Blaine is rumpled from the long workday when he enters the downtown, New York apartment. Trench coat slung over his arms, tie hanging lackadaisically from his unbuttoned collar; Blaine is the depiction of exhausted. He needs a beer or coffee, something strong to overpower the numbers buzzing in his skull. This is a routine, a humdrum pattern his days have attained. Wake up before the sun to arrive at the studio across town, thumb through finances and messages before his brain is able to absorb anything, and proceed through meetings and paperwork until his aching brain remind him of a comfortable bed, waiting at home. From there he returns to take a small break before beginning again the next morning.

Usually, around this time, there is a stove emitting seductive aromas in the air, there is another set of keys nestled in the bowl and a different coat hung by their coatrack. Usually the rattling in the kitchen is a soothing relief, a breath of life from his office. Usually.

"Kurt? I'm home, I got the eggs you wanted." Blaine calls from the entryway.

After placing his belongings by the door, he walks further into the one bedroom, one and half bath apartment.

"Kurt?" He repeats, receiving no reply.

There is a constant murmuring coming from the kitchen, it accompanies a shuffle of movement and heavy breathing.

"Kurt?"

Blaine rounds the kitchen, finding his first love hunched over the bottom cabinet. Admittedly, if the mood were different he would be admiring the pert ass in unabashed lust. However, given Kurt's undistinguished mutterings and the fact that he still seems oblivious to Blaine's appearance, Blaine does not follow his sexual drive.

"Kurt, are you okay?"

Finally, his husband perks up. His head turns; crystal eyes alight with an innocence seldom witnessed in their middle age. Kurt's eyebrows are peaked with either shock or guilt, some form of emotion Blaine cannot determine.

"You're home." He states, body still folded into the cabinet.

"I am. What are you doing, sweetheart?"

Kurt returns to his tasks, an apparent search for...something.

"We're out of gin." Kurt says, frustration now painting his tone.

This, my dear reader, is the red light.

Although connected with an inherent and unconditional love, Kurt and Blaine are not the love-struck teenagers they used to be. True, they are still very much in love, but there comes an instant within age where being in love is the same as breathing air. It's natural and instinctive, also (unfortunately) taken for granted. Kurt does not debate his sexual appeal and Blaine does not strive for Kurt's appraisal. There are no random gifts or untested waters, no coquettish games and fantasies of lavish homes with pets and walk-in closets. No real romance, just...relationship.

However, that is not to say they fight. In fact, ever since Blaine's incidental adultery seven years ago, neither man has battled for anything concerning the other. They are not necessarily happy, just comfortable. Still, not once in their entire existence has Blaine nor Kurt ever drank any other alcohol outside of beer or a martini.

This is when Blaine notices Kurt.

Kurt is...odd. His face, although naturally pale, has taken on a ghostly hue. His hair, still swept in auburn waves, seems strangely duller, his clothes almost imperceptibly creased with wrinkles. Nevertheless, it is his eyes that signify a peculiarity.

They are aquamarine. Mixtures of blue, green, and even gold swirling like dancers in the spotlight. However lining the usually vibrant irises is a noticeable pinky-red color. They are bloodshot and abnormally dazed.

"Are you.... drunk?" Blaine questions, taken aback. His eyes flit over Kurt's still-ferreting form.

Kurt doesn't respond. His arms move quickly, his shoulders stay tense and rigid.

"Kurt, stop." Blaine says, lifting his husband from the obviously important hunt.

Kurt resignedly ceases, looking at Blaine with annoyance.

"Answer me. Are you drunk."

As if by cue, Kurt belches a burp. His eyes waywardly try to focus on Blaine's worried gaze, but can't seem to function. Inebriated and tired, Kurt attempts to disregard the tangible pity radiating from Blaine.

"No."

"Really? Then why do you smell like liquor and beer?...why can't you stand straight?"

"Why do you care?" He retorts, flapping off Blaine's grip on his shoulders. He turns out of the kitchen, cranky and tilting.

Blaine follows him exasperated. Subtly he comes up from behind, caressing Kurt's back with gentle hands and maneuvering him to the bedroom door.

"Come on, I think it's time for bed." He says parentally.

"I'm not tired."

"Doesn't matter, you're drunk and the sooner you're asleep the sooner you won't be."

"Ugh, you are so annoying."

Blaine opens the bedroom door, only to be met with one of the most surprising and indescribably scary scenes he will ever see.

Bottles litter the nightstands; the bed is in disarray with the blankets flopping carelessly off the side, the handheld phone lies in front of the mirror, which exhibits a multitude of cracks and shards. And staining the carpet underneath the broken mirror are unsettling drops of blood.

Kurt seems unaware as he climbs into the bed.

"What happened?" Blaine asks, dumbstruck.

He doesn't get an answer, for in minutes of lying down, Kurt is soundly asleep.

Blaine walks towards his unconscious husband. Finally realizing the jagged cuts on his palms and the gray shadows of his expression. He carefully covers him and lays a light kiss on his temple.

Sighing, he walks out of the bedroom, unable to make ends of the state of his surroundings. He doesn't notice the pills under Kurt's pillow, or the silk tie hanging on the bathroom door, which incidentally belongs to neither man.