At the moment, Carole hated a lot of things. She hated that Kurt was in the hospital three hours' drive away, she hated that Burt wasn't sleeping, she hated that Finn wouldn't talk to her about anything that was bothering him, and most of all she hated feeling so useless.

Coming back from dropping Kurt off at the hospital in Athens, Carole had been fighting tears for the entire drive, her hands gripping the steering wheel with whitened knuckles. She'd wished that Burt had been there to say goodbye, but she couldn't tell if Kurt wished the same, and that probably hurt more than anything else.

Kurt hadn't spoken to her. Not really. He'd said goodbye and given her a hug, but he hadn't quite looked her in the eye since Saturday and the barrier between him and everything else had been so close to tangible.

So Carole left him at the hospital, drove the three hours back to Lima, made coffee, and sat down in her empty kitchen.

She didn't have to go in to work until late; she could take the graveyard shifts most nights now that she didn't have to be there at night to monitor Kurt, but it left a painful gap in her schedule and made it harder to be there for Finn and Burt. She was always tired and never wanting to sleep.

The doorbell rang and made her jump, nearly spilling her coffee over the counter. She quickly set her mug down and went to the front door, opening it to find Hiram standing on the porch.

"Hiram, hi," she said, caught off-guard by the surprise visit. Her heart suddenly lurched in half a second of panic. The trial wasn't until May 22nd, but a lot could happen between now and then. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no, I just stopped by to see if Burt was in," he reassured her with a flap of the hand.

Carole's heart resumed it's normal pace. "Well, he's in Washington," she said. "But come in." She stepped aside, and Hiram passed by her with a thank-you.

"So… how's Kurt doing?" Hiram inquired, declining Carole's offer of coffee.

"He's… he's all right," Carole said hesitantly, shrugging slightly. She knew that Hiram was privy to a lot of details regarding Kurt's past, but that didn't mean she wanted to talk about it with him. "He's working hard."

"Good; I'm glad to hear it."

Carole sipped her coffee. "What did you need to speak to Burt about?"

"Nothing hugely urgent," Hiram said, leaning against the counter. "I just found out who's filling first chair for defense. I figured Burt might like to know."

"Who is it?"

"Her name is Ruth Summers."

"Is that bad or good?"

"Well, it's an obstacle; I won't lie," Hiram replied, tugging on the cuff of his jacket. "I went up against Ruth on a murder case years ago. She's a shark, and she's tough to beat."

Carole swallowed. "Hiram, you don't really think John Truman's going to walk away from this, do you?"

Hiram shook his head. "No. Regardless of whether or not we win this trial, he's not getting off scot-free. There's no question of whether or not he committed a crime – even Ruth Summers wouldn't try to argue that. The big debate here is whether he knewwhat he was doing."

Carole frowned. "But how could he not?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

Rachel didn't see Quinn for the rest of the school day, including Glee rehearsal (which irked Rachel since Nationals was fast approaching and the club needed everyone), so the moment she got home, she picked up the phone in her bedroom and dialed Quinn's home number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Quinn, it's Rachel."

"Hi."

"I was wondering—"

"I've been suspended," Quinn cut her off, answering Rachel's question before she'd stated it.

"What?!" Rachel exclaimed, sinking onto the edge of her bed. "But Jacob—"

"I know."

"This is so unfair."

"Jacob was being a total asshole with no concept of boundaries, but he wasn't physically attacking anyone, so as far as Figgins is concerned there's not enough to suspend him," Quinn explained, her tone laced with bitterness.

Rachel clenched her teeth. "You shouldn't be taking the fall for that— that— that sniveling rat—"

"Is this your way of saying thank you?"

Rachel huffed. "Yes. Thank you. What you did was… very noble."

There was a pause on the other end. "Rachel, are you doing okay?"

"…Yeah, why?" Rachel frowned.

"I know you saw Kurt yesterday, and you seemed really quiet at school this morning."

Rachel sighed, flopping backwards onto her bed. "I'm fine," she said. "Just… I want to focus on Nationals for now. We've only got so much time to prepare, after all. When is your suspension over?"

"It's just the rest of this week, but Rachel…" Quinn paused in a way that made Rachel tense, bracing herself for bad news. "I can't perform at Nationals."

"What?!" Rachel cried, sitting bolt upright again. "Why?!"

"Figgins wanted to suspend me for two weeks, but that would've affected my grades too much," Quinn said. "I had to make a deal with him."

"But Quinn, we need your voice for the competition!" Rachel protested, her voice rising. "We've already lost Kurt – we needeveryone! Didn't Mr. Schue try to fight this?"

"Yeah, but I didn't have a choice, okay? I'm sorry. I'll still come to rehearsals and help with the choreography and everything, but I can't compete."

Rachel let out a heavy breath, torn between her fresh anger and remaining gratitude.

"You'll be fine, Rachel. You still have enough members."

Quinn said goodbye and hung up, and Rachel dropped her phone onto the bed beside her, annoyed that Quinn didn't seem to understand what was most important.

Kurt hated this feeling. Restlessness was gnawing away at his intestines, making it impossible to sit still, but at the same time he felt so fatigued in every cell of his body that he didn't feel like he could do anything, nor did he even want to. It was enough to drive him insane.

Well…

While Dustin, Robin, and Bruce (Alex had been discharged back in March) crowded around their table in the common room, playing Connect-Four as usual, Kurt paced in his room. He had too much energy to sleep (he'd tried), and not enough energy to be social with the other nutcases.

And wow, he was starting to sound like Robbie.

Tugging his fingers through his hair, Kurt's teeth gritted of their own accord as his bare feet wore a hole into the carpet. He didn't know what he wanted. It felt too quiet in his head, like the eye of a hurricane – there was nothing happening now but he was so close to the edge. He could feel it. Two steps in the wrong direction and he'd slip away and he didn't know what to do.

He thought about calling his dad, but Burt was in Washington and busy with House sittings, and the thought of him made Kurt's lungs hurt. He abruptly realized that he was chewing on the cuticle of his index finger, and quickly dropped his hand, twisting his fingers together to keep them away from his mouth. He thought he'd dropped the nail-biting habit years ago.

The shoebox containing all of the letters addressed to him rested on top of his little bureau, glaring at Kurt every time he turned around and daring him to open it. He'd picked it up at least five times since he got back this morning with the intent of reading the letters, but each time had set it back down without lifting the lid. He didn't really understand what was stopping him, but every time he thought about the small stack of envelopes inside the box his stomach flipped over and made him dizzy.

So he paced.

Kurt's skin felt charged with static, but his internal organs felt cold and abandoned, and the contrast was making him nauseous.

"Can't stop moving?"

Kurt turned around to see his roommate just coming in. By now he'd figured out that, while Scott ranted and fidgeted and spoke in jumbled language for roughly ninety percent of the time, he managed occasional glaring moments of lucidity. Judging by the sharp and focused look in his eyes, this was one of those moments.

"No, I can't," Kurt sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

Scott sat on his own bed, scratching at the scruff on his double chin. "It's the bugs," he said.

"What bugs?" Kurt asked, not sure if Scott was still fully awake or if he was already slipping back.

"It's what you get when the meds start fighting with your brain," Scott replied, staring thoughtfully at the wall. "Makes you feel like there's bugs everywhere."

Kurt didn't say anything. Part of him was relieved that someone understood what was happening, and the rest of him was terrified that said person was sicker than he was.

"How many needles you get?" Scott asked, rubbing a palm over the back of his skull.

"What?"

"Needles, needles," Scott insisted, the glazed-over look returned to his eyes. "How many'd they give you? I got nineteen – nineteen! And they read your brainwaves and get your Social Security numbers – they can do that. Modern technology. It's amazing."

He laughed, and Kurt sighed, flopping back onto his bed to stare at the ceiling. He wondered if he sounded and looked as crazy as Scott when he transitioned.

The ceiling over his head seemed to be moving downward, closing the room in on itself, but Kurt didn't move as the pressure built up on his chest. His thoughts were jumpy and disconnected and he couldn't stay focused. He was torn between wanting to scratch all his skin off his body and needing to curl up in bed and sleep.

He wished someone else would take over, just for a while.

The only sound in the dining room was the ticking of the pendulum clock on the wall as Blaine sat at the table, concentrating on the history textbook open in front of him. He'd been sitting in one place for nearly two hours, and his eyes were beginning to swim with orange-highlighted paragraphs and hundred-year-old battles and dates he didn't really have the energy to remember. Yawning, he dropped his highlighter onto the book and leaned back in his chair, stretching and rubbing his eyes. The bones in his neck and spine popped, nearly as loudly as the clock's ticking, and he let out a heavy breath. Maybe it was time for a break.

The clock clacked away on the wall, stabbing through the air repeatedly and landing in Blaine's head in what felt like an oncoming headache. Clack, clack, clack, like a metronome.

Blaine's ears were so attuned to the rhythmic ticking that when the phone rang in the kitchen, he jumped and nearly fell out of his seat.

With the clock reduced again to background noise, Blaine stood up and quickly grabbed the phone out of its cradle on the kitchen counter on the third ring. "Hello?"

"…Hi."

In half a second, Blaine's heart dropped into his stomach. "K-Kurt?" he stammered, not entirely sure if he'd heard the voice right.

"Yeah."

Blaine leaned against the counter, uncertain of his own center of gravity. "Are – are you okay?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

There was a heavy exhale on the other end, and then a noise like Kurt had sunk down to sit on the floor. "I don't know, I…" Kurt trailed off, and Blaine could practically see him biting his lip. "I wanted to talk to you."

"I thought you hated me," Blaine said quietly. It wasn't an accusation – instead, a question craving contradiction.

"I tried," Kurt replied. "It didn't work."

Blaine laughed involuntarily at that. The chuckle died away quickly, however. Laughs seemed way too out of place. "Well, I… wouldn't blame you if you did."

Kurt was silent.

Blaine's fingertips rubbed together nervously at his sides. "Kurt, are you—" he started, his words halting in his chest. He tried again. "Are you alright? What's going on in the hospital?"

Another exhale, shorter and heavier this time. "Nothing," Kurt answered. "Nothing's happening."

Kurt's voice was bitter and a little cold, and Blaine's stomach twisted around itself. "I heard you were back in Lima this weekend," he said, hoping for a slight change of topic. "Does that mean you're feeling better?"

"I just wanted to spend some time at home. My roommate never shuts up."

Blaine chewed nervously on the inside of his lip. "I miss you," he admitted, the words escaping his mouth without his say-so. He held his breath.

There was silence on the other end and for a long moment, Blaine thought Kurt wasn't going to reply.

"I miss you too."

"Are you coming back soon?"

Kurt sighed, making the line crackle. "I don't know, Blaine…"

"It's okay," Blaine saved him from having to elaborate. "But if you do come back for another weekend, I'd love to see you. I… I don't like not knowing if you're all right."

"I think it's been pretty well established that I'm not all right."

"Well," Blaine shrugged. "I don't like not knowing what you're going through."

"…Thanks."

Blaine swallowed, his heart thudding against his ribs. "Kurt, did you get the letter I wrote you? I gave it to Finn but I didn't hear anything back…"

"Yeah," Kurt said, his voice turned unsteady all of a sudden. "I haven't read it yet, though. Sorry."

Blaine couldn't help feeling slightly offended, but he forced himself to remember that he was just an extra cog in this situation – if he was thrown into the fray, he'd only stop everything up. "It's fine," he said. "But, um… read it when you can, okay?"

"I will."

Blaine hugged his abdomen with his free arm, hating that he couldn't see Kurt in front of him. "Can I ask what you've been doing in the hospital? How your treatment's going?"

There was a soft thump on the other end, like Kurt had let his head fall back against the wall a little too hard. "It's hard to tell if it's working," he said. "Mostly I'm just tired all the time. They have me on a lot of medication, though, so…"

Blaine didn't know what to say to that.

"I'm really scared."

The words were spoken so quietly that Blaine almost didn't hear them amongst the static on the line, and his heart skipped several beats. His throat was beginning to constrict.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," he said. "I… I completely messed everything up."

"It was as much my fault as yours," Kurt said, his voice shaking. "I should've told you what was going on. It's not— It's—"

Blaine frowned at Kurt's stammer, uncertain if he'd been tripping over his words or if the line had cut out for a second. "Kurt?"

Silence.

"Hello? You still there?"

"…Daddy?"

Blaine flinched and nearly dropped the phone.

"Daddy, I can't find Raleigh."

Before Kurt could say anything else, Blaine hung up. He leaned heavily against the counter, trying to breathe without throwing up as the ticking of the clock in the dining room grew steadily louder in the quiet.