March 26 2013, 7:30 AM

"Blaine."

"Mmph."

"Blaine, wake up."

"Not ready."

"Blaine!"

Something fell against Blaine's face, and he rolled over, lifting the offending object. It was a pillow. He flung it back at his attacker.

"If you're gonna hit somebody, don't leave the weapon, dummy."

Micheal whipped Blaine's blanket off of him.

"Morning pillow fights are excellent energy accellerants. Get up! We've gotta be at the Square by ten."

"What time is it now?" He sat up anyway, rubbing his hands through his hair.

"Just early enough to give you time to complete your insane fucking morning routine. Didn't you tell me it was even longer in high school?"

"Oh, yeah." Blaine laughed. The gel days. "Glad that's over with."

"Yeah, me, too. Keeps me from having to wake up at 6:30 to get your ass outta bed." Micheal danced away from the next pillow that Blaine threw. "Now get UP! I might even give you a courtesy blow job in the shower if you're quick about it." He disappeared into the bathroom.

Blaine grinned and launched himself off the end of his bed. "Doesn't that violate the 'just-friends-before-sunset' rule?"

"Who cares?" Micheal called back. He leaned out of the bathroom doorway. "Today we get to be extra-gay!" He tried to do jazz-hands with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, making Blaine laugh before he stepped in to start the water.

March 27, 5:30 PM

It only took Kurt twenty-five minutes to get back to his apartment in Bushwick. Traffic was smooth, his phone had a full battery, and he didn't have to root around in his satchel for his bus pass. But he didn't notice any of these rare conveniences.

He was throwing things into a bag (toothbrush, jeans, soap, I'm out of soap, why do I care about soap?) when Rachel slid the door open with some effort.

"Hey, hon, I got your text, what's happening with Blaine?"

"He's in the hospital."

SLAM. Bag packed. Kurt snatched it off the bed and it fell open immediately, scattering all of his things across the floor.

"Do you know why?"

"No."

He started to re-pack his things and Rachel sat stiffly beside him, biting her lip. The silence felt tense and he looked up.

"What?"

"Kurt." She reached for the shirt in his hands. "You're folding everything into eighths."

"It has to fit, Rachel," he snapped, but he let her put the shirt back in the bag, loosely folded in half.

"Kurt." She recognized the signs. He'd been just like this when his dad was diagnosed with cancer.

"What."

"It's--" She chewed on her lip and looked at him. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Kurt drew his knees up and rested his elbows on them. He reached back and straightened a perfectly neat piece of hair behind his left ear. He straightened it again. Rachel bit her lip so hard it almost bled. "I think it is."