The compromise is Blaine stays with his family until graduation; that's Tuesday, since they both missed the last week of school; so they only have to suffer through two days apart.
But Blaine's skin feel itchier than ever, and the scattered sleep makes him want to scratch at his mind as well. He keeps thinking about Carole's suggestion. It is terrifying to think of needing help, even the whispered “I've got it,” from Kurt, had been enough for the little twinges of embarrassment that had been at him all week to take control. Could he bear to have another offer their hands out to him? Perhaps a support group would be better, then he could be helping other people as well.

He feels scattered enough with only the sound of Kurt's voice down the phone to remind him that he is one whole piece, and the tugging and scraping of his Mother's attempts will not destroy him.

The issue lies with Graduation. The bright red gown was already folded on the end of his bed when he returned home, but had yet to try it on. Since it was summer he had yet to deal with sleeves, and the thought of such a prominent emptiness, such an obvious highlighting of his loss; it couldn't bear thinking about.

So he waits for Kurt, the coiffed top of his hair as he slips out of the car, an hour before so they can get ready together. Blaine is still in his pajamas, a tank top and boxers for the summer heat.

“Hi,” is sudden at his doorway, with that quiet little squeak from when he snuck out all those times, “I was going to ask if you were ready but…”

“You'll chose something better than me,” Blaine suggests, but the lump in his throat is not about the clothes hanging in his closet.

“Ooh, okay,” Kurt giggles lightly, rushing at his closet and opening it, the brightness of his clothes make Blaine's eyes sting; he can't believe that used to be such a part of him, he'll never tie a bowtie again, “Well red is bright enough so I think we'll go with something a little more subtle hmm?” Kurt suggests, not turning around. Blaine watches as he plays the keys of his clothing like a piano, “here we go…” Kurt finally turns around, a white polo and a pair of grey slacks. It is blessedly muted, “Do you need any help?” Kurt asks holding out the clothes like an offering.

Instead of answering Blaine begins to dress himself. His skin prickles under Kurt's watchful gaze, it feels intimate and terrifying. The truth is Blaine doesn't feel that much like he's in his own body any more. Like he's been translated into the lopsided weak being that he can't even use properly.

“You've lost weight,” Kurt comments, as he's attempting to twist the polo shirt over his head, “Here,” and then there are hands at his neck gently tugging and the soft skin of Kurt's fingers rub across his stomach. He is extraordinarily close. Too close.

“Can you grab me a pair of boxers?” Blaine chokes out.

“Mmhm,” and he pecks the sweetest kiss against Blaine's nose and turns, “here,” he passes them over a second later, “Do you want me to wait outside?”

“Kurt,” Blaine starts weakly, his eyes watering. He wants Kurt to stay forever and that hurts, but what hurts even more is that he needs him to stay. He been wearing pajamas for the last couple of days for a reason, and that's that buckles are by far the most difficult, “I might need you,” he manages to get out.”

“Okay, I'll stay,” he replies, lightly, sitting back on the bed behind Blaine and watches the dip of his back as he slips into the new boxers and slacks, “Your ass still looks as great as ever if you're worried,” he quips with a smirk as Blaine turns around, his flies open.

“Thanks,” he gulps, gesturing to his fly, “Could you…?”

“I've got it,” and the fingers are there again, little pinkies brushing against the tightness of his stomach and the last press of cool metal against his skin as he finishes. But the hands are still there at his hips.

“Blaine?”

He looks down and those perfect eyes are still looking at him.

“Blaine, I want you to know that whenever you're ready, I will still want you just as much as I love you. And I will always wait for you but I don't want you worrying about what has changed because you are still my beautiful Blaine. Okay?”

The earnestness of Kurt's expression breaks him, the way he can feel the warmth of him at his hips, the way his thumbs rub at his skin, like he could tear right through it. He takes two hauling breaths and nods, reaching for the Kurt's face to hold in his palm like a prayer.

“I don't know if I love myself so much anymore is all,” he tells the eyes, for to say it to all of Kurt would smash the words against his tongue.

“Do you still love me?” is the small answer.

“Always, of course, always and always,” he rushes out, pressing closer so Kurt's arms are wrapped around his waist and ducking their heads together.

“Then everything else will fall where it will,” Kurt's muffled voice presses against the skin of his neck, “Let's go get graduated.”

***

The gown flops down his side as predicted when he finally puts it on and sits down next to Artie right at the front of the line of chairs. He grabs the wrist of the empty sleeve and twists it around his own.

“Hey, how've you been?” Artie asks. His own gown has been folded up his arms so he can still wheel his chair without the sleeves getting tangled.

“Well I'm alive,” he murmurs. The rising sound of Figgins voice is dull and easy to block out.

“Yeah it sort of feels that way huh?” Artie continues, “Like living is the only thing you woke up with left. Because every keeps saying ‘you're alive that's the main thing'. But there is so much more left.”

“Like what?”

“You're about to graduate, the world is your oyster, man!” he thumps his fist against Blaine's good shoulder and he supposes it's a sweet gesture but.

“I don't think I could open an oyster shell if I tried right now.”

“Hey,” Artie tries a different tact, “Would you consider coming along to a meeting with some of my friends next week?”

Before he can answer Artie's name is ringing out across the crowd and he is wheeling away. And then so is his name and he is stumbling up the stairs, conscious of the railing that he can do nothing but waft a sleeve at. It is stiflingly hot, at sweat is sticking his gown to the back of his neck. His hat slip against the gel of his forehead, he used to much this morning his slippery hand panicking. The hall seems to silently watch his dragging feet and his sagging sleeve as he finally reaches Figgins. He faces the crowd instead of the painted pity of his teacher's faces. He finds Kurt in the sea of red, his hat off, his hair glinting in the sunlight. They exchange a small smile.

“Congratulations on graduating William McKinley High School class of 2013, Blaine Anderson,” Figgins calls into the microphone, offering out a hand for him to shake. Blaine does so, knowing the quietness of the hall is not in boredom but in active eagerness. He is the “finally something happening” they have all been waiting for.

“Thank you, sir,” Blaine replies quietly, not giving the audience the satisfaction of hearing.

But Figgins is lifting his certificate over their shaking hands and following the tradition “shake and take” Blaine had perfected by five years old after winning the junior golf competitions and the Club. Now there is nothing there to take. Nothing in this world that you can practise enough that you will know forever. This is no like riding a bike. You can't kid yourself that the world won't keep turning without you.

The heat of the cap and his melting gel fuzzes his sight a little and he yanks his hand away, snatches the certificate and trips back of the stage; as fast as he can without falling over that stupid red and all the stupid eyes looking at him, like they'd sold them out front as part of the display.

He is not a display.

Outside the hall he rips the cap and gown off and throws them in the nearest dumpster. The pavement is steaming with heat but he sits down anyway, leaning against the boiling plastic of the dumpster, his knees up to his chest. He's never felt so utterly out of control in his life.

He sits there until the crowds come out, watching litter drift across the back lot. Counting the birds that snatch for food and fly off again. Breathing waiting breaths and trying to hold back the watery part of him that wants to burst him open like a pipe.

He lets out an echoing sob, the kind the knifed through a throat, that binds and heart and squeezes, the kind that jitters through your shaking skin.

His is still quaking when Kurt comes slamming through the back door, tearing off his cap and rushing at him.

“I'm sorry, I came as soon as I got of stage, they wouldn't let me past,” he crouches in front of Blaine and places a tentative hand against his shuddering shoulder, “Blaine, honey?” he can't look up, not now, it would shatter him open, “What's going on can you hear me, Blaine?” The panic is rising in Kurt's voice now.

It's just that he can't move now, his limbs feel heavy, his head and lips the heaviest of all.

“I'm going to ring Artie,” Kurt voice tells him, the high tremble of it makes everything worse. He's hurt Kurt again and it's never going to stop because he can't be perfect again. Not like he was before, not ever like that again. There's no pretending now.

“Please, no,” He manages, his throat is raw and torn and the voice that comes out isn't his.

“Okay,” the hand on his shoulder grips tighter and the voice is closer, “what do you want, what should I do?”

“Go home,” he gets out.

“Alright I'll call your parents,” Kurt tries, there is hurt in his voice but it is nothing to what pain there will be.
“No, you, you go home,” his voice is calmer now and rigid. He refuses to raise his head.

“I'm not leaving you,” but the hand is gone and he is.
“I want you to.”

“Well, you're not staying here, I'm not leaving until you do.”

Between his knees, Blaine can see Kurt's feet, steadfast and unmoving.

“I don't want to be with you right now,” he tries.

“Well let me call someone then. You can't stay here.”

There is a moment of two breathings short and stuttering. Kurt's feet shift a little. Another door slams and there's movement inside.

“Call Artie,” Blaine decides, “tell him yes. Then you can take me home. My home. Then I want you to go celebrate with your family.”

“Blaine,” that voice is enough to nearly break him but he won't let it. Artie is part of who his is now and all those friends he talked about. He belongs with the broken people. Not with perfect Kurt whose music will never stop even in his memories.

“That's what I want,” he tells him instead.

“Okay.”

And there is a phone ringing and a two hearts breaking like beautiful blowing glass, bursting.