Love is the most painful emotion you'll ever feel. A long time ago, someone had said this to Kurt. For a long time, Kurt felt no need to believe it. For a while, he thought grief was the worst emotion he could ever have to experience.

But one day, Kurt found himself pondering against that little piece of advice. And it surrounded him, engulfed his entire mind like an insanity.

Kurt sat on his bedroom floor, hands clasped in his lap, legs crossed eloquently in front of him. He wore tight jeans, tight shirt, tight boxers. His skin was stretched tight across his face, every crease and bruise and imperfection heightened. He was translucent. The blue strings of life within him pulsed uncomfortably. 

Kurt was thinking.

Burt knocked on the door loudly. "Hey, kiddo," he called through. No answer. 

Kurt's mind buzzed like an insect, throwing its whole weight against a window pane. He was searching for an exit, a way out of his prison. All Kurt wanted was to get away for just a little while. 

"Kurt?"

He blinked. His stomach felt like it was bubbling. The gurgling erupted into a growl.

"What, dad?" he answered defeatedly. 

The wood of the door seemed to shift, like a cloud of fog clinging to the dew-strewn grass. Kurt felt the splinters on every inch of his skin. He could envision his father's hand pressed heavily against the door. The handle quivered in anticipation, begging Burt to enter. 

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm not gonna be in tonight. You got to get your own dinner." Burt wiped a hand across his brow. The hand against the door didn't move.

Kurt's lips twitched. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"That's not an answer." Kurt kicked his feet out angrily. He clumsily pulled himself from the ground. His bones felt like lead. Had he put on weight? no, Kurt, you're fine. The hair, Kurt, check your hair; you're fine. 

He moved to the mirror that was currently propped up on his desk. The nail it had hung on had bent under the weight of Kurt's reflection, and the mirror had dropped. The way it laid, like a fallen star from the top of the christmas tree; like all the hope and magic had vanished. Kurt stared back at himself, distorted in the dim light. Had he put on weight? His face looked thicker.

Burt sighed and flexed his fingers. They scratched harshly against the unfinished surface. "You've made no attempt at making conversation with me for weeks, Kurt. Do you have to do this now?"

Kurt wanted to smash his fist through the ugly glass in front of him. He wanted to retract his bloodied fist, and throw it through his door, through his father, through the thick, sad atmosphere that seemed to cloud the hallways of his home.

You're forgetting us, Kurt wanted to scream. Don't go out and leave me here. Don't leave me alone. Don't forget me. You're forgetting me.

It was silly. Kurt knew it was illogical and immature to feel that way. He knew it was stupid, and wrong, and ridiculous. Kurt knew all these things.

He also knew what it looked like when things changed. And Kurt didn't like that.

It had been gradual, but consistent. His father was a new man. He whistled. He smiled. He bathed the second he arrived home. He bought more fast food. He watched less television. He made an attempt to use the family computer that had sat idle in all the years Elizabeth had been dead. He'd bought a new cell phone. He chewed his lip instead of shouting obscenities at the screen during the game. He wore matching socks. He ate a balanced breakfast each morning. 

Kurt felt sick to death.

The hand on the door moved. The house creaked with the motion. Kurt's body screamed with unfurling heat. The heartbeat in his ears grew deafening.

"I thought you were my son, Kurt. I thought you loved me. I thought you'd want me to be happy."

Kurt closed his eyes. Bang, bang, bang. His chest rattled with the force. His heart seemed to shrivel and bloom all at once. He kept his eyes shut, even as the underside of his eyelids seemed to turn green.

"If that's the way you're going to act, fine. I'm not going to let you ruin my night."

Kurt breathed through his nose. The air was clean and warm. Winter had settled in nicely, and snow was expected to fall any time soon. Kurt loved the snow. It was a reason to wear as many layers as possible. He couldn't rely on his "fashion" excuses. Kurt hadn't read Vogue in months.

"I'm disappointed in you, Kurt. I thought you were more mature than this."

Kurt didn't open his eyes until he heard the familiar rattle of the windowpanes as Burt started the car. He drew shaky breaths into his mouth as the room seemed to shake. The noise grew louder as Burt revved the engine, pushed the creaky gearstick into first, pressed a heavy foot onto the accelerator. The clutch stuck. Burt cursed. The old pedal was worn and sticky. Kurt could see the vein in Burt's neck screaming, pressing against the reddening skin like a child pressing a tearstained cheek against the pant leg of their mother.

The car made it onto the road, the large steering wheel, worn smooth by the calloused hands of a mechanic, turned as far to the left as possible. When straightened, it groaned in reluctance. Burt was strong, and could easily overcome the old wheel's resistance. 

When Kurt had been learning to drive, he had smacked the wheel a dozen times, the horn sounding , when the wheel groaned and tugged back, trying to undo Kurt's frantic turns. 

Burt laughed. "You gotta put some effort into it, Kurt. She's a stubborn old thing."

Kurt shuddered at the thought of being trapped in that car beside his father. A lump formed in his throat that tasted like ripped leather and the stained backseats. 

Kurt remembered the emotion in his father's voice when they had sat in the car together. 

They drove up and down their street, made U-turns in their neighbour's driveways, scraped mailboxes with the bumper, clipped a wing mirror on a signpost. 

Kurt had broken down into tears when he'd finally had enough. "I don't want to drive this stupid thing. I can't do it. You can't make me."

Burt patted his son's knee, and stared out of the passenger window. Years seemed to pass, and in the absence of interaction a silent wind blew all the uneasiness in Kurt's chest out into the open. He choked in deep breaths. 

Burt clicked his tongue. Kurt returned to reality with a thud. His stomach ached with his heaving sobs.

"Your mother and I shared a lot of memories in this car. Real memories." Burt blinked slowly, like he had forgotten how to move the muscles in his eyelids properly. His eyes refocused on the world outside the window. "I took her on our first date in this car. I'd only just passed my test, and I was so scared."

Burt chuckled, like he was reassuring himself. Kurt straightened his back against the back of the chair. Burt's smile eroded into his face, etched eternally into the lines around his mouth. "I thought I was gonna kill the both of us. She held her hand over mine on the steering wheel. I drove through a red light; swore my head off. She told me she'd castrate me with her bare hands if she ever heard me say something like that again." 

The engine thrummed like a dog scratching itself. Burt rested a hand underneath his chin. Kurt admired his face, revelled in the familiarity of the features that made him the man Kurt ate dinner with every evening. 

"This was where we shared our first kiss. We drove all over the state in this car. We went to her grandmother's house, up north. We broke down on the motorway and fell asleep on the backseat. We sheltered from the rain on a trip to the lake. We swept the sand out with old newspapers the next day. Your mom loved to go to the lake. Every Sunday, she'd turn up at my house, swinging her bag. I would've driven her to the moon if she'd asked."

Kurt drew in a deep breath. His cheeks filled with air, and the tears that tainted his skin began to itch. They never stopped. Like a relentless drizzle, a nervous sweat, Kurt felt drenched from eyes to chin. 

"If you ever fall in love, Kurt, it's something... it'll be something you want to shout from the rooftops. But you won't, because you'll be so worried about them, and whether they'll mind, and how they'll react. And sometimes, you'll do it just because you can't hold it in any longer without hurting yourself."

"Dad-"

"Your mom is the love of my life, Kurt. And this car holds her closer to me. Closer than you can imagine. I know it's a piece of junk, it's just... it's bad. It's old. It's ugly. But it was ours. And sometimes, when I'm driving to work, and I'm tired and lonely and the radio's the only company I have, I  can feel her sitting right next to me, humming along."

---

Blaine emanated an aura of joy, something that Kurt craved, to eliminate the overwhelming loneliness that had seeped into his bones as his dad had driven down the road and Kurt had broken down into tears in his absence. 

He'd opened puffy eyes to see he'd shattered the mirror before him, and the blood had dried on his hands in ugly, dark stains. Kurt had panicked, stumbled backwards, stepped on the fragments of glass. 

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Kurt had hissed, staring forlornly at his ruined cream carpet. The tears in his eyes never had the chance to dry. His fingers felt like they were breaking as he gripped the wet brush and scraped it against the floor. The bloodstains faded, but Kurt knew they'd always be there, as a reminder of his idiocy, of his constant ability to fail.

In his hysteria, Kurt had texted Blaine, inviting him round for the night. 

Sitting in the bathroom, his feet carefully bandaged and padded out with multiple pairs of socks, Kurt felt the first thrum of his heartstrings being teased in a way that wasn't entirely excruciating. 

The smell of his own blood still haunted the air, even as the doorbell rang. It wasn't a sound Kurt recognized; it was as if his whole body awoke in the presence of Blaine. Just knowing that Blaine was on the other side of the door, standing on the dark, ugly stoop on his own, made Kurt feel more human. He could imagine him leaning against the side of the house, just as he had done the day Kurt had first invited him over.

Since that day, Kurt had replaced the key under the mat seven times, even though he hadn't lost a key since.

With a shaky hand, Kurt pulled the front door open. It felt like it had taken him a century to pull himself up, propel himself forwards, down the stairs, along the corridor to the sliver of wood that separated the boys.

"Kurt!" The face behind the voice made Kurt's entire body shiver. Blaine looked perfect. 

He wore a deep red sweater over a pristine white pinstriped shirt. The collar hung loose, buttons free of their holes hanging limply like they'd forgotten what freedom felt like. His black jeans were tight, almost as tight as Kurt's whole being. His perfect waist was accentuated by the good fit of the sweater. Kurt had no other words.

"You look perfect." His voice was thick with sorrow. He cleared his throat, to feel the syrupy burden in the back of the mouth jolt and slither south.

One of Blaine's eyebrows raised, but he didn't say anything. Beads of water clung to his hair. It was curly, really curly, the most beautiful head of hair Kurt had ever witnessed. Without thinking, he blurted, "My mother always wanted curly hair. She wanted a curly-haired son."

"But she got someone better," Blaine retorted defensively. Kurt felt his chest tighten. Blaine was being defensive over him.

Kurt pushed himself forward, letting his throbbing hands press against Blaine's chest. He pulled him in, feeling the cold fabric of Blaine's sweater pressing against the flaming cotton of his tshirt. The contrast in heat made his eyes close. 

"Kurt? You're really warm. Are you sick?"

"I'm always sick," Kurt mumbled slowly. His voice sounded separate from his body. He couldn't will himself to open his eyes. Blaine slowly melted into the shape of Kurt's body, and they stayed motionless, upright, guarded by each other, held together with their makeshift love.

Finally, Blaine broke their bond. Kurt's head bobbled uneasily on his aching neck. 

"I brought popcorn and movies."

"Blaine-"

"Last time we watched The Bucket List, which was, I think we can agree, okay but not rewatchable." Blaine pouted playfully. "That one tugged my heartstrings."

"Blaine-"

"Come on, Kurt, lighten up! I brought all your favourites. Look, When Harry Met Sally. I bought it especially."

Kurt's eyes opened slowly. The world was so out of focus, he wasn't even sure if he was still in his house. The only thing that pulled him back to earth was the bushy mound of chocolate curls that seemed to fill Kurt's entire vision.

"I don't think I can watch a movie tonight, Blaine."

"O-" Blaine was speechless. His mouth moved like the pout of a desperately confused goldfish. "Oh, right. What's the - are you sure you're not sick, Kurt?"

Kurt knew this was going to happen. The second his father left. The second he became invisible to his own dad, his own flesh and blood. He knew that he would start to unravel, his sanity shattering, his heart splintering into the other vital organs encased inside his ugly flesh.

Kurt felt abandoned. His mother had been taken from him, and now his dad had strayed as well. Kurt felt stranded, desperately clutching at thin red strings tied to both his parents. He screamed in agony, like the strings were all he had left.

The scream bled into Kurt's reality. Blaine jumped forwards, catching Kurt as his knees buckled underneath him. He was alone. He was entirely, utterly alone. The scream was long and eerie, stretched out like a foghorn, echoing around in the empty, chill air. Everything seemed to turn to ice; everything apart from Blaine's forehead. He broke into a sweat, grasping the shaking boy between his strong arms, allowing Kurt to press his body in between Blaine's thighs. A hesitant hand stroked against Kurt's hair, lulling him to silence. The scream dulled, ending in a choking cough, forcing Kurt's body to convulse, banging back against the boy that was trying to be glue.

Blaine didn't understand what was wrong. He didn't understand Kurt in the slightest.

As far as Blaine was concerned, Kurt was wonderful. His smile reminded Blaine of a sunset at the beach in the heat of summer. His eyes were like eucalyptus leaves, menacingly piercing and paler than the sky. And Kurt was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. Blaine sometimes looked at him, and saw Kurt with all his defences down; eyes pale and empty, mouth fallen open, chest restricted by a suppressed sigh. And Blaine felt like he was staring into an abyss, just looking down and down, expecting to see something emerge from the unknown. With Kurt, he was staring into a soul that was so full, it felt empty. When Blaine saw all this, it was like he felt all the anguish that Kurt had trapped within him flash through himself. It was a mere second, half a second, but it was so distressing, Blaine felt an ache spread through his numbed limbs. The ache always sourced itself in his chest; his heart, his lungs, the very fibre of his being thrumming with the sorrows of Kurt Hummel.

Blaine thought it was the most beautiful thing.

Despite this, Blaine didn't know Kurt. He didn't know half of what Kurt felt, and he didn't know why he felt it. He couldn't know. He didn't know how Kurt suffered, and he didn't know where it came from; it was obvious Blaine would always be kept in the dark.

But Blaine was a friend. He was loyal, and loving. And he loved Kurt. With every part of his mind, heart, soul, he loved Kurt.

The tears on his cheeks, the shaking hand pressed against Kurt's forehead, the hole in his stomach that burned him from within; that was his love. 

"It'll be ok, Kurt," Blaine whimpered. He sounded needy, wretched, his own pain diluted by the heartwrenching sobs that emitted from Kurt's split lips. He selfishly wanted to be acknowledged for his turmoil, all his energy spent on picking up the pieces of Kurt that he could never seem to fit back together right.

---

Blaine wandered the empty halls of the Hummel residence, his bare feet tingling against the cold tiled floor. The darkness comforted him, and as he moved, he felt the shadows around him whisper and recoil, giving him right of way down the clandestine path. 

It had taken hours for Kurt to truly calm down. He had thrashed about between Blaine's legs, sobbed and shook, inconceivably drawn from the world around him. It was like Kurt was taken over by a monster. He wasn't human; in those moments, while Blaine pleaded into the noise, the gargling ugliness of Kurt's hoarse throat overpowering Blaine's gentle tone.

Blaine knew if he closed his eyes, the image of Kurt incapacitated in such a terrifying way would haunt him until dawn. Blaine swallowed thickly. Even thinking about what happened made tears fill his eyes, making the walls wobble like a rippling wave of air. 

Blaine moved from room to room, seemingly distracted from the objects around him, though his mind was blank. He refused to reflect on the night's events. 

He was scared. Absolutely petrified. What he had witnessed wasn't right. It wasn't sane.

The sound of Kurt's voice bounced between the walls. The strain in his voice as he had called Blaine's name. But Blaine hadn't listened.

When Harry Met Sally seemed like a distant memory. Blaine could barely remember the morning when they'd grabbed coffee together. All he remembered was sickly sweet valentine's cookies and too strong coffee. 

"Please tell me you've seen When Harry Met Sally," Kurt cried, his eyes dark as blueberries. Blaine had tilted his head, feigning confusion. 

"The name doesn't ring a bell. Is it animated?" Blaine had laughed as Kurt swatted at him, and Kurt's own chiming melody blended with Blaine's. Kurt sounded sweeter.

"It's my favourite film." Kurt's smile diminished, his previous joy fading from his eyes. "I never believed in love at first sight."

"Hmm, I don't know," Blaine countered. "I think it's different for everyone. Don't they say it only takes half a second to fall in love?"

Kurt's eyes closed. He blinked so thoughtfully, as if Kurt was just remembering how to do it. "You can't fall in love with a person you don't even know."

Blaine's hands had felt sweaty. He wrapped them around his coffee mug. Staring down into the dark liquid, Blaine felt the shutters close around Kurt. "It can take years to truly come to know someone, inside and out. And even then, it's probable there'll be things left unshared." Blaine's comment went unnoticed. Kurt seemed to sink into himself; his shoulders sagged, his eyes hiding behind hooded lids. 

Click. The light switch was unnecessarily stiff, and Kurt's bedroom was suddenly illuminated by a dull glow. Energy saving bulbs, Blaine guessed. They took time to warm up. Blaine had time.

The memory of that day seemed so ancient, like it was something engraved into a stone tablet that Blaine had read and recreated in his mind. 

He stood motionless in the doorway, surveying the spread before him. The room was cold, void of life. The desk was clear aside from the remains of a cracked mirror. That and the stains on the carpet were the only signs of disorder in the room. 

The bed was pushed against the farthest wall. The bedcovers were black. The headboard was grey metal. Shelves lining the walls were dark wood, and they cast sharp shadows like arrowheads pointing to the floor. 

Blaine felt trapped. Although he merely peered in like a spectator, the room engulfed him, pulling him into the enigma of Kurt's mind. Blaine found himself wondering about Kurt's mother. What would she think of her son, falling apart like he was? Blaine shuddered at the discomfort that settled in his chest. Kurt was perfectly imperfect. Blaine appreciated the change in the direction of the wind that Kurt blew through the airless corners of Blaine's world.

He vowed to himself, standing there, in the doorway to Kurt's personal hell, that he would unearth the secret the broken boy was wrapped up in. Blaine was going to save Kurt, no matter the costs. Because he was falling for him. And it was the most painful thing Blaine had ever experienced. 

---

The sound of heavy shoes against the kitchen linoleum pulled Kurt from his slumber. The knot in his chest had loosened while he'd been asleep, but his legs ached and his teeth hurt from his relentless grinding. 

Kurt was on the couch. He dimly remembered Blaine being there, but the night was mostly a disappointing blur. His whole body hurt. His hands, feet, legs, stomach, chest, head; all his muscles were tensed, as if Kurt was about to sprint. Kurt hadn't run track in years. He had forgotten what the sweat tasted like dried in the stiff Ohio summer heat. Kurt had forgotten what it felt like to win.

With stiff movements, Kurt pulled himself to his feet. His head went light as air, and white noise deafened him, to the point that he curled back in on himself, terrified of crashing down to the floor. If he fainted, Kurt didn't think he'd be able to get back up off the ground.

With his head tucked between his knees, Kurt saw a DVD strewn on the floor of the lounge. He couldn't remember leaving it out. He wondered whether it was Blaine's. Kurt breathed deeply, expelling the white noise from his ears. 

His eyes focused on the writing on the DVD case. It was upside down, but it dawned on Kurt that this was a DVD he could recognize in a heartbeat. When Harry Met Sally. 

The movie reminded Kurt of his mother. They had watched it together, when Kurt was six. He sat on her feet, listening to the rhythmic clacking of her knitting needles colliding. Elizabeth had been knitting a sweater for Burt to wear. Winter was approaching. Kurt had the comforter that was usually tucked over his feet on his bed draped over his shoulders. His pyjamas had trains on them. Kurt could remember sucking his thumb until it bled. He bit down too hard. Once he needed stitches.

Kurt could remember his mother's tinny laugh as she watched the movie. He could taste her tears of happiness as Harry and Sally finally confessed their love for each other. Kurt wiped a pink finger against the drop of liquid on her cheek. Kurt remembered kissing her on the nose, clambering onto her lap during the last ten minutes, curling into her warm, lean body. Her perfume had worn away, but Kurt could smell it if he pressed his face into the collar of her dress. Her hair was down, effortlessly straight and blonde. Her hair hung way beyond her shoulders, but she had cut it very short. It barely reached her ears. 

Kurt had cried because she looked different. He called her "ugly".

When all her hair fell out from the cancer, Kurt had thought her baldness was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He'd just turned seven.

"Fuck." Kurt moved forward, pressing throbbing feet to the cool ground tentatively. Each step felt like a thorn in his heel. Kurt remembered the broken mirror. He remembered his father's date. He'd been left alone.

He could hear Blaine moving around. Cupboards opened, drawers snapped shut. The fridge hummed as the door was propped open with a kitchen chair that screeched against the floor.

Kurt pushed himself forwards. The smell of baking food made his stomach turn. He pressed the bruised tip of his index finger into the concave between the right side and the left side of his ribcage. His stomach was empty, but Kurt felt heavier than ever. 

He ascended the stairs, walking on the balls of his feet. Standing in the corridor, Kurt was torn between two destinations. With a defeated sigh, he pressed a second finger into his chest. Every part of him grumbled in response. His fingers throbbed; maybe he'd broken a couple of them throwing punches last night. Kurt wished he could remember.

Instead, his mother haunted him. He could almost smell her standing beside him.

He stumbled towards the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He felt sick, but he knew nothing would come up. His throat itched in anticipation. His body had learned to associate the clean circle of the toilet bowl with the satisfying contraction of his stomach muscles and the burning sensation of fingernails scratching at the trachea and vomit spilling out of him like blood from a knife wound.

However, Kurt sat heavily on the closed lid instead. He mentally calculated the positioning of his body, visually scoping his legs for signs of fattening. The bruised fingers of his right hand caressed his stomach, feeling for any protrusion.

He found nothing.

Kurt pressed his throbbing fist against the cold ceramic tiles. Kurt felt fat. He felt gargantuan. His throat felt like it was swelling. His feet seemed disconnected from his body. Somehow he managed to hoist himself upright; the next thing he knew he was standing on the scales. 

The numbers blurred in his mind. What did he weigh last week? How much had he eaten yesterday? When did he last throw up? Every part of Kurt was exhausted. He wanted to fall asleep and never wake up.

The sounds of Blaine downstairs haunted Kurt. He felt the anxiety rising in his chest; his head swelled with the looming darkness of the absence of Kurt's memory. What had he done? Why did he feel so nervous?

He couldn't face Blaine. Every nerve ending in his body screamed for solitude. His brain ached from all the white noise. Everything was fuzzy. Blaine seemed so far away, yet every movement he made was like an avalanche. He cracked and groaned and Kurt felt himself tumbling down, down, down.

His weary eyes mapped out the journey from the bathroom to Elizabeth's dressing room, and his body faithfully followed.

It had been a while since Kurt had set foot in the dressing room, and all at once the memory of his mom suffocated him. Her very existence was trapped between these four walls.

Elizabeth was a woman a vanity; it was where Kurt got his passion for his appearance and the latest fashions. If Kurt couldn't find his mother downstairs, she was more than likely to be found sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair, or modelling her vast collection of headscarves. 

Her headscarves were, in the end, her most prized possessions. Sometimes Kurt would wear one too, and they'd hold hands in the supermarket. They were each other's comfort.

She was her own harshest critic. If her makeup didn't hide her bags, or her skin was sallow, she'd sit until she deemed herself adequate for public exposure. Other times, when she was ill, Elizabeth would simply stare into her reflection, for hours on end. She willed her reflection to have the strength to beat the cancer. She promised her husband, her son, herself, that she could get through it. Her pale, illuminated face was optimistic. The drawn, haggard mother Kurt came to know in the last weeks of her life had lost all hope. She was dead before her heart had stopped. Kurt knew she died long before that. Kurt lost his mother the moment she stared back at her withering reflection and whispered, "I give in."

Kurt had wrapped innocent arms around his mother, asked her, "What did you just say, mommy?"

Elizabeth had smiled, so sadly, so vacantly, Kurt was reminded of a painting. "I said I'd like to go to sleep, baby. I just want to go to sleep for a very long time."

"Me too, I'm tired," Kurt had replied, smiling, tucking a thumb into his grin. Elizabeth couldn't return the expression. She didn't even have the strength to reprimand Kurt for carrying on his habit of thumb sucking, even though Burt was working on getting him to stop.

Kurt stared into the vacuous space. It had never looked more deserted. 

All the energy seeped out of Kurt, joining his mother's spirit, entwining in the air; Kurt let his body fall limply to the ground. He rolled onto his back, revelling in the burning ache that spread down his spine. He'd slept funny on the couch.

Kurt's eyes fluttered closed. He breathed in his mother, his father, their memories together. He exhaled all his hatred, all his pain. The knot in his stomach completely untied itself; Kurt breathed deeper than he imagined he could, felt the cool air pierce his lungs. His heart burned in his chest as it thumped. Kurt let a ghostly smile settle on his lips. He wet them with his tongue gently. 

He spoke the words so quietly, he wondered whether he said them at all.

He felt the hand in his, the hoarse voice mimicking his own tired tone. He turned his head, opened an eye to the presence beside him. 

Kurt didn't believe in ghosts; but lying there on the ground, alone, he knew Elizabeth was right beside him, and he knew her voice rang true and clear between the four walls of her life. 

Mother and son, joined forever. A bond that even death couldn't weaken. Kurt closed his exhausted eyes, revelling in the darkness he fell into.

"I give in."