I wish you’d come home with me.

With a quick glance down the street, he crossed it, scrunching his nose up in delight as his text tone beeped. He thumbed over the screen.

I almost did.

Blaine dragged his teeth over his lower lip, unable to keep from grinning widely.

Not too late. I’m not even a block away.

He waited, hovering on the spot for a moment before he took two steps backwards. His phone trilled again, and as he read he could hear the sultry tone in Frank’s voice through the screen.

Goodnight, Mr. Majors. Sweet dreams.

Rolling his eyes fondly, he sent off a quick goodnight and pocketed his phone, striding off in the direction of home. The breeze felt incredible on his damp skin, and he wondered absently why he still felt so overheated, even in the chill of the early morning dark.

His night was spent tossing and turning in bed, too hot, and too cold, and forever uncomfortable under blankets and sheets alike. After another cool shower he collapsed with a groan, replaying daydreams of Frank’s taste on his tongue.

By Sunday morning, he knew that what he’d seen in the bathroom mirror that night wasn’t a trick of the light. He was sick.

Too many weeks spent working and writing papers and dancing under spotlights, too many lectures bracketed by racing to the office or the theatre, or back home again, and his body was wilting under the strain.

He made it to the caf� Monday morning, just barely, and only in time to watch the silhouette of Kurt through the window, almost blocked out by the giant figure he’d seen on the street the week before. The boyfriend.

Turning away from the door, he let it drift shut as he shuffled away, his head downcast. The office wasn’t far, he reminded himself; he could start work early.

Because photocopying briefs for hours on end always takes your mind off Kurt, his inner voice goaded sarcastically.

He missed work on Thursday, clinging to his bedframe and heaving over the side as his phone rang again and again. He groaned around the invisible razorblades in his throat while his hand searched blindly for the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” his mother’s voice sighed down the line, “you sound awful.”

He mumbled in agreement. “I’m not as bad as I sound, I’ll be fine.”

“You push yourself too hard,” she insisted. “School and the internship and the… other thing.”

Blaine swallowed again and flinched at the pain, his mind reeling. What other thing? How did she know?

“Your father wants to speak to you,” she said gravely.

The words felt like ice water running through his veins. He shifted in discomfort at the sweat pooling in the small of his back, and rolled over to bury his face in his free hand as the crackle and bump down the phone line let him know it was changing speakers.

“Blaine,” his father’s voice came through like a warning: cold, and controlled. “I spoke to the partners today.”

“Yes, sir?”

“They’ve made it clear to me that your attitude has been,” a huff of breath, “sub par of late, and now I’m hearing about some show?”

“I don’t-”

“Don’t lie to me. Mrs. Lester happens to own the Kismet Theatre, she told your mother everything, and in front of her friends no less. What you’ve put your mother through with this … this … foul little play. The embarrassment!”

Blaine rubbed a hand over his eyes roughly, pressing fingertips against the building pressure at the bridge of his nose.

“I thought you’d grown out of this stupid singing nonsense,” he went on. “Clearly, I was thinking too highly of you.”

He fought the sting of moisture gathering behind his eyes. The dryness in his mouth was bordering on unbearable, and he swallowed against it, almost choking. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re going to quit,” his father instructed calmly. “Then, I will smooth things over with the partners, and your mother can feel relatively unashamed among her peers.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered in his trained monotone.

There was a pause, and then finally the strained silence broke again with another agitated huff. “Quit, Blaine. Stop wasting your life.”

The phone cut off.

Blaine sighed, burying his face in his pillow. In the back of his head, a chorus of audience voices called out in unison: Hey Dick, have you ever been a quitter?

“I have never been a quitter,” he mumbled aloud.

What the fuck am I going to do now?

He dozed in an out of consciousness for the rest of the day, and on into the next, barely making it to his mid-morning lecture on time. After his afternoon trip to the office he made it back just long enough to change and find his costume bag, racing down to the theater with his head pounding and his breath coming shallow from burning lungs.

The look on Janet’s face when she saw him told him everything he didn’t want to know.

“Holy fuck, where’s the zombie that bit you?” she shouted.

He hissed under his breath, gesturing for her to keep it down. “I’m fine, it’s just a bug,” he croaked, but she was already in his space, fingers on his forehead.

“You’re burning up, jesus, Brad – go home!”

With a defiant shake of his head, he waved his bag at her. “I’ll be fine, I just-”

“Whoa, Brad, you look terrible!” Trixie stopped in her tracks as she caught sight of him on her way past. She wheeled around and moved closer, close enough to see the sheen of sweat on his face. “Oh, honey, go home.”

“Please just let me do this show?” he implored her. “I’ll be alright, it’s just a cold.”

“It’s the flu, at least,” she shot back. “And you’re too sick. So go home, we can work one man short this week.”

“Trix fills in,” Janet told him with a nod. “She makes an adorable Brad, I will say. Though, not as adorable as you, of course. And her ass isn’t quite as nice. Although, that’s not saying anything against Trix, your ass is just incomparable.”

“Jan,” Trixie warned fondly. “Filter.”

“Right.”

“Please, just tonight,” he pleaded.

“It’s not that important,” Trix said soothingly, lifting both hands. “You need fluids and rest, so you can come back next week.”

There is no next week.

His heart ached in his chest at the thought, and he dropped his bag, resting both hands on her upper arms and squeezing gently as they locked eyes. “Please, Kim. Just let me do this show.”

She straightened at the sound of her real name, concern etched into her features as he stared her down, eyes silently begging.

“Fine,” she said at last. “Just don’t die on stage.”

With a sigh of relief he managed a sad smile, scooping up his bag and trying to train the emotion off his face.

He got changed in the bathroom stall. It was a routine he usually saved for after the show, generally content to get into costume along with the others in the side-stage as a pre-show ritual. But this time, he wanted to avoid any more concerned looks, or orders to abandon what could easily be the last good thing he ever felt.

Halfway through pulling on his shirt his body slumped in defeat, burning and sweating and spinning with dizziness. He leaned heavily against the tile wall, fighting back tears. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

Breathing slowly, he tried to calm his heart and the pounding in his head. He pressed both hands to his chest, and stilled at the memory of standing in front of the mirror, bathed in red lip prints.

Frank.

Pulling himself upright, he dragged on the rest of the costume as fast as his aching, weary limbs could manage. He could do this. This was his, one more time.

The music had begun already, and he staggered out and pushed through the curtain, content to linger at the back under shadows until his cue. The less people saw him before he was out there, the better.

It didn’t take long for Frank to spot him, and those beautiful blue eyes lit up in the dark, a smile curling his stunning red lips. Blaine’s heart thumped heavy in his chest at the sight, and he smiled back weakly, pushing his empty costume glasses up his nose with a limp hand.

Frank’s smile quickly faded into concern, and lines of worry creased the makeup around his eyes.

“Where’s Brads?” Madge hissed.

He jerked forward, realising he’d almost missed his cue and stumbling behind Janet up the stairs.

Every moment on stage felt like he was under tepid water, like gravity was so much stronger than he remembered. His mouth would barely cooperate as he tried to shape it around the words.

By the time they reached Floorshow, his eyes were drooping, and he barely managed to get up off the ground again after his crawl, stumbling sideways on his feet. The only thing that kept him upright was Janet’s vice grip on his arm.

When the spotlights faded, he felt like he was floating for a moment, and falling again right after that. He was vaguely aware that he’d hit the ground hard, and was blinking up dazedly at the ceiling and the faces hovering above him. Relief washed over him when he recognised the familiar black and grey paint of the side-stage. At least he hadn’t collapsed in front of the screen.

His head swam in a fog, voices around him muffled and warped on the thick and watery air. He felt weightless, and far too heavy all at once.

“We have to,” he heard a woman’s voice, hard-edged and worried and spilling out words like fever and dangerous and hospital.

“NO!” he bellowed as loud as he could, trying to lift his arms.

“Wait- Wait! Stop,” that was Frank’s voice, “he said something.”

“Brads? What is it?” That sounded a lot like Madge.

“No hospitals!” Blaine cried, but he couldn’t hear his own sound, drowned under the heat in his head.

“I can’t” … “what he’s saying” was all he caught after that, and he whined pitifully from the floor.

He suddenly wondered if he was, in fact, on the floor, and how he got there. He felt like he was shouting, but he couldn’t hear his own voice.

“Brad, sweetie.” It was Janet this time, he was sure.

“Hnnh.” He wasn't sure if that sound came from him.

“What did you say about hospitals?”

“No!” He tried to shout again, but this time all he heard was the cracked echo of his own voice, tinny like a call from far away and barely resembling the right words. “No hospitals.”

Was that the ocean he could hear? Why was there water in the theatre?

“—to take him home,” Frank’s voice cut through the roar, book-ended by the sharp percussion of boot heels and zippers, and canvas dragging across a plastic tabletop.

“But you don’t” … “he lives” … “do you?” Was that Rocky?

“… address is in his wallet,” (Frank’s voice again, strained and deeper than before) “It’s alright, he says he doesn’t” … “a hospital, so he’s not going to one.”

“Frankie.” Janet sounded scared.

Suddenly, Blaine felt like he was flying. The anvil of weight flattening his chest was lifting, and there was something cool against the side of his face. His arms ached as his feet found something solid to stand on.

Frank’s voice was soft, and much closer than he expected it to be when he said; “Trust me.”

I do, Blaine replied, but his mouth didn’t move.

What followed felt a lot like being pulled with a riptide, the cacophony of sound and silence blending together around the sickening rush of motion. He kept realising a moment too late that there were new voices, new noises – taxi sounds and car horns honking in his ears and in the distance, doors slamming and swinging open, the clatter of shoes being cast aside on tile.

The world focused and unfocused again in rapid succession. By the time he was aware that he was nauseous he was already throwing up over a porcelain bowl, clutching the sides desperately, his body shaking from the force.

The warm hands on his back anchored him to the world as everything twisted in circles around his head. Both hands stroked soothingly in circles, sliding over his shoulders, running through his hair and calming the tremors to a standstill each time.

Cool liquid rushed over his lips, and again, and he choked down as much as he could manage, eyes blurred and watery under the too-bright light of his bathroom.

His bathroom? Blaine blinked drowsily. When did I get home?

When he came back to himself this time he was in his bed, feeling damp all over and panting. A pathetic, tortured whine escaped him, and in an instant the two hands were on him again, soft fingers brushing over his cheeks and sweeping back his wet curls.

It took him a moment to recall that he lived alone.

His eyes widened, fighting the strain and sting of the glare to look up at the figure hovering above. All he could make out was a firm body covered in a grey henley shirt, sleeves pushed up both arms and outlined by golden light from behind. The world unfocused again, colours bleeding together as his eyes watered anew, and he tried to look up higher. His breath drew in sharply.

Kurt.

“You’re here,” he mumbled.

Kurt smiled softly at him, cool fingers ghosting over his face.

Blaine swallowed, flinching at the needle-sharp tear in his throat. He grunted, trying to open his eyes again. Kurt. You’re here.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered over dry lips, feeling like his whole body was smiling despite the dizziness.

Kurt’s face softened, his mouth falling open slightly at Blaine’s words.

“I don’t,” Blaine tried again, but the tickle against his throat sent a round of violent coughs up from his chest, racking his entire frame. Something stayed heavy on his arms, keeping him steady and stopping him from curling in on himself completely. When he settled back again, there was a wash of cool moisture over his forehead.

“I can’t b… believe you’re here,” Blaine croaked, his vision swimming as he tried to make out the outline of Kurt’s face. “I didn’t,” he breathed, his brain cluttered and fogged, “I didn’t think you knew … who I was. You don’t… you don’t even … know my name.”

The hands on his face stopped still for a long moment, lingering and trembling slightly before they disappeared completely.

There was a sound like trickling water near his head, and he blinked blearily, trying to focus his eyes on Kurt’s face – but it was gone.

Of course it's gone. You're dreaming. You have a fever.

His body clenched suddenly at a flare of pain in his chest, burning inside his ribcage. A broken and agonised sound made its way out of him, and he tried to draw himself in tight against the gurgling lukewarm weight building in his lungs.

Something pressed against him from behind, the bed dipping down either side of him in turn, and he rocked helplessly with the movement. Soon he was being drawn back, and a strange sensation washed over him. There was something solid either side of his legs, and all the way up his back, cradling him gently and engulfing him in warmth.

It wasn’t the sickly, sweat-damp, uncomfortable heat of heavy blankets this time; it was different. It was soothing, and still moving, real and soft all around him, wrapping him up tight. He relaxed bonelessly back against it, letting his head roll limply and breathing deep the beautiful smell of fresh, wet shampoo.

“I’m dreaming,” Blaine thought, but he could hear himself speaking.

Hands stroked lightly up and down his arms, across his chest, lulling him slowly into sleep. He heard a shaky voice, shushing him softly.

You’re dreaming, his brain told him again. He’s not here. He has a boyfriend. He doesn’t even know you exist.

“Even if,” he tried to say, but pain rose up inside him again. He clenched his teeth and whimpered against it, and the hands on him rubbed in slow circles down his chest and stomach, desperate to ease his pain.

“Even if you’re not real,” he tried again, “I’m so… glad you’re here.”

He heard a strange sound, like a hiss or a sniffing noise coming from far away, but it was forgotten in an instant as absolute exhaustion began to seep in. He felt perfectly weightless, curled and warm against the dream beneath him.

“I love you,” Blaine said.

Soft lips pressed to his temple, soothing and gentle. Something warm and wet tickled his cheek, and it lifted him out of his near-sleep for a moment. It felt like drops of water, racing down his skin.

He opened his mouth to ask if it was raining, but the thought faded out with the light as unconsciousness dragged him down into the dark.