Chapter 7

Blaine wakes in Kurt's old room, in borrowed clothes and surrounded by the smell of the Hudson-Hummel's laundry detergent. Blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes, he sits up and checks the time on his phone – 9:02. A.M. Setting the phone back down on the end table Blaine takes in the space, smiling at the sight of Kurt's prom scepter on the bookcase. The room holds a wealth of memories that make Blaine smile, but it still feels off – like rereading a childhood favorite and not finding the same joy.  

Standing, Blaine crosses the room and grabs his clothes from where he'd left them the night before, and then heads for the shower.

Text message from Blaine:

Morning! :) I'm stealing your pajamas, btw

Text message from Kurt:

Thief! <3

Later, feeling refreshed if awkward in yesterday's clothes, Blaine smiles and wishes good morning to Burt and Carole as he enters the kitchen.

“You sleep alright?” Burt's voice is scratchy with sleep, his mug of coffee steaming in front of him on the table. Burt then stands, pouring another mug and setting it to the left of his seat, nodding to Blaine.

Blaine nods and reaches for the mug, taking a sip and hiding a wince at its temperature. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Mm. Wasn't sure what you'd want to eat.”

“I'm afraid we're out of eggs,” Carole adds, standing by the counter where she's unloading the dishwasher, “There's cereal though, and I think there's some oatmeal.”

Blaine turns to face her and gives a small smile. “Whatever's easiest is fine – I can even just have coffee,” Blaine nods toward his cup, “I have to head back home soon anyway.”

“You barely touched your dinner last night.” Burt's comment has Blaine turning back to face him, taking in the sympathetic but slightly stern gaze. “I understand why you weren't that hungry, but you can't go skipping meals.”

“Well then.” Carole's smooth voice breaks the silence. “Come over here and pick something to eat, Blaine.”

Blaine ducks his head even as he pushes back his chair and stands, taking the bowl Carole presses into his hand. “Um. Cereal?” Carole points to the cabinet to his left before turning and getting the milk from the fridge.

Seated at the table minutes later, Carole meets Blaine's gaze. “You said you have to leave soon – meeting up with your friends?”

Blaine swallows his spoonful of cereal. “No, I have to practice some songs on the piano for Glee, and it's easier when the house is empty.”

Not a lie. But not the whole truth, either.

“I thought you kids loved an audience.”

Giving Burt a weak smile Blaine shakes his head. “Not always, and practicing the same four measures for twenty minutes can be…trying for an audience. Or so I'm told.”

“Music is music,” Carole says with a slight shrug, “And you play beautifully, Blaine.”

“Thanks.” Blaine ignores the blush he feels staining his cheeks.

“What're you practicing?” Burt questions, as he refills everyone's cup before retaking his seat, “Anything I know?”

Blaine thinks over the sheet music on his piano as he eats some more cereal. “You might, actually.”

Seeing the expectant look on Burt's face Blaine continues, glad to talk about something he enjoys.

-*-*-*-

“Rise and shine, Hummel!” Kurt starts at Santana's voice, jolting forward from his relaxed position on his bed – and dropping his book – as drowsiness flees. In front of him, Santana stands at the foot of his bed, dressed and holding out a jacket.

“I – what?”

“C'mon Hummel. You're buying me breakfast.”

“Excuse me?” Marking his place in his book, Kurt moves to the edge of his bed, feet resting on the floor.

“I know you talked to Little Diva the other night after I left; now it's my turn to talk with the world's best gay.” The smirk Santana wears makes Kurt wary.

“Santana…” Kurt stands anyway, taking the jacket from her outstretched arm. “I'm still not taking sides, but I'll go with you to talk so it's even.”

“And buy me breakfast.”

“You're delusional.”

“Didn't you know?” Santana winks. “The man always buys when out with a lady.”

“We're both gay Santana; this isn't a date.” Shrugging on his jacket Kurt narrows his eyes. “And you're certainly not a lady.”

Half an hour later, they're seated at one of the tables in a bagel shop, Kurt having paid when Santana gleefully told the cashier the orders were together.

“So,” Santana says after swallowing a bite of egg and cheese bagel, “What are we gonna do about Rachel?”

“I told you I'm not taking sides in this argu–”

“We could have her pay double in rent,” Santana interrupts, “Once for her and once for her ego. Some extra spending money would be nice.”

Kurt sighs and takes a sip of coffee, debating if he should comment or just let Santana vent. His hand jerks when Santana snaps her fingers inches away from his face, a few drops of coffee splashing onto the lid and over his fingers. “Santana!” Kurt sets his coffee down, grabbing a napkin to wipe his hands. “What?”

“You were quiet.”

“I am never buying you anything ever again.”

“It's bad to tell lies, Hummel.” Santana smiles as she sets her half eaten bagel on her plate and takes a sip of coffee. “Besides, we're talking about a certain roommate with an ego problem.”

“You were talking; I'm eating my breakfast.”

“Kurt.”

“What do you want me to say, Santana?” Kurt eyes his sandwich before sighing and continuing. “Rachel has an ego; she's always had an ego – it's not like this is anything new.”

“It's different when she's in the same living space, waking me up at all hours and being self-important because she can't be bothered to care about anyone else.”

“That's not fair.”

“I'm sorry,” Santana's voice takes on a cutting edge. “Are you fine with her always getting first shower and singing at ungodly hours because she thinks it's some right?!”

“I –” Kurt takes a bite of his bacon egg and cheese bagel, using the time to think of his response. “Rachel's going through a lot right now, and…”

“We're all going through a lot right now,” Santana's voice is surprisingly soft. “She's not the only one who lost someone; she doesn't get to use that as an excuse to treat the rest of us like trash.”

Kurt offers a half smile and a nod before taking another bite of his breakfast. “Just…try to tell her again.” Kurt pauses and catches Santana's gaze. “Preferably without yelling and condescension.”

Santana narrows her eyes. “Very funny. So,” She takes a sip of her coffee. “You gonna tell me why you look like hell?”

“I do not look like hell, Santana.”

She ignores his glare. “You're about two layers short of normal and the circles under your eyes would make a panda jealous.”

“I don't have the most hospitable of roommates.” Kurt finishes his bagel and grabs another napkin.

“Please, like we could stress you out that much. That's – oh!” Santana claps leans forward and clasps her hands on the table. “What'd the hobbit do?”

“His name is Blaine – would you stop calling him that? – and he didn't do anything.”

Santana stays silent, smirking.

Kurt sighs and slouches in his chair. He won't tell her about Blaine's past, about the flashbacks; he'd never betray Blaine's trust in that way. But, it would be nice to share something, even if he is talking to Santana. “I'm just…worried about him. His parents are – they're not home often, so it's an adjustment for him when they are. And he's waiting to hear back from NYADA and he's stressed because –” Kurt catches himself, restarting, “He's tired and upset and I love him, Santana, so I lost a little sleep.” Kurt shrugs. “I just worry.”

For a moment Santana stays silent, looking over Kurt. “You're hiding something, Hummel, but obviously you don't feel like sharing so this once I'll let it slide.” Santana then finishes her sandwich. “But really: you're ‘worried' – that's your reason?” Santana gives a disappointed sigh. “Damn you've gotten boring since you got that ring.”

Kurt glances at the ring in question, taking in the glinting light. “I think I got the better end of the deal.” Kurt smiles. “I love this ring.”

“Please stop with the cliché lines. You're going to make me regret breakfast.”

“It would be fair,” Kurt muses, “Since you didn't actually pay for it.”

-*-*-*-

Blaine focuses on the sheets in front of him, counting out beats as he focuses solely on the notes in the treble clef, and jerks his hands back in frustration when he once again misses hitting the correct chord on beat. Sighing, he leans back on the bench and closes his eyes, taking a breath to keep from yelling. Shaking his head and opening his eyes, Blaine reaches for his phone and snaps a picture.

Text message from Blaine:

[photo] Evil piano music! >:( Do you think I could convince Glee to change songs?

Text message from Kurt:

Possibly, but I can't say it would be worth the stress from switching after preparing something else

Text message from Kurt:

Besides, you're a genius on the piano! You can do it!!! :)

Text message from Blaine:

Reliving your cheerleader days?

Text message from Kurt:

…There was no jumping.

Text message from Kurt:

Just encouraging you because I can :)

Text message from Blaine:

:) Thanks!

Text message from Blaine:

…Okay, back to practice. Wish me luck!

Text message from Kurt:

You'll get it! <3 I expect a recording later ;)

Blaine gives a quiet laugh and sets his phone aside, focusing on the thirty-seconds followed by the chord and plays each note individually, idly wondering if there's a way to make each note a whole rather than something so fast his fingers press the wrong keys. He continues to play with his right hand, concentrating only on the notes, the music before him. He loses track of time, only aware of the improvement as he plays the notes, hitting each correct key even if not as fast as they should be played.

Deciding to continue with the song Blaine moves on to the measure after the troubling chord, starting with both the bass and treble notes.

And then bangs both hands on the keys in frustration, the discordant mash of notes making his ears ring.

“I hope that wasn't written on the page. I didn't pay for you to go to piano lessons to play songs like that.”

Blaine jolts in surprise and quickly spins on the piano bench, sees his father standing with crossed arms by the entrance to the family room. He silently curses the hallway that kept him from hearing the front door.

Not meeting his father's gaze Blaine ducks his head. “No…just some complicated patterns.”

“Mm. Well since you don't seem to be making progress here, how about you use your muscles for something else and help me unload the car.”

Recognizing the order Blaine stands, shoving his phone in his pocket as he crosses the room. “Mom buy a lot?”

“Enough.” Blaine's father shrugs as they walk down the hall. “Thought I'd take advantage of having a teenaged boy in the house and have you help carry it in, once I realized where you were.” Cutting a glance to Blaine, he smirks. “Realizing piano isn't as fun as you make it out to be? Sounded a bit like a four-year old banging on those keys.”

Blaine bites the inside of his cheek and forces his hands to stay relaxed at his sides. “No,” Blaine's controlled voice stays even, “I love music. Like I said,” Blaine says as he opens the front door, “Just some complicated measures.”

“Guess you'll have to keep practicing then.”

Blaine gathers several bags from the car and turns back toward the house. “Music is just like any other skill – you have to keeping using it to continually do well.” Entering the house, Blaine sets the department store bags on the floor before heading out for a second trip. “Besides, I don't mind practicing.”

“Seems like most of my coworkers' boys are either playing video games or outside,” Blaine's father comments as he locks the car. "I honestly thought you'd eventually get tired of piano, like Cooper did.”

Blaine sighs, balancing the three bags in his hands as his father waits for him to reopen the door. “Cooper always preferred acting to music.”

“Cooper was always focused.”

Blaine hears the implied ‘unlike you' and holds his comment that Cooper focused on one thing for a period of time before changing and focusing on something else; instead he hums in acknowledgement and adds to the pile of bags in the entryway.

“Oh, thank you dear.” Blaine's mother breaks the ensuing silence as she enters from the kitchen. “I could never have brought all those in on my own! And,” she glances at Blaine's father, “I know your father appreciates it; we'd forgotten how much walking's required at outlet malls.”

“It's fine, mom.”

“Hm.” Blaine mother steps forward and pulls Blaine into a light hug. “Did you have a good day yesterday?”

Blaine flashes back to the shock in the garage, the discussion with Burt, the draining but needed conversation with Kurt, the comfortable dinner from the day before. “I guess. It was fine.”

“That's good. Oh!” Blaine's mother steps back from the collection of shopping bags, holding one in her left hand. “I almost forgot; I got the mail and there's several college brochures for you, Blaine. I put them on the table in the kitchen.”

“Mm.” Blaine nods at his mother as she heads for the stairs, not caring about the brochures. Having already applied to NYADA and other universities in New York, brochures hold little appeal.

“Don't be dismissive of your mother, Blaine.”

“What? I wasn't –” Blaine cuts himself off, turning to face his father who's leaning against the wall.

“It's obvious you don't care about any college brochure, Blaine. Are you even thinking about your future?”

“Of course I am!” Blaine's voice rises, echoing off the tiled floor. “I can't wait to get out of Ohio. I've already sent in applications to schools in New York, and I auditioned for NYADA when I was visiting Kurt last month!”

“You auditioned?” Blaine's father barks as he walks toward Blaine. “You're going to actually study something you have to audition for? On top of everything else you – I thought you had a good head on your shoulders, Blaine. You're smart; I've seen your report cards. You could succeed at anything, I'm sure. Or if you were tired of academics you could go to some tech school, I'm sure that Mr. Humler would hire you. But instead you're trying to do something what – singing and dancing?” The condescension on the last three words is clear.

Blaine blinks at his father standing a foot in front of him. “His name is Mr. Hummel. And I'm sure he would hire me if it was something I wanted, but it's not! I don't want to study accounting or law or mechanics, Dad! I love music! I'm going to school to be a performer!”

Blaine's father laughs. “That's not a career, Blaine.” He sighs and catches Blaine's gaze. “Music's a great hobby, but you need to start thinking seriously about your future. Why don't you go do that now.” Blaine's father looks away and starts to gather a few of the shopping bags, finished.

Blaine opens his mouth to reply before sighing in resignation and turning, heading for his room. He makes it partway up the stairs before he hears his father's murmurings.

“Studying music. Heaven forbid he pick a man's profession.”

Normally, Blaine would continue to his room. But he's already vibrating with anger and stress and so, today he snaps.

“That's what it is, isn't it?” Blaine projects his voice, the cold tone carrying as he turns and goes back down the stairs, meeting his father at the base. “It's not that I want to study music…that I want to perform. It's that I want to perform and I'm gay. You can't even say it, can you? I thought – I thought after the shooting last month, when we stayed up all night and talked, I thought you actually were starting to accept me! But I should have known better, right? It was just the shock of the moment; of course you were happy your youngest son wasn't shot in some random school shooting. I'm still here though, and I'm gay. I'm gay and I'm in love with Kurt and we're going to get married and live together in New York!”

Blaine's father grabs Blaine's arm, pulling him a step closer as he replies. “Married? Have you lost your mind?! I thought you'd have grown up after that incident a few years ago –”

“Incident?! It was a gay bashing, Dad! Those three guys beat the crap out of me – put me in the hospital with months of recovery – because I'm gay!” Blaine's harsh breaths seem just as loud as his yell.

“And it taught you nothing! I thought it would be a wake-up call for you – that you'd stop this nonsense and be the man your mother and I raised you to be!”

Blaine blinks, hearing echoes –

“Be a man, Anderson!”

“– and stop this fanciful talk!”

“It's not some talk, Dad!” Blaine draws on his anger and hurt to focus on the present. “I'm gay! And I'm sorry if that embarrasses you when you're talking to the other pilots, but it's who I am: your gay son! And you,” Blaine meets his father's burning glare, “You're nothing more than some bigoted, cowardly –”

Blaine falls back, hitting the wall with a crack! that somehow seems quieter than the sound of flesh hitting flesh as he stares in shock at his father's still raised hand and feels the building ache on the left side of his face.  

“Get out.”

Blaine runs.

He follows the whispered order, ignoring his mother's call from the stairs as he grabs his keys from the hook by the door.

Five minutes later Blaine pulls over and lets his head fall to his steering wheel. Moments later he sits up, fighting dizziness, and takes his phone from his pocket with shaking hands. It takes him two tries to unlock, and another thirty seconds to get to the name he wants.

“Hey, you! Going to let me hear that song? I told you you'd get it!”

Blaine breaks.

“Kurt.” Blaine hears Kurt's frantic voice, rushed and high, but the sobs keep coming, preventing further words. He has to talk though, he has to tell him. “He actually – I can't, Kurt.”

“Blaine.” Kurt's voice has lost its frantic edge, instead coming through calm and sure, if a bit a strained. “Blaine, you have to breathe. Breathe with me, okay? In and out. Just like that.”

It takes a few minutes, but Blaine gradually calms. “Thank you, Kurt.”

“I – what happened, Blaine?”

Blaine feels the catch in his chest, but ignores the twinge. “He…he was mad. I usually let it go but today I didn't and –” Blaine pauses, takes a steadying breath and continues in a monotone. “He hit me.” Blaine continues speaking through the sharp inhalation he hears. “He hit me and I fell into the wall and then I ran and I don't know what to do and –”

“Blaine.” Kurt's voice cracks. “Blaine, you have tell me who…who did this. I think I know, but I need you to tell me.”

Blaine closes his eyes. “Dad.” The left side of his face seems to throb harsher at the name. “My dad hit me, Kurt. And I don't know where I am or where I'm going to go – I just ran.”

“You're going to my parents' house. I'm going to call Dad and he's going to bring the tow truck and come pick you up because you are not attempting to drive right now.” Kurt's voice rings with confidence and promise. “Now,” Kurt pauses and Blaine squeezes his phone. “You said you don't know where you are?”

“I didn't – I just drove.”

“That's fine, Blaine. Just…put me on speaker and pull up Google maps.”

Blaine lowers his phone with shaking hands, but completes the request and reads off the location in a voice he barely recognizes as his own.

“Dad's going to come get you, Blaine. Okay?”

Blaine sniffs and opens his eyes long enough to pull some napkins from his glove compartment. “Okay.”

“Okay…so I'm going to have to hang up to call him, alright? But I'll be fast and then I'll call right back. I'll stay with you til he gets there. I promise.”

Blaine ignores his increasing heartbeat and the tears that threaten; Kurt has to call Burt.

“Okay.”

“I'll call back as soon as I can, Blaine. I love you.”

In the ensuing silence Blaine raises the steering wheel and draws up his legs, resting his head on his knees.

He waits for Kurt's call.

-*-*-*-

Kurt sits on his bed, phone clutched in his hand, his knees drawn up to his chest. His entire body remains tense, as it has been since he got Blaine's call a little over an hour ago. He'd talked with Blaine until his dad had arrived with the tow truck, but then he'd ceded control to his dad, and been left with a maelstrom of emotions coursing through his veins, wanting nothing more than to buy the $300 ticket – he'd started checking ticket prices as soon as Blaine had started crying – and fly to Ohio.

But he knows he can't drop everything and leave.

Even though at the moment New York feels like a vice.

So now he sits on his bed, holding himself still to keep from pressing the “Buy Now!” button and waits for his phone to ring.

The silence of the loft closes in on him, doing nothing to dispel the thrum of Blaine's hurt cycling through his mind. He's never cared for silence, but the thought of playing music holds no appeal either. He can't move, can't work on homework, can't think of anything else until he knows more about what's happening with Blaine.

Kurt glances at his phone again; three minutes since the last time he checked. He switches his phone to his right hand, stretching out the fingers of his left to ease the cramp that has taken up residence.

His phone starts to vibrate and he lurches forward, answering before the first chord comes through the speaker.

“Dad! How is he? Can I –”

“He's okay, Kurt.” Burt interrupts Kurt's hurried questions. “Carole's getting him some ice and Tylenol right now though, so you're stuck with me for a bit.”

“How,” Kurt swallows, starts again. “How bad is it?”

There's a pause, only the sound of breathing coming through the phone line. “He's…bruised.” Another pause. “Got a bump on the back of his head, his left cheek's swollen. That's all I saw, but Carole's checking him over – you know she'll make sure he's treated.” Burt's voice comes through in an even tone, but Kurt hears the anger thrumming below the surface, the worry only slightly hidden.

Kurt blinks back his tears, forces his voice steady. “I wasn't sure when he called. He was so upset, Dad, I've never –” Kurt cuts himself off, hoping to quell the panic he feels rising in his chest. “He was crying and I just wanted to tell him everything would be okay…but it's not, is it? I'm not even in Ohio right now and I thought –” Kurt's voice drops. “I didn't think I'd ever feel worse than when Blaine got hurt with that slushie…but this is so much worse because it was his family – I can't imagine what he's feeling and I'm not there for him.”

“You don't have to be in Ohio to be there for him, Kurt. And no one should ever be hurt by family, you're right. But he's got family here too, and us Hummels look after our own.” 

Despite the worry he still feels anchored in his being, Kurt smiles at his father's mention of Blaine being family. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Don't have to thank me. Blaine's a good guy – you're good for each other. And we'll look after him, don't worry.”

On his bed, Kurt straightens, recognizing his father's tone: it held the same edge before he confronted Karofsky in Principal Figgins office, before he ran for Congress, before he assured Kurt he'd beat cancer. “I'm gonna talk to the Andersons tomorrow, get somethin' figured out; Blaine'll have people to look after him. I'll make sure of it.”

Kurt closes his eyes, grateful in a way he hadn't considered before today. “Thank you, Dad. I – I still wish I was there too, but you're pretty good at being there for people.”

“Of course I am; a congressman is always there for the people.”

“And so modest, too.” The smile on Kurt's face is small, trembling, but a relief.

“Always.”

“Hm.” Kurt feels some of the tension release from his shoulders. “Even so, I lucked out in the parent department.”

“Well,” Burt's voice radiates warmth even as it wavers. “I got some pretty fantastic boys.”

“I still say I got the better end of the deal, but thank you, I suppose.”

“Of course, Kurt.”

“You'll text me about Blaine, right? After you talk to Carole?” Kurt briefly bites his lip. “I know he won't outright lie to me, but he's not above downplaying things to try and keep me from worrying.”

“I'll go check on him as soon as I get off here, and I'll have Carole text you.”

Kurt huffs, amused but still unable to laugh after the events of the day. “You really need to get over your aversion to texting, but thanks. I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too.”

-*-*-*-

Burt enters the kitchen and sees Carole standing by the table, a statue in silence. Her hands clutch the back of one of the kitchen chairs, tendons in stark relief.

“He went upstairs to shower and put on some more comfortable clothes; hopefully Kurt left more than one pair of sweatpants here.” Carole's voice trembles, the only inflection in the monotone words.

Burt crosses the room to stand by her side. “Alright.” Carefully, he reaches out a hand to touch her arm. “You okay?”

“Me? I'm fine. He was the perfect patient; didn't complain once. Never mind that he has a sizable bump on his head from where he hit a wall, and bruises across his shoulder and back and cheek, and oh! let's not forget the swelling on his face and the possible black eye.”

“Carole.” Burt steps closer with a sigh, gently wrapping his other arm around her.

“He's his son! His son, Burt! And he just –” Carole takes a breath, leans back into Burt. “You're supposed to cherish your children; they could be taken –” Carole's voice breaks and cuts off with a gasp, her left hand leaving the chair to close over her mouth.

“We'll help, Carole. Blaine's here now, and I'll take care of it; he'll be looked after.”

Carole turns in Burt's arms, catching his eye and widening her own. “You'll take care of it?”

Burt huffs. “Not anything bad. I know better than that; even if I'd like to see him rot. Besides,” Burt continues, “Blaine doesn't want the police involved, begged me not to call them when I picked him up.” Burt pauses, pushing away memories from when he'd first seen Blaine that afternoon. “Just some paperwork. That's all.”

“You seem very certain of yourself.” Burt shrugs in response.

“He doesn't know Blaine doesn't want the police involved. Figure a man like that,” Burt winces at the description, “He'll want to do the easiest thing to keep it private – I'm sure he'll understand after I explain it to him tomorrow.”

“Well,” Carole rests her hands on Burt's biceps. “Don't let any explanation get you too upset; I can't handle two injured family members, Burt Hummel.”

“Just a conversation. I don't need you takin' away my coffee as punishment.”

“I would, too.”

“You talk to Kurt too much. Speaking of, he wants you to text him about Blaine – figures he'll get more information from you.”

“He's a smart one.” Carole gives a weak smile. “And I figure I still owe him for that makeover.”

Burt shakes his head, offering a small smile in return. “He's pretty good at fashion.” He glances toward the stairs, remembering some of Kurt's outfits. “You sure he left something Blaine could use, though?”

“If not, the pajamas Blaine wore last night are in the washer; they'll be ready soon enough.”

“That's good. We'll get him settled and I think we can afford to order in tonight.” At Carole's expression he continues. “One night of pizza isn't the end of the world, and no teenage boy turns down pizza.”

“Don't think I don't see what you're doing, but,” Carole's face tightens, “Blaine needs to relax tonight.”

-*-*-*-

In Kurt's old bedroom for the second time that day, Blaine sits on the bed, staring at his hands. The closet seems impossibly far away, and even the bureau – which he's fairly certain has at least one pair of pajama pants Kurt's outgrown – seems likes too much effort. Still, he knows Kurt's parents will worry if spends too long in the room, so he slowly stands and makes his way to the bureau. He pulls out the remembered pants and a worn, oversized sweatshirt advertising the garage. Grabbing his phone he snaps a picture.

Text message from Blaine:

[photo] Stealing your clothes again

Text message from Kurt:

I'm glad I left them. <3

In the bathroom later, Blaine winces as he dresses following his quick shower. After pulling on the sweatshirt he raises his sleeve covered hands to his face – ignoring the twinge as he does so – and takes in the comforting smell of the Hudson-Hummel's detergent and a hint of Kurt's favorite cologne. Seconds later, he turns and exits the room, flipping the switch as he walks past.

He doesn't look in the mirror.

Picking up his phone from the bed, he puts it in his pocket and leaves the room. Downstairs, he pauses at the foot of the stairs, catching his breath and pushing away the slight dizziness brought on by walking down the steps.

The living room proves to be empty, and he finds Kurt's parents sitting at the table in the kitchen, each with a glass of water. Carole's standing before he's two feet in the room, guiding him to a chair. “You go ahead and sit, Blaine. I'm going to get you the ice pack; it's been long enough.”

Blaine has his mouth open to tell her not to bother, but the look she gives him on her way back from the freezer quells any protest.

“Thank you.” Blaine leans back in the chair, keeping the ice pack in position against his scapula. Standing beside him, Carole uses gentle hands to move his hair. An involuntary hiss escapes him when her fingers brush against the bump that had stung the most when he'd showered.

“Sorry, sweetie – just making sure it hasn't gotten any bigger.”

“It's fine.” Across the table, Blaine sees Burt sigh at his response.

Carole doesn't comment, however, just turns Blaine's face to look at his left cheek and eye. “No more pain meds til you've eaten – don't worry, we ordered pizza – but I can get more ice, if you need it. Any more dizziness?”

Blaine stays silent for moment, debating as Carole steps away and returns, placing another glass of water on the table. “No.”

“You sure about that, kid? Sounded a bit like a question.” Burt's voice is light, but he doesn't look away from Blaine.

“I um – I got a little dizzy after I came down the stairs, but I'm fine now.”

“Mm.” Burt takes a sip of water. “I'll walk up with you when you're ready for bed anyway.” Burt smiles at Blaine. “Can't have you fallin' down the stairs.”

Blaine feels the blush rising and ducks his head, gratefully sipping from his glass of water. “Thanks, Mr. Hummel.”

“Mm. You call Kurt yet?”

Blaine's hand instinctively pats the phone in his pocket. “Not – not yet.”

“Burt and I were just going to watch some TV while we wait for the pizza,” Carole comments. “Why don't you go ahead and call him?”

“Sounds like a great plan. Kurt'll be happy to hear from you.” Burt is already pushing back his chair to stand. “Just yell if you need something, and,” Burt shakes his head, “Maybe leave out the bit about pizza tonight.”

Blaine nods, giving Burt a small smile. Soon he's alone in the kitchen, remembering Carole's admonishment to remove the ice after ten minutes, murmurs from the television barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. 

Closing his eyes to settle his thoughts, Blaine blindly pulls out his phone.

Breathe in. It doesn't change anything.

Breathe out. Kurt loves me.

Breathe in. Kurt still loves me.

Breathe out. Kurt's my family.

Blaine opens his eyes and dials.