Kurt stirs, dislodging Carrie’s arms as he sits up, searches for the source of the voice. There’s a guy in scrubs standing directly in front of their small party, looking questioningly at them. They’re still the only people in the waiting room; it’s still too early for pretty much anyone else to be at the hospital, let alone in the Intensive Care waiting room.

“That’s us.”

John stands up, holds his hand out for the man (his name is Kyle, he’s an RN, Kurt notes as he seeks out the guy’s ID badge to put a name to the face) to shake. The exchange pleasantries, before the man folds his arms in front of his chest, his face serious.

“I’m here to take you back to sit with Blaine. Visiting hours are usually pretty strict, but we’re making an exception due to the nature of Blaine’s admission to the hospital last night. If he’s still on the ward tomorrow, though, you’ll be allowed in to see him starting at 9. We usually let two to three family members in with the patients, depending on their status; Blaine’s stable enough at this point that we’re comfortable letting you sit with him unless something changes. If you don’t have any specific questions right now, I can take you back?”

They move to follow him, but he stops them with a hand, eyeing Kurt critically.

“I’m sorry, but family only. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait out here.”

Kurt gapes, mouth open to try to form some kind of protest at the sheer ridiculousness of that rule. He’s not necessarily Blaine’s family, and they’re certainly not married or anything of the sort, but still-outside of their relationship, he’s just saved Blaine’s life. Shouldn’t that count for something? Give him some pull to be able to make sure Blaine’s okay?

Any protest he could form is cut off, however, when he’s interrupted.

“Kurt is with us. He’s part of our family.”

Carrie’s slipped her hand in his, squeezes his fingers gently. She offers him a tiny smile in reassurance, and Kurt returns it, squeezing her hand in kind. He wants to question, discuss what, exactly, just happened, but the more he protests the longer it will take to see Blaine, so he files that away for later discussion, adds it to John’s earlier benevolence.

Kyle seems skeptical, and Kurt understands-he looks nothing like either of Blaine’s parents, but Kyle takes their word and nods. He leads them back through a set of doors to the ICU proper, dropping his tone of voice significantly as they enter the ward.

“We ask that you speak quietly out of deference to the other patients and their families. Any discussion Blaine’s team will need to hold with you will likely take place in our conference room, and we ask that you hold any lengthy or heated conversations outside in the waiting room. We also ask that you not use cell phones in patient areas.”

He draws to a stop outside of one of the small rooms, turns to face them again. Kurt had tried to look into the rooms they’d passed, stopped after the first three-the patients looked so sick, surrounded by tubes and machines and strange equipment. He doesn’t want to think about what Blaine looks like, how many of those things surround Blaine right now.

He’s acutely aware he’s about to face that.

“Blaine’s in here. As I’m sure you were made aware in the ER, we’ve still got him on a ventilator, which will probably be the strangest thing you’ll see once you see him. There’s the trach tube, which I know Dr. Werner explained to you earlier, and he’s got several IVs. Blaine’s still unconscious.”

He slides the curtain aside, gestures them into the tiny room. Kurt zeroes in on the bed as soon as he can, everything else fading away. He doesn’t register the nurse leaving, Carrie dropping his hand to take one of Blaine’s, John sinking into the chair by the wall with his head in his hands.

It’s like he’s been struck with tunnel-vision, everything narrowed to a single point-Blaine. Specifically, the thing in Blaine’s neck. He can’t really focus on much else-not the fact that Blaine’s far too pale, that his chest is rising and falling in rhythm with the machine behind his head, that the heart monitor hooked to the wall is slowly displaying the beat that means Blaine’s still there.

The tube looks strange, entirely out of place. It’s significantly more clinical than the one Kurt had seen the paramedics execute-the small plastic tube is surrounded by a plastic casing, a cloth strap circling Blaine’s neck, securing the entire set up. There’s no blood, just a simple piece of gauze padding surrounding the tube itself. It’s attached to a longer tube; Kurt follows it back behind the bed, connects it to the machine that’s apparently breathing for Blaine.

He has a sudden desire to reach forward and pull the whole thing out.

He’s so focused on Blaine, on the blatant reminders of what’s happened, that he completely misses Carrie attempting to gain his attention, until she reaches up to rest a hand on his forearm.

“Kurt?”

“What?”

“I asked if you wanted to sit with him.”

Carrie gestures to the chair directly opposite hers, indicating that Kurt should take it. John is still sitting by the wall, but his head is no longer in his hands. He’s watching Kurt carefully, the way Kurt walks over to the chair and slumps into it, entirely ungraceful.

Kurt chooses to ignore the scrutiny, leans forward and takes Blaine’s other hand. His left is held between both of Carrie’s, so Kurt takes his right, gently running a thumb over Blaine’s knuckles. He has to modify his grip to accommodate the IV line in the back of Blaine’s hand, but he settles quickly, his eyes finding Blaine’s face, finally.

He slips back into his quiet musing, watches Blaine carefully as the room stays silent, save for the heart monitor. Blaine’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes (lashes Kurt has always loved, because they’re incredible, he loves the way they make Blaine’s eyes stand out) stark against Blaine’s skin. Skin that’s lost far too much color. Blaine normally has such a warm complexion, that the paleness is even more disturbing.

Blaine just looks sick.

Kurt’s heard that unconscious people look like they’re just sleeping, that you could almost believe they’d wake up at any moment.

He can't believe that.

Blaine doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. It’s too unnatural. Even without the jarring reality of the tracheostomy, Blaine doesn’t look restful. Nothing about his current state indicates that he's really at peace.

There’s still a tiny voice in the back of Kurt’s mind, that’s screaming at him that this is his fault. He hasn’t given it much attention, hasn’t entertained that thought for hours. There were people to yell at, demand answers from, floors to pace, parents to call.

But now, in the quiet, faced full-on with Blaine-he can’t stop the thoughts from getting louder. The bruising on Blaine’s side is covered by the flimsy gown, the blanket pulled up to Blaine’s waist. He knows it’s there, and inexplicably feels just as guilty for that as he does for the reaction happening.

He wants so badly to take everything away, feels that desire more strongly than he has all night.

Kurt’s not had much time to muse before he hears voices just outside the room, and he turns, trying to listen. There’s a group of people standing outside, apparently discussing Blaine.

“And the patient in bed nine?”

“Uh, 17 year old male, presented to the ER in the midst of an anaphylactic reaction. Paramedics on the scene reported that he was in full arrest when they arrived, had received CPR since the moment of arrest. No epi was given prior to the arrival of EMS. Intubation was attempted multiple times, with no success due to tracheal swelling. EMS put in an emergency cric, ventilated and cardioverted, transported to the ER.”

There’s a rustling of papers, and the same voice picks back up.

“Surgery replaced the cric with a trach upon arrival. Pushed epinephrine and vasopressin. Transferred care to the ICU around three or four this morning. He wasn’t quite breathing on his own at the time, and was oxygenating poorly. Respiratory set up a vent and he’s been on around eighty percent oxygen since then. His pressure’s been fluctuating, seemingly in response to the meds. We’ve been trying to wean him off the higher doses, but he was still reacting to the allergen as far as we could tell, up to a few hours ago.”

“And now?”

“His breathing’s getting stronger, slowly. The swelling is decreasing, with the added meds. He hasn’t started to fight the vent yet with any purpose, but he’s oxygenating well. Haven’t been any real changes in vitals in the last hour or so, and it seems like the reaction’s mostly over. We’ve been closely monitoring, he’s still on fluids and oxygen but his color’s improving and he hasn’t dropped his pressure since three.”

“Conscious?”

“Not since he went down on the scene.”

“How long was he down?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes? No one was sure.”

“Order an EEG?”

“Not yet. I’ll note it.”

“Anything else important?”

“Surgery’s going to send someone down to check the tube later in the morning, and once everything settles they’ll talk to the family about decannulation. He’s also got some broken ribs from the CPR efforts, x-ray came up to take some films an hour ago.”

There’s more talk of specific dosages, specific med regimens, but Kurt starts to tune them out, torn between feeling numb after the sheer amount of information, and feeling upset at the way it was delivered just now. He gets that there must be some rhyme or reason to what’s going on-but that doesn’t change the way Blaine had just become a number to the people right outside.

Blaine’s the patient in bed nine, the kid with the tracheostomy, the kid who’s got possible brain damage from extended lack of oxygen.

Blaine’s not Blaine Anderson, at least not to this set of doctors. He’s not a sixteen year old boy who has a family, parents, a boyfriend. He’s not a boy with a story, hobbies, things he does well.

Part of Kurt wants to jump up, walk outside and shake someone. Yell at them for reducing Blaine to nothing more than what’s wrong with him. Yell at them that Blaine has feelings and worth and a lot to live for and worry about.

It upsets him that they’re ignoring who Blaine is in favor of a list of numbers and medications, pieces of equipment. In favor of clinical descriptions that feel cold to Kurt.

Another part of him realizes, as they walk away and the same thing starts at the next room, that this is what they have to do. They have more than one patient. All of the patients here need intensive care. Kurt thinks briefly that it must be incredibly draining to be around such severe illness every day, that personalizing the sickest patients might lead to a lot of stress when the unthinkable happens.

Kurt understands this.

He doesn’t like it.

He goes back to idly stroking his thumb along Blaine's knuckles.

“You really do care about him, don’t you?”

John speaks up from his corner, still watching Kurt. Kurt jumps, startled by the sudden noise. He’s not sure what’s prompted this, what he’s been doing apart from watching Blaine sleep and musing internally on his own guilt and how worried he is, especially after seeing Blaine so stricken, and listening to his case dismantled so clinically. His confusion must be evident, because John elaborates.

“The way you’re looking at him. It’s like the way I look at Carrie.”

Kurt turns away from the bed, dropping Blaine’s hand. He regards John carefully, looking for the game, the loophole in the statement. His only real experience with spending time with John Anderson involved dinner at Blaine’s house, an hour of awkward silence, and no less than eight comments that indicated Kurt wasn’t quite what he’d dreamed for his son.

He’d avoided John since that night.

Blaine’s told him stories of growing up, how John was never quite as supportive as Blaine wanted him to be. His own interactions, however brief, seemed to confirm Blaine’s stories.

Kurt’s not sure how to reconcile this new idea of John Anderson with what he’s previously experienced.

“I do care about him. A lot. He’s helped me deal with some pretty rough things.”

“I didn’t understand it, at first. Why. And then that dance happened, and suddenly, everything was happening the way I was afraid it would.”

“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Anderson?”

John nods, and Kurt takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“Why don’t you like me?”

There’s a pause that can’t be described as anything but awkward. John looks away, almost afraid to meet Kurt’s eyes. Carrie sits straighter in her chair, spine rigid, as though preparing for something bad to happen.

“It’s not you, Kurt.”

“Ever since that night at dinner I’ve felt like you hated me. What is it about me-am I too, what, gay? Too feminine? Not manly enough for Blaine? What is it?”

“It’s more than that, Kurt. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then help me understand, Mr. Anderson. I just-Blaine almost died tonight, and calling you was one of the worst things I’ve had to do since it happened, including pounding on his chest hard enough to break his ribs. I shouldn’t be afraid of my boyfriend’s father.”

“It’d be the same no matter who he was with, Kurt. It’s not just you, it’s-do you know what it’s like to get a call from the police at eleven at night, telling you to go pick your son up from the emergency room, there’s been an incident? Do you have any idea-”

“That’s not Blaine’s fault, though. It never was. Blaine’s gay, Mr. Anderson, that doesn’t mean-”

“It makes him a target. And being with you, in public-that makes him even more of a target.”

Kurt sits, shocked, for several long moments, processing. This is all overwhelming, the idea that Blaine’s father equates Blaine being gay, dating, dating Kurt, with the Sadie Hawkins and everything that entails.

John’s reaction on the phone, the vehemence with which he spoke, asked questions, it suddenly makes sense.

“You thought it was my fault. When I called you tonight. You thought I was calling to tell you Blaine was in the hospital for getting beaten up.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“Did it also cross your mind that I’d be in the same situation, if that were the case?”

John is silent, and Kurt has his answer. A lot of things that have happened are finally piecing together. John’s desperation to see Blaine, the way he’d coldly regarded Kurt at first. His sudden change of heart, the way he’d allowed Kurt to stay with them after finding out Kurt was the one to do CPR.

For John, everything stems back to one night, one dance, one phone call. Everything changed that night.

Everything subsequent is measured against that.

Kurt brought that screaming back tonight.

“I love your son, Mr. Anderson. I won’t ask you to accept that, I can’t change your mind. I can’t make up your mind about me. But I love him, and I just ask that you respect that. Thank you for letting me sit with you, with him. But please don’t sit here and judge the way I am with him.”

“I’m not judging you,” John says quietly. The conversation's over, tabled for the moment. Lengthy discussions take energy, anyway, and Kurt certainly doesn't have the stamina to argue with John over anything significant.

There’s still a tension between them, hanging over Blaine and hinging on his recovery. Kurt’s not sure John’s quite appreciated how Blaine came in contact with the sesame, and that’s a conversation he’s going to wait to have until Blaine is awake, and going to be okay.

But he thinks they might have reached an agreement for the moment, even if Kurt still feels awkward with the way John watches him, alternates his gaze between Kurt and Blaine. Kurt’s unnerved by the attention, but he might give John the benefit of the doubt here.

It's difficult to know that your son even needed his life to be saved, no less by the boy he claims to love.

He files the thought away for later, puts it with Carrie declaring him “part of our family,” and the fear he has of telling them both how, exactly, Blaine ended up not breathing on his bedroom floor.

They sit in awkward silence for another twenty minutes or so, until someone comes into the room, interrupts their separate musings.

“Sorry to disturb, y’all. I’m Rebecca, I’ll be Blaine’s nurse this morning. I’m here to change his IV, check his dressings, if that’s okay?”

She’s tiny, with a slight Southern twang coloring her voice. Kurt warms to her instantly, something about the incredibly gentle way she regards Blaine.

“He’s doing well,” she remarks conversationally, pulling on a pair of gloves and stepping around the wires and tubes, reaching for the IV bag. She keeps up a steady stream of talk as she disconnects the bag in use, attaches another and hangs it above the bed. She marks levels and numbers, scribbles them down onto the back of her hand with a pen.

“Has anyone been in to explain things to you since you got here?”

She’s gently checking the gauze around the trach tube, checking the connection to the ventilator and the individual pieces of the set up. She stands up, pulls off her gloves and turns to face Carrie as she speaks.

“No. They just-he sat us in here, told us he had to leave. There was a group outside the door awhile ago but they-”

“We don’t know anything,” John interrupts his wife. Kurt remains silent, afraid to overstep and intrude on something that should clearly be Blaine’s parents’ arena.

Rebecca frowns, tossing the last of her supplies into the trash.

“That was probably the residents rounding on the patients. At shift change we have to pass off care to the next shift, highlight what’s gone on over the previous shift. It can get a little impersonal. Do you have any questions for me? Anything in here that you want me to explain? I’m sorry we didn’t do a very good job of that.”

She sits with them an additional twenty minutes, explains the intricacies of the ventilator and the tube placement, answers their questions. Kurt wonders vaguely if she has time for this, if she doesn’t have other patients to attend to.

It’s so much the opposite of the last encounter with Blaine’s doctors, nurses. Kurt feels a bit better, realizes that he might have passed too harsh a judgment on medical practice as a whole due to the one observation. He wonders briefly if he’s just processing things strangely thanks to the stress, if this is something he’ll revisit when everything’s okay.

He doesn’t remember feeling quite the same way when his dad was in the hospital. Doesn’t remember feeling that sense of frustration with everyone for treating Burt like a heart condition and not a person.

It’s probably the overarching guilt he’s still feeling, trying to tamp down on.

He sits quietly, lets Carrie and John ask the questions and get their answers. He hears pieces, starts to understand what epinephrine does and what exactly is in the bags hanging above the bed. He keeps watching Blaine’s face, though, trying hard to keep his eyes above the neck, above the trach tube and the reality that presents.

He’s suddenly struck with a thought, and he voices the question before he can restrain himself.

“What about his voice?”

The room is quiet again, and the question hangs. Carrie and John understand his sudden fear.

What will happen to Blaine’s voice? What if the tube stays, if it damages his vocal cords, if Blaine can’t ever sing again?

What happens then?

Rebecca pauses, regards Kurt kindly.

“The tube is placed high enough in the trachea that it shouldn’t cause any real trauma to the vocal nerves or folds. While it’s in, he’s going to have some trouble with vocalization, that’s true. It’s going to be very difficult for him, for awhile. I can have someone from surgery try to explain the procedure to you?”

“But is it possible? That he could never-that he’d-”

“Unfortunately, anything is possible. Due to the nature of the original procedure, the emergency situation it was performed in, there’s a chance for complications, yes. But we’ll have to cross that bridge when we get there, okay? Don’t focus too much on what ifs and maybes.”

It’s not the answer Kurt wants. It’s not the answer Carrie or John want.

There’s still so much up in the air, even if Blaine survives this first day, this first hurdle.

How much damage was done to his brain, with the lack of oxygen?

How much damage was done to his throat?

What will happen to his voice?

How much will he remember?

Will he blame Kurt?

Will he even wake up?

Kurt’s still pondering these questions as Rebecca leaves, as they go back to sitting in silence, watching Blaine in their individual ways.

Kurt thinks he might need to call his dad, let him know everything’s okay. That he should reach out to Rachel, thank Carole.

He stays in his chair, sitting opposite Blaine’s mom, watching Blaine’s face.

They don’t know when he’ll wake up. They can’t say if he’s simply unconscious, exhausted, comatose. There aren’t definite answers.

The morning passes in a stream of doctors, nurses, therapists. They adjust meds, adjust oxygen levels, draw blood, send it for testing. There’s talk of weaning him off the ventilator, talk of lowering the oxygen level to mostly room air as Blaine starts to breathe spontaneously, over the vent. Some of them engage the Andersons, answering and asking questions; some just come and go.

It’s early afternoon when something finally shifts. Kurt’s just come back from the cafeteria, where, at Carrie’s insistence, he managed to swallow down a cup of coffee and a salad. She and John are eating now, and Kurt’s alone with Blaine.

He’s pretty sure this is against the rules, especially being that he’s definitely not family. He’s a minor, shouldn’t be allowed to be in Blaine’s room alone by all standards of the rules.

No one stops him.

He takes the same seat, takes Blaine’s hand in his again and resumes his vigil. He’s been there maybe fifteen minutes when Blaine’s fingers twitch, tighten and curl around his own.

Kurt’s eyes flicker up to Blaine’s, and he’s on his feet, leaning over the bed as far as he dares.

“Blaine? Sweetie, you awake? Blaine?”

Blaine’s eyes are moving rapidly under his lids, and his grip on Kurt’s hand tightens. His lips part, mouth working rapidly as he slowly slides back into consciousness.

Kurt smiles, rests a hand along Blaine’s cheek to encourage him.

“Come on, Blaine. There you go.”

He’s not prepared for Blaine to suddenly jerk his arms up, reach for the tube, grasping at it. Blaine’s eyes are open, but he’s not really focusing on Kurt, evidenced by the look of panic in them. He reaches for his neck with both hands, clutching at the tube and the strap around his neck. The monitor starts screaming, and Kurt’s quietly grateful because that will attract help.

But Blaine’s desperate, and his breathing is rapidly increasing, hands shaking as he tries to take the tube out, get it away, stop it from hurting him.

Kurt catches Blaine’s hands in his own, stops him from doing anything too severe. He holds them to his own chest, squeezes to try to get Blaine’s attention.

“Blaine! Blaine, you’re okay. You’re fine. Blaine, look at me.”

Blaine’s still pulling at his hands, trying to free them. Kurt tightens his grip, bringing Blaine’s hands up to his lips to brush a kiss across the knuckles.

“You’re okay.”

Blaine’s still struggling, trying to pull away. He’s not focusing on Kurt, on anything apart from the tube in his neck and his desperate need to get it out. Kurt’s crying before he realizes it, watching Blaine fall apart in his hands for the second time in less than a day.

He’s incredible grateful for the doctors who show up, take over. He slides back, watches as they hold Blaine’s hands to the bed, lean over him and start pushing orders, meds, suggestions.

“Blaine! Blaine, you need to calm down. You’re in the hospital, Blaine, okay? You’re in the hospital, and there’s a tube in your neck that’s helping you breathe. Settle down, and let it help.”

Blaine’s too far gone at this point to listen or even hear, and there’s sudden talk of sedation and putting him back under to avoid further damage. Kurt watches, detached, as they keep holding Blaine’s hands down, stick something into his IV line and watch as he slowly calms, stills.

“What did you do to him?”

Carrie and John are back, standing in the doorway. Carrie’s got a hand over her mouth in shock, and John looks angry. Kurt wants to go to them, hold Carrie and offer some kind of apology, but as soon as Blaine’s settled the doctor walks over to them, addresses them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Anderson? If we could talk down the hall? We can leave your other son here with Blaine, but we should probably discuss this off the ward.”

Kurt watches them leave again, doesn’t even start at the phrase “your other son” and is suddenly left in the room, alone, save for Rebecca, who’s checking Blaine’s vital signs and rearranging the blankets dislodged in Blaine’s struggle.

“What just happened?”

“He woke up more quickly than we expected, and panicked. It’s completely natural, and he was overwhelmed. It’s scary to wake up like that-in an unfamiliar place with something foreign stuck in your throat. He’s also probably in a lot of pain, from his ribs and the surgical site itself.”

“What did you give him?”

“We sedated him. I know this all seems awful, but it’s for Blaine’s best interest. Until he’s more stable, he’s going to be disoriented and confused when he’s awake, and it’s going to be hard to explain what’s happening to him. It’s kinda like waking up in a fog-nothing will really make sense to him, so he’ll focus on what he can feel and understand. At that moment, it’s going to be the trach.”

“God,” Kurt whispers, slumping back into his chair and staring at Blaine.

This is turning out to be much longer and more harrowing than he ever expected. It’s always quick in the movies-someone eats a peanut, stabs themselves in the leg with an EpiPen and, short trip to the ER later, they’re fine.

It’s not going to work like that, it’s clear.

Blaine’s still unconscious, this time intentionally.

He’s still on some kind of oxygen, still not quite breathing well enough on his own.

There’s still a chance he could turn for the worse.

There’s still a tube, a hole cut into his neck and his trachea.

He still might not talk, might have vocal damage.

He might not sing again.

It’s too overwhelming.

Kurt needs to leave, walk away for the moment.

He can’t keep staring at Blaine’s slack face. At the trach tube. At how pale Blaine is.

He kisses Blaine’s knuckles one last time, squeezes his hand, and walks from the room, down the hall.

He finds a secluded corner, sinks to the floor, and sobs, really lets go, for the first time since Blaine stopped breathing.