Men suck.  Even the imaginary ones.

When I finally arrived back in New York-alone-I was exhausted.  I had spent the entire drive back from Maine either crying or making up excuses for Blaine; trying to rationalize his disappearance.  It occurred to me that he could have finally received his reassignment, but that didn't explain the lack of note or anything.  After the six hour drive I had come to the one conclusion I had started with: he'd simply left me.

My apartment hadn't changed, but it felt empty.  The last time I had been there Blaine had been with me.  Our coffee mugs were still sitting in the sink.

Of course, the light on my answering machine was blinking furiously.  Some stupid part of me hoped that maybe Blaine had left a message so I hit Play.

"Kurt, just because you threw a temper tantrum the other day doesn't mean you can just not come to work anymore--"

I thought I was done crying, apparently I was wrong.  I hit Delete and listened to the next one, still holding out hope.

"Look, kiddo, ignore whatever your grandmother says and take whatever time you need.  You know I'm here for you.  I'm not going anywhere so if you want to come back you can.  Call me when you get home."

I couldn't help but smile as I listened to my dad.  Suddenly, I just needed to talk to him.  I picked up the phone and dialed his number, trying not to be disappointed that it went to voicemail.

"Dad, it's me.  I'm home.  I--I need to talk to you.  Please call me.  Love you."

I hung up and stared at the phone, willing it to ring.  When it didn't, I stared aimlessly around my apartment, not sure what to do.

I found myself wandering to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed.  I felt sick and my head was throbbing.  I pulled a pillow toward me and clung to it, just needing something to hold on to.  I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing.

I didn't want to get up.  I wanted to stay in my bed forever.  But what if it was my dad?

What if it was Blaine?

Everything finally hit Blaine at once as he sat in his seat, miles in the air, on the short flight he'd caught back to New York.  He had stopped crying, and had stopped worrying about what it meant that he was crying, but the burn behind his eyes and in his chest hadn't gone away.

So many times he wished he could turn around and go back.  Maybe he would get to the cottage before Kurt even realized he was gone.  But as he watched the sun rise through the clouds, Blaine knew there was no turning back.  He could only hope that his plan would save Kurt.

Blaine only stayed in his apartment long enough to drop off his things.  He needed to be moving, not holed up and trapped with his thoughts and worries.

He wandered around for a while, not really having any destination in mind.  New York was gray and clouded over; the people bustling to and fro just as they always were.  He was nearly hit by a cab as he attempted to cross the street without paying any attention.  He watched as the driver drove past and flipped him off before continuing on.

He walked another block up Madison Avenue before he realized that he was, in fact, headed somewhere.  But where?

It was that same, familiar sense that was drawing him forward that always told him what he needed to know.

And then, he knew where he was going.

He started running.

The people he flew past stared and a few of them shouted at him as he pushed his way through on the sidewalk.  He kept running, barely noticing that it had begun to rain while he dodged traffic and headed for the last place he wanted to go.

New York Hospital.

Because he knew what he was going to find there.

Memories flashed before his eyes.  Sitting across from Kurt at Junior's all those years ago, sharing secrets, seeing him for the first time as an adult, holding him, loving him.

God, Kurt, Blaine thought, Not after everything that has happened.  I wish I had kissed him more.  Told him I love you more.  I wish I had stayed in Maine. 

Blaine was crying again when he burst through the doors of the hospital.  He'd been there once before for Kurt--when he'd had appendicitis as a kid.  He bypassed the receptionist and went straight for the elevators, still following that feeling.

Room 510.

He climbed into the elevator with a few other people and resisted the temptation to repeatedly punch the floor number in his anxiety.

I shouldn't have left him.  My plan didn't work.  It was all for nothing and now he's alone and in pain.

When the elevator doors opened, Blaine practically sprinted down the hall before skidding to a stop outside the room.  The door was ajar and Blaine tried to take a deep breath before gently pushing it open.

What he saw next made him gasp.  It wasn't what he was expecting.  The person in the hospital bed wasn't Kurt.

It was Burt.

Blaine didn't understand at first, but then the realization dawned on him.  It made sense.  There had been a plan after all for him.  It was Burt he was supposed to help.  It was Burt that was dying.

Blaine's heart broke as he looked at the man--pale, motionless, and so unlike the upstanding, well-respected man he had come to know during his years with Kurt.  He looked so much older in that moment.

When Blaine approached the bed, Burt opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him.  He looked confused but Blaine just smiled slightly back.  "Burt, I'm here to help you.  I'm Blaine."

Burt's eyebrows went up.  "Blaine?"  His voice was scratchy and quiet.  "Kurt's Blaine?"

"Kurt's Blaine," Blaine nodded.  Burt laughed weakly at that, but it quickly turned into a coughing fit and Blaine hurried to give him the cup of water sitting on the stand next to the bed.

"What do you know..." Burt said.  He closed his eyes for a moment and took in a labored breath before opening them to look at Blaine again.  "Is Kurt here?"

What if I hadn't picked up the phone to hear a crying, hiccuping Carole telling me to get to New York Hospital as soon as possible?  After I hung up, I had a moment where my body wasn't sure whether to fall apart or go speeding out the door.  I could feel that my movements were stiff and jerky as I grabbed my keys and headed out, holding my head high and trying to breath.  I tried to convince myself that everything would be okay this time, just like last time.

Carole was waiting for me outside of the closed door when I reached room 510.  She rushed to hug me and for a moment we just stood there before we pulled apart.  I watched her wipe at her eyes as she told me that she was with him when the attack happened and that he was only unconscious for an hour or so this time.  I couldn't find any hope in that "only."  My dad was sick and apparently it was so much worse this time.

The door to the room opened and woman in a white coat asked me if I was Kurt.  She introduced herself as my father's cardiologist and I looked worriedly to Carole, who nodded at me.  The doctor proceeded to tell me what had happened, using a bunch of big words I didn't understand and none of it making me feel any better with knowing.  "He's been asking for you," she concluded.

I wiped at my eyes and put on my best brave face.  But when I walked into the room, my heart dropped into my stomach.

There was my dad, looking pale and fragile and so unlike the man I knew.  And sitting next to him, was Blaine.

Blaine looked at me and I saw the corners of his lips turn up in the slightest smile.  "Come, sit," he told me, and stood up so that I could take his place.

"Hi, dad," I said, taking his hand.  It was cold and I looked up at Blaine, but he only shook his head a little, eyes still trained on my father.

My dad smiled at my voice, though.  He cleared his throat delicately and even through his sickly pallor and the horrid hospital lights I could recognize the face he made when he was about to give me a speech.

"Dad--"

"Kurt.  I never thanked you enough for taking care of me so much all those years.  And I guess--"

"Dad, stop.  You're not dying."  I didn't want to listen to this.

"No, listen.  I guess it bought me some time and I'm so glad because I got to watch you grow up to be this amazing young man.  You and I, we've been through some tough stuff together," he smiled ruefully at me.  I couldn't stop the tears from falling at this point.

"Don't let anyone push you around.  Don't let your grandmother push you around.  You deserve to be happy, Kurt.  Remember that."  He coughed and inhaled a rattling breath and I squeezed his hand even harder.

"Don't talk, dad.  Just rest."

He nodded.  "I love you, kiddo," he said, voice scratchy.

I sniffed and wiped at my face.  "I love you, too, dad.  Everything will be okay."

My dad died after another heart attack a day later.  By that time, Finn had arrived in New York and he, Carole and I (and Blaine) began the tortuous task of setting up arrangements.

We all travelled back to Ohio, where my dad was buried next to my mother.  It was a sunny day, not too hot or too cold.  It was the kind of day my dad used to complain about being stuck in the tire shop back in the day, or more recently, stuck in his office at the company. 

It didn't surprise me that so many of my dad's friends flew in from the city to pay their last respects.  I could imagine him perfectly in my head, wondering why everyone showed up to his funeral but couldn't make it on time for a meeting.  The service itself was short, as per my father's instructions.  He wouldn't have wanted anyone spending too much time crying over him.  I still wasn't ready to let go, but knowing it was what my father wanted made it easier.

Blaine was there.  And after all of the guests had dispersed at the small reception at the house in Lima, he took my hand and we went for a walk.

"So we know why I was brought to New York now," Blaine said as we made our way down the sidewalk.  I simply nodded, not saying anything.  "I was here for your father, Kurt.  I'm sure of it."

I stopped to look at him.  "And yet you're still here."

"That's true.  Unless I really am your imaginary friend," he grinned.

I poked him in the stomach.  "Feel that?"

He laughed.  "I did.  And I cut myself shaving quite often now."

I smiled a little at that.  He continued talking, "I think I'm here because I want to be.  And I want to be here because I love you, Kurt, and I don't think I could stand to leave you ever again."

I pulled him forward in a tight hug and pulled apart only enough so that our mouths could meet in a long-awaited kiss.

"I still have questions," I told him when we separated and continued to walk again.

"I don't know if I can answer them, but I can try."

"How do you explain your... existence?"  I couldn't think of a better way to ask that.

"Wow, just jumping right to the big questions," Blaine laughed.  "I honestly don't know, Kurt."

"Is it magic?  Are you an angel?"  I should have felt silly asking, but after everything I couldn't bring myself to feel anything but curious.

"Kurt, I'm being honest.  I don't know.  Just... I'm here," he squeezed my hand.  "I don't know how to explain it."

I sighed.  "And are you always going to look the way you do right now?"

"You mean am I going to ever get old?"

"Yes." He still looked the same age I remembered when I was ten.  We couldn't all be eternally stuck in our early thirties.

"Again, I really have no idea, Kurt."

"Well, it would be nice if I wasn't going to be the only old and wrinkly one in this relationship," I half-joked, nudging his arm.

"Oh, Kurt, you'll never be wrinkly," he laughed.

"Not if I have anything to do with it," I mumbled.  "Now, how about money?  How do you get any?"

"Oh, that's easy."  Blaine snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened.  We had stopped once more and I watched as Blaine's brow furrowed and he snapped his fingers again.

"That's... weird," Blaine muttered, continuing to snap and looking frustrated.  He looked up at me.  "I guess I'll have to get a job."

"What would you do?"

"I... have no idea," he shook his head.

Finally, I asked him the question that had been bothering me the longest.  "Are you going to stay with me, Blaine?  Or are you going to disappear again?  Please, just tell me the truth."

Blaine smiled and rolled his eyes at me, tugging at my arm.  But then his face crumpled to a grimace and he tore his hand out of mine to clutch at his chest.

"Blaine?"  I tried to catch him as he dropped to his knees on the cement.  "What's wrong?!"

"My chest," he choked out.

I was frantic; I couldn't believe this was happening.  I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1 and propped Blaine up on my lap as I tried to speak calmly with the woman on the other end of the line.

"Blaine, help is coming.  Just--hang on, okay?" My voice was shaky and I tried to reign myself in.  Blaine couldn't die.  Could he?  How could he have gotten so sick so suddenly?

I realized belatedly that Blaine was muttering something to me in between his raspy breaths.  "Kurt, you are so amazing, do you know that?"

"Don't speak, Blaine," I hushed him, brushing his curls away from his sweaty forehead.  A few neighbors were starting to come to our aid and in the distance I heard the sirens of the ambulance.

"No, you have to know how wonderful you are." He reached out to clasp one of my hands.  "I love you, Kurt."  And then Blaine's eyes closed.

What happened next I couldn't possibly explain, and I still can't to this day.

Blaine was rushed to Lima Memorial and I was surprisingly allowed to ride in back with him.  The entire time I tried not to panic--I couldn't believe that this was happening again.  First my father and now Blaine.  I didn't know how much more I could handle.

When we got to the hospital Blaine was wheeled away and nobody told me what was going on for what seemed like hours.  I paced the waiting room, chewing on my nails until a doctor reminiscent of Clooney in ER finally found me.  He asked me questions I didn't know the answers to--like how old Blaine was, if he had any history of heart problems.  He told me that Blaine had all the symptoms of heart failure but he seemed to be in perfect health otherwise.  The rushing in my ears was back as he explained that all they seemed to be able to do was keep him in intensive care, though I distantly heard him mention surgery as a possibility before he left.

And then this is where it got really strange.

I sat down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and buried my face in my hands when I felt someone lightly touch my shoulder.  I looked up to find a man looking kindly down at me--he was handsome with his sharp angles, tanned skin, and well-styled black hair.  Behind him were two more people giving me the same kind, concerned look--a short, Asian girl in loud clothes and a tall, pale brunette man.  They all looked to be in their mid-thirties. 

"May we sit?" the first man gestured to the empty chairs next to me and I nodded, though my confusion must have shown on my face.  "We're friends of Blaine's," he explained and leaned in slightly closer.  "Imaginary."

"Oh," was all I could seem to say.  I glanced at the others around us.  "I'm Kurt."

"I know.  I'm Wes, by the way.  And this is Rory and Sunshine."  Wes stuck his hand out and I hesitantly shook it.  "I've heard a lot about you.  How is he?  Do you know what's going on?"

"There's... something wrong with his heart.  He had a heart attack."  I was so tired of it all.

Wes' brow furrowed and I saw the others lean in and whisper something to each other.  "That's... odd.  We don't get sick.  Ever.  Something strange is going on."

I shook my head, thinking back over everything that had happened.  "Tell me about it."

"Blaine does.  All the time.  We've never seen him so happy, though."

I smiled slightly at him and he returned it, reaching out to grip my hand in a comforting gesture.  And so we sat there together and waited--my new imaginary friends and I--occasionally exchanging stories and concerns, talking about Blaine.  Finally, the doctor returned and I couldn't read the expression on his face.  When I turned to Wes for comfort, he just shook his head.  "He can't see us."

Of course not.  I'm the fully grown man with the imaginary friends.

"Kurt?" the doctor asked.  "Can you come with me?  This is all so strange and he's been asking for you.  Follow me."

Blaine watched Kurt walk into the room with his doctor--which was another first: he had a doctor.  Blaine had never been sick, never so much as a sniffle or a cough, and he had certainly never been held in the ICU. 

And he'd never been so terrified before.  He wasn't afraid of dying, but that he might never see Kurt again.

But Kurt was once again at his side and had immediately taken his hand.  "Hey you."

"Hi," Blaine answered.  The doctor gave his file one last look-over before giving them time alone.  Kurt pulled a chair up next to Blaine and began stroking a hand through the curls over his forehead.  Blaine closed his eyes at the sensation.  "I must look like a wreck."

"You're alive, though," Kurt smiled.  "To the extreme astonishment of your doctors, by the way.  They all seem to be in mild shock that your symptoms disappeared and you recovered so quickly."

Blaine simply shrugged.  "Their guess is as good as mine."

"You got off lucky, Blaine," Kurt's voice had turned serious and Blaine could see the unshed tears in his eyes.  He reached up to cup Kurt's cheek; he could only imagine what Kurt was thinking.  "All that food you eat... next time you may not be so fortunate.  I don't--I don't know what I would do if I lost you again."

"Kurt..."

"You could have died, Blaine.  You have a heart and you got sick and you could have died.  You're human.  You are human."  Kurt said it with such ferocity that it was impossible for Blaine to have any doubts.  He had already had time to suspect as much while he was being poked and prodded.

Blaine gripped Kurt's hand tighter and tried to sit up.  "So, let me see if I have this straight," he said.  "The whole big deal about being human is that you get to die?"

"Live and love and die," Kurt said softly, his blue eyes swimming with sincerity as he stared at Blaine.  "I'd say that's a pretty big deal."