Remind Me to Forget

Chapter 26

Kurt had managed to keep himself calm throughout the ride in Jim's car. Through the hospital lobby. Until he stepped off the elevator.

(Seven hours and three minutes.)

His dad catches him when his knees give out: when the idea of Blaine being in the hospital merges with reality, when the scent of disinfectant and medical supplies joins the announcements for doctors over the PA system and it hits him that Blaine is in the hospital.

His hands clutch at his dad's shirt, bunching the fabric in the back, and he pulls in quick, harsh breaths in-between gasping sobs. Distantly, he hears murmurs, knows his father and Carole are talking, but the words are jumbled, nonsense sounds that hold no meaning.

Absently, he notes that he's moving – held upright by tight grips on his shoulders that compensate for his unsteady legs. But he doesn't raise his head, keeps his face buried in his dad's shoulder as tears streak his face and clog his nose.

He pulls in a breath, recognizes the detergent Carole prefers and the cheap body-wash his dad uses, feels a flicker of comfort before the sob rips from his throat.

He gives up attempting to stop, then.

Eventually, as his breathing evens, the sounds merge into recognizable words, and he relaxes his hands, pulls back a breadth from his dad's chest.

“– just let it out. We can talk when you're ready, okay? There's no rush. You've been so brave gettin' here, so just do what you need.”

He needs Blaine.

His breath hitches but Kurt steadies himself – he can't see Blaine if he can't control himself – carefully pulls his arms away and leans back from his father, avoiding eye contact and wiping his face with his hands until Carole hands him a tissue.

“Thanks.”

“It's not much,” Carole adds with a slight shrug, “but there's a restroom right around the corner.”

Kurt nods, wincing as he imagines the state of his face even as a headache begins to throb behind his eyes. He's still a bit unsteady as he stands, but he waves off his dad's assistance; he needs a minute.

In the unforgiving bathroom light he looks even worse than he'd feared: under the tear tracks and red blotches his face is pale, bleached in the light. His red-rimmed eyes still glisten and he blinks before turning on the faucet, cupping cool water in his hands before rinsing his face.

He doesn't even attempt to fix his hair, just runs a damp hand through it until it stays out of his eyes.

(Seven hours and forty-one minutes.)

He squares his shoulders and exits the restroom, crosses the waiting room with steady steps.

“Sorry about your shirt,” Kurt comments, nodding to his dad as he sits down. “I –”

“Kurt.” Kurt looks away from his dad's shirt, from the damp tear-stains and wrinkles.

“How,” Kurt swallows, forces himself to meet his dad's gaze. “How is he?”

A sigh. “He's in recovery.” He holds up a black circular pager, “They'll let us know when we can go back to see him – they said it could be a while, though. They…they had to take out his spleen; there was just too much damage.”

Kurt brings a hand up to his mouth, bites his lip to keep in the shout. “What does that mean?”

“Once he recovers he'll be more susceptible to infections,” Kurt relaxes a fraction, feels a sliver of hope from his father's mention of the future even as fear coils, restless in his mind. “He'll always need his flu shot.”

“Of course,” Kurt looks down, tries to remember if NYADA's health clinic offers vaccines at a reduced rate. He shakes his head, looks up to see his dad staring at him. “There's something else, isn't there. Oh God – what else –”

“Take a breath, Kurt.” Carole's voice cuts through his panic, and he forces himself to do as she says, breathing in and out before looking at them both.

“What haven't you told me.”

“It happened a while ago,” Burt rubs pauses, rubs his hands over his eyes, “Blaine crashed earlier. In the ambulance on the way here they –”

His dad is talking. Kurt knows this, but his world has tilted, even the waiting room taking on a blurred quality. Years of episodes of Grey's Anatomy and House, M.D. suddenly seem a curse, because he knows what “crashed” means.

He wishes he didn't.

“– Kurt, you still listenin'?”

“I'm – yeah. Yes. But, he's okay now, right? Dad? Blaine's okay?” Kurt hates the vulnerability in his tone, the raw scratchiness of his words, but he needs his dad to answer him. He needs his dad to tell him Blaine's alright.

Because his dad won't lie, and he needs to know.

He needs Blaine.

“He's stable,” Carole answers, her voice carrying from next to Burt. “They wrapped his ribs, too, got his arm back in socket while he was out. He's stable, Kurt, but he's not okay – not yet.”

Kurt appreciates the response, is glad for Carole's calm tone and precise words, but a small part of him, the part that remembers years of being a family of two, wishes his dad had been the one to answer.

“I need to see him.”

Carole's voice is gentle, placating, “We have to wait til he's out of Recovery, Kurt.”

For a second, Kurt hates his stepmother.

“And when will that be?” Kurt knows his words are cold, cutting, but he needs them to understand: he has to see Blaine. “You said it could be a while? How long is that?  An hour? Two? I need to see him!” He turns, takes his dad's hand, “Dad, I need to see him. Please. I need to.”

“It's not up to me, you know that. I'd take you to him if I could, Kurt – I would. But we have to wait. For now,” Burt leans over and Kurt accepts the hug, “we just have to wait, Kurt.”

“I've never been good at waiting,” Kurt mumbles, huffing before he leans back in his chair. He looks over, eyes the silent pager. “I've got a headache,” he stands, “I'm going to go see if they've got something I can take.”

“You're not a patient –”

“I have a headache and this is a hospital,” Kurt snaps, but then he pauses, turns back to face his parents, “even if they won't give me something they should have a suggestion for where I can go.”

Kurt steps away before another word is uttered, makes it to the nurse's desk in a few quick strides.

(Eight hours and two minutes.)

The nurse looks up, curly red hair bouncing as she does, “Can I help you?”

Kurt loses his words. He stands at the desk, staring at the nurse who can't be much older than him with his hands clenched on the edge of the counter, and can't get his mouth to move.

“Sir?”

Kurt blinks, forces a swallow. “I – I'm Blaine Anderson's fiancé.”  He watches that information settle, sees her glance to his left hand. “I know…my dad told me the pager would go off if there was any new information, but is there any update? Anything?” Kurt sighs, drops his gaze. “I just got here from New York.”

A few taps on the keyboard, and then she looks up again, offering an apologetic smile. “You're Kurt Hummel?” At his nod she continues, “He's still in Recovery. The –”

“Do you know how long he'll be there?” Kurt interrupts the nurse – Becca, according to her ID – and leans forward, hoping for more information.

“I don't, I'm sorry.” Kurt sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to breathe evenly. “But,” he jerks his head up at the word, meeting Becca's warm gaze, “I could call back for you. I can't promise I'll get any new information –”

“Thank-you.” Kurt moves to rest his arms on the counter, feels his body slump when she nods to his ‘I can wait here?' follow-up.

He spins his ring as she reaches for the phone, counts the turns as he waits.

He listens in, doesn't even bother pretending he's doing anything else, but only hearing one-side of the conversation limits his understanding.

His ring spins faster with every reply.

He makes it to forty-three rotations before Becca hangs up the phone.

“I don't have much for you, sorry.” She offers a smile and Kurt forces himself to nod; it had been a fool's hope anyway. “However,” Kurt feels his eyes widen and he leans forward over the desk, “They're just waiting for a bed, and then they'll move him up to a room.”

“He's okay?” The words rush out in a breath, and Kurt's grateful for his arms resting on the counter; he'd have fallen otherwise.

“He's stable,” Becca replies, “I can't really tell you more than that; sorry.”

“No, no,” Kurt takes a breath, “you already – thank you. Really.”

“Someone should be out to take you up to see him soon.” She smiles, continuing when Kurt stays by the counter. “Did you need something else?”

“Could you –” Kurt shakes his head before pausing, taking a breath. “I know I'm just a visitor, but do you have anything for a headache?”

“I'm afraid I don't have anything here,” she frowns, “I'd ask again once you're upstairs; they're more likely to be able to help.”

Kurt nods, gives a small wave before stepping back from the counter and moving back across the room.

(Eight hours and seventeen minutes.)

“So what did you find out?”

Kurt startles at his father's question, his head jerking up as he comes to a stop in front of his dad and Carole. “What?”

“I fully believe you have a headache, Kurt, but no way did you go up there and not ask about Blaine.”

“I –” Kurt pauses, ignoring the flush he knows has taken over his face. “They're moving him; we should get to see him soon.”

As if on cue, the pager in Carole's lap begins to flash, its buzzing muted by her clothes.

Kurt's turning, heading back for the desk at a brisk pace, only absently noting the echoes of his parents' steps behind him.

“Blaine Anderson!” The name is rushed but Kurt can't bring himself to care, leaning over the counter and into Becca's personal space, anxious. “The pager – I – we can go see Blaine now, right?”

“You –”

“Please,” Kurt ducks his head, hates that his voice cracks on the word, “I just – you said they were moving him and then I could see him. So –”

“How about you let her get a word in, Kurt.”

His dad's words cut through Kurt's panic and he takes a breath, slowly raising his head. “Sorry.”

“I think we're all just a little anxious,” Carole adds, placing the pager on the counter. “I believe you have some information about Blaine Anderson?”

“That I do,” Becca smiles and nods. “He's been moved to the in-patient unit, room 309. Leah,” she nods to a nurse standing to the left, “is going to take you there – she was with Blaine in Recovery, too, so she should be able to answer more of your questions.”

Kurt nods, stepping back and narrowly avoiding running into his father in his haste. He sidesteps, manages a shadow of a smile for the new nurse even as he forces himself to focus, to take in every piece of information Leah says.

(Eight hours and twenty-three minutes.)

Leah steps around the counter, and Kurt follows her, feels a fraction of comfort when his father's hand settles on his shoulder. “Blaine's still unconscious,” she comments, “between the meds and concussion I wouldn't expect him to be fully aware or even wake up anytime soon. But,” she pauses, pressing the button for the elevator, “he'll know you're here.”

“How long do you expect him to be out?”

“Honestly it depends,” she answers Carole's question as they step into the elevator, “it could be a couple hours or several – Dr. Olt will have more for you once we're upstairs.”

They're upstairs seconds later, the elevator announcing their arrival to the third floor.

The lights are dimmed – in deference to the early hour, Kurt guesses – but the low light still bounces off the tiled floors, and the smell of the hospital seems stronger than it did in the surgical waiting room.

Kurt fights the urge to be sick.

“There's several nurses stations on this floor,” Leah comments as they pass one, “the one closest to Blaine's room is up ahead.”

The hand on Kurt's shoulder tightens for a moment.

“There anythin' else we need t'know before we see him?”

“Your phones need to be off,” Leah answers Burt's question, “though they wouldn't work in the room anyway. As for Blaine, as I said, Dr. Olt can tell you more. Although,” she hastens to continue, “Dr. Olt spoke with you after Blaine's surgery?”

“Yeah,” Kurt bites his lip at his parents' simultaneous replies, remembering the list of injuries he'd heard earlier: bruised and fractured ribs, shoulder out of socket, bruised kidneys, collapsed lung, splenectomy.

“Well his condition hasn't changed,” she comments, “he's currently serious, but stable. But,” she stops, and Kurt takes in the grey door, the numbers 309 next to it, “these types of injuries – he's pretty bruised, and it can be disconcerting.”

Outside the door, Kurt freezes. He's seconds away from seeing Blaine, and he can't bring himself to move.

For a moment.

He needs Blaine.

He crosses the threshold, taking in the beeping monitors, the dimmed lights, the doctor standing by the bed –

Blaine.

Kurt's hand raises and he covers his mouth, trapping the gasp-scream-shout that wants to escape. And then he's moving, his father's hand falling from his shoulder as he crosses to Blaine's side, reaching out to grasp his hand only to stop, his hand hovering inches above the bed.

Because the figure on the bed isn't Blaine.

Not the Blaine he knows, anyway. The body is too still, the only movement the slight rise and fall of his chest.

“It's okay – you can touch him, I mean. It won't hurt anything. I'm Dr. Olt – I worked on Blaine in the O.R.” Kurt looks away from Blaine at the comment, sees the doctor offering him a smile.

“Oh,” Kurt nods. “I'm Kurt Hummel – Blaine's fiancé.” He waits a moment gauging her reaction to the title before continuing once he's sure there's no judgement. “I – thank you. Is he –”  

“He's stable,” she interrupts, “Although he's likely to be unconscious for a while longer.”

“He's never this still,” Kurt comments, his voice quiet.

“You said hes doin alright?” Kurt notes his father moving after he asks the question, standing beside him even as Carole moves to stand on the other side of the bed, shaking Dr. Olt's hand as she goes.

“For now,” Kurt raises his head at the comment, meets Dr. Olt's gaze. “We'll keep a close watch on him – make sure there's no additional bleeding or complications. We have to keep an eye on his kidney function, too, given the bruising.”

“I thought you said he was stable?” Kurt feels his heart pounding, knows his voice has taken on a shrill edge, and he forces himself to breathe, turns to look back at Blaine.

“He is stable,” Dr. Olt confirms, her voice carrying over the beeps in the room, “we just need to keep a close watch on him. But,” she pauses, and Kurt turns back to face her, “he's a fighter, and I put a lot of work into him in that O.R., so I have every hope that he'll make a full recovery. He just might need a little more help along the way.”

Kurt nods before reaching back and pulling one of the room's chairs a foot closer to the bed and sinking into it, leaning forward and resting his elbows on Blaine's bed.

He hears his parents talking with Dr. Olt, knows he should be listening, taking notes to look up information later, but he can't drag his eyes away from Blaine.

Kurt leans forward, pushing some of Blaine's hair off his forehead before moving down; past the scrapes and bruises on Blaine's cheeks, Blaine's right arm resting in a sling; the left, with an I.V. taped to the back of his hand –

And no ring.

“Dad. His ring – Dad they took Blaine's ring! He wouldn't have taken it off. He wouldn't –”

“Kurt,” His dad's hand is back on his shoulder, interrupting his tirade. “I got his ring. They brought it out to me while he was in surgery. Here,” Kurt can only watch as his dad pulls the silver ring out of from his shirt pocket, dropping it into Kurt's lax palm, “I meant to give it to you earlier, but –” his dad shrugs, “didn't seem like the right time, then.”

“Oh,” Kurt looks at the ring resting in his palm before he makes a fist, trapping the ring inside.

“You'll need to hold on to that for a while,” Kurt startles at Dr. Olt's voice, turning to face her.

“What?”

“It's just a precaution,” she continues, “but Blaine will have to go for some testing over the next few days. And if something were to happen, I'd hate to have to cut that off in an emergency.”

“Oh,” Kurt repeats, clenching his fist a bit tighter. “I'll – I'll keep it, then.”

“Just for a while,” Dr. Olt's comments, “But, if there's no more questions I should go check on some of my other patients. Some of my fellows will be by throughout the day, and I'll be on call if I'm needed. Technically visiting hours don't start until nine –” she holds up a hand and Kurt keeps his protest silent, “but given how long you've been waiting I managed to get them waived for you. Still,” she nods toward a recliner by the window, “Blaine will be out for a while; try and get some sleep, if you can.”

“Of course,” Carole agrees, although Kurt doubts anyone in his family will be sleeping in the near future.

The door clicks shut moments later and Kurt lets his shoulders drop, now alone with his family.

(Eight hours and forty-two minutes.)

Slowly, Kurt reaches out with his right hand, clasping Blaine's in a gentle hold even as his left tightens around Blaine's ring.

“He's gonna get through this, Kurt,” Kurt nods at his father's comment, but doesn't look away from Blaine, “you heard Dr. Olt's – Blaine's a fighter.”

Kurt hums in agreement even as he focuses on the rise and fall of Blaine's chest. “He is. I just – I wish he was awake. I have to talk to him, Dad, I need to.”

“You can still talk to him, Kurt.”

“But he can't talk back.” Kurt blinks, takes a steadying breath to fight the lump in his throat. “He's too still, Dad. This isn't – who could do this? Who could hurt him like this?”

“I don't know, Kurt. But the police are lookin' into it.”

“And he has us,” Carole adds, offering a smile from across Blaine's bed. “He'll have all the support he needs.”

Kurt nods – he's not leaving the hospital until Blaine is free to leave with him.

He sighs, adjusts his grip on Blaine's lax hand and tries to look past the bruising, past the bandages and tubes and bags of liquid hanging off the bed and on poles to see the Blaine he knows.

But there's too much – too many tubes and monitors and bruises – everywhere he looks is a reminder that Blaine was beaten.

Blaine may be a fighter, may be the strongest person Kurt knows, but at the moment he's broken, and until he wakes up, that's all Kurt can see.

“I know you need to rest,” Kurt whispers, dropping his head near Blaine's ear, “but I'm here now, okay? I'm here and I love you and I'm not leaving until you get to come with me. So just keep fighting, Blaine. I'll be here.”

He leans back in his chair then, blinking to keep the tears at bay even as he counts Blaine's breaths, takes comfort in the steady beeps from the monitors.

His dad moves some time later, pulling a chair to join Carole on the other side of the bed and Kurt leans forward again, rests his head beside his and Blaine's hands.

A tap to his shoulder jolts him and he blinks, wondering when he managed to fall asleep. “Sorry,” He turns, sees a nurse standing to his left, “I didn't want to wake you, but it's time for Blaine's vital check – and medication – before I take him to Radiology.”

“What?” Kurt blinks, rubs a hand across his eyes to brush away the remnants of sleep, “No,” he continues, shaking his head, “Dr. Olt said we could stay – I have to stay with him.”

“It won't be for long,” the nurse – Kara according to her nametag – replies, “you and your parents can get some coffee and we'll have your brother –”

“Fiancé,” Kurt snaps, tightening his grip on Blaine's hand, “He's my fiancé.”

“Oh,” the nurse – Kara, falters then, and if she weren't about to take Blaine away Kurt might even feel a shred of sympathy for her. “I'm sorry; it's just only family is allowed –”

“We're his family,” and Kurt has never been so proud to call Burt Hummel his father as he is in that moment. “I have his medical power of attorney.”

The beeping of the monitors break the silence after the comment, but Kurt keeps his eyes on the nurse, “I'm sorry for the confusion.” The polite words are at odds with the judgement in her gaze, and Kurt glares.

“You mentioned something about Radiology?” Carole's voice carries across the small space, but Kurt doesn't turn to face her, keeps his eyes on the nurse.

“Yes, Mr. Anderson is scheduled for an ultrasound to check his kidneys; we need to –”

“Blaine hasn't even woken up yet,” Kurt interrupts, keeping his voice quiet after stressing the first word, “Can't it wait?”

“I'm afraid not,” the nurse replies, and Kurt tightens his grip on Blaine's hand. “You can wait here or in the waiting room until he's back.”

“No,” Kurt straightens in his seat, keeps his hand entwined with Blaine's. “I need to go with him.”

“I'm sorry,” Kara replies, though her tone says she isn't, “but you'll have to wait. It shouldn't take long; half an hour, an hour at most.”

“No!” The word is punched out of him and Kurt forces himself to not crush Blaine's hand, to breathe evenly. “You can't –”

“Kurt.”

His father's voice interrupts his frantic pleas and Kurt turns to face him. “Dad I can't leave him. He doesn't even know I'm here.”

“He knows, Kurt. And I know you wanna stay with him, but you also want what's best for him. And right now, Kara needs to take him for that ultrasound.”

Kurt ducks his head, hating that his father is right. He does want what's best for Blaine, but he also needs Blaine. Needs to be able to see him and watch the rise and fall of his chest and hold his hand.

But he has to put Blaine first.

He releases a drawn out breath before straightening his shoulders, standing to lean over Blaine.

“Hey,” he whispers, “They're going to take you for some tests, but I'm here, okay? And I promise I'll be right here when you get back.” Kurt swallows, takes a breath before continuing, “I love you,” he brushes a kiss against Blaine's cracked lips, “I'll see you soon, okay?”

He pulls back, tightening his fist around Blaine's ring even as he slowly loosens his grip on Blaine's hand. He stays as close as possible while Kara moves around the bed, releasing the brakes on the bed's wheels and moving some of the lines running from Blaine to the monitors.

Kurt doesn't fully release his hold on Blaine until the bed is moving, and Blaine is pulled from his reach, out of sight seconds later as Kara pushes the bed around a corner.

(Nine hours and forty-eight minutes.)

The silence is jarring.

“Kurt –”

“We should go to the waiting room,” Kurt comments, interrupting his father, “they probably have coffee.”

He doesn't wait for a reply, exiting the room and heading down the hallway to the waiting room with hurried steps. He sees a small alcove with a carafe of coffee and some Styrofoam cups. Kurt carefully fills three of them, doctoring his and Carole's before picking up all three, carrying them back to where he sees his dad and Carole waiting.

They stop talking as he approaches, thanking him as they take their cups before lapsing into silence.

Kurt takes a seat, staring at the steam rising from his cup while he focuses on the feel of Blaine's ring still resting in the palm of his left hand.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes.

Kurt startles and his coffee sloshes in his cup, narrowly missing sliding over the edge and spilling onto his hand.

After setting his coffee on the table next to him Kurt pulls out his phone. Text messages from Santana and Dani and Rachel…and Tina.

He stares at the message for a moment, uncomprehending.

Because his world has narrowed to room 309 and beeping monitors and the still form of Blaine.

He stares a moment longer before standing and practically dropping the phone in his dad's lap.

He knows he's not the only person who loves Blaine, but he can't reply. His eyes burn and he swallows the lump in his throat before offering a quick apology and darting from the room.

-*-*-*-

Burt barely manages to catch the phone Kurt throws at him, fumbling one-handed even as Kurt vanishes around a corner. He almost follows, gets as far as setting aside the coffee before Carole rests a hand on his arm.

“Why don't we give him a minute.”

“He shouldn't –”

“Burt,” Carole's grip tightens, “Just give him a minute. Why don't you see what had him throwing his phone?”

“Hm,” Burt finally tears his gaze from where he last saw Kurt, looks down at the cell sitting in his lap.

He curses when he sees the newest message; Tina asking if Kurt's heard from Blaine since he was supposed to meet her for coffee before rehearsal.

“What is it?” Burt passes Carole the phone without a word, takes a moment to rub a hand over his eyes.

“I'm gonna have to call Schuester, tell him what happened.” He doesn't want to make the call, doesn't want to have to repeat the list of injuries.

“Emma.”

“What?” Burt shifts in the chair, wonders why all hospitals have uncomfortable furniture.

“Call Emma,” Carole repeats, “She can tell Schuester; she can notify the school, too.” Burt squeezes her hand when her voice cracks, “He's going to be out for a while and Emma – Emma can help tell the other kids.”

Burt closes his eyes; he doesn't envy Emma that task.

A touch to his arm and he turns, sees Carole pulling out her phone, dialing before he even manages to pull his out from his pocket. Carole's making the call and he –

He has nothing to do.

He clasps his hands, leans forward as he listens to Carole apologize for calling so early, explain that Blaine won't be singing at the festival. He rubs at his eyes, raises his head to stare at the doorway where Kurt disappeared.

For the first time since he got the phone call – the horrible, jarring life-changing call – he doesn't know what to do. There's no nurse to pester, no forms to sign.

No family member needing his support.

Beside him, Carole's voice catches, but she shakes her head at him when he stretches out his arm.  He clasps his hands again, rests them on his knees to prevent himself from standing, from searching the labyrinth of a hospital to check on Kurt.

Carole was right: Kurt needs a moment.

And as much as his paternal instincts are screaming for him to find Kurt, to comfort him and protect him from the world, this is something he can't protect him from.

Burt sighs, offers up his thoughts to a God he's not sure he believes in; what kind of God allows this to happen to Blaine, twice? What kind of God gave Blaine parents that didn't cherish their child?

He relaxes his hands, breathes out.

Carole ends the call, “Emma's going to call the kids' parents.” She lets out a breath, turns to lean against Burt's shoulder. “She's coming with Schuester, though. They should be here soon.”

Burt nods, processing the information. He knows others care for Blaine; Blaine's a great kid – smart and kind and popular – and part of Burt's family. Despite having all the respect in the world for Will (for Will and Emma) at this moment he doesn't want to see them.

Because Burt just wants to gather his family and barricade them from the rest of the world.

And the Schuesters aren't family.

Blaine – Blaine isn't officially family yet, but that's a technicality.

He was the name Kurt couldn't say without a smile; the boy who took Kurt to see a musical that left his son humming for weeks; the overly polite, nervous boy who showed up to help Kurt plan a wedding and then turned down the ensuing invite until Burt forced him to promise his attendance, assuring him that he was welcome.

He was the boy who got Kurt to attend a football game with a smile.

Burt glances to the doorway again – still no sign of Kurt – and reminds himself that Blaine is stable, that Blaine would never leave Kurt.

He pushes away the thought that Blaine may not have a choice.

Blaine is stable.

Burt rubs his hands over his face again, sighing when that only causes starbursts in front of his eyes.

“I'm gonna grab some more coffee,” he comments as he stands, “you need a new cup?”

“Please,” Carole nods, “with some extra cream to help me forget that it's poorly made.”

“At least it's caffeinated,” he manages a weak smile before he steps away, heading for the alcove Kurt had raided earlier.

He stops once he's there, though, just stares at the carafe and the white cups and red stirrers. He's struck suddenly by the mundane action, wonders at how even something as common as pouring coffee seems foreign when done in a hospital.

For one single, too-quick moment he has the desire to simply wipe everything from the table; to yell and rage against the fact that his son is probably crying in a sterile hospital bathroom because someone had attacked the boy his son chose to love.

He shakes his head slightly, forces himself to copy the yoga breathing techniques he teases Carole about before reaching for the cups. He carefully fills them, watches the steam rise and curl before disappearing. He pulls a handful of creamers from the basket, pockets them before gathering the cups with a sigh and walking back to Carole.

“I think it's been sitting a while,” he comments as he hands her the cup, “but it's definitely hot. Here,” he passes the creamers, “I wasn't sure how many you'd need.”

“Well,” she replies, eying the creamers in her hand, “I'm sure this is more than enough.”

Burt nods and stares into his coffee cup.

He's still staring minutes later when Kurt reappears, dry-eyed but pale, with a few droplets of water clinging along his hairline.

-*-*-*-

Kurt glances back toward Blaine's room before stopping in front of his father, “Blaine isn't –” Kurt pauses, blows out a breath, “He's not back yet?”

“It's only been twenty minutes,” Carole speaks up from his left, “but no, Kurt, they haven't called for us.”

Kurt nods even as he slides into the seat beside his dad, reaching to grab his abandoned coffee cup from earlier. He tightens his hand around Blaine's ring, stares into his now-cold coffee.

He makes himself stay quiet, focuses on the metal in his palm and remembers Blaine's face when he had offered him the ring; remembers Blaine's smile, and how he'd jumped in surprise when Kurt had entered the room.

Kurt tightens his hand, feels the edge of Blaine's ring cut into his skin.

(Ten hours and thirty-one minutes.)

Kurt takes a moment to count his breaths, forces his fingers to relax. There's an indention in his palm; a perfect circle to mirror the silver band sitting just to its left.

He's still staring at the ring when his father shifts next to him, and looking up he sees Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury approaching, looking anxious.

Kurt can't bring himself to care.

He looks back to Blaine's ring again, watches as it catches the dim light of the waiting room. Carole is explaining Blaine's trip to Radiology and Kurt resists the urge to give in to his need to see Blaine and head for the department himself.

He needs to see Blaine – to hold his hand and count his breath and be with him.

He hailed taxis and caught a midnight flight and now he's the closest to Blaine he's been in weeks and he's being stopped by a set of doors and a less than accepting nurse.

Kurt clenches Blaine's ring and sets his coffee aside as straightens in his seat, rocking with the effort of staying in the chair.

The voices raise then, scattering his thoughts.

“– else has been going on? Emma? What do you mean?” Mr. Schue's question and seems abnormally loud in the waiting room.

“He's been going to therapy, Will, and meeting with me to discuss some things. He's getting better,” Ms. Pillsbury pauses, “it was helping.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” His former teacher's voice is shocked, but Kurt hears the undercurrent of stress – a hint of anger. “One of my students is going through something and you just decided not to tell me?”

Kurt can't help it; he laughs.

“Kurt?”

“You could have helped?” Kurt looks to Mr. Schue, ignoring his father's question as  his fist tightens around Blaine's ring, “Blaine had – has – worse than that every day and he's worried he's going crazy because of something outside his control. He's so scared that he's going to let someone down that he didn't even open up to me about what happened at that dance until he had a flashback. He's tired and scared and then on top that he thinks he let everyone in Glee down because of some stupid misstep, because you gave Nationals to Sam. He worked so hard and then you just decided that it wasn't enough? What would you have done, had he told you?” Kurt raises his head, switches his focus from his clenched hand to his former teacher. “You knew ­– you saw me getting shoved into lockers and put in dumpsters and your only comment was to question why the repeated bullying was actually getting to me. Wanted to know why that stuff wasn't just rolling off me like usual. So tell me, exactly, how would you have helped him, Mr. Schue?”

Mr. Schue doesn't reply.

Kurt stares a moment longer, feels his anger settle even as he gives up on staying seated.

He stands in a rush. “I'm going to wait in Blaine's room.”

He leaves before anyone has a chance to reply, hurrying across the room and down the hall. He ignores the nurses as he goes, bypassing their station and not even knocking before opening the door to 309 and slipping inside.

The room is empty; the space where the bed should be a physical reminder that Kurt sill is separated from Blaine.

Kurt hates everything about the room.

He pushes the door closed, moves to the chair he had claimed earlier. It's still uncomfortable, with too little padding and a truly hideous green covering, but its wide seat allows him to bend his legs and rest his forehead against his knees. He takes a minute to just breathe, counting his breaths even as he wrinkles his nose against the smell of disinfectant and hospital.

(Ten hours and fifty-one minutes.)

Blaine's ring is digging into his palm again, and he can hear the footsteps of nurses and voices of strangers, muffled as they are through the walls and shut door.

Every piece of information is a reminder of how wrong the situation is: Blaine is in the hospital and Kurt isn't with him.

Just like he wasn't there when Blaine had a flashback in the garage.

Or when Blaine got hit by his own father.

Or when Blaine misstepped during a performance.

Or when Blaine had a panic attack after Nationals.

Or when Blaine got beaten in a parking lot.

Kurt's breath catches, and he wraps his arms tighter around his calves, keeps his head against his knees to prevent himself from looking at the empty space in the room.

(Eleven hours and thirteen minutes.)

Kurt startles when the door opens, almost falling out of the chair in his haste to stand. Blaine's still asleep (just asleep, Kurt reminds himself, and not unconscious), head resting on a pillow. The various bags attached to bed sway as it moves, and Kurt swallows a scream at the tangible reminders of Blaine's injuries.  Kara nods but stays silent, ignoring Kurt as she moves around the now stationary bed, reattaching wires and turning on monitors.

Kurt keeps his gaze on Blaine.

“Here,” Kurt reluctantly looks away from Blaine, sees Kara holding out the control that looks far too much like an oversized television remote, “This controls everything in the room; the bed, lights, tv.” Kurt resists the urge to roll his eyes as she points to each button – he's far too familiar with the workings of a hospital room. “This calls the nurse's station,” a pause, “in case you need anything.”

The only reason Kurt will be pressing that button is for Blaine.

He manages a nod anyway.

He doesn't move until Kara exits the room, the door closing with a quiet click. He carefully steps closer to the bed, watches the rise and fall of Blaine's chest as he pulls the chair with him. He sits moments later, carefully stretching his left arm and clasping Blaine's hand, trapping Blaine's ring between them, where it belongs.

“Hey,” he keeps his voice soft, barely above a whisper. “Told you I'd be here when you got back.” Kurt leans forward, brushes back some of Blaine's curls with his right hand. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Kurt rests his head on the bed, inches away from their joined hands. He can't risk getting on the bed – not yet, anyway – but he needs to be closer; needs to count Blaine's breaths.

(Eleven hours and twenty-eight minutes.)

Blaine still hasn't woken up.

He squeezes Blaine's hand. He still hates the room, hates everything from the dated tile floor to the 90s inspired curtain - currently pushed against the wall - to the grey and blue walls. And yet he draws comfort from each beep of the monitor, knows that without this room Blaine would be much, much worse.

It's an odd dichotomy.

Kurt raises his head, lets out a breath before wiping a hand across his eyes. “It's been over an hour; I know Dr. Olt said you could be asleep for a while, but I really wish you'd wake up.” Kurt pauses, stares at Blaine still form, “I need you to wake up for me, okay?

“I know you're in there. You've been through so much – more than anyone should – but you're so strong, Blaine. You're still the strongest person I know. But you have to wake up, okay? You have to wake up and make fun of me for not sleeping and wearing your cardigan. You have to wake up so I can tell you how proud I am of you and then have you promise to never make me go through this again.” Kurt leans forward again, resting his head beside his and Blaine's hands. “Wake up Blaine, please. We're getting married, but you have to wake up.”

Blaine – lovable, kind, anxious to please and sends-flowers-just-because – doesn't respond.

Kurt closes his eyes and ignores the tears dampening the sheet.

(Eleven hours and forty-one minutes.)

A burst of voices from outside the door startles Kurt from the lull he's fallen into, and he straightens in his seat, raising his head and rubbing his face with his right hand. Blinking, Kurt focuses on Blaine, watches the rise and fall of his chest for a moment before raising his gaze to Blaine's face, tries to look past the nasal cannula and bruises and split lip.

He leans forward again, brushes a kiss across Blaine's forehead before grimacing when he realizes how dry his mouth is. He sits back with a sigh, takes a moment to stretch out his sore muscles. He stands then, crosses to the small table to pour himself a glass of water from the plastic pitcher.

Kurt takes a moment to breathe, finishing the water in slow, careful sips. He turns back toward Blaine then, setting the cup on the table and moving back toward his chair. He settles in, reaches forward and reclaims Blaine's hand.

“You always wake up before me,” Kurt comments quietly, “even when you're exhausted. You –”

Underneath his palm, Blaine's hand moves.

“Blaine?” Kurt surges forward, standing in his haste even as he pushes his hand tighter against Blaine's before quickly loosening his grip, not wanting to push the ring into Blaine's skin. “Blaine, it's Kurt. I'm here; I'm right here.”

The hand beneath his tics again, but Kurt stays focused on Blaine's face, on the twitches of his eyes and the minute movements around his mouth. And then, Blaine opens his eyes just enough for Kurt to make out the barest hint of hazel in between slow blinks.

“Kurt?”

The word is a cracked whisper, rough and fragile, like it will break at any moment.

Kurt has never loved the sound of his name more.