But he was tired of the dream. Tired of the way it toyed with him, battering his emotions. Why could he not wake up? What had happened? In all his hours of darkness and voices, Blaine had thought over every possibility, from death and limbo to drugs. All scared him. All hurt. Physically. Any real sustained period of thinking; of not dreaming, hurt inside him in ways that scared him just as deeply. And when the pain became too much, the dream would always come.

From that first time, when he had hurtled along the Dalton corridors with Kurt, he must have had twenty such dreams. In forests, in dark nothingness, in familiar places, everywhere his mind could conjure. And now he was underwater, looking up into bright blueness. He knew that if he twisted, he would see nothing behind him, nothing at all, nothingness. He knew that even if he didn’t look something would reveal the fact to him.

In a strange d�j� vu, Blaine lifted his hand slightly, ready for that which would grasp it. And it came, seizing him by the wrist and attempting to drag him upwards, out of the water. But it fought in vain. Blaine shut his dream-eyes as a painful, suction sensation began, sealing him under.

And then suddenly it was not just one hand gripping Blaine’s. The water exploded above him as a second hand dove down and seized his floating one from his side. And it too began to pull. And for the first time Blaine felt an equal battle going on for his own body. With the second hand, he felt the pull of the water lessening, felt his heavy head begin to float free. Blaine’s entire body trembled. His mind awoke within itself, and he too began to fight, fighting to flail his empty legs, to pump with his leaden arms, to push himself free. His arm twitched, then shook, then flew, lashing out against the dragging current, throwing off the first hand which had held him. And Blaine found that he could swim for himself, guided by that second hand. And with one, two, three strokes, he pressed for the surface.
-
Saturday had come round again; rolled round again like an inevitable tide. Kurt walked the long, familiar corridors and stairways of the hospital until he finally came to the right sign: Coma Ward. Pushing the door open with one hand, he looked behind himself, to where Dave Karofsky stood, examining the sign.

“Go on,” Kurt said, ushering him forwards, and stepping through he let the door swing closed behind them.

The hallway was as quiet as ever. One or two nurses came and went across the pallid cream background, but apart from that they were virtually alone. Glancing left and right as they passed doorways, Dave glimpsed families and solitary figures, gathered around unmoving forms. He couldn’t shift the impression that, despite Kurt’s mood and motive in suggesting he come here, this was not a place of hope.

They reached a room at the end of the hall. Kurt peered around the ajar door and then beckoned him forwards.

“It’s ok; Blaine’s parents aren’t here. Come on in.”

They entered the bright, blank room. Karofsky hung back, unable to connect the room and the boy lying on the bed with the events of almost two weeks ago. But Kurt moved forwards, speaking undauntedly to the silent figure, adjusting the bedclothes, even bending to kiss him on the cheek in greeting. Dave was unnerved. It was unnatural and one sided. Unrequited. But Kurt turned and waved him forwards, and he had to follow.

He approached the bed slowly, and followed Kurt’s pointing finger to a vacant chair on the far side, near a table scattered with empty tissue boxes and food wrappers. Clearly someone was not finding this as easy as Kurt was. He sat. Kurt shuffled onto the side of the bed, taking Blaine’s hand in his lap. He held and considered it for a few seconds. David saw a dark grey pulse monitor clipped over the index finger. Then Kurt looked up and smiled.

“Well; go on. You can talk to him if you want.”

Dave had been expecting this, but he had no idea how to do it.

“Wha…what do I say?”

“Anything you want. I usually end up telling stupid gossip about people Blaine doesn’t even know. But it helps, you know?”

“Ok…alright.”

He really didn’t know. With his good arm he reached down and dragged the chair closer to the bed. His head was level with Blaine’s, but all that he could look at was the translucent line of the oxygen tube, lacing across to his nose, and the whiteness of the bandage against his hair. “Um…” Words failed him. He’d never felt so stupid.

There was an awkward pause. Kurt just looked down at the blankets, trying to give it time. But then he smiled.

“I’ve got an idea.”

His voice was incongruously mischievous; he gave a little chuckle, and then looked at Blaine’s face. Dave blinked up at him.

“Why don’t you come out? Finally say it; out in the open.” Dave blinked again. Was the kid mad with grief or something?

“What?”

“No, listen. It’s a perfect chance. You’ve never said it, have you? Never just said to someone: ‘I’m gay,’ apart from maybe the mirror? Well, try it. Blaine’s not going to judge you, not going to hate you or hit you, or wherever else your fear is. So try it? It can't do any harm.”

Dave felt his defences rise within himself.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He glanced at the door, making sure there was no-one who could overhear them. Kurt looked at him, his eyes disappointed.

“Fine.”

One day, he thought. One day, I’ll hear you say it.

“But you’re going to have to learn how to be proud of yourself one day.”

“Alright…” Muttered Dave, feeling ashamed now. “But, just…not today, ok? Today’s not about me; it’s about him.”

He pointed to Blaine. Kurt gave him a look that said ‘Really?’

Karofsky, trying to placate the situation, copied Kurt and picked up Blaine’s pale hand, placing it inside his own huge, clumsy palm. Kurt smiled again, and after a moment slid from the edge of the bed.

“Ok; well at the risk of interrupting this avalanche of talk…I’m going to get a coffee. Do you want a drink?”

Karofsky shook his head; half in reply and half in desperation. He didn’t want Kurt to leave; then he’d be alone with…

But Kurt had already swept from the room, closing the door with a click. And he fully intended on taking his time, as Blaine worked his incredible magic, just as he had done with Puck.

Abandoned in the room, Dave looked around in slight panic, keeping an instinctive hold of Blaine’s hand. There were hundreds of bright cards and flowers, some beginning to wilt and sprinkle their petals on the blank floor. He looked at a card poking from one of the arrangements nearest to him. “You’re the light in our family. Aunt Patty and Uncle Joe, xxx”. Under the message came the crayon names of three or four cousins, scrawled next to a rough doodle of a building with a huge red cross on its roof, and a stick man with a bandaged leg. Behind the huge red and blue blooms was another card, filled with messages from boys at Dalton.

“How do you get so many people to love you, man?”

Dave asked the silent room with a sigh.

“How is it so easy being you? All the crap that Kurt gets, even, but for you, you just get over it. With everyone on your side.”

A crazy, wild thought entered his head; that maybe if he could sing he’d be ok with coming out. Bloody hell; two minutes alone in here and he was already auditioning for Fame.

Dave sighed again and turned back towards the bed.

“I can't be like you two, you know? That’s not me…even before I turned into a dick, that wasn’t me. I just wanna…just wanna be the normal me, you know? And that’s not some bull about being accepted, or craving a man, or anything. I’m fine with being single; I want to be single, but me single. Why does it have to be gay single?”

He pulled on the hand in his in slight desperation.

“And another thing. How will coming out make all this any better? I know what I am. You two are the only gay guys I know, and you know I’m…whatever. And that lesbo Lopez chick knows. So what does it matter if everyone else doesn’t? They’re only gonna give me crap for it. Once I get out of school, then fine. I can find someone for me or something…but isn’t it easier just to be liked? For the moment?”

He paused naturally for an answer to his rhetorical question. Of course there was none.
-
Kurt had his ear pressed to the other side of the door, steaming plastic coffee cup in hand. How did Blaine manage to get everyone to open up so well? How did that chair become a confessional? Feeling bad for intruding he walked to one side and slid down against the wall until he came to a rest on the floor. He’d give it ten minutes.
-
Karofsky sighed and played with the nail of one of Blaine’s fingers. It was cold and smooth to the touch. Now, or never. He cleared his throat.

“I’m gay. I’m gay, Blaine. David Karofsky is gay. Gay. Gay. Gay.”

He stiffened. The words seemed to echo and crescendo. He turned to the floor and mumbled.

“Are you happy now?”
-
A spark.

A swell.

Blaine broke the surface.
-
Something brushed Dave’s palm. He looked up. Blaine’s hand still sat in his, unmoving. He looked back at the floor. Kurt was wrong. The words had done nothing; only given him one more memory to try and forget.

His hand tingled again. What the hell was it? He lifted the pair of their hands off the bed, looking for wires or tubes. Nothing. He touched the rubber caster of the chair, trying to get rid of any static. But it came again. He dropped their hands back onto the cover. Blaine’s shuddered with the impact. So did his eyelashes. Wait.

Karofsky stopped breathing. His hand went loose around Blaine’s.

There.

The fingers definitely trembled.

Dave was suddenly on his feet, seizing the hand once more.

“Blaine? Blaine?”

His voice shook. The eyelids under the bright strip of white crinkled, but didn’t open.

“Hey man, come on. Just open your eyes.”

He reached over the bed and took up Blaine’s other hand, pressing them together in his one good palm.

He felt a tiny quivering pinch, which grew gradually stronger.

“That’s it. That’s it.”

Blaine’s eyelids trembled again, opening to tiny slits. His lips edged apart. Karofsky was silent as he watched Blaine’s fight for consciousness. Once more the eyelids rose, but this time they held, half revealing exhausted eyes.

“Ww…w…”

The sound was nothing more than a whisper; Blaine’s throat croaked and cracked.

“Wha…Kkk…urt?…”
“Wha…wha?”

Repeated Dave, his voice hushed and reverential, feeling like an idiot, trying to understand.

“Wha…water? You want water?”

Blaine’s weak head rose from the pillow a centimetre and then dropped back down. His hands pressed Dave’s again.

“Alright…alright…”

Karofsky panicked, looking around frantically. Water. Water. A half empty plastic bottle stood on the table amongst the litter; he grabbed it and, unscrewing the cap, tipped it gently onto Blaine’s offered lips. He took two sips, eyes closing, then jerking his hand and coming up with a violent cough. Karofsky jumped backwards, spilling water down his hand.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he gasped, as Blaine spluttered. “I’ll…”

He leapt towards the door.

“I’ll go get help; I’ll get a nurse. I’ll get…”

But Blaine’s abandoned hand lifted and waved to him, as one last cough wracked his body. The weak voice only just travelled from the bed.

“No…no…ww...”

Blaine scrunched his eyes in pain.

“Wait…”

Dave moved half a step back towards the boy. His heart was pounding in his chest and his breathing was all over the place. But then those two piercing russet eyes locked on his, and the smallest smile crept onto the pale, damp lips. His hand flexed in offering, and Karofsky could do nothing but take it in his.

“You…you said it…”

“What?”

Blaine closed and opened his eyes with effort. His throat rasped and he coughed once more.

“You did it...”

“Wha…Blaine, I really need to go get someone…”

The kid was speaking nonsense. David’s mind rushed to Kurt, out in the hospital somewhere, unaware. He turned to look at the door once more, then at the bed. Blaine’s fingers were digging into his palm now. Surely there must be a call button or something? He shouted at the door.

“Kurt!”

Blaine’s eyes and grip softened with the word, but he held on.

“Kurt! Nurse! Help!”

“No…Karof…I just…to say…thank you.”

Dave heard muffled sounds in the corridor; a sliding of feet.

“For…coming out. I heard…”

His free hand gestured towards his ears.

“You…you heard that?”

“Yeah…”

Blaine’s eyes closed once more. He was silent.

David’s mouth hung open.

The door behind him was flung open. Kurt burst into the room, his face pale.

“Wha…wha…what?!”

He skidded on the floor, staring at Blaine’s apparently unchanged figure. He struggled to still his pounding heart, to hear the stream of bleeps from the machines. What was Dave playing at, standing there with those wide eyes? What had happened?

“He…Blaine’s…waking…”

Such words, but they sounded hollow and lifeless. So shocked.

Kurt’s heart stopped altogether.

“What?”

He threw himself to the bed, pushing Dave aside, who stumbled and sank against the wall. Kurt seized Blaine’s hand, bending over him, tears flooding his eyes.

“Blaine…Blaine, come on, look at me…please, oh God, please…”

His breath pounded into his words. He laid a hand on that perfect cheek.

And the eyelashes flickered. And opened. And the mouth shuddered into a smile.

“Hello, beautiful…”

Kurt was still for a moment, his mind overwhelmed. But then his face split. He wept and laughed, tears coursing down his face.

“Oh, oh…”

Was all he could manage, before he collapsed onto Blaine’s chest. Blaine weakly raised his arms around his boyfriend.

“I…I love you so much. Never…never do that to me again…never leave…”

Karofsky had staggered upright, and lurched to the open door. A startled nurse met him, having followed the shouts, and ran past him into the room. Dave looked around the empty corridor and stumbled to a vacant chair. His chest catapulted up and down. He put his head in his hand, curling down to his knees. And, inside himself, he felt his soul, or whatever this sensation was, jumping and rejoicing; released at last.