‘Blaine, Kurt, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I know you probably want to try again, but we all know you can’t afford it, and I… I just can’t. I’m moving. I’ve been offered a job, and I’d be stupid to turn it down. This is all so – I don’t know. It was too much. You shouldn’t contact me, OK? You’ve both really meant a lot to me, you know that, and I love you, but I have to go. I’m really sorry. Bye.’

The first time he heard it, Blaine was alone. He just stared at the phone. She sounded so different. She hadn’t even said which state she was moving to. More importantly, she hadn’t said ‘fuck’ once. His best friend was gone. He played the message to Kurt, and he was silent. He was sad about her, of course he was, he loved her, but in a way he was relieved. It made it easier not to think about it. He could barely look at Blaine without bursting into tears, she would have shattered him, but he knew Blaine missed her. More than that, he obviously felt guilty. He thought he’d broken her, that it was his fault she’d gone. Kurt tried to convince him other wise, that it was her idea, that she knew what she was getting into, nobody could have predicted what would happen, and he would always nod and give him a weak smile, but those thoughts still lingered at the back of his mind. Even now, months later, they both imagined how big she’d be by now, and what their house would look like now, how much baby stuff would be everywhere, how they should be squirming with excitement. They kept the door to the spare room closed, even though they never got round to redecorating it for the baby. They still knew.

They finally got parts in the same show. It was low-budget and experimental, and it meant moving from city to city, but they were grateful for the distraction, and they loved working together. In rehearsals they laughed until they were out of breath, especially when everyone else took it so seriously. It helped release some of the tension that had been building between them, and it felt like they were getting back to normal, even though they were living out of suitcases and sleeping in motels. They were gradually getting through it together.

They arrived in San Francisco, exhausted from the journey. It was the last stop on the tour, and they’d had enough of the play weeks ago. The director, a pretentious, bohemian type, insisted on a quick rehearsal before they went to sleep, so they could ‘feel the energy of the theatre’. It was 2am and no one was in the mood, but they went for it anyway. The play was really awful. A lot of interpretive movement and not-really-dancing kind of dancing. Lots of lines that were just strings of nouns. Unfortunately, they were so tired that they didn’t ‘feel’ how slippery the stage was, and Blaine slipped. He was fine, in fact he was in hysterics, but Kurt suddenly got very serious. That only made Blaine laugh more. Kurt hissed in his ear.

“Will you stop that? I’m finally getting to act, and we’re actually getting out of here. Pretend it hurts.”

“Ooh, ow, my ankle! I think it’s sprained! I better go to the hospital!” He cried, laying it on thick. Kurt nudged him in the ribs. “Ow!”

“Oh, honey, it’s OK, you obviously can’t dance on it. I’ll take to the emergency room. Let’s go.” Kurt hauled him up, apologising to the director, and Blaine limped along as Kurt supported him. As soon as they got outside, Kurt burst out laughing, letting go of Blaine, who stumbled.

“Ow, Kurt, come back! I actually might have twisted it. Can we still go to the hospital?” Kurt’s face fell. He just wanted to go to bed. And he hated hospitals, for obvious reasons. He put his arm around Blaine’s waist again and sighed.

“Jesus, I was really looking forward to getting you alone-”

“Whatever, you just wanted to go to sleep. Nice try.” Kurt smiled and kissed him on the head.

“Fine. But they better give you a really big bandage, or they won’t believe us.”

“I don’t see why you can’t fill this out yourself,” Kurt said as Blaine leaned against him, his eyes closed, blocking out the glare of the waiting room lights, “I’m not the one who didn’t look where he was going.”

“But Kurt, I’m injured. I’m a poor weak invalid, I can’t possibly do anything for myself now. Besides, your writing’s actually legible.”

“Hmm. I didn’t realise there was a connection between your ankle and your hand.” He kept writing anyway, just so he didn’t have to look up, but eventually his eyes got tired and he had to stretch his legs. He rolled his sweater up and slid it under Blaine’s head so he could get some sleep, and wandered up the corridor to find the coffee machine. He was waiting for his drink to appear when someone was wheeled past him quickly. The trolley bashed into his hip, almost knocking him over, and nobody seemed to notice, apart from one of the doctors. She was in scrubs. She had long, dark hair, tied back. Kurt noticed as she turned around that her stomach was swollen. She must have been eight months pregnant.

“Sorry, sir, we’re in a-” She and Kurt both froze, staring at each other.

“Becca?”