It’s the first time that Kurt has visited Blaine on a weekend. Saturdays hadn’t originally been a part of the plan, but Kurt could hardly turn down the opportunity to assist Carole before the big date night. Even he was feeling anxious for it.

The nurse sitting at the station recognizes him and smiles, calls him a nice boy and asks how he’s doing. It’s strange for Kurt, who had never imagined in-hospital relations that expanded past the scope of Blaine and Carole. But he just smiles, answers politely, and adjusts his bag before heading on his way.

One thing about weekends is that the visiting hours are longer than when he normally comes in. Longer and also much busier. There are people bustling around him, talking in excited, raised voices and quiet, rushed whispers. It’s new for Kurt, who is used to the steady sound of machines and the brisk walk of doctors and nurses. It’s like stepping from a ghost town to a circus (and he reminds himself to never refer to a hospital as either ever again).

Blaine’s room is as empty as ever when Kurt arrives, and Kurt is almost thankful for the silence.

“Hello,” he says cheerily, walking over to Blaine’s bed but not sitting just yet. He rests his bag on the mattress and begins shuffling through it, his eyes shifting to Blaine every so often. “I have homework to do, but it’s actually easier for me to concentrate here than at home. Also.” Kurt pauses for a moment, fingers twitching in his bag before he looks up at Blaine and takes a breath.

“I brought you something.”

Reaching carefully into his bag, he extracts a fully bloomed yellow rose, cupping it gently in his hand.

“I tried to bring you flowers a few days ago, but there’s this weird policy against making hospital patients happy or something,” Kurt mutters bitterly. “Actually, it had something to do with allergens. I guess that would be a horrible way to find out you’re allergic to pollen, huh?”

Kurt sets the flower carefully down on the bed.

“It’s not real. I, um. Made it, actually. Out of coffee filters. It’s amazing the things you can learn how to do on the internet at one in the morning.” Thank god for Martha Stewart. Kurt reaches for Blaine’s hand, gently cupping his wrist and lifting so that he could run Blaine’s immobile fingers along the petals.

“So, unless you’re allergic to coffee filters, they can’t really get mad at me.”

Kurt produces a small vase—plastic, unfortunately, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He wouldn’t tell Blaine that he had spent his entire Friday thinking of loopholes in that whole ‘no flower’ policy. He’d wanted to bring Blaine something for his room, something that made it more than a bland hospital room. It hadn’t even occurred to him to go out and buy fake, fabric flowers to replace the real ones. He’d wanted it to be something from him, something special.

He sets down the vase on the bed’s side table, still frowning that he couldn’t get something fabulous and made of glass or crystal. But if this vase falls over, it won’t break or spill water. Another perk of fake flowers.

“It’s yellow.” He turns Blaine’s hand on the bed and opens it, setting the bloom of the flower in his palm before sitting down. “I thought it would brighten up the room.” He doesn’t tell Blaine that he looked up various rose colors and their meanings before he chose what color to paint it. “It’s not like a scary yellow, though. It’s soft, and buttery. Honestly, if you never touched it or smelled it, you wouldn’t know it wasn’t a real rose.”

All in all, Kurt is rather proud of himself at what he’d created. He gingerly plucked the rose from Blaine’s hand and set it in its vase. He’s critical of his own work, of course, and frowns at it for a few moments.

“It’s not perfect, but I’ll get better. Soon, maybe, this room won’t be so gloomy anymore.” He perks slightly, looking away form the rose and back to Blaine.

“I really should get started on my homework, but speaking of gloomy rooms.” Kurt scoots to the edge of his chair as he prepares to engage in conversation, crossing his legs and leaning over his knees.

“Have I mentioned that I live in a basement? I know, it sounds rather depressing, but it’s not. Not really. It’s white right now, but it’s beginning to become rather tiresome and so very out of date. I mean, of course, white is classic, but sometimes you just need a change.” Kurt stares at Blaine for a few moments as he reshuffles his thoughts, smiling. After all, Blaine is an attentive listener when he has no other choice.

He wonders if it would be like talking to Mercedes, who starts the conversation quite invested but somewhere along the way gets this far off look in her eyes. Or maybe like when Kurt talks to his father, who sets his mouth and furrows his eyebrows while trying to keep up and understand but mostly just nodding.

“I bet you have quite the eye for interior design. I’ll forgive your current choices, for now, but really, Blaine, I expected better from you,” he chides gently, still smiling. There’s a twitch in Blaine’s shoulders but Kurt ignores it. Carole has taught him enough to know that coming out of a coma is hardly the romanticized process movies portray.

“I think I’d like to make it warmer, less stark. I’m sure you can relate. If they’d let me change the curtains, it would really make this whole place much more habitable.” As if the color of curtains would affect Blaine in any capacity. “But I was leaning towards brown. Not a muddy one, although I can’t knock the color completely, but maybe something with gold or red undertones? Just to make my room homier.” He chews his lip for a moment, head tilted slightly as he looks at Blaine.

“Maybe I should make myself some flowers.” Kurt smiles softly, leaning back in his chair. “Or maybe you could return the favor when you wake up.”

A sound that normally doesn’t fill Blaine’s hospital room hits his ears—a click of heels. Confused, he turns to look over his shoulder, ready to meet a nurse coming to check on Blaine.

But the woman standing right inside the doorway is most certainly not a nurse.

The way she’s dressed, although on the casual side, screams nothing but designer to Kurt’s well-trained eyes. It’s a simple statement, an a-line skirt and blouse with a cardigan that he has the urge to reach out and touch. It reminds him vaguely or a classier Miss Pillsbury, one who knows how to match colors, prints, and pieces without becoming an insult to fashion sense.

She’s short despite her blue Jimmy Choo’s, her hair dark, thick, and long. She has an exotic look to her, but Kurt can’t quite place why, and too late, he realizes he’s been staring.

“Who are you?” Her voice is deeper than he expected, but it’s strong and intimidating. He blinks at her for a few moments, eyes distracted by the way her perfectly manicured hands clutch at the bag strap over her shoulder.

The bag is interesting. It isn’t the sort of thing Kurt would expect a woman such as this to carry. It’s been well used, or so Kurt guesses by the condition it’s in. It’s a lovely black canvas bag with leather accents, and Kurt would be lying if he said it wasn’t something he would love to own.

“I’m Kurt. Kurt Hummel, I’m a hospital volunteer,” he explains swiftly. His observations couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, but it feels like hours of silence have passed between them. Her eyes are appraising him, and with a start, Kurt realizes she’s moved closer. He would have thought someone like her would have dark eyes, but they are a striking honey color that would be warm if they didn’t look so… Scared. And sad.

“I’ve been… Visiting Blaine. For the past two weeks,” he explains after another stilted silence. Her eyes are still flicking over him nervously, and then to Blaine, and suddenly the whole situation registers in Kurt’s head. This woman is here to visit Blaine.

“Two weeks,” she says in a rush of air, like the amount of time causes her actual pain. Again, Kurt realizes that it probably is. Whoever Blaine is to her—son, brother, nephew, grandson—he has been in a coma for at least two weeks now. But at the same time that a strange grief wraps up his throat, there’s a flicker of anger deep in his stomach. Where has she been the whole time?

“I… Appreciate you attempting to keep my son company.” So this is Blaine’s mother. Kurt looks at the bag again and it occurs to him that it’s probably Blaine’s. He stares at it, as if it has the potential to unlock all the secrets that Blaine can’t tell Kurt himself. “But that’s all it is. An attempt.”

Kurt’s attention snaps back to the conversation.

“He’s in a coma,” she chokes out, and Kurt can see her straining to keep herself under control. “It doesn’t matter what you say or do. He’s—he’s not waking up.” Kurt can hear the complete and utter devastation in her voice, her complete lack of faith that she will ever see Blaine open his eyes again.

It hits Kurt like a wave, the weight of it feeling like it could crush it. If he hadn’t been sitting, he was sure he would have physically stumbled.

“Mrs.—” Kurt stops, drawing back wide-eyed. He has no idea what Blaine’s last name is.

“Please don’t visit my son anymore,” she says quietly, looking at him as if Kurt’s the reason Blaine is here. She looks at him as if she personally blames Kurt for whatever put him in a coma, for him going into a coma. He grabs his bag hurriedly, the room suddenly too small and the presence of Blaine’s mother in the room being too much, it’s too much, I have to get out of here.

He hurries past her, close enough to hear her whisper a broken, “it’s hopeless,” before he’s at the door. He stops then, watching as she walks to Blaine’s bedside. But his eyes don’t stay on her for long.

Kurt is looking at Blaine, long and hard, suddenly overcome. He could never see Blaine again. This could be it. The pain of the finality hits him strangely, making him feel unbalanced. He stares, memorizing what he can see of Blaine’s profile.

“Blaine.” His mother is speaking, reaching out and stroking his face in a familiar way. Kurt knows he should leave. But he doesn’t. “Sweetheart? It’s mama.” Her voice breaks. “I brought you a few of your things from home. The… I brought books. I know that’s—But I thought maybe I could read them to you. Like when you were little.” She’s crying now, Kurt can hear it in her voice. Her body nearly collapses on top of Blaine’s, and this time Kurt turns away.

“My little boy. My baby boy. Blaine, please, please wake up.”

Kurt closes his eyes and mouths “thank you” before he walks quickly away from the room, where a mother is mourning her son far too early.

It’s not until he’s sitting in his car, trying to put the key in the ignition with shaking hands, that Kurt realizes he’s been crying. He wipes hastily at his eyes, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, but wondering if he’s crying for the mother who might lose her son or for the loss of a boy who has become his closest friend without Kurt even realizing it.