“Kurt-”

His eyes are glued to the scene on the floor, but he’s strangely not looking at Blaine. He can’t, not since he realized this is all his fault. They cut Blaine’s shirt away (he loves that shirt, Kurt finds himself thinking, inappropriately, but focusing on the pieces of fabric hurts less than focusing on Blaine, who’s unmoving and still not breathing), and his boyfriend is bare-chested, white pads stuck to his chest, attached to the machine one of the medics is currently watching.

He fixates for a moment on the tiny drops of blood sliding down Blaine’s chest, where they’d had to shave him down too quickly to care about gentleness. He worries briefly about razor burn, about whether that’s going to sting later, before realizing how strange his thoughts are (but it seems like focusing on little things keeps him from focusing on the biggest thing-from focusing on Blaine, so he lets his mind wander).

He follows one of the drops down the planes of Blaine’s chest, until his eyes settle on the already forming bruise over Blaine’s side. It’s mostly red, blossoming into blue and purple, and his heart stutters (he feels like it hasn’t been beating, stopped beating the moment Blaine stopped breathing). Blaine's ribs are probably broken, will probably be another source of pain when he wakes up. And that's his fault too, the product of chest compressions and the nature of the human body.

I did that.

He tears his eyes from the bruise, starts trying to take in everything on the floor. It looks like an episode of ER come to life in his bedroom, and that scares him. He doesn’t know how to process what’s happening, so he compartmentalizes. He systematically catalogues everything surrounding Blaine, tries to piece together what each tube, wire, pad is for. He feels powerless, so he counts.

Three paramedics.

Five empty syringes thrown to the side.

A set of AED pads ripped off and discarded.

Twelve, sticky-backed EKG leads stuck to Blaine’s chest.

Two bags of fluids.

Six vials of medication.

One tiny little monitor, relaying the numbers that indicate that Blaine’s still alive.

Kurt doesn’t understand anything that’s happening, doesn’t know what words like shockable rhythm and intubation mean, what any of the equipment is used for. There are three medics clustered around Blaine, one at his head and one on either side. Carole is holding onto Kurt still, tightly, speaking to one of the medics, answering their questions. Finn and Rachel are still in the doorway, Finn’s arms around Rachel as she cries (and Kurt thinks vaguely that she must be feeling something like he does right now, since they were her cookies).

It feels like he’s watching everything through some kind of fog, like everything that’s happening is happening somewhere far removed. The sounds are muted, and his vision is blurred, but everything comes crashing back into clarity at Carole’s next words.

“Finn, I want you to take Rachel to your room. We’ll get you when we leave for the hospital.”

Kurt looks up, past Blaine and the paramedics (and he notes with mild curiosity that they’re no longer compressing his chest, that one of them is pressing a new set of leads in place of the old ones, and when did that happen?), and attempts to meet Rachel’s eyes. Hers are glued to Blaine, though, and he can’t get her attention.

It’s the lack of eye contact that makes him finally take in what’s happening on the floor, what’s making Rachel look like she’s about to throw up. The medic at Blaine’s head has a tube in one hand, has something stuck in Blaine’s mouth as she keeps trying to pass the tube into his throat, cursing. There are tubes running from Blaine’s right arm, one of the medics holding bags of fluid above his head as they all work frantically.

Everything is too loud, too busy. They’re talking over each other, interrupting, trying to keep too many things straight. Kurt can only pick out a few phrases, can understand even less.

“His pressure’s dropping again.”

“He’s going to arrest again, you need to-

“He’s still not breathing, can you tube him already?”

“I can’t get past the swelling, I’ve tried twice, get me-”

“Get clearance, we have to-”

“Finn, leave,” Carole repeats, making Kurt start, look up at her. She gestures to Burt, has him lead Finn and Rachel away even as she’s turning Kurt from the scene. He doesn’t understand, must’ve missed something. Why is Carole so adamant that they not see what’s happening, why-

He gets his answer as Carole is forcibly turning his face away, in the form of a scalpel being pulled from its sterile packaging.

“Oh, god,” he cries out, unconsciously trying to look back at Blaine. Carole stops him with a hand on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her.

“Kurt, listen to me. You don’t want to see this.”

“What-” he tries to shake her grip again, tries to look. He wants to-needs to-see Blaine, but Carole stays firm.

“Kurt, they’re having trouble breathing for Blaine right now, and they’re going to do their best to fix that, but it’s-it’s not going to be pretty, okay? Look at me instead.”

“What’re they doing?”

Carole’s eyes are trained on Blaine, her gaze directed over Kurt’s shoulder. She keeps her hands along Kurt’s face, keeps his gaze trained on her as she watches. She won’t tell him, can’t tell him, not while it’s happening. The scalpel cuts through skin, the push past the resistance in the trachea a little harder. She watches as the tube is threaded in, the bag attached, the medic at Blaine’s head rhythmically squeezing to push air into Blaine’s lungs (finally, Carole finds herself thinking). It’s quick, and it’s crude, and will be replaced at the hospital, but as color returns to Blaine’s lips and extremities Carole finds she doesn’t particularly care.

Everything seems to speed up after that, and she keeps Kurt focused on her, keeps him from looking at Blaine until she has the chance to explain.

“Kurt, I need to tell you what’s happened. They’re getting him ready for the hospital, and we’re going to head out soon, but-Kurt, they had to find a way to help Blaine breathe, okay? It looks really scary, and it looks really bad, but it’s in Blaine’s best interest right now.”

Kurt nods, face paling further. Behind him, they’ve stabilized the tube and Blaine’s neck, rolled him onto a backboard and are in the process of lifting him onto the gurney. She keeps Kurt focused on her for a moment longer, runs a comforting thumb along his cheek bone.

“They had to put in an emergency surgical airway, Kurt.”

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of his chest, like he can’t catch a breath. He doesn’t even fully comprehend what that means, but Carole’s tone, the look on her face-he knows it’s not good. He opens his mouth, wants to say something, has no idea what to say. He’s saved by the sound of the wheels on the gurney clicking, the rustle of the medics behind him.

Kurt turns, Carole finally lets him, but he almost has to grab her again to hold himself up. Blaine looks awful, his face too pale, dwarfed by all the equipment. The tube in his throat looks wrong, stuck in the front of his neck, surrounded by gauze, tape, blood. One of the medics is still squeezing the bag attached every few seconds, Blaine’s chest rising and falling in time with the push of air.

But this doesn’t look like Blaine, doesn’t look like his boyfriend who’s usually so vibrant and full of life. Kurt’s torn between throwing himself after Blaine, taking his hand, and collapsing to the ground. He can't help but think, what if, what if, what if? A different cookie, less making out, another night.

My fault. My fault. My fault.

They’re unlocking the wheels, rolling the bed down the hallway and Kurt goes to follow, tries to call after them. He somehow gets his brain to connect to his feet, somehow manages to drag Carole outside, trailing Blaine. The gurney is out of sight, halfway down the lawn when Burt, Finn, and Rachel catch up to them all.

“Burt, can you drive the kids and meet us? I’m going with him.”

“What?”

“Kurt, honey, I know you want to be with him. But you’re a minor, and there isn’t room. Go with your dad.”

Kurt tries to say something, tries to interrupt, but Carole’s hopping up beside the bed, taking Blaine’s hand in hers, and the doors are shut before he gets a sound out. The siren screams, red and blue lights swirling as the ambulance screeches away from the curb, and Kurt’s left behind.

“Kurt, buddy-”

“Get the car.”

Rachel’s trying to put her arms around him, her own tears falling onto his shoulder as she tries to bury her face in his neck, but he pulls back. He can't bear to be touched right now, not by anyone who isn't Blaine.

“I can’t, Rachel. Not with-not when-”

“Are you sure you all want to go?”

“Dad, please.”

They end up in Kurt’s Navigator, Kurt and Rachel curled in the backseat while Finn sits shotgun, shooting worried glances over his shoulder every few minutes. No one says anything-there’s nothing to say, nothing they can say, so they drive in silence, trailing the ambulance.

- - - -
Carole thinks she owes it to Kurt to try to present some kind of presence for Blaine, so she holds his hand the whole way to the ER, stroking her thumb over the knuckles and dutifully avoiding looking up at his face (at his throat).

She understands everything that’s happening, understands the medical necessity, but that doesn’t make it easier to stomach. This is Blaine, her step-son’s boyfriend. Blaine, who spends every Friday complimenting her at the dinner table and watching games with Burt. Who’s taken Kurt’s heart as his own, guarded it and held it. Who’s become as much a part of her family as Kurt and Burt.

She wonders if anyone’s called Blaine’s parents, if she should take that responsibility. She considers asking one of the medics, notes the intensity they’re working with-the woman (Ellie, Carole finally remembers, matching a name to a face from her shifts in the ER) is still ventilating Blaine manually, the guy who isn’t driving is pushing meds, monitoring vitals-and decides it’ll wait until the hospital, until she can get their number from Kurt.

“How far out are we?” Ellie calls through the partition, her gaze never leaving Blaine’s face. Carole tries to figure in her head-they live thirty minutes from the hospital on a good day, forty-five with traffic. The rig is currently speeding, and they haven’t stopped for lights, so she thinks they might make it in under fifteen.

No one speaks the sentiment hanging over them-that Blaine needs to be at the hospital as soon as possible. That the stop-gap measures, the crude airway, the minimal drugs they have available-it's not enough.

“Five minutes, maybe seven. How is he?”

“Still alive.”

Carole understands, has heard the words thousands of times before, but it’s a difficult blow to take when it’s someone she cares about.

She busies herself figuring out what will happen once they arrive at the hospital.

Regardless of her status as a nurse, she’ll be left in the waiting room, left with Kurt and Burt, Finn and Rachel.

They’ll take Blaine back, surgery will already be waiting for them to remove the temporary airway and put in a more stable one, if he’s still not breathing on his own. They’ll push epinephrine, antihistamines, steroids, IV fluids to combat the reaction. Oxygen to compensate for the lack of it.

There’s always worry about secondary reactions, secondary hypersensitivities. He’ll be admitted for observation, in addition to the need to monitor the airway. There’ll be brain activity tests, later; he’s been down for so long (too long) that they’ll worry about brain damage and cell death.

The mental list helps her stay calm, even as she runs through every horrible possibility. It keeps her from breaking down, starting to cry.

Because nothing about this seems fair.

It’s not fair for Rachel, who had no idea that her cookies would do this to Blaine.

It’s not fair for Kurt, who will hate himself for years if the unthinkable happens, is already hating himself for being the mechanism of the reaction.

It’s definitely not fair for Blaine, who’s life is still hanging in the balance, who's survival hinges on time and luck.

The rig jerks to a stop, and she tightens her grip on Blaine’s hand, squeezing reassurance that he can’t feel, is too deeply unconscious to feel.

“We’re here.”

- - - - -

“Why won’t they tell us anything?”

“They’re working on him, Kurt. Sit-”

“I can’t sit still, I can’t-not until-”

“You’re making me dizzy,” Finn jokes feebly, his eyes tracking Kurt’s progress across the floor of the waiting room. Kurt pauses briefly, shoots Finn a look that makes Finn shrink back, and resumes pacing.

Pacing is calming. It gives him something to focus on, something other than where, what, how. Other than Blaine.

Carole is back behind the security doors, trying to use her pull as an employee to get them information. It’s not working, but it’s worth a shot, she tells them every time she comes back out to the waiting room with meager information.

They’re not Blaine’s family, Burt and Carole aren’t Blaine’s parents. No one will tell them anything until John and Carrie Anderson get there. They're on their way, but it's not fast enough, not enough.

Calling Blaine’s parents ranks on Kurt’s list of the worst things he’s had to do. John Anderson has never made his dislike for Kurt a secret, and it had been incredibly difficult to get across what had happened without breaking down, overcome by a mix of fear and lingering guilt. It had taken twelve minutes (Kurt looked at the call report afterwards) to convey what had happened, to beg the Andersons to come to the hospital, to be with Blaine.

He's sure they'll hate him, that John will never forgive him for this. If Blaine (he can't think it, won't think it), he's not sure he'll ever forgive himself, either.

The call ended thirty minutes ago, and they’re still on their way.

Kurt spins on his heel again, heading into another leg of his route when Burt’s voice startles him.

“What’s going on?”

“They still won’t let me back with him, but I managed to piece some things together from the talk on the floor.”

“And?” Kurt’s at Carole’s side in an instant, his face tight with worry.

“They’re still working on him. Surgery’s replaced the airway, and they’ve got him on a ventilator, but they’re having trouble keeping him stable. They can’t tell if it’s a secondary response to the allergen or if it’s lingering from the first reaction.”

“God,” Kurt breathes, falling into a chair next to Rachel, finally still for the first time since they’d arrived.

“Kurt, do you know what, exactly, he’s allergic to?

“He never told me he was allergic to anything. How did he-I didn’t even know he was supposed to be carrying an epi-pen.”

“It’s not your fault, Kurt,” Rachel says quietly, resting a hand on his arm. “You didn’t know, you didn’t do this on purpose.”

“I nearly killed my boyfriend.”

“They were my cookies.”

Carole crouches in front of them, sensing that the situation could become tense, quickly. It's not a fight about who feels guiltiest, it's about Blaine right now, so she redirects their attention.

“Rachel, what, exactly, were in the cookies?”

“Maple syrup. Oat. Tahini. Sesame oil. Sugar. Flour.”

Carole sighs, as if it’s suddenly become clear. Kurt makes a quiet noise, looks imploringly at her.

“What?”

“I think Blaine’s allergic to sesame. Has he ever had a problem with it before? Avoided it in the past?”

“I mean, we never really go out to eat, I don't know if he's ever asked anyone, we just go to the Lima Bean and they don’t-I never noticed if he did. Why would he keep this a secret?”

Carole’s answer is cut off by the arrival of Blaine’s parents, Carrie and John rushing to the Hummel family as quickly as they can, Carrie trailing slightly behind her husband. John has a look of fear on his face that Kurt thinks is strange, out of place. Everything he knows about Blaine’s father speaks to almost apathy towards their relationship, so the sheer care John is exhibiting takes him by surprise.

“Where is he?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Anderson? I’m Carole Hummel, Kurt’s-”

“Where is my son?”

John rounds on Carole, Kurt all but forgotten in his desperate need to find his son, find out how bad it is. Carrie hangs back, crying, and Kurt’s torn between his own guilt and fear and sadness, and comforting Blaine’s mother.

“He’s being looked at now. I’ll get someone to take you back, they’ve been waiting for you so they can-”

“I want to see my son.”

“John-” Carrie steps forward, puts a hand on her husband’s arm. Kurt will never pretend to understand the Anderson family dynamic, but he can finally understand where Blaine gets his unnerving calmness, his ability to deal with crisis situations, from. Carrie is crying, and clearly upset, but she’s the calmest one in the room, and her presence slowly puts Kurt at ease.

She turns to Carole, keeping her hand on John’s arm.

“What do we need to do?”

They follow Carole back into the ER proper, and suddenly, the waiting room is empty again save for the Hummels, Rachel, and the frail old man waiting in the corner. It’s strange, Kurt thinks, for an ER to be so empty on a Friday night, but this is Lima, and he’s too exhausted to think too hard about it.

He goes back to pacing.

It’s an hour and a half later that the Andersons finally come back out, but it’s to send them all home.

“He’s being admitted to the ICU. They need to monitor the surgical site, and they’re still worried about secondary shocks. There’s not really a point for you to wait here, they won’t let anyone see him tonight.”

“No,” Kurt whispers, his eyes filling again (for the thousandth time, he thinks bitterly). “I can’t- I need to see him, make sure he’s-”

“He’s unconscious, and he will be for awhile. They’ve still got him on oxygen. He probably won’t even be aware of your presence.”

“Please, Mrs. Anderson, please don’t-I need-” Kurt pleads his case to Blaine’s mother, bypassing John entirely. “Don’t make me leave him.”

“Kurt-”

“You don’t understand,” Kurt says quietly, voice raspy from the crying he’s done all night. “He’s everything to me. I just had to watch him die on my bedroom floor. I had to keep him alive until they could save him. I can’t go to my room tonight, can’t see where they-I need to see him, I need-”

“Kurt, buddy, calm down.”

Burt’s holding him, and when did he get to his feet? Everything keeps blurring, time skipping and slowing beyond his control.

Nothing makes sense.

“Kurt-”

“Please.”

“You can wait with us.”

Everyone whips around, shocked that it’s John who answers. Kurt gapes at him, mouth working as he tries to find an answer.

“We owe you that, Kurt. Back there, before they took him up-they told us, without you, without your stepmother-”

“Thank you.”

He sends the rest of his family home, tells them he’s not leaving until he gets to see Blaine. Burt protests, insists that Kurt needs to sleep, that he needs to come home. It’s Carrie who comes to his rescue this time, insists she’ll keep an eye on Kurt while they wait for word on Blaine.

It’s how he finds himself asleep on a different waiting room chair, Carrie Anderson’s arms wrapped around him. John is across from them, watching them with the tiniest of smiles. They're not allowed into Blaine's room, not allowed to see him until visiting hours, until he's settled and they're sure he's not going to slip back into cardiac arrest.

So Kurt sleeps, and Carrie holds him. He thinks she might be compensating for the fact that she can't hold Blaine right now, but he can't find it in him to protest, so he let's it happen.

It’s six in the morning when someone finally comes to get them.

“Family of Blaine Anderson?”