They let Blaine fall back into well-needed sleep and Cooper watches as Kurt finally allows himself to drift off too. In sleep they look much the same, two pieces of one whole, their eyes smudged with dark bruises of worry and exhaustion.


Much later the others arrive, Blaine wakes again and they crank the bed up so he can see everyone without cricking his neck. The come in in pairs, like Noah's Ark, so as not to crowd the room. The girls simply huddle and press mumbled expressions of relief against his forehead, wandering eyes across the room desperately try to avoid the gaps in Blaine's anatomy. Rachel's speeches of overcoming difficulties are hushed by Mercedes and Tina only presses her lips together, trying not to cry.


Artie comes in alone and rolls up to his bedside, holding eye contact with Kurt rather than Blaine.


“How you holding up buddy?” he asks, to both of them.


“Yeah, I'm pretty tired,” Blaine says, softly, Kurt nods in agreement but mouths apologies and thanks across the bed in the hope that Artie might catch how grateful he is for pulling him through this far.


“They'll get you out soon,” Artie expresses, pushing his glasses further up his nose, “I know hospital's suck but they just want to make sure your okay and then as soon as they trust it, they'll let you go.”


“We're staying here a little longer,” Kurt explains to Blaine, taking his hand, eyes caressing him, “We've got a little rented house, so you don't have to move to quick, just for a week or so and me you and Cooper and Dad and Carole,” he rambles off, Blaine watches him with wild eyes, “and whoever you want, your parents can come down and visit, no pressure.”


“They're not going to come,” Blaine says, coldly.


“Of course they are, at the weekend, later,” Kurt adds, squeezing his hand a little tighter, “they couldn't get out of work but you'll see.”


“My Dad didn't come in for two days after the accident,” Artie admits, “he was just scared. Sometimes they need a little time.”


“Is Sam coming?” Blaine asks, already too raw emotionally to really address Artie's admission. Kurt offers him a empathetic nod of the head but Artie shrugs and adjusts a suspender across his shoulder, before ducking his head at Blaine's question, “What?” Blaine repeats, seeing this, “Did he get hurt too?”


“No, no, honey,” Kurt says, quickly, scrambling so he can press a hand against Blaine cheek, calming his frantic eyes and the jolt of his neck as he tries to sit up, “He's fine.”


“He just needs some time,” Artie explains, quietly.


“What do you mean?” Blaine asks, knocking away Kurt's hand and turning back to Artie his eyes dark with confusion that turns into cold understanding, “Like my parents you mean? He's too scared?”


“Blaine, we were all terrified,” Kurt says quietly, in response to Blaine's accusation, Artie nods and Kurt realises how true what he's saying is, how terrified Artie must have been, being dragged to the car, with an almost lifeless Kurt, grasping for him at the hospital.


“But you're here,” Blaine almost whines.


“I know it doesn't seem fair,” Artie adds, “but everyone deals with things in their own way, I know you have been asleep so it seems like we're all acting really weird but a lot of the girls have only just stopped crying, Puck tried to steal a car earlier and it's not that he doesn't want to see you, I think he's just scared of what it's going to be like to see you. Does that make sense?”


“Because of the shark?” Blaine asks, Kurt flinches, right through to the jerk of his hand against Blaine shoulder where it's resting, “It's okay,” Blaine says, softly, “It's not like I don't know.”


“Puck's going to see him now,” Artie tells him, “And, if that's what you want, he'll bring him right here.”


“Yeah, bring him here,” Blaine breathes out finally, dipping his head to the side so he can press a kiss against the tender skin between Kurt's knuckles, “I need to know this is real, I need to see him, I just...”


“I get it,” Artie says, turning to wheel back out of the room, “most of the time what the body tells us isn't enough, we need the eyes of others to see our realities. You learn a lot from other people when all the mirrors are suddenly hung too high.”


“Artie,” Kurt croaks out, and he looks over his shoulder, “When they come, will you stay? I'd like to talk to you.”


“I don't know if I'm going to be the help you need,” Artie replies, almost sadly, as he reaches an arm up to tug at the door handle, awkwardly maneuvering his wheelchair back through the heavy door that clunks heavily against his hidden bruised knuckles.


“It's not that,” Kurt responds, “It's just I want to thank you, no more than that, just would you?” he continues on, almost desperately.


“Okay,” Artie nods and finally swings through the door, leaving them in the sinking silence, alone.

***

Puck rams his fist so hard, into the metal frame of the hotel room's door, that new and old scabs open up on his knuckles and blood streams down his wrist. He's been at it for some time, ramming and jamming, knocking and kicking and at one point head-butting.


“I know you're in there, alright?” He calls out, hoping his voice can be heard through the metal, “My fist is bleeding and if you don't let me in it's going to get worse.”
Silence continues, hanging in the hallway like an unwanted visitor's coat.


“I'm not really angry, Sam,” Puck tries a different tact, “I just want to check you're alright, dude that stuff out there was crazy and you were really out of it yesterday.”


The door shuffles open slowly, and a creased mop of blonde hair appears, scruffy shirt and bleached jeans. His faced is blotted open, with mottled red blurs like ink. Puck can see the scratches up his arms, whether from the rocks they had pulled Blaine onto, or that he had torn into himself when rocking on the way back to the hotel. He hadn't even seemed real then.


“Dude, can I come in?” Puck asks.


Sam nods, and curls the door back, slumping back to the bed that is torn open, ravaged but terror-induced sleep. Puck leans against a wall and watches his friend flop so carelessly onto his back that he might well be a rag doll.


“Dude you've got to go see him,” Puck gets right to it, whipping at the point like a band-aid. He can see the sting of it in Sam's face.


“I'm worried that I'm not going to be able to see him properly anymore,” he voices, his voice tight, he presses his head back into the pillow and plunges his knuckles against his eyes, “Because when I close my eyes, and picture it, I can just see the blood, over and over. It knocks me out; I don't know if I can do it.”


“That's dumb, dude,” Puck expresses, though fondly. He feels the pain to, it crunches at his soul; and it's not just what he said to Kurt, it's everything. But he wants to see Blaine, because Blaine is real, and alive and so so brave and he deserves for them to come back to him and be brave too, “You're going to see Blaine; the same Blaine who doesn't just indulge in your superhero fantasies but actually loves them equally, the Blaine who was totally up for my idea of a water pistol fight to raise money for nationals and who was the only one who thanked me when I dressed up as Lola. Sam,” Puck starts, edging forward until he's sat on the edge of the bed, “He's still you're best friend.”


“I thought he was going to die,” Sam utters, but his voice is weaker, like he might give in, “You don't just get over that.”


“I know,” Puck replies, shifts forward so he's crouched right beside Sam, he can feel the fear radiating off him, the frantic shake of it, “You don't get over it by not going to see that we really saved him; he's really alive.”


“But, he's never going to...” Sam starts, before shaking his head and pushing himself off the bed, “No, you're right, I'm being a douche, this isn't fair,” he looks up, the red rims of his eyes, look like he's been trying to scrub out all the memories of that day, “I'm just really scared.”


“I know,” Puck tells him, feeling the fear he had felt all day sink into him and grits his teeth together, “But things get easier when you know what you're facing huh?”

***


Artie turns towards the door when they hear a shuffle further down the corridor and awkwardly rolls around Sam and Puck, Kurt nods towards Puck but follows quickly after, until he is out in the corridor and can only hear muffled voices within.


The corridor feels darker than before, and as Artie rolls up to an abandoned chair down the corridor and forces Kurt to sit; Kurt feels a muffled panic rise up in him again. He wants to thank Artie for staying with him, for understanding; but most of all he wants to apologise, for all those years they let him trail behind, for the terrible time they were going to let him be driven by his mother, all the times they never thought about what it must be like.


But all that comes out is his name.


“Kurt,” Artie replies, almost tenderly, but his face is serious, “Listen, I know that you probably think that I'm trying to compare myself to Blaine to guilt trip you all, or whatever, but I'm not, I just want you all to see it's possible...”


“No,” Kurt interrupts him outraged, “I would never think that, we know you're just trying to help,” he takes a hulking breath to give him the strength to continue with what he had wanted to say, “What I wanted to say was Thank You, really you do understand, more than anyone.”


“It's not going to be okay straight away,” Artie starts, “I know you can't really think about that at the moment; but not everything's going to be different okay? You still love each other,” He uncharacteristically grasps for Kurt's hand and for the first time Kurt feels the soft graze of his gloves, he thinks again of how he'd never even considered Artie's situation before, and how long had they been friends? “You can't forget that,” Artie continues earnestly, interrupting Kurt's thoughts.


“What?” Kurt asks, shaking himself back to the surface.


“Sometimes a little tilt feels like you're upside down, and you're not,” Artie explains, “If you're going to make it through this, you can't forget that your love is still real and strong.”


Kurt looks surprised and a little relieved, “Artie I'm not going to forget that I love Blaine, Blaine is everything to me,” but there is something in Artie's unwavering gaze that makes him falter.


“It's going to be harder than you think,” Artie answers his accusing look, raising his hand in the air, “That's all I'm saying, and you'll probably feel angry and guilty and you just need to remember to feel what you need to feel and not be afraid to find it difficult yourself.”


“It's Blaine's life,” Kurt starts, already feeling the guilt creep up on him, zipping up his spine like a shiver.


“No, it's not,” Artie explains, and suddenly there it is, what Kurt was glad was never there before, a twinkle of pity in the corner of his eye, “No one's life is truly their own, what happens to you affects more than you and what happens to other people can hurt you, because we weren't designed to live alone, we were designed to care for people and make lives together and you and Blaine have already done that,” Kurt blushes under his intensity and tries to ignore the muddled nature of his nerves, “So the worst thing you can do is pretend that what happens to Blaine is all about him, because every little island shares the same tide.”


***

Blaine feels the cold air of movement and closes his eyes against it. The stillness of his body makes Sam want to turn back, back away from the greying face that even the echoed heartbeat of the machines cannot disturb from his imaginings. His feet shuffle against the floor and Puck gives him a shove that knocks a gust of air out of his lungs.


“Is someone there?” Blaine asks, jolting his eyes open, his voice is tired from the fear his admissions to Kurt had given him.


“It's me,” Sam says quietly, after a moment, he tries to keep the jittering out of his hands but his arms feel more alive and vulnerable than ever before. He longs for the safety of a guitar beneath his shoulder.


“Sam?” Blaine asks, trying to sit up and groaning when it's too much. Without thinking Sam jumps forward to help shifting a pillow beneath his friend's head so they can look at each other. Panic cuts at his nerves when his thoughts catch up with his moments, and the first thing he thinks is that he is not ready.


He nods quickly, hoping that he is not showing his fear. He wants to appear brave, but there is no bravery in the nearly lost.


“Can you please say something?” Blaine asks, again, the softness of his voice is eerily colourless.


“Hi,” Sam manages.


“You can sit,” Blaine suggests, trying not to gesture knowing that it will only remind him that there is no longer anything there. Sam sits, pulling his knuckles between his knees and tucking his ankles around the legs of the chair.


“Blaine, I'm really sorry,” Sam starts although he isn't quite sure where he's going with it, he's not sure how he can make sense of the place they are now in, the things that have happened, the stench of blood he can still feeling tingling at the back of his throat.


“I don't want to talk about that,” Blaine replies curtly, “I'm really struggling to make anything past this hospital bed at the moment and I just need to know that you're not going to be scared of me forever. Because I need you, I need you to still be my friend…”


“Blaine,” Sam starts again feeling the pulse of water under his eyelid, “I'm sorry, I'm…”


“I asked you not to do that,” Blaine interrupts, closing his eyes so Sam can see the dark ridges of his trauma cutting new shadows under his eyes. Sam closes his eyes with him, hoping to see nothing, and hissing as he sees the blood again over and over.


“This is why I was scared to come,” Sam admits, “I was scared I'd do the wrong thing, that I'd hurt you.”


“I don't care about that,” Blaine exhales tiredly, “Look, just go, please, I don't need this.”


Sam does not have the energy nor the courage to argue, instead he leaves, guilt filling the gaps between the relief that shutters through him. He turns away from Puck who calls back out to him and almost sprints back down the corridor, past Artie and Kurt, who break away from their conversation to watch him pass.


“It'll get better,” Artie repeats.


“I know you said that people deal with things differently,” Kurt replies, his knuckles clenching white hot, “But there have to be wrong way right?”


“Yes,” Artie admits, dismally, “There are always wrong ways, as there are always better ways.”