I feel marooned in this body,

Deserted my organs can go on without me.

You can't fly these wings,

You can't sleep in this box with me.

If I could trade mistakes for sheep,

Count me away before you sleep.

I'll stay awake ‘til I trade my mistakes or they fade away.

After three days, Blaine lost count of them. He lived in a constant stream of nightmares broken by the occasional conversation happening in his room that stirred him to the confusing half-awake state he couldn't explain if he tried. Knowing that Kurt was there almost all the time had begun to grate on his nerves. The nurses and doctors that flooded in and out of the room always muttered quiet things about how he should have woken up by now. He should be recovering and awake and he wasn't. Sometimes Kurt cried and all Blaine wanted to do was tell him to shut the fuck up.

            Cooper had left at some point; something about his agent being a bitch. Christian also came around; usually spending what must have been nights –judging by the quiet snoring– at his side.

            But the nightmares. They got so vivid and intense that they felt even more real than usual. Other times he wished he had the option of screaming himself awake because anything would be better than remembering. He knew Christian had nearly broken Kurt's nose; he didn't know how he knew, couldn't remember how, but all he saw were shattered memories.

            He didn't remember what he did. It was always the same and he always tried to figure out what he'd done wrong this time but he never understood.

            This time it was his nose, most likely broken. It was the one day he'd come home on the weekend, and it was only to grab a few books he'd wanted to pick up and he planned to go back on his way.

            William had stumbled from his study, eyes already glazed over despite it being 10 a.m. Blaine didn't have time to run before his father was screaming. And you'd think that after seven years of the same thing, he'd be used to it. But that didn't stop the tears from springing to his eyes and his internal struggle to not just run.

            He'd learned to partially tune out the abuse, standing with his head bowed in a feeble attempt to look guilty which he must have been a little too good at because it always succeeded. Except today, apparently, because William just kept shouting. Blaine lost count of the amount of homophobic slurs (not that he was counting or anything) thrown at him. He tilted his head back up to look at his father which must have been the worst possible move he could make because he was met with a face full of fist accompanied by a sickening crunch he almost didn't hear over the blood rushing in his ears. And then his father was gone, muttering quietly as he wobbled back to his study.

            Blaine stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, dabbing at the dripping blood that never seemed to want to stop. His phone's internet page was open; ‘how to tell if you have a broken nose'.

            He pressed at it gingerly, hissing at the pain and scrunching his eyes –which were already adopting dark indigo rings around them– closed. It looked like he had to make a stop at the clinic before returning to Dalton.

            The drive from the Victorian Village Health Centre back to Westerville was a drive filled with doubt and worry. He had to tell Kurt now. There was a blood stain in the front of his once crisp white oxford and drying down the side of his neck. There was no other way to casually pass off a broken nose because Kurt would freak out and he'd know Blaine was lying because Kurt could just read him. And what would he even say to begin with? How do you lie about a broken nose that somehow happened seemingly at random over the course of one day? “Oh man, I'm a total idiot and walked into a door.” He was clumsy, but definitely not to that degree and Kurt knew that.

            Blaine's hands clutched at the steering wheel at ten and two until he was white in the knuckles. His breathing was shallow, shuddering in and out between clenched teeth. And how was he even supposed to gently broach the subject? “Ah yes well my father has been beating me up since I was nine, it's no big deal, I'm used to it.” Yes, perfect, because that wouldn't give his boyfriend a heart attack or anything.

            Far too quickly, the familiar shape of Dalton Academy loomed up in front of him, causing Blaine's heart to stutter almost painfully and his stomach seemed to twist itself into a knot even further. Maybe if he just accidentally veered off the road and crashed into a tree he wouldn't have to explain himself, and maybe he'd be able to pass off his busted up face that way.

            Except his father wouldn't probably break a lot more than his nose if he found out that Blaine ruined a fifty thousand dollar car because he didn't want to face his boyfriend.

            The painted black gates were usually welcoming in a way that they were decidedly not at the moment. Blaine parked his car in his usual spot, cutting off the engine and squeezing his fingers around the wheel once more with the hope that maybe it would turn into a Transformer and trap him inside. If only.

            Blaine had decided, without a doubt that his least favourite thing about this stupid coma or whatever the fuck it was, was that he couldn't talk. The amount of snarky comebacks he'd conjured over the past however many days it was were quite literally drowning him. He wanted more than anything to just wake up and sass out the entire fucking doctor team because they were all so stupid. What would they think when he finally woke up and told them that yeah, he heard about seventy percent of what everyone in the room had been talking about?

            He was also quite curious about what had happened between Kurt and Christian. Because beyond knowing about Kurt's nose, he was only graced with the palpable tension whenever they both seemed to be in the room. On one hand he wanted to wake up and tell them to both stop being fucking babies but on the other, it was almost amusing to watch –well, hear; semantics– them struggle.

O~o~O

Something felt wrong. Something was really wrong and he didn't know what it was and it was concerning. Blaine was still comatose and he didn't know how he could feel that something was wrong when he was in such a state but he could and it was driving him up the wall.

            Maybe it was the strange absence of voices in the room. Now that he thought about it, was anybody even there? Did they all give up on him? God, what if this was something stupid like that episode of The Walking Dead where he was going to wake up in the middle of an apocalypse?

            And then pain, seizing pain and he could see. He could see the almost blinding bright white of his hospital room ceiling and the fluorescent lights and he could smell and breathe and he was awake. And there was someone shrieking and there was this persistent beeping that didn't seem to want to stop. And then everything went dark again.

            He felt like crying. He was propped up in his cot, fingers loosely intertwined as the doctor standing to the left was going over the clipboard; reading out bullshit that resembled gibberish in Blaine's sluggish brain. He was stable, apparently. That's all he had gathered. Christian was on his right, smiling down at him carefully and for some reason, Blaine wasn't mad. He wasn't pissed off at his roommate for what had happened because he was just trying to help. Blaine realized with a lump in his throat that this man was his best friend.

            He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but he reached over and clasped Christian's hand in his, squeezing the cold fingers and returning the watery smile. The doctor said something about having a seizure but he didn't fucking care because it was in the past and it was done. He was alive. And he had this wonderful man for a friend and he couldn't think of anything else he'd want right now except for the ability to go home. But that unfortunately wasn't an option at this point.

            “I'm so sorry.” It'd been an hour or so since the doctor left, telling Christian to watch the heart monitor and if something happened, the call button was right beside the bed.

            “Don't be sorry. I'm just a fucking idiot. I should be apologizing to you for being a complete asshole.” And then the door opened ever so slowly and Blaine wished more than anything he hadn't looked over. “What's he doing here? I want him out. I want him to leave.” The heart monitor sped up and his vision clouded over slightly.

            Kurt stepped forward, eyes wide and wet and the fingers twitching toward him made him want to die because there was no way he was getting near him. No fucking way. “Blaine... It's me.”

            “I can see that. Don't touch me. I want him out. Christian, I want him out.” He couldn't breathe. He should be over this stupid shit. He should be able to be in the same room as Kurt and not have a panic attack but today didn't seem to be the day that was going to be possible.

            He kept fucking coming and the closer he got, the more light headed Blaine felt. “Please, Blaine, don't do this. I've been here every day, waiting for you to wake up, I just—“

            “Get out!” His voice cracked at the end. The closer Kurt came, the closer Blaine came to falling off the bed. There were so many tubes and he was fucking suffocating. Why wouldn't the beeping stop? It just kept getting faster and he didn't know what the hell it was even supposed to be anymore. He was drowning in the feeling that he was forgetting something and he couldn't figure out what the fuck it was supposed to be.

            “Stop, stop!” Christian's hands were suddenly on his, tearing them away from where he'd subconsciously almost tore out the I.V. “Stop it, you'll hurt yourself!” And then Christian was so close. Their faces were so close and his roommate's hands were solid and comforting against what was now his shoulders, pinning him to the thin mattress. His eyes were so blue, they were as close to home as he was ever going to get.

            “Make him go away, please,” Blaine whimpered, fingers clenching in the front of Christian's shirt. There was so much rushing in his ears. The beeping spiked again and Christian's mouth moved but nothing seemed to come out. Nothing was making sense and the harder he tried to focus, the less he was able to.

            But then Kurt was gone because Christian sunk back into his chair at Blaine's side and clasped his hand tightly, thumb petting over his knuckles. “You're okay. He's gone. You're okay.” And it was a breath of fresh air—literally. The beeping slowly but surely began to slow down and the furious pounding in his ears stopped. He was so fucking grateful for Christian.

            “Thank you. Oh God, thank you.”

O~o~O

            He'd gotten released a week later with specific instructions from the doctor about not stressing himself out and another set of instructions for Christian that Blaine apparently wasn't allowed to know about.

            And so Blaine had gone home and suffered through another week of—well nothing. Christian had forced him to drop out of school at least for awhile and he'd taken a leave from work to watch him.

            And it was the most boring thing Blaine had ever experienced. There was literally a depression in the couch cushion in the shape of his ass.

            “Can I go out now? Please?” Christian was humming in the kitchen, working around and playing with the stove.

            “No.”

            “Christian.”

            “Blaine.”

            “You're being a bitch. Isn't the point of watching me following where I go? Because I think I like that better than sitting around all day and watching you be a housewife.” Blaine crossed his arms, heaving a louder than necessary sigh and sinking somehow lower in the island stool.

            “It's 6:30. Dinner is almost done.”

            “We could go out for dinner.”

            “We're staying in. Maybe tomorrow.”

            It was the first time Blaine had woken up in the middle of the night. His fingernails were scratching almost of their own accord along his forearm to the inside of his elbow. He was in a pool of his own sweat, drenched curls stinging at his eyes. He ached. His thighs and back felt as if they were on fire and every involuntary twitch sent a spark of pain through his nerves.

            Blaine knew what it was from. He knew what it was and he was so surprised it hadn't happened sooner because he'd been in this position before. He rolled off his mattress, a loud groan grating through his throat as pain shot in every which way, and crawled his way towards the nightstand. The thought that he'd even have anything was a long shot in the first place, and it was set in stone when his fingers scraped the empty bottom of the drawer.

            He felt like screaming and crying and throwing a fit like a five year old just because he could. And he felt sick. Blaine crawled to the bathroom, managing to stumble all the while between muscle spasms and the writhing in his stomach that wouldn't just fuck off.

            He didn't know what time it was when Christian finally came into the bathroom. Blaine was shaking, curled up against the side of the toilet crying for everything he was worth. His eyes burned and his head throbbed and his insides felt like they were knotting themselves in a cruel game of twister. Christian's hands were on his biceps, squeezing in a way that was probably supposed to be soothing but instead made the unbearable pain even worse. Christian was murmuring something quiet and Blaine couldn't fucking hear him and he couldn't open his eyes and he couldn't even indicate what the fuck was wrong because he couldn't breathe.

            His fingernails were still digging at his skin as he cried, rocking slightly until his head hit the side of the tub. Why wouldn't it just stop?

            “Blaine! What's wrong?” The stuffing that had clogged his ears seemed to clear because Christian's frantic voice ran through his head like a knife. He opened his mouth, eyes squeezing closed even tighter as the light Christian had flicked on tried to seep through his eyelids.

            “Turn it off,” he croaked. Christian probably didn't know what he was talking about. There was a rushing still in his ears and Blaine couldn't tell if it was coming from in the room or in his head. The heat of his roommate's hands disappeared and then the rushing stopped. But the light was still on.

            “Why did you even turn it on in the first place? Blaine, I need to know what's wrong so I can help.” Help. His least favourite word. He didn't want help from anybody. Not Kurt, not Christian, not his father.

            “Turn what on? Please, turn off the light.”

            “The tap.” Christian's voice was so close again and he felt what must have been fingertips on his knees that were pulled up tight against his chest.

            “I don't remember.” And he didn't. Blaine didn't remember doing anything once he'd gotten to the bathroom. He remembered the overpowering smell of bleach and promptly threw up in the toilet and that's where his mind went empty. He never even turned on the light.

            “Please tell me what's wrong.”

            “I need my stuff.” He sounded like absolute shit but he didn't care. He didn't care that he could feel the rise and fall of his chest in the tips of his fingers and how every shuddering movement sent another ripple of pain through his whole body. He didn't care that every little word dragged through his throat like glass and hurt just as much.

            “What stuff? The box?” Shit, the box. He hadn't even thought about that.

            “My fucking heroin, Christian.” His forearms had, without a doubt, crescents carved into them from his fingernails. His nose was running and he was still crying and his mouth was so wet that if he opened it again he'd probably fucking drool all over himself. He could feel the beads of sweat tracking from his forehead and downward. Blaine had somehow managed to get out of his shirt and he couldn't decide if it had been a good or bad idea. The sweat stung, the barely there droplets caused a friction he didn't even think was possible and it burned.

            “Blaine, I don't know what to tell you.”

            “I need you to get me my fucking drugs before I die.” God, he felt like he was drowning. It was like that feeling when you're swimming underwater and you need to take another breath but the surface is just so far away. His lungs burned, his eyes were stuck shut, his muscles were on fire and he was so damn close to breaking the water but he wasn't close enough and he was drowning.

            “I can't.” And fuck did those words ever hurt. Blaine felt dizzy, despite not moving and having his eyes all but permanently clamped shut. He slid sideways and Christian caught him, slowly laying him out against the tile. He couldn't tell whether the linoleum under his cheek was soothing because he couldn't tell if he was cold or not. Blaine's fingers twisted into what must have been his shirt and he let out another dry sob. He was suffocating.