It's hot up in the hayloft. It's hot everywhere, really, but here in the hayloft, half-empty with just the season's first cut of hay, it's very hot. The sunlight is blazing through the open loft door, and when Kurt half-opens his eyes, he can see bits of dust from the hay dancing lazily around, almost sparkling.
They are beautiful, sparkling, but not as beautiful as the sparks in Robert's blue eyes. Robert is propped on one elbow, looking down into Kurt's face, kissing him gently. Kurt lifts his head slightly, straining to meet Robert's lips, as the nervous butterflies in his stomach are slowly moving further down his body, coalescing just underneath Robert's hand in moving in Kurt's trousers.
Robert unbuttoned the fly slowly – Kurt had always hated those trousers with their tiny buttons – exposing his hand – and Kurt – to the warm air. They are both shaking, shuddering breaths and clumsy with unaccustomed want and need.
This is wrong they told me this is wrong this is wrong but oh god oh god please oh god don't stop it can't be wrong oh god it can't be
Suddenly, there is too much air in the room. Kurt's head is suddenly spinning and he can't breathe with all the air and light around him and he doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry but he awkwardly jerks his hips once twice into Robert's hand and his entire body is filled with warmth and joy and light.
They share a shy and trembling kiss that is quickly broken when Kurt hears his father's voice calling from the dooryard
“Kurt! You in here?” Burt's voice is definitely just downstairs, just outside the barn door.
“Oh my god,” both boys scramble to their feet, Kurt wiping his stomach with his shirt tail, awkwardly pulling up his pants, hurriedly shuffling towards the ladder.
He can't leave like this, though. He turns back, smiling into Blaine's face, his heart soaring when he sees the answering smile in Blaine's golden eyes.
“Tomorrow?” Kurt whispers, his smile widening when Blaine nods shyly.
“Okay,” Kurt giggles as he leans in for a kiss, “because I really have to go now or my dad's going to kill us both.”
“Kurt, you don't have to --” Blaine's mumbles from underneath his lips.
“Shhhh, tomorrow, we'll do it again. For you.” Kurt can hardly speak for giggling, can't believe how forward and brave he feels, can't believe that he's kissing a boy – a boy -- here in the hayloft with his father just beginning to bellow below him.
With one last peck on Blaine's lips, Kurt starts down the ladder, turning and swinging to grab the floor joist with both hands to drop himself to floor – as he'd done countless times before.
Except countless times before, he wasn't loose-limbed and giddy and his limbs weren't buzzing with his first-ever orgasm that really counted because it was caused by someone else, someone who thinks he's wonderful and kisses like a dream and his 15 year-old body doesn't recall that the floor is a lot farther down than he thinks. He lands awkwardly, hears a loud snapping crunch, and rolls to the floor, gasping at the pain and clutching his knee. His knee will never be the same.
“Kurt!” Blaine's voice is louder now and Kurt wants to tell him he's got to get back back back up in the hayloft before his dad sees him because then he'll suspect and then suddenly, they are now in the dairy of his father's farm, Blaine carrying in two heavy buckets of fresh milk and winking at Kurt as he sits churning butter.
*****
Kurt has a very serious conversation with the man who taught him mathematics when he was 17, but Kurt can't remember what it's about. Kurt thinks it might be about geometry, but the shapes are all so pretty that he gets distracted, especially when they start floating around him.
*****
The alarm clock is ringing, ringing ringing and Kurt moans for Blaine to turn it off. Blaine isn't in bed, though, and Kurt has to whack at the bedside table in order to find it and flick the switch on the back of it before the damn bell silences.
Kurt buries his head back in his pillow – his head is pounding, his ass is aching and he only has a vague recollection of leaving that party last night. He remember going out to the supper club, Rachel excited and chattering over a new role, toasting everyone with champagne. He thinks he remembers dancing with Rachel dear god he hopes it was Rachel and trying to remember has just made him nauseous and his head hurt like hell so he tries to stop.
Kurt knows Blaine is there by the way the bed shifts as Blaine sits down next to him.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” Blaine gently teases. “I brought you coffee.”
Kurt groans. “You are an angel and I love you.”
Blaine laughs. “I love you too.” He smoothes a hand over Kurt's wild hair as Kurt struggles to sit up enough to sip at the steaming mug Blaine hands him.
“Why the fuck did you let me drink so much?”
Blaine groans and drops his head into his hands. “Well, we were doing okay until they brought out the champagne.”
“Oh, baby. And champagne always knocks you on your ass.” Kurt nods – slightly – in sympathy.
“And champagne always knocks me on my ass, that's right. I was in no shape to curtail your drinking.”
“I'm sorry, baby.”
“I'm sorry, too.”
*****
“What do you have to be sorry for, baby?” Blaine's whisper is confused.
“The.....the champagne. I'm sorry for the champagne.”
Blaine chuckles quietly in the dark. He's been sitting next to Kurt's bed since they brought him out of surgery, shifting uncomfortably when too much weight rests on his shoulder. He squints at his watch – radium painted hands and numbers glowing in the dimness – not quite 2am.
He's not sure what Kurt's dreaming this time, he hasn't actually regained full consciousness for longer than a minute yet, but he thinks the fact that he's mumbling and muttering and clearly dreaming is a good sign. Blaine loves that Kurt talks in his sleep. Here, he's had to speak sharply to him, at times, to keep him from revealing too much when there are too many people around. But now, in the middle of the night, in the dark, they can whisper to each other and it's almost like being back home, together, before all of this hurt and pain and anguish happened.
Blaine wraps his hand more securely around Kurt's, and tries to resettle himself enough to go back to sleep.
*****
Kurt is hot. He's so hot, he can feel sweat beading on his upper lip and behind his kneecaps.
“I swear to god, Blaine, I think my fingernails are sweating.”
Blaine laughs beside him, that wonderfully sexy deep rumble in his chest. It's August in the city and scorchingly hot. They've kept their window-shades drawn all day, keeping out the blazing sun, but now it's night so they've thrown everything open in the hopes of catching even the slightest breeze.
They are lying on their backs, side-by-side on their bed, completely nude, arms and legs slightly spread like starfish, endeavoring to be close without actually touching, letting the meager air form their fan play over their bodies.
“Do you know, Blaine?” Kurt murmurs. “I think this is the very first time I've had you naked beside me without having absolutely any desire to fuck you.”
“Shhh, Kurt,” Blaine whispers. “Shhh, darling, not now.”
Kurt goes back to contemplating Blaine's naked body – or at least what he can see of it without raising his head. Blaine is glistening with sweat wherever the breeze from the fan can't reach – making his lusciously tanned skin glow in the moonlight – glimmer like gold – 24 karat gold, like his mother's diamond necklace. Or maybe it was the locket. Where was that locket? Did his father have it in a box somewhere, or did he give it to--
“Hey,” Blaine brings his thoughts back from wandering. “Squeeze my hand, will you?”
Kurt doesn't remember taking Blaine's hand – is almost certain they'd sworn not to even touch fingertips because of the heat.
“Why?” Kurt asks.
“I just need to know you're okay before I can sleep.”

*****
At dawn the next day, Kurt finally wakes up for real. Blaine is asleep, sitting up in a straight-backed chair, his feet propped on the end of Kurt's bed. His head lolls back against the wall behind him, his face bearded with what must be several days' stubble.
Kurt watches him for a moment – he looks exhausted, even while sleeping. There's a gash on his forehead, a bruise on his cheekbone, and his left arm is strapped tightly to his side. His uniform is absolutely filthy – stained dark brown all over.
At the slight shift in Kurt's breathing, Blaine's eyes snap open, instantly leaning forward towards Kurt, brushing the hair off of Kurt's forehead with his good hand.
“Red?” He says quietly, but firmly.
A shuffling out of Kurt's line of sight, gentle footsteps, and then Ginger comes into view.
She quickly takes his vitals, giving both he and Blaine a reassuring smile.
“See? What did I tell you, Blainey? Nothing to worry about.”
Blaine chuckles, without humour. “Uh-hunh.”
Ginger bends closer to Kurt, peering into his face. “Jesus, Kurt. You look like hell!”
Kurt's eyes widen.
“What's it? Two, three days without your cold cream?....I think I see the beginnings of crow's feet.”
Kurt narrows his eyes, raises an eyebrow and glares at her.
“See?” she gestures with one hand towards Kurt's face. “Practically back to normal.”
Blaine laughs quietly at Kurt's expression, relief radiating off him.
“Water?” Kurt croaks. His mouth is so dry.
Ginger nods, pouring him a small cup and helping him sip it.
Blaine sits back in his chair, sighing uncomfortably. He uses his right arm to shift his left arm to an easier position, scratching at the skin underneath the edge of the bandage.
“Hey now. You leave that alone, Anderson,” Ginger slaps at his hand. “You dislodge my text-book perfect strapping and there's going to be hell to pay.”
“Aren't you a nurse? Are you supposed to have sympathy or empathy for all creatures, or something?” Blaine pretends to complain.
“General sympathy, yes. Sympathy for idiots who purposefully throw themselves under collapsing walls, no.”
“What?” Kurt's hearing is still muddled, and he's not quite sure he's heard this correctly.
“This numbskull here,” Ginger jerked her thumb toward Blaine, “went and tossed me out of the way when a wall – an entire wall – was coming down, but didn't get himself out of the way in time.”
“Red, you know I had to--”
“-- and that was the second wall he'd been under in the space of a few hours. Thinks he's a damned Knight in Shining Armour, I imagine.”
“I know he is,” Kurt says quietly.
From down the darkened ward, a loud moan, followed by a plea of “Nurse!” Ginger looks Kurt over one last time, and points a finger at Blaine, admonishing.
“You let him know what's going on? And remember, shift change – such as it is – will be in 20 minutes, and the next head nurse in charge isn't all sweetness and light, like me, so you won't be able to put your feet up on the bed any more.”
She hurried off down the ward, muttering something about “damned stupid hospital corners in the bedsheets.”
“What....what happened?”
“First things, first. We need to keep you calm, okay? The blast ripped open a very important vein – or artery, or something – something really important – and they were able to repair it so you didn't bleed to death--
Blaine closes his eyes against the memory of clutching Kurt's leg as tight as he can and running along with the stretcher toward the makeshift hospital, so much blood spilling so fast between his fingers is this tight enough oh god please let this be enough please please oh fucking please don't let this happen please let him be okay Kurt's face growing paler and more waxy with every moment. And the horrific, violent spurts – every pump of Kurt's heart emptying him of blood – as the operating nurse placed her sterile, gloved hand over Blaine's to take his place.
He'd been soaked with his lover's blood, dripping with it. He thought if he had to wait until the surgery was over, he'd go crazy. He'd thrown himself back in the rescue effort, recklessly taking chances, until Kath had returned from helping a wounded soldier with the news that Kurt was now in recovery. Once they were sure no one was left in the wreckage, he'd wanted to plant himself at Kurt's bedside and never leave. It took Ginger's combined love and scoldings to convince him he needed to wash up before he even touched Kurt.
Many of the nurses and doctors were wounded themselves, so the usual formal practices were being modified as necessary, to account for missing crews. Strict military discipline was a bit lax these days.
Blaine was allowed to stay at Kurt's side – he didn't know why and he didn't really care. He suspected Ginger had a great deal to do with it. But, it didn't matter any more – now that Kurt was looking back at him with those blue eyes he'd dreamed of for so long.
Kurt shook their joined hands gently, questioning.
“Sorry, ummm.....distracted. Ummm, we need to keep you calm. If your blood pressure goes up, you could blow that patch-job right off. So, you need to stay calm. Okay, baby?”
“Okay,” Kurt's pulse had started hammering as soon as Blaine mentioned it. He started to take deep breaths, trying to slow it.
“You were in the HQ when it was hit with a doodlebug – a robot bomb.”
“I remember buzzing.”
“That's it.”
“And....and Gwen?”
Blaine looked at him, sadly. “She didn't make it, baby.”
Kurt took in a sharp breath.
“Calm, baby, you gotta be calm.”
It physically hurt to breath. Calm, Kurt, calm. Calm down. Deep breaths. Come on now, Kurt, deep breaths.
“Her body took a great deal of the energy of the bomb blast, and a great deal of the shrapnel. She saved at least two soldiers, not including yourself.”
Tears were sliding down Kurt's cheeks. It hurts, calm calm calm Kurt, slow down.
“The weight of her body on your leg is what kept you from bleeding to death before we could get you out.”
“That's.....if it had to happen, that's how she would have wanted to go.....giving everything for.... the soldiers.”
Blaine just nodded, tears in his eyes, squeezing Kurt's hand tightly.
Kurt squeezes his eyes shut against the tears, trying to match his breathing to Blaine's.

*****
Kurt needs a few day more of healing, of stable blood pressure before they can fly him back to the States. He supervises, from his bed, the gathering of their props and costumes, the band's instruments, to take inventory. The USO wants to send them home as soon as possible – but they are adamant they need to finish the tour.
“Gwen would have a fit – an absolute full-on screaming fit – if we left without seeing every soldier we could,” Ingrid fumes. “If we don't, she's going to come back from the grave and haunt us all.”
Kurt winced – maybe it was too soon to joke about Gwen's death? But no. No, that's exactly what she'd be doing if it was someone else dead. She looked life in straight in the face, and called a spade a spade.
Besides, she would. She'd be having a fit right now. Screeching and probably throwing things and creating a ruckus and causing problems. Goddammit, he was going to miss her.
In the end, they salvaged enough clothes – and Kurt modified quite a few things, hemming and mending – and they miraculously had enough red lipstick – and perfume – to get them through the last two shows.
“You'd better make these the best two fucking shows you've ever done,” Kurt admonished, “Or Gwen is really going to come back from the dead and steal all your clothes, and then you'll all have to go out there in nothing but your lipstick and perfume.”
The crowd gathered around his bed chuckled sadly. The doctors wouldn't give him the 'okay' to go with him. Blaine looked like he was about to sit on Kurt's chest to hold him safe and sound in bed when Kurt had complained.

*****
Kurt is restless, fretting and impatient. He wants to get out of bed, wants to be free of these needles and poking and bandages and pains – but realizes as soon as the doctors let him out of bed, they're going to ship him back to New York and he won't see Blaine again for god knows how long.
When Ginger's on duty, Blaine is allowed to sit at Kurt's bedside as long as he likes; Kath, too. Everyone seems to have swallowed the story that Kurt and Blaine are cousins – childhood best friends – Charlie, when he comes to visit, quips “if your mother is anything like my mother, Blaine, she'll kill you with a spoon if you let anything happen to family.”
Blaine's crew have been stopping by to see him – even when Blaine's not sitting next to him. Jim comes one day, a bunch of wildflowers in his hand.
“They grow along the airstrip. Somebody's going to go out and cut them all down soon, so I just thought....you might like them.”
“Thank you, Jim. They're beautiful.”
Jim drops the rough bouquet in a cup of water standing on the table near Kurt's bed.
“The rest of the crew and I....we....ummm. We're glad you're on the mend, Kurt. We just want you to know that. We think the world of Blaine, and.....well. We sure are glad you're on the mend.”

*****
Finally, Kurt is pronounced “stable and ready for transport.” A plane has flown over to pick him, and the rest of the USO tour, up and fly them home the next day.
Their final night together, and Kurt must stay confined to his hospital bed, though Ginger's on duty and has drawn the curtain around it to give them some privacy. Kurt grumbles about it, tries to plot a way to get out and go somewhere private where they can be alone together. But Blaine will have none of it.
“They're not joking around, Kurt. This is your life we're talking about.”
“But....”
“No, Kurt.” Blaine firmly takes Kurt's hand, looking seriously into his eyes. “I only just got you back, I'm not going to lose you again just for the sake of a little pleasure.”
“Little? I'm hurt.” Kurt sniffs.
“Okay, massive, delectably lickable, huge, oh my god it's so big,” Blaine's eyes are wide as he plays along.
Kurt swats at Blaine's good arm. “You know it would be good.”
“I do know it, baby,” Blaine whispers. “But, when I get home, we'll have all the time in the world. Once I get shipped home, and I get into our apartment, I never plan on leaving again.”
“Oh, really?” Kurt says, dryly.
“Really. I'm never leaving it again. Not to the market, not to the club, not to the office. I will become a recluse, and you will be my only link to civilization.”
“Who said I'll be the link? What if I'm so sick of travel, I want to be the recluse.”
“Too late,” Blaine said, airily. “I claimed it first.”
Kurt scoffed. “You fool.”
“Yes, I will definitely become a recluse. Maybe even a hermit. I might even grow my beard out.”
“Grow your beard out, and I'm never kissing you again. You know how sensitive my skin is to your whiskers.”
“Well, then, absolutely no beard. Because never kissing you again? I'd waste away to nothing.”
“You're giddy.”
“I'm trying to be.” Blaine is suddenly serious.
“Why?”
“I can't come home with you.” Blaine sighs. “I finally asked about what's been holding up my discharge. Can't fly a plane with only one arm – or so I thought. Seems the powers-that-be think otherwise.”
Kurt grabbed Blaine's hand, holding it fiercely.
“There's rumors....and whispers....something big is coming up. Soon....Some big airstrike, maybe or a battle planned, or..... No one has any details, no one will commit to anything. But...they want me here for it. So, no medical discharge for me, like we thought.”
Kurt wants to cry. He'd been – well, he'd never been convinced of it, but he'd been hoping and praying –for whatever it was worth – that Blaine's discharge would come through before his plane left the ground tomorrow. That they'd be able to fly back home together, hand-in-hand, into the sunset to leave all this behind them and live happily ever after.
But, of course not. That's only in fairy tales.
“Hey,” Blaine jiggles their linked hands. “Hey, don't look like that. We've still got tonight. And I'll be home soon.”
“You better be. You promised.”
“I still promise,” Blaine leans forward and plants a kiss on the back of Kurt's hand.
“I love you,” Kurt whispers.
“I love you, too.”

*****

When Kurt's plane finally takes off the next day, Kurt loaded onto it on a stretcher, the rest of the tour filing on solemnly behind him, Ginger is with him as his flight nurse. Her tour of duty is up – and her superior nurses are sending her home to rest before she's allowed to re-enlist. She's dangerously exhausted, they say, basically running the hospital all by herself in the aftermath of the bombing, running double, triple-shifts and taking no time for herself to recuperate.
She argues vociferously, begs and pleads – she's no more exhausted than any of the other soldiers, she's got to stay here and keep fighting for them, keep them safe and sound --- and it's only Blaine who can convince her to go as Kurt's nurse.
“Please,” Blaine whispers into her hair as she's crying into his arms. “I need him to live.”

*****
So, Blaine is standing alone on the airstrip, watching the plane carrying his love taxi slowly off down the runway.
He's not really alone. The crew of the Teenage Dream are standing just behind him. Kath is there, too, and Reggie from the auto-pool and Emily from the mess hall, and everyone who's come to care so deeply for this man who's been so kind and gracious and helpful and sweet to them – they're all behind him, waiting to help him with whatever he needs.
Blaine is successful in keeping his tears at bay, there on the tarmac. He greets, with a kind smile, everyone who stops to say a kind word to him.
Jim and Bill and Charlie come up, last. No one says much of anything, though Charlie's eyes are a bit red and Bill is sniffing.
“Buy you a beer, Cap'n?” Jim asks.
“Thanks. Yeah.” Blaine nods, sniffing.
Charlie throws an arm around Blaine's shoulders as Jim claps him on the back. Kurt may be gone – at least he's gone back to safety and hot showers and good food and home – but Blaine still has his crew.