears to listen when his parents and the doctor had first spoken to one another before she was wheeled away, but it was no use, even the words he could hear meant nothing to him. Kurt didn't know what an ICU was. He didn't know what a mastectomy was. He knew surgeries meant cutting people open and that fact alone, no matter how many stickers the doctor offered him or how often his mother kissed away his tears, terrified little Kurt Hummel. He paused on a picture of Belle—his mother's very favorite princess— and decided that it would have to do.

"Color me a picture with as many crayons as you can," she had told him that morning from her seat in the car, "I want to hang it by my bed and look at it all the time after the surgery."

He started the slow process of selecting colors that could go together. A cerulean blue, a shade of orange that looked like sunsets; a lavender the same shade as the sweater his mother had been wearing that morning. On and on he lined up the crayons and started to color in the dress; the books on the shelves; the talking candlestick. He was slow and careful to stay within the lines, but even after the picture was finished, no one had come for them.

He got to his feet with every intention of showing off his project, but upon looking at his father, he was suddenly unsure. Burt was slumped low in his seat, his shoulders hunched and his hands dangling limp off the end of the armrests. Kurt thought he looked…scared. But no, his father did not get scared so he must have misread the expression. He approached hesitantly all the same and held out the picture without a word.

Burt had to rub his eyes and shake his head before he could smile at his son, "That's real nice, Kurt. You did great."

Kurt turned the picture to inspect himself, "Do you think mommy will like it?"

"Yeah, buddy," Burt swallowed hard, "I'm sure your mom will love it."

Kurt nodded, reassured. He smiled at his father, "You can color one for her, too, if you want. You can pick any of the pictures… well, not the Prince Eric one, but any of the others."

"That… that's okay, kiddo," Burt set his jaw; bit his lip.

"Dad?" Kurt spoke timidly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, not sure of what to make of his father's demeanor.

His father suddenly reached out to him and pulled him gruffly onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around him tightly and nuzzled his chin into Kurt's hair.

"Dad?" Kurt spoke again; nervous tears burned his eyes as he tried to look up at his father's face.

"I just need to hold onto you for a bit, okay buddy?" His voice sounded strange—tight and choked. Not at all the calm laughing notes Kurt was used to.

"Sure," Kurt whispered. At first he remained tense on his father's lap, but gradually he relaxed, melting into the contact and letting the previous tension that he hadn't even realized was there melt from his neck and back. He held the picture to his chest with one hand and gripped his father's arm with the other. Despite his fears, despite his confusion and the sudden upheaval of his life, Kurt felt safe; anchored in his father's arms.

All that I know is I'm breathing

All I can do is keep breathing

He watched Elizabeth for a moment longer before getting up out of his seat and crossing the room. He slipped down into the seat beside her and caught her hand in his before he could over think the matter.

She startled and looked down at their clasped hands with hazy eyes, but she did not let go. She looked up to his face; met his eyes.

"Sometimes it's nice to just have someone to hold onto," Kurt spoke quietly in response to her questioning gaze.

She studied his face before looking back down to their hands, "You know, we never knew how lonely he had been until after he met you."

It was Kurt's turn to be surprised; confused. He waited quietly for her to continue, but she didn't. Instead, she squeezed her hand tighter around his and went back to staring toward the doorway.

The minutes turned into hours, and Kurt's hand remained fitted in Elizabeth's. Neither one of them spoke.

They watched people pass the doorway— a pair of doctors talking and drinking coffee; nurses with armloads of charts; a patient pushing an IV stand—finally a familiar face underneath a blue surgeon's cap turned into the room; smiled at both of them.

Elizabeth finally released Kurt's hands as she clambered to her feet, "How is he?"

"Do you mind if I talk about this in front of him?" Dr. Cameron motioned a hand toward Kurt.

"Of course not," Elizabeth paled, "Did something happen? Is he all right?"

The doctor nodded quickly, "Oh, yes, he's in the ICU recovering; I just didn't want to relay any information you preferred to keep private."

"Consider him family," Kurt looked over at her in surprise, but she wasn't looking at him; her attention was fully on the doctor.

"He did well," Dr. Cameron began again, "the tumor was, however, bigger than we had originally anticipated and the borders of it weren't well defined, but we got out the majority of it."

"What about the rest?" Elizabeth pressed.

"We're about as positive as we can be that it's cancer, but we'll run some tests anyway. Then we'll do a combination of radiation and chemotherapy as soon as he's recovered from the operation to take care of it; if for some reason the cancer's still too aggressive, we can do a second surgery, but lets focus on right now," the doctor smiled, "He won't be allowed any visitors for the next twenty four hours or so. I suggest you both go home. Shower, rest; get something to eat, it'll do you both good."

"He's my son, I can't just leave him here." Elizabeth looked over the doctor's shoulder toward the door as though she might be able to sneak around him and run to Blaine's bedside.

"He's in perfectly capable hands, Mrs. Anderson, and you'll do him more good if you're well rested," the doctor touched a comforting hand to her arm, "We'll call you immediately if anything changes in his condition."

She nodded reluctantly and watched him leave the room, moving on to another surgery, another family to soothe.

Kurt had wanted to protest as well—insist that he'd never be able to sleep or eat anyway if he were to leave—but his words stuck in his throat and he remained mute and hurting. He felt a soft, delicate hand brush the back of his.

"Leave me your phone number; I'll call you as soon as we find out anything," Elizabeth pulled a little address book from her purse and handed it over to Kurt.

He threw her a grateful look before neatly printing his number in one of the lined pages and handing it back.

"Thank you, Kurt; for everything," her fingers closed over his almost imperceptibly for a moment and then she was gone out the door; her heels tapping down the linoleum and out of earshot.

Kurt followed in her wake, turning to look at the OR schedule only long enough to register that Blaine's name had been erased. Despite having almost no memory of entering the hospital, Kurt weaved around cars on autopilot until he stood in front of familiar black exterior of his Navigator. He climbed into the driver's seat and realized his previously rain-soaked clothes had dried stiff and wrinkled against his body. He pulled at the hem of his shirt for a moment before giving up the endeavor and pushing the key into the ignition. His driving was punchy at best—he flew through intersections so fast his head snapped back against the headrest with a thwack, only to be lurched forward again when he hit the breaks too hard at stop lights. His hands gripped the wheel too tight and he felt his empty stomach twisting in knots.

The further he got from the hospital, from the past twenty four hours that felt too horrible, too nightmarish, to possibly have been real, the more he felt his careful resolve crumbling. Blaine was sick just like Kurt's mother had been. Blaine was unconscious somewhere in a hospital room with his head freshly sewn back together. Kurt tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. His lips felt chapped. The fog of his day lifted like a drug-induced haze, revealing more and more: imperfections and aches that looked too sharp; ideas that burned too brightly, too loudly in his ears. Blaine was sick. Blaine was sick. Blaine was sick.

He pulled into his driveway, drained and trembling. He had ignored every text message and call sent his way until a drained battery had finally turned the screen black for good. He would have hours of explaining to do—to the Warblers, his friends, his father— but Kurt couldn't bring himself to care. His eye settled on the familiar blue duffle bag sitting in the passenger's seat. Kurt pulled it over into his lap and carefully pulled the contents out until he was holding the wrinkled white suit shirt in his hands; feeling the soft fabric beneath his fingers. It couldn't have all just happened so fast. It was not possible for he and Blaine to have been playing beside Nick's pool and then to have Blaine coming out of brain surgery barely forty-eight hours later. It was too much; too dark, too macabre a notion to set down in the lives of teenagers. Kurt shoved the shirt gruffly back into the bag before scrambling from his car, too claustrophobic in the closed off space of the Navigator. He walked on weary feet to the front door and slipped into the house.

The door had barely slammed shut when his father rounded the corner, his face already set in a furious scowl, "Where the hell have you been? We've been worried sick looking for you! You didn't answer your phone, we couldn't even get a hold of Blaine to see if he knew where—"

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered; seeing his father sent another deep fault line through him.

His father's scowl slowly softened then morphed into a look of anxious concern as he took in Kurt's wrinkled clothes and pale face, "Hey, you look like you've been hit by a truck. What happened?"

Seeing that face—the face that had comforted him through this process already once before—sent the final line through Kurt's careful exterior and shattered the whole thing; his voice came out a strangled sob, "Dad."

Without so much as a second question, Burt rushed to him, gathered him in his arms and hugged him tight.

Kurt sobbed into his embrace and clutched at his father's shirt; he wanted to tell him everything—about the parking lot, the waiting room, the surgery; Blaine—but all that would come out was a nearly incoherent sob, "I just need you t-to h-h-hold m-me f-for a little b-b-b-bit."

"As long as you need, buddy," His father hugged him closer, "I can stay right here as long as you need."

All we can do is keep breathing

now