When he first opens his eyes, all he can see is white and he's absolutely terrified.

There's just a blinding, blank white expanse above him. His mind fills to the brim with white and it's like someone has painted his frame of vision with white-out. His head is throbbing and he's trying, struggling to call out for his dad, but his throat feels dry and dusty and unused and he can't control his mouth even as he struggles to open it.

He closes his eyes and reopens them.

There's still only white above him, and he wonders if he's dead. He's never believed in God or Heaven, but he figures that if he did, this is what it would look like. Just a blank white, filmy screen above him. But he can't be dead, he can't. Even more frantic, he shuts his eyes. Opens them again.

And the horrifyingly white image above him begins to clarify. He can make out the the stuccoed edges of a white ceiling. It's a struggle, but he manages to shift his eyes downwards and sees his pale arm wrapped in a white gauze, solid cast and the off-white, slightly grey blankets over his legs, covering the bottom half of his body. His other arm has a—dear God—needle inside of it, and his eyes trail upwards to where there's an IV dripping some clear fluid into his body.

He lies his head back down in exhaustion, realizing there's a pillow supporting his neck.

He's in a hospital.

This much he's realized. Something bad has happened and he's in a hospital and his head and his body hurts.

He has always hated hospitals. They bring him back to memories of his mother, once so full of life and joyful, lying limp in a hospital bed, her hair lank and unkempt and her face unwashed. It reminds him of his father coaxing him to tell his mother he loves her when he didn't know this woman laying in front of him—this woman, so weak and fragile, was not his mother; it couldn't be. His mother was energetic with a larger-than-life personality, not this lethargic, sickly other woman laying in front of him, wasting away in a hospital bed. Tears sting the corner of his eyes at this memory and he blinks rapidly, determined not to let them fall. His dad doesn't like it when he's emotional; it makes him look like a wimp.

Where's his dad?

As unmanly and childish as it is, he's always needed his dad. His dad is the one who's there during the late nights when he wakes up from a nightmare whether it be the bullies pushing him into the lockers and throwing him into the dumpsters at McKinley, calling him "faggot" or "homo" or "freak," or the visions of his mother, pale and motionless in the hospital, or her casket being lowered into the ground. His father, in spite of his suggestions and advice to be more manly and not to draw so much attention to himself, always holds him and hugs him until his sobs subside, until he calms down and falls into a deep, serene sleep. His dad always makes him warm milk and whole wheat toast, just the way he likes it, and his dad upholds Friday dinners even after his mother passed.

"D-dad?" he manages, his throat parched. His voice comes out in an unused, cracked tone and he fumbles and tries again. "Dad?"

He lies there, pathetic, and tears fill his eyes again. This time they overflow, running in streams down his cheeks, and he sniffles pitifully. Where is his father? Everything hurts and he's in the hospital, his own personal hell on earth, and he just wants his dad and-

"Kurt!" comes a muffled cry, and there's a body holding him; comforting arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his sobs catch in his throat and he shakes in relief because his dad is here and wait...

The body against his isn't clad in the comfortable, old flannel shirts that his dad always has on (in spite of the fact that Kurt has purchased him assorted, simple Polos and argyle sweaters). The body is not reassuring in the way his dad's sturdy frame is; it's lean and muscular and wrapped in a plain, tight black t-shirt that his father would never wear. The arms are slighter, secure around him, but the person hugging him doesn't smell like strong cologne and aftershave and engine oil like his father always has. The man holding him smells like coffee and chocolate underneath the fatigue that radiates off of him.

Kurt emits a choked, scared noise and the arms let go of him immediately, releasing Kurt back into the hospital bed.

"Kurt! Kurt, how are you feeling? Are you okay, baby? Did I hurt you?" the voice spirals out in alarm and in tone and the man who's talking to Kurt doesn't even try to hide the escalating panic in his voice.

Kurt's eyes focus in on the man in front of him. He's wearing dark skinny jeans and a solid black t-shirt. The man is cradling his bandaged side and there are scattered band-aids over gashes and scratches in his face, but he is gorgeous none-the-less. He has tousled, dark chocolate hair and gold-flecked hazel eyes. His chin is dotted with dark brown stubble and he looks weary. His expressive eyebrows climb into his forehead as he stares at Kurt in concern.

But Kurt has no idea who this man is.

Kurt studies the handsome stranger suspiciously, his heart hammering in his chest. His mind scream out in protest as his head throbs. "W-who are you? How do you know my name?"

The man's forehead lines with anxiety and his eyes fill with panic. He looks horrified. His hands shaking, he places his fingers on the side of Kurt's hospital blanket. He starts out in a caring, yet trembling voice, "Babe... Kurt... don't you know who I am? It's me. Blaine. Your husband."

Kurt stares at the man, trying to get ahold of his surroundings. "I... I don't know who you are. Who the—who the hell are you? I don't have a husband. I'm not married."

"Babe," the man breathes hard as though Kurt has just punched him in the stomach, his eyes wide circle of shock in his face. He places a quivering hand on Kurt's uninjured one, "Come on, Kurt. It's me. Blaine. Blaine Anderson? You have to remember!"

"Stop calling me 'baby,'" Kurt protests weakly but defiantly. He pulls his hand out of this stranger's—Blaine's, if that's even his real name—grasp. "Don't touch me. I don't know you. Get away from me." He realizes his behavior is childish, but who is this man and how can he even suggestthat they're married and that Kurt doesn't remember any of it?

Kurt would know whether or not he'd been hitched. He knows he wouldn't do it when he was only fifteen. He's a freshman in high school and he's not ready to get married. His dreams are huge and he still needs to go to Broadway and he's not married, he's never even had a boyfriend or a first kiss, and this creepy pervert can get out of here and get the hell away from him.

But the man—Blaine—doesn't give up so easily. He grabs onto Kurt's uninjured hand again, desperation and despair coloring every one of his features. His nervous hazel eyes meet Kurt's blue ones. "Kurt, it's me. Blaine. Don't you remember? We met when you were a sixteen, a sophomore at McKinley. We did long distance for a year when you were in college and I was a senior in high school. We made love for the first time when you were a senior at McKinley. We found a place, a gorgeous flat, together a year and a half ago." Blaine is rambling now, struggling to get everything he wants to say out, and Kurt is trying so hard not to listen to anything he has to say. "Kurt, we got married three months ago. I let you plan the whole wedding because you were convinced I'd mess it up somehow. For our honeymoon we backpacked across Europe and you made me carry your suitcases the whole way." His voice is hysterical, begging, pleading.

Kurt snatches his hand out of Blaine's grasp.

"I said," he hisses venomously, "stay the hell away from me."

Who is this Blaine, telling him what he should remember? Blaine's manipulating Kurt, lying to him. Kurt has no idea how this man knows what his name is or how he knows where Kurt went to school, but everything he's saying is a lie.

Blaine staggers back as though he's been slapped. His hands come up over his open, distressed mouth and even from where he's sitting on the bed, Kurt can see that Blaine has started to cry. Hot tears spill down Blaine's cheeks in rivers; his eyes are glazed and shiny. Blaine moves away from Kurt's bed, his hands wrung, his fingers bent in despair.

"Doctor!" Blaine screams, running to the door. Kurt's heart jumps at the pain and the rawness of Blaine's voice. "Doctor, we need your help please."

When a nurse notifies him that a doctor is on the way, Blaine pauses.

He steps back into the room, his hands straining and Kurt can see that Blaine wants to touch him. Kurt whimpers, pulling away from Blaine's reaching touch and wraps himself protectively in the grey hospital blanket, cocooning himself into safety.

"I want my dad," he chokes pathetically. Kurt doesn't realize he's crying until his pillow drips wet with water. "I want my dad."

Blaine's eyes widen with horror again. His body shakes as he takes a few steps away from Kurt's bed and pulls out his cellphone, quickly dialing in a number. Kurt has to strain to hear, but he can make out Blaine whispering in hushed tones when the person on the other line picks up. "Burt. Burt, Kurt's awake... I think something's really wrong."