Unfortunately, things don't settle down.

Kurt finds himself in one of the places he dreads most: the emergency room of Lima Memorial. He's typing a one-handed text to Carole, who is on shift in the hospital somewhere. His Dad is in Washington. Against his side, Blaine is tightly tucked, cringing and gasping in pain while waiting for the painkillers the triage nurse gave him to kick in. His hair is wet around his face and starting to curl, and he's got a towel around his shoulders. The first thing the nurse did was take him back to an eyewash station; then she took his vitals. But they're waiting now to see a doctor.

Everything in this place is too familiar, nauseatingly so. Kurt ignores the bleeps and bustle, the other people grumbling and coughing, the swirling patterns of the gold and teal industrial carpet, the stains on the thin chair cushions. He knows them all well enough. Instead, he concentrates on the damp, sweaty heat of Blaine pressed against him and the agility of his thumb upon the glossy screen of his iPhone.

Sitting on Kurt's other side is Santana. She's doing her best to fill out the clipboard of forms the receptionist gave Blaine upon arrival. Something she said about her father being Dr. Lopez ("Yes, that Dr. Lopez, Betty, the one who heads up Internal Medicine here in Scrubsland") had the nurse paging the on-call ophthalmologist right away. Blaine is able to answer her as she reads out various questions on the form. She asks him, "Are you currently menstruating?" but none of them quite manages to laugh.

It's been a surreal blur of anxiety interspersed with numbness tonight. Santana volunteered to drive them here from the parking garage. Her car, she said, was faster, safer, and more comfortable than Finn's truck, and Kurt was in no fit shape to drive. Plus, Blaine needed someone to hang on to him. The car ride was a nightmare with Kurt having to fight a groaning and writhing Blaine to keep his hands away from his face. They did manage to wash the worst of the Slushie from Blaine's eyes with some bottled water before they left, but it wasn't far into the ride that Kurt realized they probably should have called an ambulance. There was something worse than red dye and high fructose corn syrup in that Slushie.

Blaine lets out a whimper and tightens the grip he's got on Kurt's arm. "Shh, baby, it's going to be okay," Kurt murmurs; he hears the thickness of unshed tears in his voice, the crack of fear. He has no idea if this is true, if anything is going to be okay. He remembers being here more than once with his parents when his mother was sick. She would stroke his hair and hold him and tell him it was going to be okay, and he believed her right up until she wasn't. And he remembers arriving here with Miss Pillsbury and Mr. Schuester when his Dad was sick, their telling him it would be okay, but feeling in his marrow that it wouldn't be. It was, eventually, of course, but Kurt no longer trusts his sense of these things. Kurt doesn't know what to feel right now. He is at least confident Blaine won't die, but that doesn't mean this is going to be okay.

Kurt peripherally sees Santana looking at him, but he can't quite face the sympathy in her eyes. It's so uncharacteristic; it only adds to the surrealism. It'd be easier, possibly more comforting, if she simply mocked him for using a cloying pet name. And then Kurt remembers he needs to contact Blaine's parents. The nurse said something about it when they came in, and Kurt said he would. Blaine is a minor, and Kurt and Santana are nobodies.

"Blaine, honey," Kurt interrupts Santana reading out something about a family history of heart disease. "I need to borrow your phone to call your Mom."

Blaine nods and lets go of Kurt to dig in his back pocket, hands Kurt his phone.

The call rings several times and then goes to voicemail. Kurt didn't rehearse a message so he speaks slowly at first before finding his focus. He keeps it brief, but tries to include enough information not to worry her unduly. Then he follows the call with a text message that includes his cell number. Then his phone buzzes with a text alert. Carole, saying she'll be down as soon as she can, followed by Finn asking if Kurt needs anything. There's also an earlier text from Rachel, one from Mike, and another two from Mercedes. He hasn't answered them. Still needs to text his Dad. Kurt fumbles with his phone, to start replying, when another text arrives (from Artie) at the same time as Blaine's phone rings. Kurt stifles the sudden urge to throw both devices across the room.

Santana takes his phone from his hand. She doesn't tell him it's okay, as if it were true, even though it's unknowable at this point. Instead she says, "I'll answer some of these for you."

Kurt gives her a grateful smile and answers Blaine's phone. "Hello, Mrs. Anderson," he says. He repeats everything he already included in the text and voice messages. Explains they're waiting for a bed now, an ophthalmologist is on his way, Blaine's doing okay, and no, there isn't a doctor for her to talk to yet, they've only been seen by the triage nurse. Then he holds the phone to Blaine's ear so he can tell his mother essentially the same things. Kurt is surprised by how steady and strong Blaine's voice is when he speaks to his mother, insisting he's fine. It almost sounds like nothing is wrong at all.

Carole arrives shortly after the call ends, giving them all hugs and fussing over Blaine in particular: looking critically at his face, stroking his damp hair, telling him they'll fix him up good as new, and finally kissing him on the forehead "to make it better". Then she turns her concerned maternal attention toward Kurt, asking him if he's okay (and he has to be, so he says, "Yes."). Carole thanks Santana for her help and her friendship to her boys, for being there for them both. Asks if there's anything any of them they need. But before Kurt can think of a response, for surely there is something, Blaine's name is called.

There's a flurry of gathering their bags and the forms, Santana asking if Kurt wants her to stay (Kurt thanking her profusely, but no, she can go), and Carole making sure Kurt is permitted to go back with Blaine when Blaine begs him to. Then Carole kisses his cheek, squeezes his hand, and says she'll text when she's off shift in the morning, in case Kurt is still at the hospital and needs a ride home then. Otherwise, he should ask Finn to pick him up. She's not far away if he or Blaine needs her.

Then Kurt is guiding Blaine to follow another nurse through a wide door, back to a curtained bay where they will meet with a doctor and find out whether Blaine will be okay.

~

When Blaine's mother arrives, Blaine has dozed off on the wide stretcher, and Kurt envies him his repose. The sound of heart monitors in adjacent bays is making his stomach twist and his brain itch. Kurt sits next to Blaine, his backside numb from the unforgiving seat of the turquoise plastic chair he's been sitting in for the past hour. In one hand he has his phone in a tight grip, clinging to it with the last text his Dad sent on the screen as if he's holding his Dad's hand; in his other hand, more gently held, Blaine's is limp but warm. Kurt lifts his head from where he's been leaning it on the edge of the mattress as Mrs. Anderson steps through the curtain, pulling it closed behind her.

"Oh," she says and rushes to Blaine's other side with a rustle of clothing and a swirl of honeysuckle perfume. Kurt's presence barely registers, she's so focused on Blaine, and Kurt gets it, that tunnel vision when someone you love is harmed or in danger. He knows it well, has been in that place himself most of tonight.

Mrs. Anderson pushes loose hair behind her ears (and Kurt has never seen her without her hair perfectly, immaculately done), and then with tentative fingers smooths down Blaine's arm to lay her hand over his. He doesn't rouse. He still looks pretty bad, even cleaned up and with the patch over his right eye, his face is blotched an angry red with some swelling around both eyes. No one looks healthy in a hospital gown; Kurt's sure the color is scientifically selected for that purpose.

"They gave him a tranquilizer," Kurt ventures softly, "and something stronger for the pain. He's got a procedure scheduled in the morning to evaluate the damage to his eyes. He's got mild chemical burns and damage to the cornea of his right eye. They want to admit him overnight."

Mrs. Anderson turns her attention to Kurt, something unexpectedly unyielding in her eyes. "Thank you for waiting with him, Kurt," she says stiffly. "You may go now."

That wasn't the reception Kurt expected. "I told him I'd be here when he woke up," he tries to explain.

"I'm here now," Mrs. Anderson says. "Please leave. You've done enough."

Kurt gently releases Blaine's hand, stunned. It's almost accusatory, her tone, as if he is somehow responsible for this. "Mrs. Anderson—"

"Nurse," she says loudly, and then to Kurt, "I'd really like you to go, Kurt. This is a family crisis."

And at that Kurt feels the fight drain out of him like water down a drain. He has less than no rights here. Mrs. Anderson could have him hauled out of the hospital by security, and the way she's looking at him, she may even relish it. "Okay," he says mildly, though it in no way is. He's exhausted, and he can't face this clusterfuck right now, too: yet another of the endless iterations of scrabbling for scraps of acceptance and recognition. He's so sick of constantly having to justify himself. "But please tell him it wasn't my choice to leave, and I'll see him soon."

Mrs. Anderson gives him an inscrutable look and says nothing. Maybe not all his fight is gone. Kurt has to bite his tongue to not say several different things he knows he would regret. He hands Mrs. Anderson Blaine's phone, collects his bag and the plastic bag containing Blaine's Slushie drenched clothing. He'll launder them himself. It's something he can do, at least. With one last look at Blaine, he sends an unspoken 'I love you'.

He thanks the nurses on his way out and texts Finn, asking him if he can come pick him up. He texts Blaine messages of affection and support as well as an explanation for his absence while he waits for Finn, and he hopes Mrs. Anderson doesn't know the passcode for Blaine's phone. He suspects she'd delete them.

~*~

The next day, Kurt wakes angry. He's angry, primarily, at Sebastian. That's obvious. He's also furious at the other Warblers, the ones he thought of as friends. Realizes the oft spoken 'once a Warbler, always a Warbler' does not apply to him, for whom the Slushie was intended. He's angry at them for not staying behind to make sure Blaine was okay, because regardless of what they may think of Kurt, surely Blaine still matters to them. But they ran like frightened rabbits as soon as Blaine was down. He's mad at Blaine's mother for so many things. Of course he is. And Blaine's father for simply not being there, because he can't imagine his own Dad ever not being there for him in some capacity. He hurts on Blaine's behalf for the relationship he never had enough of to understand what he's lost.

And finally there's a last special, selfish anger toward the universe at large, because bad things keep happening to the people Kurt cares about. It makes him wonder when Finn or Carole will turn up in the hospital. If he believed in God, he'd wonder if he was being punished with their pain—or, worse, if they were being punished for loving him.

He doesn't dwell there, for that way lies madness. Instead he gets up and goes through his morning as he always does, except when it's time to leave for school, he doesn't. Carole's still at work, his Dad is far away, and Finn doesn't protest when Kurt tells him he's not going to school today. He sits on the edge of his bed and texts Blaine. When there's no reply after a few minutes, he calls. It goes directly to voicemail, so Blaine's phone must be off. He leaves a message anyway, and wallows in the cliché of feeling sick with worry. There's little he can do. He doesn't even know if Blaine will still be in the hospital. If he'd be allowed to see him.

Practicing his knife skills is what Kurt needs this morning. He'll figure out what to do this afternoon, but for now, he needs a clear head. So slicing a pepper into a perfect brunoise is the goal. They've got plenty of red peppers in the refrigerator; he'd planned this as a weekend activity. Blaine was going to be there though, sitting at the island, talking, laughing, distracting...

In the kitchen, Kurt sharpens his favorite Santoku. He thinks the thinner blade will ultimately be more advantageous for the extra fine dice than the curved blade of his German chef's knife. He gets out the large maple cutting board, lines some aluminum cookie sheets with wax paper, and finds an unopened box of freezer bags in the pantry. He'll freeze his efforts, and that'll get them through several sauces and stews in the months to come.

Kurt turns his hand, mind, and knife to the careful meditation of turning each irregularly shaped pepper into a flawlessly even, tiny dice. He's on his fifth pepper, has two trays in the freezer, and has lost track of the time when he hears the front door: Carole back from her night shift at the hospital. His dice isn't yet small enough or even enough, but he feels he's making progress. He sets the knife down. "Hey, Carole," he calls out. "I'm in the kitchen."

She comes in through the dining room looking weary and rumpled. He's rarely home when she gets back from night shift. He should have made extra coffee. Or maybe she prefers to go straight to bed. "Can I get you anything?" he asks.

"You're not at school." she says, setting her bag on the seat of one of the stools.

Kurt shakes his head. "Coffee?"

"No, thank you, Kurt. When did you get back?"

"Late last night," he says, and tries to swallow down the ache in his throat. He picks up the knife and starts on pepper number six. "Blaine was sedated when his mother arrived. They were going to keep him overnight, do some sort of diagnostic procedure this morning."

Carole looks around the kitchen, evaluating the bowl of diced peppers and nodding. She goes to the sink and washes her hands, then heads to the drawer by the phone and takes out a Sharpie, sets it by the box of freezer bags. "So have you heard anything this morning?"

Kurt shakes his head, and the next cut of the knife blade is off. He ends up with a long thin wrong wedge of pepper instead of the requisite neat julienne. He stares at it as tears fill his eyes.

"Kurt, sweetie, what's happened?" Carole asks, coming around the island to hold the wrist of his knife hand with one of hers, while gently coaxing the blade free of his grip and setting it aside.

Kurt tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling, blinking. "His mother made me leave," Kurt says. "And his phone is off. I don't know what's happening. But she made it clear, I'm not welcome."

"Oh," Carole says, "oh." And she pulls him into her arms, cupping the back of his head and holding him against her shoulder. She smells antiseptic, like the hospital still, and Kurt worries the sticky pepper juice on his hands will stain her clothing. But she's still in scrubs, which have likely seen worse things than bell pepper, so he carefully lets himself relax into her hold, curls his fingers against her back. "Oh, Kurt," she says, "I'm sorry." She rubs his back, and he lets himself start to cry.

"Let it out, sweetie," she says, and so he does, because he's got to a point where he can't not. It pours out in deep sobs of frustration and helplessness, anger and fear. He can't control it, and he ends up muffling himself against her shoulder like an injured child. It's undignified and gross and he can't remember the last time he cried like this in front of another person. Except that he can: with his father after his mother died. His father had been crying too, and that was when Kurt understood he had to be strong for his Dad. His Dad needed him to be okay.

Carole doesn't let go, if anything she holds him tighter, rocking him gently as she strokes his back and hair, murmuring comfort and sympathy.

Eventually he runs out of tears and energy and emotion. He loosens his hold on her and steps back, embarrassment warring with relief, the blunt edge of a headache nudging up insistently behind his eyeballs. He looks at his feet and Carole brushes his hair from where it's sticking to his forehead, tidying it back into its proper style. "Thank you," he says, reaching for one of her hands and squeezing briefly. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Carole says, and Kurt hears the smile, and the affection, in her voice. It gives him hope that things can be okay. He wipes his eyes dry on his shoulders.

"So what are you up to here?" Carole asks. "Are there any in the freezer yet?"

"Two sheets," Kurt says, sniffing as he turns away to open the freezer and check on them. The diced peppers should be frozen enough to bag. He takes the sheets from the freezer, lays them at the end of the island. "I was going to do one sheet per bag."

Carole nods, "All right, I'll do that part. You keep cutting." She rips open the top of the box of freezer bags. "And I'll take you up on that offer of coffee," she says.

~

After the last of the bags are labeled, filled, and in the freezer, Kurt sits at the dining table with Carole while she eats a sandwich. Then, she'll be off to bed. He sets his phone down with a heavy sigh.

"What are you going to do?" she asks him.

Kurt shrugs and stares at his glass of water. "I'm not family, so the hospital won't tell me anything more than he's been discharged. There's no answer at the house. They're probably screening my calls."

Carole doesn't offer advice. She just listens.

"I can't not see him," Kurt says. "He won't know why I'm not there, and I don't know what he'll think or what she'll tell him." Kurt sips his water. "So I thought, since I've washed the clothes he was wearing yesterday, that I would take them, drive there, and knock on the door."

Carole is quiet for a while, and it occurs to Kurt that maybe she's just as clueless as he is in this situation. It's not like there's a handbook for this stuff. He wonders if Miss Pillsbury has a pamphlet: 'So your boyfriend's parents are asshats?'

"Would you like me to go with you?" Carole asks.

Of course, the Andersons would be unlikely to turn away the new Congressman's wife, but Kurt doesn't want to abuse that knowledge. Anyway, it's his problem. "Thank you, but no. I think I need to do this on my own." He looks up at Carole and smiles. "You need to get some sleep, anyway."

"Okay, but anything I can do to help, sweetie, you let me know, okay?"

"Maybe write a guide to better parenting?" Kurt says, "So I can give a copy to his Mom."

Carole gives him a wry smile. "I wouldn't even know where to start."

"No..." Kurt says, "If I'm going, I should go while I still feel brave."

"You'll do fine," Carole says. "They'll realize what a caring, wonderful young man you are eventually, and how much you love their son. It's impossible not to see those things in you, Kurt. Blaine is blessed to have you, not just as his boyfriend, but as his friend."

"Thanks, Carole," Kurt says, feeling his face heat at the praise. It helps, though. He feels his courage bolstered by Carole's confidence. He's thought about talking it over with his Dad, but he knows it would only anger his Dad and have him canceling meetings to be on the next flight back.

He can do this; he just wishes there weren't an hour's drive ahead of him in which to stew. "Wish me luck," he says and stands.

~*~

On the way, Kurt listens to the playlist he uses whenever he needs a self-esteem boost. Many of the songs he associates with Blaine, their friendship and the strength it gave him even long before they became boyfriends. It helps, reminds him what Blaine means to him, and what he means to Blaine. By the time Kurt has pulled into the broad arc of the Andersons' semi-circular driveway he's transformed his fear and anger into a fierce and righteous protectiveness. Blaine needs his courage.

Kurt retrieves the bag with Blaine's clean, pressed, and folded clothes, and steps out onto the faux cobblestones. He stands up straight, shoulders back, head held high and walks up the path to the front door, his boot heels briskly clipping the cement. He doesn't permit himself pause to reconsider, just presses the doorbell.

It's several heartbeats before Kurt hears footsteps, the swift click of a woman's shoes. Mrs. Anderson opens the door looking exhausted, impatient, and impeccably dressed. "Kurt," she says. "What do you want?"

An abrupt, and wholly inappropriate, swell of hilarity threatens, because it was just the other day Sam was explaining to him and Finn that Klingon has no word for 'hello', instead they greet each other with the demand: 'what do you want?'

Kurt turns his incongruous amusement into a bright smile that he hopes appears in no way mocking. "I washed Blaine's clothes from yesterday," Kurt says and lifts the bag he's holding. "And I would very much like to see him. How's he doing?"

"He's resting," she says, and reaches for the bag.

It's tempting to snatch it back out of reach, but that would be petty. Kurt lets her take it from him. "May I please see him?" he asks. Best behavior. He can do this. He can be charming and polite and win over this woman.

"I'm afraid not. He's tired and needs his rest," she says. "Thank you, Kurt. Good bye." She starts to close the door.

"Wait!" Kurt says, putting up a hand to stop the swing of the door shut. "Please, just for a moment? I've been so worried. I won't wake him. I just want to see him."

"I don't think that's a good idea. Please just leave." Mrs. Anderson says, and Kurt really doesn't want it to go this way, but he doesn't step back.

"I love him," Kurt blurts out. It wasn't part of the plan, but what has he got to lose? "I love your son," he repeats, more emphatically and with pride.

Mrs. Anderson eases up on the door and sighs. "So do I." But she doesn't invite him in.

"Please, I need to see him. I miss him, and he'll be missing me, too."

She stares at him for what seems like an hour, but something in her gaze eventually softens. "All right," she says, "but please keep it short. The drugs he's on make him groggy."

She opens the door wide to let Kurt in. "I knew something like this would happen again if he went back to public school. Boys like you just can't—"

"That isn't what happened," Kurt says quickly, adds a hasty, "ma'am." He doesn't want to hear the rest of what she was going to say about boys like him. "It was a boy from Dalton, a Warbler," Kurt explains.

Mrs. Anderson looks at him in surprise, and Kurt guesses Blaine hasn't been coherent enough to explain what happened. She's been thinking this was like Sadie Hawkins. No wonder she's been wary of him, what he is in Blaine's life. Kurt just wishes it could have been something else that finally got her to acknowledge his relationship with her son. This is not how he wanted it to be.

In the wake of her silence, Kurt continues, "And he was a boy like us, the Slushie he threw was meant for me."

When she finally speaks, it is simply to ask, "Why?"

Kurt frowns. Trying to explain Sebastian to Blaine's mother is a daunting prospect. "Jealousy, maybe," Kurt says. "He likes Blaine too, but not in a very, um, wholesome way. He's not a very nice boy."

Mrs. Anderson is blinking at Kurt like it's the first time she's seen him. He takes off his coat, and she indicates the coat rack near the door. "In that case, we'll be contacting the headmaster at Dalton," she says. "This is unacceptable behavior. You know this boy's name?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's Sebastian Smythe," Kurt says. "He's new at Dalton this year. Blaine had..." Kurt sighs. "...tried to be his friend, but I knew he was bad news. I didn't think he'd pull anything like this, though. I'm sorry. It should be me hurt, not Blaine. He just, saw what was happening and put himself in the line of fire." Kurt aims a more sincere smile at Mrs. Anderson. "I'm sure you know, he's always so gallant, your son."

"He cares about you that much?" she asks.

"We care about each other," Kurt replies.

She takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly, her gaze on Kurt still appraising. She hasn't indicated he can go upstairs yet, so Kurt tries not to fidget as they stand awkwardly in the foyer.

"Carole wanted to come with me," Kurt says. She did offer, and he wants Mrs. Anderson to know this about his family. "My family, they love Blaine, too. They've been worried."

Mrs. Anderson nods once and then turns toward the wide stairs. "Let's go up," she says.

Kurt follows a few steps behind her.

"Your mother and father are divorced?" she asks.

Kurt hesitates in surprise, wonders how much she truly doesn't know about him. "No," he says, "my mother died when I was eight."

"Oh," she says. "That must have been very hard for you and your father." They get to the top of the stairs and Mrs. Anderson turns toward Blaine's room.

"Yes, ma'am, it was," Kurt says, because what else is there to say? The way Blaine's mother talks, he can't read her tone of voice very well, can't tell when she's sincere or when she's being mannered. He wonders if she even knows the difference. "But we did okay," he says, "and Carole is wonderful."

"I found her delightful at the Christmas party. I'm glad your father and stepmother attended." Mrs. Anderson stops outside Blaine's closed door, lowers her voice and smiles at Kurt. "When Blaine is better perhaps we can all have dinner together sometime."

Kurt has no idea what to make of that or her smile. "That would be nice," he says and can't even tell if he means it.

Mrs. Anderson knocks lightly on Blaine's door before opening it slowly. "Blaine?" she says. "Kurt is here to see you." she turns back to Kurt. "You may go in for a few minutes. I'll be right here."

"Thank you," Kurt says and steps past her to enter Blaine's room. It's dark; the blinds are drawn and no lights are on. There's just enough dim daylight filtering through that Kurt can make out the lump in the bed that must be Blaine. "Hi, Blaine," he says, has to stop himself from saying 'honey'.

"Kurt?" comes from the darkness.

Kurt's aware Blaine's mother is still behind him, hovering in the open doorway. "Yeah," Kurt says, making his way to the chair beside Blaine's bed. He drags it near, and, as his eyes adjust to the gloom, he sees Blaine shifting to sit up against the pillows. "Hi," he says.

"Where were you?" Blaine asks, and Kurt can hear the drug induced slur in his voice, "When I woke up you were gone."

"I'm sorry. I'm here now, b— Blaine." Kurt reaches to take one of Blaine's hands in both of his. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh my god, so weird," Blaine says, suddenly too loud. "Why's it so dark?"

"Do you want me to turn on a lamp?"

"Please."

Kurt lets go with one hand and leans to the bedside lamp, flicking it on.

"Ow," Blaine says, squinting his visible eye. He looks a lot better. The swelling has gone down and the red has faded. "God, Kurt, when I woke up I was afraid I'd only dreamed you."

Kurt smiles even though tears threaten. "They gave you something pretty strong last night."

"Yeah," Blaine says and reaches with his free hand to rub his eye, runs into the patch and drops his hand. "It feels weird," he says.

Kurt glances back to the door, asks Mrs. Anderson, "What's the prognosis? Will it heal on its own?"

"We've scheduled a surgery with a specialist in Columbus," she says. "But there's a waiting list, so it's not for another two weeks. They think they can save his eye, but the injury is deep."

Blaine makes a sad moue. "I don't want to lose my eye."

"No, I wouldn't either," Kurt says around the sudden wad of guilt stuffing up his throat. It should have been him, damn it. The heat of the anger that follows swiftly burns through the guilt though. This is not Kurt's doing.

Blaine must read some of it in his face, asks, "Are you going to tell me you told me so?"

"No, Blaine, god, no. This isn't your fault," he squeezes Blaine's hand. "We're..." He glances back at Blaine's mother. "We're going to make sure Dalton knows what he did."

"Okay," Blaine says as he nods. Then he rolls his head on his shoulders and smiles goofily at Kurt. "You look so pretty today, Kurt. I'd be sad if I couldn't look at you." He pulls on Kurt's hand. "Come here."

"I—" Kurt hesitates, resists the pull. "Your mom's here, too, Blaine." Even if she weren't, he's not sure whatever Blaine wants is a good idea. He doesn't have much time anyway.

"Don't care," Blaine says. "Just want a hug."

"Okay," Kurt says, for a hug he can manage. He doesn't look back at Blaine's mother this time, fearing a look of disapproval. Instead he just moves the short distance from the chair to the bed and helps Blaine sit forward to lean into him, wrapping his arms around him gingerly, careful not to jostle him.

Blaine has no such concerns for himself. He holds Kurt fiercely tight and says, "I missed you so much, Kurt. I'm so glad you're real."

"Shh. I'm right here," Kurt says. "I'll try to visit you every day, I promise, okay?"

"Okay," Blaine says, then, "Oh, I'm really dizzy."

"All right," Kurt says, leaning forward to lower Blaine back against his pillows. "Lie back down. It's okay."

"This sucks," Blaine says. "I'm bored and tired of sleeping."

Kurt sits back up, resting one hand lightly upon Blaine's arm. "Do you want me to put on some music for you?" Hopes Mrs. Anderson won't ask him to go just yet.

Blaine purses his lips in thought. "Could you sing to me?"

"Um, I think so. What would you like me to sing?"

"Anything. Maybe 'Blackbird'?"

Kurt sees movement from Mrs. Anderson out the corner of his eye. He sighs. He's overstayed his welcome. When he looks back, his throat is already forming a plea to stay, just a little longer, long enough to sing Blaine one song; but she's gone, the door pulled closed.

"All right," Kurt says, refusing to question her absence, taking it as whatever opportunity he can make it. He turns back to Blaine and smiles. Taking his hand, Kurt hums a few scales to warm up. Blaine settles back into his pillows, closes his eyes and listens as Kurt begins to sing.

Kurt wants so much for this all to be okay. He pours all of his hope for it into the song as he sings, "Take these sunken eyes and learn to see."