After school Wednesday, Kurt drives directly from Glee practice to visit Blaine. In his messenger bag he has a get well card signed by all of New Directions and a plush toy parrot from Brittany. Kurt had intended to make cookies for Blaine, but ran out of time today. His time management is fraying; Kurt knows it. Doesn't know what to do about it though. The New Year hasn't settled within him at all well and it's nearly February. This year was meant to be amazing, but it's not off to a good start. The highlight of his school day has been getting a text from Blaine over lunch asking if he's still coming today. Of course he is, he promised. It's good that Blaine has his phone back and is using it. Kurt's been sending him sweet texts between classes and getting replies to a few of them.

Mrs. Anderson answers the door with a tense but sincere looking smile, like she is still as unsure of him as he is of her. It's tentative, Kurt supposes, whatever acceptance he may have with her as Blaine's boyfriend. As for Mr. Anderson? Kurt hasn't seen him since the accident. He doesn't know if Blaine's father is on travel or working long hours. Either way, he's rarely around.

"Hello, Kurt. Come in," she says. Her makeup is not enough to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

"Hi, thank you," Kurt replies, both hands tight on the strap of his bag as he enters. "How's Blaine today?"

"He's tolerating the pain medication better, but he had a rough patch overnight between doses," she says, and her smile fades.

"Oh," Kurt says, Blaine hadn't mentioned anything about that in his texts today. "Is he up for a visit?"

Her smile returns, a little easier. "Yes, he's been looking forward to seeing you all day, so you'd best go up."

"Thank you," Kurt says again and loosens his grip on his bag as he pivots toward the stairs.

"I'll bring up some snacks," Mrs. Anderson says. "Please see if you can get him to eat. All he's had today was half a bowl of soup."

"I will, I promise," Kurt says and climbs the stairs.

~

The blinds are up in Blaine's bedroom, letting in the thin winter sun. Blaine is awake and watching television. Sitting up against his headboard, upon his made bed, with a red and black plaid throw over his legs, he looks alert. Blaine's chin is freshly shaved, his hair neatly styled and combed. His pajamas don't look slept in; Kurt can see the crisp, tell tale creases of an iron down the sleeves.

Kurt raps lightly on the door jamb to draw Blaine's attention. "Hi," he says from the doorway.

Blaine sees him and smiles brightly. "Kurt!" Kurt is used to the adoring looks Blaine sometimes gives him, but this is more than usual. It's almost ridiculous; a caricature of Blaine's usual affection.

Kurt can't contain his soft laugh and his own smile broadens in response. "Feeling better today?"

"Now that you're here," Blaine says, reaching a hand toward Kurt; his smile is so radiant it makes his best show-face look glum.

Kurt comes in and takes Blaine's hand, squeezing before leaning down to press a kiss to the back of Blaine's fingers. He looks up at Blaine from beneath his eyelashes. "You're looking better today," Kurt says. The redness on Blaine's face is completely gone and his visible eye is nearly clear of bloodshot.

"My mom helped me," Blaine says. "I was feeling decidedly unkempt."

"Well, you're handsome and dapper as ever," Kurt says, giving Blaine's hand a parting squeeze. He straightens and turns to get the armchair, dragging it the short distance to Blaine's bedside. Kurt angles it so he can see the television as well. It's mid commercial break. "What are you watching?" Kurt asks. He sits with his satchel in his lap.

"Top Chef marathon," Blaine says, reaching for the remote and dialing down the volume.

"I approve," Kurt says, and flips open the flap of his bag.

"I thought you would," Blaine says. He sets the remote down and reaches for Kurt. Kurt takes his hand again and Blaine squeezes hard, like he's afraid Kurt will float away if he doesn't hold on to him. "I'm learning stuff." Blaine's head lolls against the pillow and he gives Kurt another hopelessly affectionate smile.

Even though Kurt knows it's partly due to the pain medication, he can't not grin back at Blaine or feel a warm swell of his own devotion when Blaine looks at him like that, so adorably smitten. There's a jagged underbelly to Kurt's sentiment though. One he does not wish to indulge. Chemically induced or not, Blaine seems happy right now, so Kurt will smile back at him and not dwell on the reasons for it. And Kurt won't look at the photo of the Warblers on the wall behind Blaine's desk and wonder why there are no cards or flowers from any of them. "Speaking of learning," Kurt says. "I brought your homework and handouts from your teachers. Mike gave me copies of his Chemistry notes for you."

Blaine wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Thanks, I guess," he says. "I don't feel up to much studying though. My brain's kinda fuzzy."

"I know," Kurt says. "I can help you with it. I've taken most of the same classes. And Mike said he could come by on the weekend to help you study too, if you need it."

"That's nice," Blaine says, brightening again.

"Yeah," Kurt says. "I need my hand back for a sec. I have something else for you."

"'Kay," Blaine says and lets go.

Kurt reaches into his bag. He gets out the folder full of schoolwork first and sets it on the nightstand. "That's your homework," he says, and goes back to his bag to find the card and parrot. "This is for you from everyone," he says of the card as he hands it to Blaine. "The parrot is from Brittany," he says, tucking it against Blaine's side as he opens the envelope. Blaine looks down at the parrot and smiles. "She said every pirate needs one," Kurt says.

"True," Blaine says and opens the card.

"Can you see well enough to read it?"

Blaine nods. "Yeah, my vision is a lot better today."

Kurt watches as Blaine reads the messages everyone wrote in the card, watches his smile grow, his eye begin to shine with emotion. Kurt quietly sets his bag aside.

"Aw," Blaine says, "that's so sweet of them."

"Everyone misses you," Kurt says. He takes the card from Blaine and sets it upright on the night table where Blaine can see it. "I miss you," he says, leaning forward to wrap both hands around Blaine's. Wishes he could get on the bed with Blaine and wrap him up in his arms. Isn't sure that's a good idea though. Blaine, despite the smiling and the freshly pressed pajamas, appears terribly fragile.

"I miss you, too," Blaine says, blinking rapidly, a tremor in his smile.

Mrs. Anderson knocks on the door and comes in with a tray. "Hello, boys," she says with her default neutral and well-mannered smile. Her gaze drops to Blaine and Kurt's joined hands, but Kurt doesn't relinquish his hold on Blaine. Mrs. Anderson sets the tray at the foot of the bed.

On it are two glasses of what looks like apple juice, a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and two brownies. It's the kind of after school snack Kurt hasn't eaten since he was in Middle School. The same may be true of Blaine. Kurt wonders if it's been that long since Mrs. Anderson made an afternoon snack for her son, or if she is trying to tempt Blaine's stomach with nostalgic comfort foods.

"Thanks, Mom," Blaine says.

"Please try to eat something, dear," she says. "You too, Kurt."

"I will, thank you, Mrs. Anderson," Kurt says, smiling his gratitude.

"Oh, Kurt?" she asks, turning back from the door as she's leaving. "How long were you planning to stay this afternoon?"

Kurt loosens his hold on Blaine's hand and hopes this isn't going to become a regular point of conflict. "I need to be home for dinner, so I'll be gone by five-thirty." That's less than an hour from now. Kurt wants to stay as long as he can.

Mrs. Anderson nods. "That's fine. Would you mind staying with Blaine while I go to the store to pick up a few things? It won't take long."

"Oh," Kurt says, surprised, "Sure, I'd be happy to."

"Thank you," she says, sounding genuinely grateful. "I'll make sure to be back before you need to leave."

And then she's gone. Kurt stares at the door, but peripherally he sees Blaine is looking at him. "She does like you," Blaine says. "I know it can be hard to tell with her, but she likes you."

"You think so?" Kurt asks. He lets go of Blaine so he can set his bag down beside the chair and get up to drag the tray within in Blaine's reach. He sets the drinks on Blaine's nightstand.

"She made you sandwiches," Blaine explains. "And brownies."

"I thought those were for you."

"I don't have much appetite," Blaine says. "They're mostly for you, Kurt. She doesn't really cook, but she made those brownies herself because she knew you were coming this afternoon. If it were just me it would have been reheated soup and Oreos."

"I promised I'd try to get you to eat," Kurt says, oddly uncomfortable with the notion of Mrs. Anderson cooking for him. It's a kind gesture, but more than he expects. Perhaps it's also an apology. Anderson family politics seem too oblique for a simple 'I'm sorry'.

"I'll drink the juice," Blaine says, "But I'm not sure about the rest."

"Will you at least try?" Kurt asks, picking up a quarter of a sandwich and offering it to Blaine. "I did promise."

Blaine looks at the sandwich, and then he looks at Kurt. He sighs and smiles. "Anything for you," he says and takes it.

"Good boy," Kurt says and doesn't miss Blaine's blush at the praise.

Kurt watches Blaine eat and grabs a sandwich quarter for himself. He forgot how good it is, the salty, sticky peanut butter with the sweet, runny jam. It's good quality jam, too. Raspberry. He smiles as Blaine pops the last bit of crust in his mouth and Kurt reaches for another quarter. "Can you do two?" he asks.

"Give me a minute," Blaine says and reaches for a glass of juice.

"Okay," Kurt says, and eats it himself. There's plenty on the plate for them both.

He does get Blaine to eat another quarter and two bites of brownie. Blaine confesses to feeling better for it but says eating is weird right now. He's not feeling at all hungry, so it's a very mechanical and unappealing process.

After Kurt has eaten what Blaine hasn't, Blaine's phone alarm starts dinging.

Blaine fumbles for it on his nightstand, his reach off. The phone skids to the edge of the surface and Kurt leans forward to catch it as it tips off. Blaine makes a face. "Depth perception."

"It's okay," Kurt says as he taps the alarm to silence; he reads the alert text. "Eyedrops?"

"Yeah, to prevent infection. Will you help me with them, please?"

"Um, yeah, of course," Kurt says. Upon the nightstand, Kurt spies a small, plastic dropper bottle with the prescription label on it, stands and picks it up. "These?"

"Yes," Blaine says. He scoots down against his pillows and tilts his head back, reaching to lift the eye patch back to his forehead. "Just in my right eye."

Kurt swallows and hesitates. It's not that he's squeamish—well, okay, he is a little bit squeamish—but that it's Blaine. "Okay," Kurt says, and moves closer to lean over Blaine as he unscrews the cap.

The whole eye is red and angry looking with a large ragged patch of milky blur over Blaine's iris, covering his pupil completely. Kurt sucks in a breath and takes a long, slow blink. It looks so much worse than he expected, like one of those videos they showed in health class about the dangers of sleeping with contact lenses in. "Um," Kurt says, ignoring the way his stomach is trying to twist itself inside out. "How many drops?"

"Two or three," Blaine says.

"Right," Kurt says and reaches to hold the tip of the bottle over Blaine's injured eyeball. The first drop misses as Blaine blinks reflexively. It catches in Blaine's eyelashes and dribbles uselessly away. "Oops?"

"You need to, like, hold it open a little," Blaine says. "Sorry. I can't keep it open well enough on my own."

"I don't want to hurt you," Kurt says, chewing on his lip. His other hand coming to hover just above Blaine's upturned face, holding his arm awkwardly so he doesn't drag his sleeve across Blaine's mouth.

"You won't," Blaine says with a smile. "Trust me, I'm not feeling much of anything right now."

"Okay," Kurt says, taking another fortifying deep breath. He rests his thumb just below Blaine's eye and his index finger lightly upon Blaine's upper eyelid. He gently spreads his thumb and forefinger, tugging Blaine's eye wide open. It looks awful. Kurt winces sympathetically.

"I trust you," Blaine says, and Kurt feels the quiver of his eye trying to close.

This time the drops land where they're meant to. But Kurt squeezes the bottle too hard and thinks he ends up putting in too many drops. He lets go and Blaine blinks furiously, sending the excess to the corners of his eye to run down like tears. Kurt grabs a tissue and dabs at the moisture. "Thank you," Blaine says.

"That was more than three," Kurt says.

"I don't think it matters that much," Blaine says, "So long as I get enough in there."

Kurt screws the cap back on the bottle as Blaine pulls his eye patch back down and rearranges himself against his pillows. Blaine is studying Kurt's face as Kurt sits back down.

"So it looks pretty bad, huh?" Blaine asks.

Kurt blinks and tries to relax his posture. 'Pretty bad' is a gross understatement, and while Kurt had been feeling reasonably confident that the surgery would be successful and Blaine would be all right, now he's not sure at all. Can the doctors fix that much damage? "I wouldn't know," Kurt says weakly. "I'm not a doctor."

"I know it looks bad," Blaine says. "My Mom gave me her hand mirror this morning when I asked if I could see it."

"Can you see?" Kurt asks, "With that eye at all?"

Blaine shrugs. "Just light and dark, everything else is a blur."

Kurt nods, presses his hands between his knees. That Blaine could end up blind in that eye, or losing it altogether? It's so much more real now. It's hard to breathe.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asks.

Kurt finds enough breath to say, "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"

Blaine shrugs again. "You look like you're quietly freaking out over there."

"A little," Kurt says, his voice going thin and high. "Are you scared?"

"Yes," Blaine says softly.

"Me too," Kurt says.

What Kurt doesn't say is how the nausea and fear in his stomach is roiling into fury. He thinks of Sebastian and his cruel, mocking face. He thinks of the other Warblers and their cowardice. What they've done like it was just a funny prank. It's wrong; it's so wrong.

"Kurt," Blaine says, "You're turning red."

"I'm sorry. I'm just..." Kurt clenches his teeth and closes his eyes, makes himself count to something.

"Hey, it's okay," Blaine says. "It's going to be okay. My parents found the best eye surgeon in the state. He's one of the best in the country."

Kurt wants to scream at him that it's not okay. Nothing about this is okay. It's all fucked up and horrible and those bastards are going to get away with it. But he can't unleash all that on Blaine, who's smiling so sweetly, looking hopeful, and trying to comfort Kurt. So instead Kurt forces the tension from his body, smiles, and reaches for Blaine's hand. "I know, honey. You're going to be fine."

~*~

In the end, there's no revenge. There's not even justice. There's just what is actually possible, which is turning the other cheek (Jesus may not be the son of some non-existent deity, but Kurt hopes he maybe got some stuff right on the ethics front) and trying to demonstrate a better way to the boys who should have already known it. In the midst of his anger, Kurt remembered Blaine's hand on his burning cheek, remembered him saying, 'To do good you have to be good.' Kurt won't become the thing he opposes. He did keep a copy of Santana's tape though, just in case.

So Kurt sits on the edge of the stage and watches the Warblers file out of the April Rhodes Civic Pavillion. Sebastian left first, and Kurt still wanted to punch him in the face. Never mind. New Directions has gone too, but the warmth of Artie's hand on Kurt's arm, the scent of Mercedes perfume, the sincerity of Trent's apology linger. Kurt stares at the rows of empty seats. He should feel lighter, but he doesn't. He's not proud of himself or satisfied no matter how he can intellectually praise his decisions.

He hears the squeak of an athletic shoe on the stage, the tap of footsteps. Then there's a pair of long, slim legs in his peripheral vision. Santana. Kurt looks up but doesn't bother forcing a smile.

"Hey, Sam," she says. Kurt frowns at her as she drops to sit next him. "How's Frodo doing anyway?"

That drags a reluctant smile from Kurt. "Is Sebastian Gollum?"

"Nah," she says. "He's more like the big creepy spider, and we shoved a bright light in the bitch's face."

Kurt drops his chin to his chest and chuckles. "You're not mad?"

"I didn't say that," Santana says sharply. "I still don't get you, Hummel. Why'd you give him the tape?"

"I kept a copy," Kurt says.

"Smart boy," Santana says, then she nudges his shoulder with her own. "So did I."

Kurt turns to look at her, finds her smiling at him. She's pretty when she smiles like that, but Kurt's not foolish enough to tell her. "Thank you for your help," he says. "Even if we don't use the tape, I'm glad we have it. Glad everyone knows."

"Well, you know me, I'm always happy to help make the world a safer place for my favorite fairy princess."

It's true. Despite the mockery, Santana has had his back often enough. "You don't have to do that all the time, you know," he says even though the epithet doesn't really sting.

"What? The nickname?" she asks. "How else will you know I care?" Her smile is soft.

"You must really love Finn," Kurt says flatly.

Santana laughs long and loud. Kurt grins, and they fall into a not uncomfortable silence for a while.

When Santana doesn't get up to leave, Kurt is bold enough to venture with a question. He may be overstepping, but it feels right to ask, after all Santana has done to help. "So how are things with you? With your family?"

Santana shrugs. "You know. My folks are cool, but my abuela... Not so much."

"I'm sorry," Kurt says.

Santana shakes her head, but there's little ferocity in her words when she says, "Fuck that shit. I won't pretend anymore, not even for her. It hurts too much."

"Yeah," Kurt says. "It does."

Santana looks at him, delicate eyebrows arched skeptically. "Aside from your brief affair with Britt, did you ever?"

"Did I ever what?"

"Pretend?"

Kurt thinks about it. Answers, "Yes." Then adds, "I still do sometimes."

"What do you mean? You're the gayest of the gay, Hummel."

Kurt takes a breath. It's not something he's terribly comfortable articulating as such, but Santana respects directness more than dissembling. Telling her isn't risky, and Kurt has a moment of strange revelation, that he trusts Santana. With this. So he speaks softly but clearly, "I pretend not to be scared, not to care how other people look at me, or what they say about me. I pretend not to care when no one sits next to me, or won't shake my hand at a party. "

Kurt takes a moment, turns to face Santana as he finishes. "I don't pretend I'm straight, I pretend I'm untouchable."

Santana considers him, her expression a mix of determination and empathy. "Yeah, okay," she says softly. "I think I have an idea of what that's like."

Kurt gives her tight smile. They both end up looking at their laps for what feels like several long minutes.

Eventually Santana breaks the silence. "So are we friends now, or what, Kurt?"

For his part, the answer is 'yes'. "I'd like it if we were," he says.

"All right," Santana says, rolling her eyes and speaking facetiously. "Just don't tell anyone, it'll ruin my rep."

Friendship with Santana may be unsettling and occasionally painful, but Kurt expects that's better than the alternatives. It's with a strange lightness and an even more peculiar sense of accidental accomplishment Kurt smiles back at her, offers his hand, and says, "Deal."

~*~

Saturday evening, Kurt has dozed off sitting against the headboard on Blaine's bed, Rolling Stone open in his lap. He wakes to Blaine's hand gently shaking his shoulder and Mrs. Anderson saying his name.

"Hmuh?" he says, blinking to clear his vision.

"Kurt? Would you care to stay for dinner?" she's asking him from Blaine's open doorway.

Blaine is smiling at him. The light behind the blinds has dimmed to darkness, and the warm glow of Blaine's bedside lamp casts the room in gentle half-light. It feels late, as if hours have passed. The air seems heavy and quiet, like it's close to midnight. Kurt finds his phone where it's wedged itself beneath his thigh, checks the time. Just past six-thirty. So he wasn't asleep that long. Must have needed it. "Um," he says, unlocking his phone. If he's not going to be home by seven, he's meant to call or text.

"Please say yes," Blaine says. "You can help me get downstairs."

"I've set the table for three, so it's no trouble at all," Mrs. Anderson says. "Marcel has made enough, especially with Blaine's appetite as it is."

"Okay," Kurt says. He remembers Blaine mentioning Marcel; he cooks for the Andersons a few times a week, but Kurt's never been invited to stay before. "Thank you. I'll let my Dad know."

"It will be on the table at seven sharp," Mrs. Anderson says crisply. "Perhaps you can help Blaine get dressed for it, Kurt?"

"Oh," Kurt says, the implication of her words settling uncomfortably; suggesting he, basically, manhandle Blaine from his pajamas (under which Kurt knows Blaine does not wear underwear) into other clothing. "Um, okay?" The warm prickle of blood flares across his cheeks. He carefully wipes at the corners of his eyes with fingertips, clearing away damp remnants of sleep, hiding his blush until Mrs. Anderson has left. He sends a text to his Dad, letting him know he's staying here for dinner and will be home by eleven.

Once Kurt is confident Mrs. Anderson is out of earshot, he turns to Blaine, who's arranged himself cross-legged next to Kurt, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "Did your mother just give me permission to see you naked?" Kurt asks.

Blaine chuckles. "I think she's assuming you already have."

"Oh," Kurt says, with a fresh wave of embarrassment. Sure, he's slept over in Blaine's bedroom, but that was when Blaine's parents behaved like it wasn't anything more than a friendship between him and Blaine. Kurt supposes they never really believed that; it was always pretense, as if pretending could change reality. And apparently Mrs. Anderson now assumes—however correctly—that they have been naked together. It was easier before. But now when Mrs. Anderson looks at him, he knows she knows what he does with her son, and that's rather mortifying. Particularly since she's simultaneously so casual and inscrutable about it. His own father at least had feelings about the whole thing, feelings he expressed directly and candidly. Kurt knows exactly how his Dad feels about Blaine, about them and their relationship. His Dad's approval and support is obvious and sincere. But Mrs. Anderson?

Kurt covers his face with his hands and breathes slowly. He can't read her. Sometimes she seems kind and accepting, other times clearly hostile. Most of the time she's blankly superficial. Everything feels fraught, like there's some weird interplay between manners and expectation, sincerity and appearance, and of course, some bizarre passive aggression Kurt doesn't understand very well. And he's just woken up, which doesn't help things feel like less of a muddle. "So is that bad?" he asks Blaine.

"Is what bad?"

"That she knows we..." Kurt drops his hands to his lap. "...see each other naked?"

Blaine rolls forward onto hands and knees and crawls toward Kurt. "It's fine," Blaine says. He shifts his weight back and takes Kurt's hands. His one-eyed gaze tracks between Kurt's eyes. "You're not the only one of my friends who's seen me naked, anyway—boys' school, locker rooms. I'm just really happy she likes you."

"That's not what I meant," Kurt says. He's more concerned about her possible, ironically expressed disapproval of his assumed naked activities with Blaine. Her tone of voice wasn't exactly warm. It seemed like maybe she was calling him out. "I'm your boyfriend. Our mutual nakedness is hardly platonic."

"I think we need to stop talking about us being naked together, Kurt." Blaine grins and tips forward to kiss him on the lips. Kurt leans into it, expects a quick, soft kiss like the others they have shared this week, but Blaine lingers and his hand comes up warm and gentle to cup Kurt's jaw.

It's been long enough, Kurt nearly swoons as sudden desire stabs him low in the belly. It makes it easy for Kurt to set aside his anxiety over Blaine's mother; easy, too, to forget Blaine is injured, the door is open, and he's meant to help Blaine get ready for dinner and downstairs. It feels like he hasn't kissed—or been kissed by—Blaine properly for months, though it hasn't even been a week. Against Kurt's mouth, Blaine alternates between gentle grasps and tugs at his bottom lip and light, ticklish suction against the center of his top lip. Oh, and that... Kurt's eyes roll back as his eyelids slide shut.

With a pleased hum, Kurt returns the kiss as he brings a hand to the back of Blaine's head, careful to avoid the band of the eyepatch, slides his fingertips into Blaine's tidily combed and styled hair to massage the pads of his fingers against Blaine's scalp, keeping him close. He pinches Blaine's bottom lip lightly between his lips as Blaine keeps suckling softly at his top lip. Kurt reaches blindly with his other hand for Blaine's torso, batting away the loose curtain of his pajamas to splay his fingers across the hard curve of Blaine's ribs, letting his fingers fit snugly into the dips between the bone. He relaxes his mouth, the tip of his tongue just barely brushes Blaine's bottom lip.

"God, I've missed your mouth," Blaine murmurs between the increasingly unchaste movements of his lips with Kurt's.

That prompts Kurt to grin against Blaine's mouth. "That sounds a little dirty."

Blaine slips his tongue along the closed, curved seam of Kurt's mouth and away, and then whispers, "It was meant to." Then Blaine presses back in with fervor, his tongue hot and insistent, seeking entrance, which Kurt happily gives him.

Kurt groans into the kiss, opens wide to let Blaine take his mouth as deeply as he wants, lets Blaine move over him and press him back until his head collides with the headboard and Blaine is straddling his lap. Kurt is swiftly growing hard, and that reality—as Blaine lowers himself against Kurt, the weight of him coming down upon Kurt's groin—makes Kurt turn his head, sliding his mouth away from Blaine's to speak, "Wait, Blaine, stop, we can't..."

But Blaine takes Kurt's movement as invitation to drag his lips down the side of Kurt's neck, pausing to suck at the tender skin just above his collar. The stiff dome of the eyepatch bumps against Kurt's jawline as Blaine tilts his head to begin working back up, making his way toward Kurt's ear.

"Hey, stop," Kurt says with a soft chuckle. He stifles a full body shiver and twists his fingers into Blaine's hair to tug. "I have to get you dressed."

Blaine's lips still and he huffs a sigh through his nose against Kurt's neck before he pulls back smiling sheepishly. "Sorry," he says. "I got carried away. You smell so good, Kurt. And you taste good, and feel good, and you kept saying 'naked'—"

Kurt interrupts with a laugh as he smooths Blaine's hair back into order. "Okay, okay, thank you, but, really, Blaine, this is not a good time."

"I know," he says with a pout, and the pout is so childlike and uncharacteristic, Kurt has to glance away. He's not sure it's right, doing this together now anyway. Even if they were alone.

He turns back to Blaine and gives his shoulder a gentle push. "Come on. Get up and help me put together an outfit for you."

~

Downstairs, Kurt leads Blaine by the hand toward the dining room. Getting down the stairs was even trickier than getting Blaine into proper pants. Blaine's unsteady on his feet and can't estimate the depth of each step well. He's doing better now on level ground, navigating the foyer and hall without too much difficulty.

"This feels good," Blaine says as Kurt pushes the dining room door open.

"Hmm?" Kurt says, holding the door for Blaine.

"Being dressed and out of bed. Moving."

"You'll be dancing again in no time," Kurt says, smiles as he follows Blaine through the door.

Blaine gives his hand a parting squeeze. "I hope so."

"Just in time," Mrs. Anderson says from where she stands at the head of the dark, polished table. Her slender hands are wrapped around the high, curved back of her chair. "Kurt, you're on my right."

Perhaps accepting the dinner invitation was a mistake. This feels like he's walking into a very formal audition or an interview. The sense he's about to be judged roosts heavily upon Kurt. So he puts on his show face, smiles brightly, and says "Thank you". He pulls Blaine's chair out for him, makes sure he's seated comfortably to his mother's left (she sits as he's getting Blaine settled, so Kurt doesn't have to try to remember if he should be pulling out her chair for her too) before rounding the table and seating himself.

"Blaine, dear, you look very nice," Mrs. Anderson says.

As if on cue, the door from the kitchen opens and a tidy looking man of indeterminate age in a chef's jacket (presumably Marcel) enters with a large tray balanced expertly upon one hand. He smiles and says good evening. There are polite, brief introductions as he sets a bowl of soup before each of them. "Soupe aux champignons," he says.

"Yay, my favorite!" Blaine says as he shakes the folds from his napkin and drops it in his lap.

This information Kurt files away for the future, and then he leans forward to inhale the rich, woodsy aroma and admire the velvety texture. His blender at home could never achieve it. The motor would burn out first. Immediately, Kurt is glad he stayed. "Merci," Kurt says, a little shy of trying out his French pronunciation on someone with an actual French accent (but he nails the 'r').

Marcel smiles and replies with "Bon appetit."

The place settings are very formal, the silverware is actually silver, the napkins linen, the glasses crystal, and the china fine (an elegant, modern take on a classic chinoiserie pattern in soft green with warm red accents; Kurt thinks he recognizes it from Vogue a few years back as a pattern the First Lady picked for the White House). Kurt picks up the soup spoon and dips away from himself.

The soup is the best thing Kurt's ever eaten, he's pretty sure. Either that or he's really hungry. It's like the essential ideal of a mushroom distilled into a soup, with lots of cream and butter and—god, it's so rich. This is why Kurt has yet to try cooking anything from his copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking (a Christmas gift from Carole). One spoonful of something like this soup would have his Dad back in hospital.

Kurt looks up when Mrs. Anderson offers him the basket of bread rolls. They're fragrant and still warm from the oven. Kurt takes one. "Thank you," he says. "This soup is delicious."

"Isn't it?" Blaine says enthusiastically, smiling at Kurt. "It's amazing. My favorite thing Marcel makes."

"I know, dear," Mrs. Anderson says. It sounds mildly patronizing. She eats as if bored. No wonder Blaine is happy to share this.

"You've been holding out on me, Blaine," Kurt teases mildly, tearing a piece of bread to dunk in his soup and hoping he's not being completely gauche. He's at least using the right spoon for his soup and the right knife for the butter.

"Oh, no, Kurt. You're just as good a cook."

Kurt snorts. He'd like to be one day, but he's only just got to the point where he's aware of how much he doesn't know. "No, I'm not."

"I bet you could make this if you had the recipe."

"Maybe?" Kurt says. "Do you think Marcel would share it?" Kurt is already wondering how he could retain the flavor and texture while stripping out the salt, fat, and cholesterol.

"Pepper?" Mrs. Anderson asks, reaching for the polished wooden mill upon the table and offering it to Kurt.

"Oh, uh, please." he gives Blaine an apologetic look across the table, and Mrs. Anderson grinds a scatter of coarse pepper over his soup.

"So, Kurt, Blaine tells me you've been invited to audition for a prestigious New York school?"

"Yes, ma'am," Kurt replies. "The New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts, NYADA." The news is still sinking in; it's not something Kurt has fully integrated into his reality yet. "I just got my letter Thursday." He hopes it's a signal that the year is turning around.

"Congratulations," she says. "I hope it goes well for you."

"Now I just need to decide on an audition song."

"You were thinking something iconic and Broadway," Blaine says.

"Yes," Kurt agrees. "Most likely. I'm considering an encore performance of "Defying Gravity" or maybe something that speaks more to a male lead, something from Phantom of the Opera?"

"Mmm," Mrs. Anderson says. "My husband and I enjoyed Phantom when we saw it."

"You'd kill it on 'Music of the Night'," Blaine says.

"You really think so?" Kurt asks. It's a bit outside his wheelhouse, but he has the range and—if his experience with West Side Story is anything to go on—he's not sure he'll get far if he sings a girl's song. Though he still maintains the essential gender neutrality of the themes in "Defying Gravity" so that remains on the list.

"Absolutely," Blaine says, and the pride in his his eyes is so bright, Kurt shares his smile until Mrs. Anderson speaks again.

"And what are the living arrangements like in New York for students? Expensive?" Mrs. Anderson asks. And that's when Blaine manages to spoon soup down the front of his shirt.

"Damn it," Blaine says under his breath.

Which prompts a warning, "Blaine, language," from his mother, followed by, "What a mess, dear, and your good shirt, too." Mrs. Anderson scoots her chair back, stands, and heads to the kitchen. "I'll get some paper towels."

Blaine's head is bowed as he stares down at the spill, tugging the fabric of the shirt away from his skin.

"Hey," Kurt says, getting up and going to Blaine. "You need a straw?"

Blaine huffs a short laugh, glancing at Kurt. "She hates it when I spill things."

"It's okay. It's just soup." He pulls the chair next to Blaine over and sits, taking Blaine's napkin from his lap to carefully dab up the worst of it. "I'm sure you can imagine, with my Dad, I've had a lot of practice getting grease stains out of nearly every surface imaginable."

"I'm so clumsy," Blaine says, disproportionately miserable. While Kurt can well appreciate the horror of a fatty soup spill on a Brooks Brothers shirt, it's not the end of the world. If he can get motor oil out of his Dad's dress slacks, he can get mushroom soup out of Blaine's shirt.

"You're operating under a handicap here, honey. We just need to get it to the laundry. Your mom must have some Shout or something."

"Can I finish my soup first? While it's hot?"

Kurt sets Blaine's napkin aside, reaches across the table for his own, which is unused. "Sure, let me help you." He tucks the corner of the napkin into Blaine's collar as Mrs. Anderson returns with a stack of paper towels in her hand. She hesitates a moment before passing them to Kurt. "Thanks," he says, and puts them under the napkin, pressing against the damp spot to absorb more of the mess. "Just leave these here while you finish, okay?" Kurt says, smoothing the napkin over Blaine's chest.

Blaine touches where the napkin is folded into his collar. "I feel like a toddler," he says.

"Do you want me to feed you, too?" Kurt asks, only half joking. He squeezes Blaine's forearm gently. He can feel Mrs. Anderson's gaze upon him.

With a roll of his eyes, Blaine answers, "God, no. I'm just a little woozy and off. I can still feed myself."

"Okay," Kurt says, resists the urge to kiss Blaine's cheek. "Finish your soup, and then I'll get you a fresh shirt and we can put this in the wash."

"Thank you, Kurt," Blaine says, his voice cracking a little.

"Of course," Kurt says, and gets up, goes back to his seat. Mrs. Anderson is still looking him. Blaine is concentrating on his dinner.

The rest of the meal is uneventful (barring the laundry visit and shirt change) and delicious. Blaine doesn't finish the main course (which means Kurt gets an extra helping of Marcel's melt-in-your-mouth roast beef, haricot verts amandine, and potatoes au gratin), but he does eat his dessert. "There's always room for ice cream," Blaine says.

After they've finished and Marcel has gone, Kurt insists on doing the remaining dishes. "I do them every night at home. Honestly, I find it relaxing," he tells Mrs. Anderson when she protests. Blaine excuses himself to the music room. He says he feels like messing around on the piano; it might help him feel more human.

While Kurt hand washes the dishes, Mrs. Anderson dries. They don't really talk much; Kurt reckons they exhausted all possible topics of small talk over dinner. It's not uncomfortable, but it's not exactly comfortable either. Kurt feels Mrs. Anderson still studying him, the silence between them increasingly pregnant with something Kurt does not wish to guess at. So he concentrates on washing the dishes, being very careful with the fine things. The china is the one from the White House Kurt sees as he rinses the suds from the bottom of a side plate: Wegdewood Oberon. The glasses are Waterford. He indulges a little daydream of having such fine things of his own, with Blaine. He imagines them at thirty, coming home to their own home, established enough in their careers to be truly making it theirs. There will be a simple platinum band on his finger, something with fine detail but nothing garish, a milgrain edge perhaps, a single diamond set discreetly into the band...

That's when Mrs. Anderson speaks, bringing Kurt out of his reverie. "You're a very careful boy, aren't you?"

Kurt's mind goes blank. The only response he summons is a polite, "Excuse me?"

"You're careful. You take care with things. With yourself." A pause. "With others."

"Oh," Kurt says. "I suppose?" Kurt flicks his gaze from the bowl he's washing to see what he can find in her expression.

"You're very careful with Blaine," she says, her gaze oddly intent.

"I... Well, I try to be."

"He is— Or, he can be fragile sometimes," she says, glancing away, back to the knife she's polishing dry. "But he doesn't let people see that. Not even me, but I'm his mother, so of course I know, but not because he lets me."

Kurt doesn't know what to say. He rinses the bowl he just washed, sets it in the drying rack with the others.

"But he lets you."

Kurt is growing uncomfortable. "Ma'am," he says, "I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."

Mrs. Anderson's lips flatten into a thin, thoughtful line, and she pushes loose hair behind her ears, gathering herself. "I've worried," she says carefully, enunciating very clearly as if she's afraid Kurt won't understand her, "for a long time. That Blaine would be taken advantage of by someone—some man—who wouldn't understand."

There's something in the way she says 'man' that lets Kurt know he's exempt from that particular designation, but not in the way he typically is. He doesn't get the sense Mrs. Anderson fails to see him as male, just that he's not one of them: a boy like Sebastian, perhaps; the kind of man most mothers fear their daughters running afoul of.

"Someone who wouldn't know to be careful with him," she continues. "He puts on a brave face, so charming and confident, like he can change the world with his smile." Mrs. Anderson smiles sadly. "Sometimes, I think he truly believes he can. But some people might mistake that for..." She trails off with a frown, seemingly uncertain of her next words.

"I think I understand," Kurt offers softly.

Mrs. Anderson smiles the small smile that Kurt thinks is the one she means. "I think you do, too."

Kurt returns the smile.

~

Once the dishes are done and Mrs. Anderson has left him in the kitchen, Kurt hangs the dishtowel neatly on the rail, leaves the gloves to dry on the edge of the sink, and goes to the music room.

He knocks lightly before entering. Blaine doesn't look up from the piano or say anything, just keeps playing. Kurt sits on the bench beside him, watches Blaine's hands move nimbly upon the keys, listens to him play. It's not terribly focused, just a little melody Blaine is improvising. The sound of it is melancholy, the tempo slow. It repeats and varies as Blaine works through it. Kurt picks out the patterns and begins to hum a harmony. When Blaine glances at him with an encouraging smile, Kurt brings his hands to the keyboard too, plays counterpoint until Blaine seems satisfied, trails off, and his hands fall to his lap. He sighs, his smile gone.

"You all right?" Kurt asks.

Blaine shrugs. "I'm fine, just feeling a little sorry for myself. It's stupid."

"After the week you've had, I think you're entitled to indulge a little self-pity, Blaine."

Blaine shakes his head with a short, humorless laugh. "I just hate this. Being drugged and wobbly, waiting for the surgery, being stuck at home, missing you..."

"Yeah, me too," Kurt says, wraps an arm around Blaine to pull him against him. "It's less than a week 'til your surgery. Then we'll get back to normal." Kurt swallows the catch in his throat and makes himself believe it.

"I hope so."

"We'll do something extra special when you're better, to celebrate."

"Okay," Blaine says, turning his face into Kurt's neck and relaxing into Kurt's embrace.

Kurt holds him and rubs his back and shoulders. After a few minutes of that, Blaine smothers a yawn against Kurt.

"Ready for another exciting round of going to bed?" Kurt asks.

Blaine laughs. "I wish it were going to be exciting. But the stuff they've given me to help me sleep is really strong."

"Spring break is coming up," Kurt says. "We can have plenty of exciting in bed time then to make up for this dry spell."

Blaine lifts his head, smiles. "You think?"

Kurt nods. "Depending on other peoples' schedules, we may even manage some excitement in places other than the bed." Kurt's been scoping out possibilities around the house. Thinks bending Blaine over the back of the sofa could be fun. Or maybe a quick blowjob in the kitchen, or sex on the stairs... The last, Kurt suspects, may be better in fantasy than reality. Kurt considers the piano before them; Blaine's house has even more possibilities. "If you're feeling adventurous, that is."

"With you? Always." Blaine drops his forehead against Kurt's shoulder and chuckles. "Thank you, Kurt."

Kurt smiles and presses a kiss to Blaine's hair. He doesn't need to ask for what. "I'll help you get back to your room and ready for bed before I leave, okay?"

~

After Blaine is settled, warm and snug beneath the covers, drowsy with the pills he's taken, Kurt gives him a kiss good night, gathers his things and heads downstairs. He finds Mrs. Anderson in the family room, working on a crossword puzzle with a real estate show going on the television. He thanks her for dinner; she walks him to the front door and hands him his coat.

As Kurt sets his bag down to slip on his coat, Mrs. Anderson says, "I wanted to ask a favor of you, Kurt."

"Yes?" Kurt drapes his scarf around his neck, doesn't bother knotting it.

"I have an early meeting in Cleveland Thursday morning. I've got the home health nurse coming to spend the day with Blaine, but, since the meeting is early, I would prefer to drive up Wednesday night. Mr. Anderson isn't back until Friday. Would it be possible for you stay the night here Wednesday, keep an eye on Blaine, make sure he takes his medication, eats, and doesn't fall down the stairs?"

Kurt's eyes widen. "I'd be happy to," he says, a little high and airy. "But I'll need to ask my father."

"Of course." She smiles. "I'll make sure a guest room is made up for you if it's too awkward to share with Blaine while he's ill."

"Oh," Kurt says, a blush warming his cheeks, but he doesn't glance away. "Sure, thank you."

"Drive safely," she says and opens the door for him, "And let me know if you'll be available."

"I will," he says, his mind already going to work on what he'll cook and what activities may make Wednesday night more fun for Blaine.

"And Kurt," she calls out as he makes his way down the path.

"Yes?" he turns back.

"Thank you."

~*~

Monday, Mr. Schuester tells the class they'll be singing in Spanish this week. Then they meet Mr. Martinez.

~*~

Kurt was alone in the choir room after Glee practice. The papers in his satchel were in dreadful disorder, and he wasn't to leave the room until they were all sorted out. Mr. Schuester had made that clear. But where was he to start? His French handouts were in his Physics folder. History notes were mixed in with sheet music for Glee. His English folder had changed color from blue to green. How was he supposed to fix that? It was terrible.

Blaine would surely be waiting for him, but every time Kurt opened another folder to check its contents, he would find yet another thing out of place, and why were his recipes for Home Ec written in Spanish? Bad enough that the soups were mixed up with the desserts. He'd have to rewrite them completely, except he didn't really know Spanish. Kurt swore under his breath and pulled out a purple folder that was labeled '3D Art!' in silver glitter ink. But he wasn't even taking an art class this semester. Inside it were Calculus problems written in crayon on yellow graph paper.

Just then he heard footsteps coming into the room. Kurt looked up to see Mr. Martinez walking in. Walking was one word for it anyway. It was some sexy hybrid of a saunter and a strut. Filled with duende no doubt. Mr. Martinez was looking directly at him. Oh, he was speaking to him, too. "Hi, Kurt," Mr. Martinez said.

Kurt dropped a recipe for Croque-Monsieur on the floor. It slid under the chair with a soft click-whoosh. He didn't need that one anyway. How hard was a grilled ham and cheese sandwich? "Hello, Mr. Martinez," Kurt replied.

Mr. Martinez smiled at him widely. His teeth literally sparkled. Literally. Kurt didn't use that word casually or erroneously; he knew what it meant. "Please, call me David," Mr. Martinez's glittering mouth said.

Kurt stared at the way the light bounced off his his white teeth and said, "All right, David."

"That's better," David said and leaned back against the piano. His black pants wrapped tight around his muscular thighs, slung low around his trim abdomen and nimble hips. "Now what is it you needed my help with, Kurt?"

"Oh, I, uh, I've written all my recipes in Spanish accidentally, and I need help translating them back to English so I can leave," Kurt explained.

"That's not what you need help with," David said.

"It's not?" Kurt said, and he could feel the heat creeping up his neck.

"No," David said, smiling even wider. His teeth were so very white and even. And his arms, as he crossed them over his broad, well-defined chest, were so wonderfully sculpted. His black t-shirt was at its limit to contain all that man. "That's not what you need my help with. Come over here, Kurt."

"Okay," Kurt said. He dropped his bag, and all the colorful mixed up papers and folders scattered across the risers.

"I watched you dance today, Kurt," David said. "I think you need a private lesson. You're far too tight. You need help loosening up."

"Okay," Kurt said. It was true. His dancing didn't have much duende. Even Mike hadn't been able to help him with that. He stood up and made his way over to David, who held out a hand, palm up, for Kurt to take.

"I saw the way you looked at me, Kurt. I can help you," David said.

Kurt laid his hand upon David's. It was warm and soft and strong as it wrapped around his. "Yes, I'd like that," Kurt said, looking into David's beautiful brown eyes.

David pulled on his hand, spinning Kurt expertly and drawing him in until Kurt's back was pressed up against David's front and David's arm crossed his chest, holding Kurt fast against him. His other hand came down to Kurt's belly, laying flat just above his belt buckle. "Like this, Kurt," David said. Music started, and they began to move.

They danced like that for a while, and Kurt felt like he was floating, they glided across the floor so smoothly. He felt his body responding to every cue of David's (which mostly came from his hips). Kurt felt warm and loose and easy in his movements. Except for the hollow querying ache growing deep inside him. He tried to ignore that.

"This won't do at all," David said, and they stopped moving. "Over here," he said and nudged Kurt gently toward the piano. "Lean over it. I have an idea of what may help you."

"Oh please god yes," Kurt whispered.

As David's hand reached around him for his fly, undoing it swiftly and reaching for Kurt's cock. A rampant surge of ecstasy flooded Kurt. Abruptly, he was so close to coming. He moaned and rubbed himself shamelessly into David's firm grip. The pleasure didn't fade when David let go, but clung to him, suspending him right on the verge of climax. Then his pants were down around his knees and David was speaking to him, but Kurt couldn't make out the words; he was overcome with being so very close. Just one more touch, just... a little something more.

The touch came not on his cock but between his buttocks, hot, thick, and blunt, pressing against him, and somehow starting to slide inside him without any trace of discomfort, more easily than it should. Kurt knew it didn't work like this. But he felt glory in every nerve ending, cracking him open, invading; and his orgasm coiled up like a snake ready to—

Kurt wakes up drenched in sweat: hard, aching, and so close to orgasm he can feel it in his hair. He tosses his covers back and shimmies out of his pajama bottoms. Rucks up his top and wraps one hand around his cock, squeezing at first to soothe, cupping his balls with his other hand and rolling them gently along his fingers. It does nothing to ease the ghost of dream sensation elsewhere. He can still feel it, an insistent, throbbing want for something now absent. But it was never really there. It's not the fist time Kurt has had a dream where he's been fucked, but it is the first time he's woken up still feeling it. "Okay," Kurt whispers into the darkness, to no one but himself.

He doesn't think about it. He won't. He just reaches under the pillow and grabs the lube.

His hands only shake a little bit as he squirts a dollop of cool gel onto his fingertips instead of into his palm. There's a moment of hesitation, deciding whether to stay on his back, roll over, kneel up... Kurt decides on rolling over, but he gets his knees beneath himself and leans on one bent arm, his closed eyes pressed into the bend of his elbow. His heart flutters like a scared, small bird, like it's trying to make an escape from his chest through his throat. But he's not thinking about this, not really. He's not questioning it. He's just doing this. For himself.

And he's definitely not thinking about Mr. Martinez when he brings his hand back to touch himself between his buttocks. Mr. Martinez who, crazy sex dream aside, looked back today when Kurt looked at him; and he smiled.

The gel is cold against his hot skin, but Kurt's fingers are warm. And clumsy. He misses, touching himself too high, like he doesn't even know his own body. His lungs feel stuffy, and Kurt realizes he's holding his breath. He tries to imagine Blaine's voice, imagines Blaine reminding him to breathe. Kurt exhales, inhales, slides his fingertips down until they're nestled right where he feels the phantom ache of nothing.