Blaine hates being sick. He hates the way his head swims when he opens and closes his eyes. He hates the way his skin feels hot and dry when he puts a hand to his forehead, but his palms are cold and clammy. He hates the way the world lists left and right when he stands up too fast, and how sneezing makes his entire head explode.

But if he has to be an invalid, he loves that Kurt is willing to take care of him.

Kurt is like his mom…only sexier.

Blaine will regret that thought when he gets well, he decides.

Per doctor's orders, Kurt forces Blaine to spend the day sitting on the sofa, wrapped in one of the quilts Kurt made him, watching Pirates of the Caribbean on loop while Kurt fusses over him – taking his temperature, giving him his medication, keeping his fever down.

Blaine looks down at the elegant China cup that Kurt puts down on the coffee table in front of him and frowns at the rapidly darkening liquid.

“What…what is that?” he asks, eyes focusing and unfocusing at random intervals as he peers at the contents of his cup.

“You know what that is,” Kurt says with a smile and an immense amount of patience. “It's tea.”

“Ugh!” Blaine sticks out his tongue and shoos the cup away with weak waves from his fingers. “Be gone with your leaf water. I need something strong…like coffee. Espresso.”

“Yeah, no,” Kurt says, pouring a dollop of honey into Blaine's tea and stirring carefully, trying not to clatter the cup too loudly, mindful of Blaine's pounding headache. “Coffee is not going to go well with those steroids Dr. Reynolds prescribed. Besides, you need some sleep.”

“Then bring me some rum,” Blaine says, raising his arm in an attempt to channel Captain Jack Sparrow but giggling instead.

“I don't care how often you watch that movie, Blaine, you're not a pirate,” Kurt says, his patience wearing thin after the twenty times he's already been called matey and wench, and more than a little tired of hearing Blaine shout Arrgh!.

“I still want rum,” Blaine pouts.

“I'm not getting you rum,” Kurt repeats. “It's either tea or broth, but I'm warning you, the broth is thin.”

Blaine cocks an eyebrow.

“How thin?” he asks.

“Think water,” Kurt says with finality.

Blaine frowns.

“Ugh…” he moans again, lower lip trembling, not at all thrilled by his choices. “Why do you hate me?”

“I don't hate you,” Kurt explains with a worn-out sigh. “Whatever you put in your mouth has to be bland and thin or we'll be seeing it again.”

“Well, I don't want it.” Blaine ducks down under his blanket like a spoiled child, covering up his entire body except for his face.

Kurt looks down at Blaine and shakes his head, way more exhausted than he's letting on. Kurt isn't too fond of playing nursemaid to a competent adult, so Blaine is lucky that he's adorable.

Kurt crouches down low in front of Blaine, catching his feverish gaze.

“If you drink your tea, I'll rub vapo-rub on your chest,” Kurt says in a singsong way, trying to tempt Blaine out from his quilted cocoon.

“Only if it's not too much trouble,” Blaine says softly, looking up at Kurt through thick black lashes and bleary eyes.

Kurt presses a kiss to Blaine's forehead, wincing at how hot he is, knowing they still have a while before his fever breaks.

“I'm glad I didn't have to twist your arm,” Kurt says with a fond chuckle, standing and heading back to the kitchen for the broth.

“Thank ye, matey,” Blaine crows after him, emerging from his quilt.

“Still not a pirate, Blaine.”