When he comes back the next Tuesday, there’s no helpful nurse to guide him to patients. Kurt spends a few moments standing awkwardly in front of the nurse’s station before he begins wandering towards the children’s ward. The little girl from last week hadn’t seemed to hate him, and had actually laughed when he’d done commentary on the cartoons they’d been watching.

A part of him debates going to see Blaine, but he decides against it. After all, his time is more well spent with someone who knows he’s actually there, right?

As it turns out, little girls are far more interested in watching iCarly than listening to how Kurt gave Coach Sylvester a make-over. The girl, Amanda, also isn’t interested in how Kurt is a Cheerio now or how him and Mercedes had destroyed their solos at the pep rally. So he spends a good half an hour dissecting a teeny bopper love triangle that he may or may not be making up, but Amanda seems to be eating it up all the same.

Either way, he excuses himself at the promise of more Miranda Cosgrove and makes his way quickly from the pediatrics ward.

He ends up at Blaine’s door without even realizing it and finds himself peaking inside. After all, if there’s someone in there with him it would be rude to just walk in. But the room is empty and quiet, just the sound of machinery, and the emptiness of it pulls at Kurt’s heart uncomfortably.

Blaine might be in a coma, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve somebody. Kurt knows what it’s like to feel alone even when he’s surrounded by a crowd of people. What must it be like for Blaine, who can’t even express any loneliness he feels?

“Are you lonely?” Kurt finds himself asking as he moves the chair back to Blaine’s bedside. He sits for a few moments, just watching Blaine with sad eyes, catching the slight rise and fall of his chest. Then he laughs slightly, realizing how ridiculous he is, and how crazy he must seem to be laughing in a room with a coma patient. He glances over his shoulder, as if to look for any nurses judging him, but no one’s there.

“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” Kurt asks him quietly as he turns back to Blaine. It’s not as if he expects an answer—after all, this isn’t a movie and things like that simply don’t happen. And, much to his expectations, Blaine doesn’t do so much as flinch and Kurt can’t help but smile. “I’ll take your silence as a yes.”

Kurt settles further into the chair, listening to the blip of the machines for a minute.

“I went to see Amanda—she’s a nine year old who broke her leg in two places in gymnastics. But she isn’t quite the conversationalist you are. That, and I can only stomach so much preteen entertainment.” Kurt shudders and imagines that maybe Blaine would smile at that. Not a lot of people get Kurt’s sense of humor, but Blaine seems like the type of person who would. Maybe. Kurt can hope, after all.

“To be honest, this feels sort of strange to me.” Kurt doesn’t know where the words come from, but it feels wrong to make things up to Blaine. After all, he’s had so much wrong done to him (or so Kurt can assume) and it’s not like Blaine is going to turn a judging eye on him. He could argue, though, that Blaine doesn’t care if he’s honest, either. But at least being honest doesn’t tend to carry guilt.

“I mean, I feel like one of those people that surround themselves with pets and then use them to replace their social life. I mean, I have a social life, I have friends. I told you about them. And you’re, you’re not like… A dog or cat or something, you’re a person.” Kurt stops, taking a breath and sighing. “Wow, I’m usually good about not letting my mouth run away with me.” He had to be. It was a part of being Kurt Hummel, after all. Cool, collected, smarter than everybody else—if he had verbal vomit it would certainly blow that.

But Blaine doesn’t know Kurt Hummel, the resident gay of McKinley High. He just knows Kurt, the hospital volunteer. Well, if he knows Kurt at all.

“I wonder what kind of person you are,” Kurt murmurs softly, once he’s collected himself. “I used to pride myself on judging people based on their appearance, but I never realized how much of that relied on body language.” And breathing isn’t anything to go off of; all it tells Kurt is that Blaine is alive, which is good, but alive really isn’t a personality trait.

“You have ridiculous eyebrows,” he concludes after a moment of inspection. “And you really need to shave. You weren’t nearly this scruffy when I saw you last Tuesday.” Kurt can’t help but be slightly jealous; he hasn’t hit the point in puberty yet where he can grow facial hair, not that he has any desire to have a mustache or something ridiculous. But it would be nice to have the option.

He wonders, just for a moment, if anyone comes in to look after Blaine. Does Blaine like being scruffy? Does he like wearing the same grey t-shirt all the time? (And, ew, what if he’s been wearing it since last week?) Kurt wonders if he should leave guidelines somewhere, incase he’s ever in a coma and someone needs to be told to change his clothing at least every other day (because, seriously, gross). But it seems strange to even consider doing something like that, and so he pushes the thought promptly from his mind almost as quickly as it entered.

“You’d look good in bolder colors. The grey is nice, of course, but with your skin tone—I have to admit, I’m jealous. If I wear too much white or black, I end up looking like some cheap attempt at a Halloween costume.” Not that it deters him entirely, but Kurt has found the way to balance the monochromatic without looking like he just stepped out of a silent film.

He imagines Blaine in all sorts of colors. Maroon, indigo, emerald, even a buttery yellow. His nose scrunches. Maybe not yellow.

“You have to have more clothes, right?” Kurt’s eyes scan the room but he doubts they’d just leave Blaine’s personal belongings sitting around a hospital room. He huffs slightly, as if this completely puts a roadblock in his plans, and looks back at Blaine.

“I hate hospitals,” Kurt says without preamble. He does though, and has, ever since his mom passed away. There had been a hospital then, too, and she had looked so bland in a hospital room with the starkness of it all. A part of him hates it, hates that Blaine has to look so lifeless and small in his grey t-shirt and white sheets. This room saps the life out of him, makes him a part of it. Blaine has become less of a person and simply another part of the d�cor.

Something shifts in Kurt. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but he does find himself squirming in his chair. Suddenly, as if he just noticed that even in his red and white Cheerios uniform, he’s the brightest thing in this room. Kurt Hummel is used to being a head turner, but there are no heads to turn here. There is no one to look. He is an anomaly in a too-grey, too-quiet hospital room.

This is where a decision is made. Kurt knows he can get up and leave. He can leave Blaine, he can leave the hospital, and he can forget the few hours he’s spent there. He’ll no longer be an outsider in yet another place and his life will tip back on kilter, back to normal.

Kurt looks at Blaine. Looks at the way his chest rises and falls so very subtly, just a quiet hint of life. Blaine is breathing, even if Kurt can’t hear the way the air shifts and slips. He looks closer at the lines of Blaine’s face. He’s young, but there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes that Kurt would scold anyone else for. Laugh lines, the sort of marks on skin that show an enjoyment for life and for smiling. Kurt will never have them, but Blaine already does.

He settles into his chair, crossing his legs, and the decision is made. This isn’t a place for him, but it isn’t a place for Blaine, either. Kurt picks up his hand, carefully, surprised by how warm and alive it is as he sandwiches it between his own palms and looks at Blaine with slow, careful glances.

“You really do need to shave.”