They are all there when he arrives, shoes squeaking and sliding on the sterile linoleum, but he does not see them.  Blaine heads straight to the reception desk, mindless of the queue, and catches the attention of the first person he sees - he really must look manic if the woman's wide eyes are anything to go by.

            ‘Kurt Hummel: he was brought in not long ago.  He was attacked.'  Blaine forces himself to breathe in an attempt to remain civil – snapping at the poor woman will get him nowhere.  

            ‘Are you family?'

            ‘Yes.'  Reflex. 

The woman is small and mousey – probably why he subconsciously singled her out in the first place.  She glances at him then down at the monitor in front of her, then back up at him. 

            ‘Name, please?'

            ‘Blaine Anderson.'

            ‘Relation?'

            ‘He's family.'  Rachel's voice pipes in from beside him – he had not even noticed her presence.  The nurse's attitude changes once the brunette is beside him, and Blaine forcibly tries to ignore Rachel because if the nurse's reaction is anything to go by – Rachel has already been pestering the poor woman, and probably none too politely.

            ‘I'm sorry but I can't give out patient information unless you are blood-relations or listed as an emergency contact on the system.'  The tone is clipped now and directed at Rachel.  Blaine puts out an arm to gesture to the fiery brunette to back off, but she is oblivious.

            ‘Please - just tell me if he's alive?  Is he alive?'  He adds honey to his voice but it is thinly concealing the raw panic in his lungs.  It is enough to grab the nurse's attention and their eyes lock; flustering and melting her slightly.

            ‘I'm sorry I can't…I don't have that information.  Um…'

            ‘Please.' 

He feels like he is a light beam splintering out into a million fractals.  He scrabbles desperately beneath the surface for something, anything that will help convince…. Amanda – her name badge glints at him.  He only has one chance at this.

            ‘Amanda – I'm sorry; you must have to deal with crazed friends and relatives all the time.'  They both know he is apologising for whatever Rachel said earlier.  ‘I'm betting the last thing you need right now is another loved one shouting at you when all you're doing is your job.  I just… please.  Please could you tell me whether he's alive?  His dad's in Ohio – or probably on a plane right now.  He…he doesn't have anyone else.  I'll go and sit quietly and wait after, I promise.  Just…please let me know whether he is alive?'

‘I'll see if I can find a doctor.'   She nods her head slightly before disappearing in the direction of what Blaine presumes to be the wards.

He should turn to face Rachel but he is terrified that if he lets go of the counter he will crumple to the ground and then what help will he be?  He focuses instead on the industrial-sized bottle of hand sanitizer in front of him and breathes – it feels like an accomplishment.

            ‘They wouldn't believe I was his sister.'  Rachel's voice is hoarse now he cares to listen to it.

He does not look up but nods slightly and hopes it will be enough.  He does not trust himself to speak.  Not until he knows Kurt is alive.

The non-silence of the waiting area is cloying: children screaming in the fever of pain and play, the garbled murmur of conversation interspersed with great groans of agony and excited gibbering.  Hornets swarming – angry and agitated; the tension is its own being composed of the copper of blood, tangy bile, and pine-fresh.  They are all miniscule forest creatures, skittish of the sharp squeak of footfall, the tinny tannoy, and the rasping rustle of paper on clipboards.  He jumps when a hand touches his shoulder, his thoughts scattering.

            ‘Mr. Anderson?'

The man before him is familiar – mid-fifties and balding, with a voice like dust.  Blaine nods dumbly.

            ‘Please come with me.'

            ‘Rachel – stay with Artie and Mercedes.'  Blaine actually looks at her then – her mouth is open in mid-argument but it snaps closed and she nods tersely.  She looks wrecked but he cannot feel sorry for her – he cannot feel anything else in that moment, he simply has no more room to compartmentalise the flurry of numb panic, guilt, and sick that he feels, let alone sympathy (or is it empathy? Or frustration?  Or anger?) for another.  He does not spare her a second glance as he follows the doctor through a set of wide double doors.  Grey walls and white corridors and stained grey floors marred by the scuffed slash of offensively bright, coloured lines – primary and primal: red and yellow and blue.  It is a maze but he has no intention of leaving so he does not try to recall the path they take.  Instead, the fake pine scent of the antiseptic used to disinfect the floors inescapably invades his senses and he focuses on the simple task of trying to breathe through his mouth; a little gulp to down enough oxygen so as not to pass out or throw up. 

His distraction is made obvious when he is almost mown down by a bed manned by two green orderlies – the corridors remind him of an ocean: darting tropical fish in brightly coloured scrubs, prowling white shark-doctors, and the glide of the stingray beds.  Before him the doctor swims on ahead and Blaine picks up his pace so as not to lose him in the bone white-grey of the coral corridors.

            ‘I thought it was you.'  The voice is quiet, and dry as an old tome, and it takes Blaine back to a panelled room and a table with waltzing waiters – a hand in his own (Douglas – his mind supplies) firm and reassuring – and the glint of silverware in dazzling green eyes.

            ‘Adrian Richmond – this is Blaine Anderson.  Blaine is at Dalton.'

            ‘Pleasure to meet you, Blaine.'

            ‘Likewise.'

A look had passed between Douglas and Adrian that Blaine had been unable to place.  Douglas' grip on Blaine's hand had tightened slightly and Adrian's eyes had flickered down at the movement like a buffeted flame.

            ‘So, what brings you to New York, Blaine?'

The real question is thinly veiled and floods Blaine's sense-memory with coffee and an echo:

“So, how do we know Sebastian?”

He shudders involuntarily.

            ‘Blaine is a school friend of my nephew's.  He's visiting for the holidays to look at prospective colleges.'

            ‘Good.  Good.'  Adrian had nodded at Douglas' save and another look had passed between the two older men.  ‘Welcome to The Club, then young man.  No doubt I'll be seeing more of you around here then come the summer.'

Particles of speech in an egg-timer filled with sand and subtext.

            ‘Dr. Richmond.  Of course.'

The other man nods, eyes flickering over Blaine like a lizard's tongue, before settling back on the clipboard before him.  Blaine finds himself irrationally furious with the grubby plastic-covered card – it holds the answers he wants and he balls his fists in an attempt to prevent himself from grabbing it from the other man's hands. 

            ‘How are you finding the City?  I've not seen you at The Club recently.'

Blaine's fingernails bite into his palms and it takes every ounce of remaining self-awareness he possesses not to snap the man's neck in twain for daring to chitchat when Kurt could be…

            ‘Fine.  Busy as you can imagine.'

            ‘Columbia for Law wasn't it?'

            ‘Yes, sir.'  He has no time or desire to discuss something so utterly trivial, but Blaine's clipped tone seems to pass by the other man.

Adrian leads Blaine through yet another set of yawning double-doors and down another corridor marked by a yellow line.

            Follow the yellow brick road…

            ‘So how do you know my patient, Blaine?'

            ‘He's a very dear friend.'

            ‘Like Douglas?'

He chooses not to respond and Adrian makes no further comment before taking another turn down a much smaller corridor.  This pathway is too narrow for a bed and Blaine feels like he is being snared but he follows anyway – it is not like he has a choice.  Adrian leads them into a private room and situates himself behind the imposing mahogany desk occupying the majority of the book-lined chamber.  Blaine stands slightly behind the small plastic chair obviously meant for patients, loathe to sit when his nerves are on fire.  The stench of dust and vanilla is overwhelming – the air dry and over-conditioned to the point of cotton wool.

            ‘I thought we were going to see Kurt?'

Green flames glance up at him as if only just noticing that Blaine was in the room.

            ‘Goodness no, Blaine.  No.  He's having an x-ray at the moment.'

            ‘So, he's alive.'

            ‘Yes.'  Adrian looks amused, and Blaine's body wants nothing more than to release taut muscles to jelly but something in Adrian's serpentine smile screams wrong at him.  Adrian looks far too amused for Blaine's liking.

            ‘How long will you be keeping him here?'

            ‘I suspect he has a fracture above his right eye socket…'

The list of injuries blur together and each connects with ghosts of his own beating like ice rain in the stifling room - his vision blacks around the edges but he forces himself to keep listening.  Keep breathing.  Though he can hear-feel the rush of blood in his ears.  Though his vision has reduced to pin-points in a swamp of cloying blackness. 

            ‘When can I see him?' 

He barely registers the flicker of anger that twists Adrian's features but Blaine had needed to make him stop. 

            ‘Are you alright?  You look pale…' 

The feigned concern grates against Blaine's fractured consciousness and he nods tersely, swallowing sharply as his vision tilts then rights itself.  Breathe in….out….in….out…

He barely registers the other man as he makes a call – probably to see when his minions would be finished jabbing Kurt with needles and blasting him with x-rays - he only hears Adrian's instruction to follow him.  Blaine does not recall the walk to the tiny room with the grey door, but the image of Kurt lying unconscious and bruised, and so tiny on that sterile metal rectangle of stark white and blue, is etched forever into his mind.  His entire consciousness zooms in on that insignificant, yet monstrous, bed and its occupant.  At some point Adrian leaves, but Blaine does not register when or even acknowledge the other man at all.  Instead, he simply crumples into the chair beside the broken and battered version of Kurt – his Kurt.  His eyes are unable to take-in the whole and instead flicker from injury to injury, cataloguing and classifying:

            Split lip – possibly bad enough to scar.  He'll hate that.  Or maybe he'll love it and he'll wear it like a badge of honour.  Every time I see it I'll remember this.  At least I'll get to see it healed…

            Bruise to eye socket – bad.  That one must be the fracture.  He'll be in pain for a while with that.  Weeks to heal and for the bruising to fade.  May leave a permanent darker patch of skin...  Worst of his injuries, thank God. 

What was he thinking?  Was he even thinking at all?  God, Kurt…when you wake up I'm going to…  I'm going to… 

            Nose…doesn't look broken.  That's good.  Mine took a long time to feel right.  It made me self-conscious of my pronunciation for a while afterwards…  I was ashamed about it actually…  At Dalton – people asked how I broke it and I said it was a sporting injury.  It is odd how much kudos you get for having broken something doing sports – as if that is manly.  It wasn't a complete lie anyway – a jock did break it for me… 

You never asked though – I think you guessed how I broke it.  I'm glad they didn't break yours though…  Your nose is perfect, Kurt - I love the way it curves up a little at the end.  I know you hate it, but I love it.

            Various bruises on your upper arm – they look like fingers.  I'm going to kill them.  I am going to hunt them down and murder them in their sleep.  No.  I am going to find them, and then I am going to replicate every one of your injuries on them.  I promise you.  God, Kurt.  I am so sorry.  I am so, so sorry.  I should have been at that damned restaurant with you.  I should have been by your side.  We could have taken them on together...  I'd have made you run to get help though…  It should be me where you are.  Your pain should be my pain. 

I'm a terrible friend, Kurt.  I was caught up in myself and my own humiliation…  Damn, Rachel.  She shouldn't have left you alone at that time of night.  It's not like you live in a good neighbourhood.  You should have known better, Kurt.  You knew what happened to Russ and you live in the same area.  You knew…  I am going to…. 

Breathe, Blaine.  Breathe.  Focus…

            Cuts – probably from glass on the floor of the alleyway.  They'll heal alright.  Need to ask someone whether they gave you a shot for tetanus…  None look too deep thankfully.

            No breaks.  So that's good.  You won't have to re-learn how to use anything.  No physio to go through…  You'd hate physio.  Unless they gave you a hot instructor… I swear mine enjoyed the pain she put me through.

            They hit you in the head, Kurt.  You could have died.  You could have died alone in an alley and I would never have forgiven myself.  You know that?  I…  It was supposed to be you and I against the world…remember?  We talked about it all the time at McKinley.  Do you remember you told me how you saw the future? 

“Just like in ‘The Notebook', I'm sitting in a nursing home talking endlessly about my high school sweetheart, my first love, going on and on about every little detail as if they matter.  Only in my version, he's there with me, telling me I should shut up so he can watch The American Cinematheque Salute to J-Lo.”

  I wanted that so badly...  I'm so sorry.  I don't know how to fix this…  I don't know how to stop loving you.

I'm never saying goodbye to you either, Kurt, but I don't know how to let you go… and I need to.  You deserve so much better…

-+-

            Burt's face is thunder and Blaine cowers reflexively; he does not have the strength to stand up to the force that is the senior Hummel. 

            ‘What in the hell happened, Blaine?'

            ‘I…I don't know for sure.  They found him in…an alley.'  The words trip and stumble from his mouth as if disconnected from his brain.  Blaine drops his eyes – he is unworthy; a failure.  He misses Burt's expression, but tenses in anticipation of the inevitable backlash.  ‘He was attacked…'

            ‘For being gay.'  It is not a question, but Blaine nods anyway, flinching at the tone.  ‘God, look at his beautiful face.'

The sudden softness of the other man's voice catches Blaine off guard and his eyes dart up in response. 

            ‘I'm so sorr-‘

            ‘Don't you dare apologise to me, Blaine.  Don't you dare!  This is not your fault, okay?  This is on those hateful, prejudiced bastards who attacked him, not you.  If you'd have been there I'd be here for the two of you rather than just for him, so don't you even spare another thought on wishin' you'd have been there because it wouldn't have turned out any different.'

The tears spill then – part shock, part relief, part pity, part exhaustion - and they keep falling and he hates them because they are weak and self-serving and for himself as much as they are for Kurt.  His body betrays him, and he wishes Burt would just blame him.  Wishes Burt would have shouted at him – he could have handled that.  Not this…this shattering slap of understanding…this clash of kindness. 

Burt's hug crushes him and it is then that he feels the other man collapse a little.   He can only imagine the fear that must have consumed Burt – not knowing as he caught the next flight to New York…the cab ride over to the hospital.  Blaine knows that fear - not as keenly as Burt - not after Kurt's mom, and then Finn - but enough to find the strength to hold the other man upright.  Enough to know with sudden clarity that he can do something – he can do this. 

-+-

            ‘Where's Blaine?'

            ‘I made him leave to get a coffee and something to eat.'

Kurt dips his chin a fraction, and Burt notes the crease that forms between Kurt's eyes. 

            ‘How'd you know he was here anyway?' 

            ‘I heard him talking to me I think…it's weird.  I kind of just knew though.  It's all fuzzy…'  Kurt's features soften slightly.

            ‘Painkillers will do that to you.'

            ‘Yeah.'

Burt twists his baseball cap between his hands and glances down.  He takes a moment to breathe; now that they have had it out with each other the air feels a little clearer (though still statically charged) and Burt feels the knot in his chest, that had been there since the NYPD called him, loosen fraction by fraction.

            ‘Dad?'

            ‘Yeah, kiddo?'

            ‘Thanks for looking out for him.'

            ‘He's family – you know that as well as I do.  You're just both pig-headed.'

            ‘We're friends, dad.'

            ‘Yeah.  I saw your friends – they don't look like Blaine looked.'

            ‘Not now, okay?'

Burt wants to shake him – to wake him up – to make him open his eyes and see the obvious, but then his eyes drift over his child's features and he feels the urgency ebb away.  Kurt looks tired, but his eyes are full of fire.  Yes, he is definitely my son.  Burt takes a mental step back – learning to do that: to let his only child take his own steps, make his own mistakes…that is the hardest thing he has ever tried to do.  It was supposed to get easier – things get easier with practice don't they?  Not this.  Never this.  He sighs and rubs a work-rough hand over his face in a suggestion of acquiescence.

            ‘Bill Anderson was in the shop on Monday.'  Burt is aware his choice of topic has a familiar theme, but he cannot completely admit defeat.  Yet another thing him and me have in common, he muses.

            ‘Oh?  He enquire after his son?'  Kurt's eye (the one not swollen shut) is a pin point of frozen fire.

            Friends indeed.

            ‘Kurt, there are always two sides to a story, you know that.'

            ‘They kicked him out, dad.  He made a choice they disagreed with, so they kicked him out.  Actions speak louder than words and all that.'

The older Hummel sighs slightly.

            ‘People make mistakes, Kurt.  Us parents – we are not infallible, you know?  And Blaine – he can be kind of dramatic, unless you hadn't noticed.  Something else the two of you share.'

            ‘So, what?  They want to apologise?  It's been months.'

            ‘Yes it has.  But Bill's as stubborn as an ox and they're a pretty uptight family – he's been waiting for Blaine to apologise.'

            ‘For what?  Making his own life-choices?'

            ‘Kurt – I'm not defending Bill here.'

            ‘Sounds an awful lot like you are.'

            ‘Come on, buddy.  You know me better than that.'

Kurt huffs a breath and Burt gently puts a hand on his son's shoulder conscious of accidently touching a bruise that may be hidden beneath the ugly hospital gown.

            ‘I know, dad.  I'm sorry.  I just…'

            ‘You care for him.'

            ‘He's my best friend and I'm only just getting him back, but he's so broken.  It's like something sapped everything away since we broke up and now he's just this fragile shell and it's…'

            ‘Wrong.  I know.'

            ‘I don't know what to do.'

            ‘Can you fix him?'

            ‘I don't think I can…'

            ‘Exactly.  Knowing you – you tried some elaborate not-so-subtle scheme and it backfired?'  Burt grins slightly as the tell-tale blush creeps over the un-blemished slithers of Kurt's skin.  ‘Thought as much.  Look, Kurt.  You care for him.  It doesn't take a genius to see that.  I think the Martians can see how much you care for him from up there on Mars… but he's not a project.  You can't fix him, Kurt.  You can't fix people.  He needs to work some stuff out for himself and all you can do – and I know this is going to kill you – is be there for him and let him work stuff out for himself.  Life's complicated and he's painted himself deep into a corner.  He's the only one who can get himself out and it is going to be messy.  Someone's gonna end up hurt and I can't promise you that it will all work out.'

Kurt purses his lips and flinches as the cut splits again where it has started to heal.  Burt sighs.

            ‘I'm not trying to lecture you here…  I just…I love you, Kurt.  You are right, you know.  You are my son.  And when we Hummels love – we love with every fibre of our being.  You want my advice?  You gotta be honest with him – completely – don't pussy-foot around anything, okay?  No being vague either.  You need to be honest and direct with him so he knows exactly where you both stand, and then you need to give him space and accept whatever decision he comes to.'

            ‘I know.  You're right.'

            ‘Good.'

            ‘I love you, Dad.'

            ‘Love you too, Kurt.'  His son's soft skin feels like home to Burt as he gently rubs a large thumb over the back of Kurt's smooth hand, careful to avoid the area around his IV cannula.  ‘I'm gonna go make sure Blaine's not collapsed somewhere in the corridor.'  Burt squeezes Kurt's hand lightly before tearing himself away.  ‘Get some rest now, okay?  Back in a minute.'

-+-

            ‘It has been hours, Blaine!  Hours!  You didn't once think we might want to know how he was?  You somehow manage to get special treatment to actually see him and you didn't even think about how this was affecting me!' 

Rachel has been shouting at him since Burt had arrived and basically forced him to go and freshen up.  Oddly, it is Mercedes who intervenes on Blaine's behalf, and Blaine feels like he really needs to get her a gift-basket or something because the blood in his head is pounding against his skull with every beat of his heart and his physically and emotionally exhausted.  He is not sure what she actually says to the brunette, but the result is that Rachel stops shouting at him, so Blaine counts that as a win. 

At some point someone (probably Artie) had slipped a paper cup of machine-coffee into his hands, but he cannot bring himself to smell it, let alone taste it when Kurt cannot, so he holds it numbly as it cools, his eyes firmly closed, head resting against the wall behind him.

            ‘Blaine?'  Mercedes' voice is soft and compassionate, and in a way it is a thousand times worse than being shouted at because Mercedes used to be Kurt's best friend.  Mercedes knew Kurt before any of the rest of them – Rachel was right – they deserved to know sooner.  He should have fought to get them into the room to see Kurt.  Disgusted with himself, he fights down another wave of nausea.

Gentle fingers prise the cool cup from his tense fingers, then take his hand and hoist him to his feet.

            ‘Come on, Blaine.  I think you need some fresh air.'

Numbly, he follows.

The morning air is freezing but it does help settle his stomach.  They stand together in silence, blindly watching patients and their families buzz from vehicles and buses to and from the hospital reception.  His mind is in a whirl and barely keeping up with events but he knows he truly owes Mercedes.

            ‘Thanks.'

            ‘You were looking a bit pale back there.'  Her eyes are soft and kind when Blaine brings himself to meet them.

            ‘I'm sorry for not letting you guys know about Kurt sooner; it was unforgivable and –‘

            ‘- Hey, I get it.  You weren't exactly in the right frame of mind to be thinking of everyone else back there, Blaine.  It's not your responsibility to be strong for everyone.  You are allowed to break down.  I mean – you mean a lot to each other…  Kurt is one of my best friends, and Rachel and Artie – we're family, you know?  Yeah, it would have been good to know how he was sooner, but you're only human, and it was a shock to all of us.'  She reaches out and takes his hand gently – it is only then that he realises that he had been staring down at the floor.  ‘Look, I know you think you do, but you don't have to be perfect all the time.'

            ‘Seeing him like that…  I wish it was me and not him.'

            ‘I know.  I think about what's going on in the world and all the violence and the hate and…I have to believe God has a plan for all of us, because, if He doesn't then…'

He nods, brow furrowed – his turn to gently squeeze her hand in reassurance.  His reward is a sad smile. 

            ‘Look, Blaine; I don't know the full story, but it's pretty clear to me that that boy in there is still in love with you.  And I think what you have together is something truly special and unique and a gift –‘

            ‘-I'm with –‘

            ‘-Douglas.  I know.'  She sighs then, eyes darting upwards as if looking for an answer.  ‘Tell me about him?'

            ‘I…  I don't deserve him.'

            ‘Why?  Way I see it – you have two men who are head-over-heels for you.  I'd kill for that!  Now, I know at least one of them is pretty special, and I know you – you're a good person, Blaine.  You tellin' me that Kurt and Douglas are bad judges of character?'

            ‘No.  It's…  I just…'  He huffs in frustration.

            ‘You don't want to hurt either of them.  But what you're doing isn't just hurting them – it's hurting you.  So, going back to Our Lord Above – I don't think He does things by chance.  I'm not saying He let Kurt get hurt to send you a message.  But I believe He has a plan, Blaine.  We just have to figure out what it is.'