Blaine is alive.
At the moment, that's about all he can say for himself. He's currently floating on his back, somewhere in the English Channel, hoping and praying that he's been swimming in the right direction.
He made it out of the plane in time, got his parachute opened – and no, that wasn't anything like it was in training, that was fucking scary. Not enough elevation when he opened it, so it seemed like it barely slowed him at all before he slammed into the water. He got turned around and tangled, managed to find the release latches before the 'chute dragged him down to the bottom. He breaks the surface just in time to see the orange fireball that used to be his plane. God, he can feel the explosion through the water.
He's trying to catch his breath enough to start swimming. He needs to keep moving – this water is too cold not to keep moving. Keep moving, Anderson. Move your legs. Move your arms.
The sun is about to break over the horizon – then he'll have a better idea of the direction he's supposed to go. North – northwest really -- toward England.
But for now, he's lying here on his back, resting up, arms and legs moving automatically while his life jacket keeps his head above water. He's just noticed that the sky is becoming the exact colour of Kurt's eyes – blue and green and just a bit of gold.
Kurt. Kurt's waiting for him. Kurt.
He rolls to his stomach and determinedly starts to swim.
There's no sign of his crew. He prays to anyone who will listen that they have been picked up, and are already back at base – wrapped in blankets, drinking hot tea and flirting with the nurses.
His plan is to keep the sun on his right and just head north. He's trying to remember the charts from their briefing before their flight – Charlie's the one who'd have it memorized. Blaine doesn't need to remember the exact details, he just points the plane where Charlie tells him.
For now, his goal is to just keep swimming.
His watch is still working, he thinks. He can't believe the last time he looked at it, it had been 7 hours already. His rest breaks are getting more frequent. His shoulders are aching. He's got a pain in his side. He can't see land. He can't see anything except more water. He's so tired. He's going to die out here.
He rolls to his back to rest again, trying to rest. He's just so tired. All he wants right now is to lie down and never get up. He wants to lie down in his bed – their bed – pull Kurt down next to him, bury his face in Kurt's chest and sleep for days.
Kurt.
Blaine's eyes snap open. Kurt.
You fight, Anderson. You fucking fight right now. Don't you fucking give up. Fight, Anderson. Kurt.
You are not going to leave him alone. You are not going to leave him. You promised. You promised Kurt. You promised. Fight.
Kurt. Kurt Kurt Kurt.
Blaine wearily rolls back to his stomach and starts to swim. Slowly, timing his movements.
Left arm, Kurt Kurt Kurt
Right arm, Kurt Kurt Kurt
Breathe, Kurt Kurt
Left arm, Kurt Kurt Kurt

By the time he thinks he sees the smudge of shore on the horizon, Blaine is dangerously exhausted. Waves keep breaking over his face. He chokes. He forgets to breathe.
Nooooooo. no. He lifts his face out of the water. Kurt.
The next thing Blaine knows is that his face hurts. His nose in particular. There's something tapping his head, his lips are sticky and whatever the hell it is that is tapping will not stop.
He opens his eyes slowly. He's on shore. He's alive. This is solid ground underneath him, and he swears he is never going swimming ever again in his entire life.
The tapping is edge of the waves rolling him gently against the giant piece of driftwood. He's out of the sun, thank god, and while he doesn't think this qualifies as comfortable, he's so tired he doesn't care.
His nose. Well, he thinks there's a rock in his nose. In a few minutes, when he can feel his arms again, he will reach up to investigate, but for now, yeah, that hurts.
He blows his nose forcefully, rewarded with a torrent of sea water and slime and sludge. And a very small rock. HA! He was right.
Oh god, wait until Kurt hears about this. He's going to laugh at me. I can't wait. Kurt.
Blaine is asleep again.
Blaine wakes again when he realizes his legs are wet again. He's been dreaming he and Kurt are in bed together, and he's actually a little panicked, because he worries he just wet the bed.
No. It's the tide coming in. Move, Anderson.
He can't decide which hurts worse, his head or his throat, and this distracts him from the pain in his body as he hauls himself further up shore.
Mines. Oh god. What if there are mines. He stops short, considering. He's not exactly sure where he is oh please god let this be England but he doesn't see any barbed wire or anything defensive, so he is just going to hope that there are no mines buried in the sand.
His throat is raw, his nose is bleeding, his eyes feel like they are filled with sand – they probably are. He is so fucking thirsty. He collapses in the shade of more driftwood and prays he's higher than the tide line. He's getting so fucking cold. Oh god, Kurt.

Ginger is just walking onto her ward to report for duty when she sees a truck barreling into the compound, stopping just in front of the hospital.
A man jumps out and grabs her arm. “I've got a wounded soldier in the back here.
“Wounded soldier?” She lets herself be dragged around to the bed of the truck. Ginger sees someone curled on their side, facing away from her. A faded uniform, a severely sunburned neck. Black curls.
A chill runs through her as she vaults into the truck next to the soldier. She gently rolls him so she can see his face.
“Blaine!”

They have him strapped to some sort of bed and are rushing around him. He's hot then he's cold. He can't remember why everyone's so worried. He keeps seeing a familiar face topped with a white cap – he should know that face, she's looking at him with such love in her eyes – is that his girlfriend? His wife? That doesn't seem quite right to him, but he can't remember why. But it's just not.
Her eyes are blue, not the right blue. He wants to see blue eyes. Blue eyes with long lashes above kissable lips and --
“Blaine, honey?” The woman is holding his hand now, looking into his eyes. “We're giving you some medicine now. You'll feel better in a few minutes.”
Her hand is wrong too. Too delicate. Too small.
“The doctor's going to examine you now. Some of this might hurt, okay, but I promise, it'll be quick.”
Blaine is too tired to care. He wants the pain in his side to stop, he wants the ache in his throat to stop, he wants everyone to stop talking so he can get back to that nice dream he'd been having – the one about the bed and the strong hands –
There are voices murmuring above him. He hears “surgery”, “fever”, “septic”, “possible rupture.” He's not sure what any of it means, but the chills are finally gone, and the pain is going away. He kind of feels like he's floating away. But he can't. There's something he needs to ---
That woman – red hair red red --- Ginger. Her name is Ginger, he thinks – she's still holding his hand firmly. She won't let him float away.
“No, Blaine, I promise, I won't let you float away.” Oh, that must have been out loud “You're staying right here with me. Okay? Stay with me, Blaine.”
He hears “bleeding” in a panicked voice. He really wants to go back to the dream – strong hands and broad shoulders and narrow hips and --- Kurt. He wants Kurt.
“Blaine! You stay with me, honey, okay?” Ginger still has his hand, but she's moving the rest of her body around for some reason. “Blaine, there are a lot of people at home who are waiting to hear from you. You stay with me.”
He opens his eyes, and tries to smile at her. She's now behind his head, pulling his hand up near his face. She's still holding it.
“Blaine, the doctor needs to patch you up a bit. This medicine will help you sleep through it – You just breathe deep, now, okay honey? Everything's going to be alright.” She lowers a white mask down over his face and nose.
He breathes deep and dreams of Kurt.

Kurt is sitting at the table, his uneaten breakfast in front of him. Rachel is peeling him an orange – trying to tempt him to eat. She not certain how much longer he can last like this – barely eating, not sleeping, walking around in a haze all the time.
Last week, she woke in the middle of the night to find Kurt in bed beside her. He turned his head when he realized she was awake, and grabbed her, holding her fiercely.
He sobbed into her hair.
I just can't handle this. I can't stop thinking about him. Every second, every single second, I think about him. I wonder where he is, if he's alive, if he's dead, if he's hurt, if he's okay. Is he in enemy territory? Is he being tortured? Is he alive? Is he all right? Is he okay? Where is he?
It's constant. I can't think of anything else. I can't even remember to breath sometimes. Oh god I miss him so much I want to hold him and kiss him and just listen to him breathe is that too much to ask. I need to hear him breathe. I need him. I want need Blaine. I just want him back, please god let me have him back. I can't take this. I can't take not having him please god let me have him back. I'll do anything. Please let me have him back.
Rachel had run her fingers through his thick hair, not able to say any words of comfort. She just sobbed along with him. He'd finally sobbed himself to sleep, his head on her chest, arms wrapped around her.
Since that one episode, he'd been back in his shell. She supposed it was easier to feel nothing, let nothing in, than to feel everything.
The doorbell rang. Kurt didn't flinch. She set the peeled orange in front of him, wiped her fingers on her napkin and went to answer it.
She came flying back, a thin yellow envelope fluttering in her hands.
“Kurt. It's a telegram.”
He stood up, knocking his chair over to get to it faster. He tore open the envelope, ripping the paper inside nearly in half. With shaking fingers, he held them together.
Blaine alive. With me. Recovering. Letters to follow. Ginger.

He held it out to Rachel, let out a huge gust of breath, and crumpled to the floor. He'd fainted.

A short while later, Rachel had him sitting on the floor, next to the desk. She insisted if he fainted again, he should be as close to the ground as possible, and he was so full of love and joy and happiness and bubbles of light that he didn't have the heart to argue with her.
His shaking fingers dialed Blaine's parent's phone number slowly and carefully – tick tick tick hisssssssss at the wheel spun back, tick tick tick tick tick hisssssssss.
When Blaine's mother got on the phone, he almost couldn't get the words out. He stumbled over it, repeated himself, but finally got it across. Blaine is alive, he's in the hospital but recovering. Ginger is sending a letter explaining – we'll know everything soon.
He and Blaine's mother had cried together, until Elsie, the housekeeper, came to hang the phone up. Elsie promised to take care of Blaine's mother – Eleanor – and would be sure she had a proper meal for supper – Mrs. Anderson hadn't been eating any more than Kurt had.

Dear K--
I love you.
Now that the most important part is out of the way – Everything's fine. It was rough going there for a while, but I'm going to be fine. I'm stuck in this stupid hospital for another week or so, while I heal up – nothing too serious. I'll be fine.
Ginger's taking good care of me – the rest of the nurses, too. I hate the fucking doctor, because he's the one who keeps saying I can't get out of bed yet – I told him so, but he just laughed and said he gets that a lot. Ginger says I'm not very convincing when I tell people I hate them.
I love you I love you I love you. I want you to know you saved me, once again. It was only thinking of you that kept me going and got me through. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving you. Only you, my love.
I love you. Have I mentioned that recently? I'm never going to be able to tell you that enough.
I'll write more soon, I promise.
All my love, always
B.

Kurt ran his fingers over the page. The letters were feeble and shaky, not Blaine's usual bold penmanship. But it was unmistakably Blaine writing. Blaine was sitting somewhere right this very instant, inhaling and exhaling and being alive. Kurt was happy.
Ginger's letter contained more details. Blaine's condition was still “of concern”, but not serious enough to send him home. They'd patch him up further, wait for him to heal, then he'd be back on the flight line with the rest of his crew.
Kurt wanted Blaine home more than anything. He wanted to feel him with his own two hands to know he was okay. But he knew Blaine. Knew that Blaine would insist on staying with his crew, would never leave them if at all possible. He understood.
For now, he'd go back to waiting for Blaine, as he had before. And planning. And hoping. The future was uncertain, but, once more, looked very bright.