(A/N): Hello again!

I don't think the wait was as excruciatingly long as last time… right?

No, it was, and I apologize. I feel bad because this chapter has been sitting in my computer for a while and kept getting delayed. Like, I didn't have a lot of time to write it and when I did it was all stilted, and then the end of October had a lot of family over, and THEN I did NaNoWriMo (50,000 words in the month of November, I won!) so I had to write that, and then it was hard to find time to pre-edit this before emailing it to my wondrous beta, and then there was the time it took for said wonderful beta to beta it.
On that note, I want all of you people's wondrous wondrousness (because seriously, people, so many alerts!) to send your love to HPkitty and all others affected by Hurricane Sandy. So because of the hurricane, the chapter never got edited so it may have mistakes that I'm sure I will be made aware of. ;P

Yeah. Thank you for all the alerts, favorites, and reviews during the wait, though! They made me want to write more. :P

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. If I did, THE EVENT'S IN "THE BREAK UP" WOULD NEVER HAVE EVER HAPPENED IN A MILLION YEARS BECAUSE THAT IS NOT ALLOWED TO EVER HAPPEN AGAIN. BUT THEN ALSO ALL THE ADORABLE KLAINE MOMENTS WERE LIKE FNERIFJUREOASD.

A tangible sense of solemnity and sadness settled over the room. I didn't want to feel this. I didn't want to be the one causing this. I didn't want to be the reason, the source of everyone's worry and bad thoughts. I didn't want to be here, in this hospital because of my father, and I didn't want to have to work so hard to be perfect, through the pain and the sadness and the hurt. I didn't want to.

So I slept.

-:-Blaine-:-

A sense of unease filled my chest as I made my way down the sterile halls of the hospital. What if I shouldn't have done that? What if he hadn't wanted them to know, at least not yet? We hadn't even talked it over ourselves, what if he really didn't want this?

Before I could fall too deeply into my mind, a familiar voice graced my ears. "Blaine?" Larissa asked, stopping next to me. "Are you going to be okay? Where are you headed to?"

"Me? Fine," I replied distractedly, giving her what I hoped passed for a normal, charming smile. I have a feeling it came out as more of a grimace. "Home," I added, softer, looking down at my shoes, "my parents want me home before it gets late."

Larissa nodded. She shifted a bag of something—something liquid and medicinal-looking—to her other arm so she could rest her small hand on my shoulder. "I'm taking this to Kurt right now," she said, gesturing to the aforementioned bag. "It's medicine. It should help him sleep, take the pain away. He won't even know you're gone."

I nodded, only slightly reassured. I didn't want to go home and fake a smile so my parents won't ask what's wrong. It's not that I thought they would be angry at me, at least not mom. But I didn't want them storming in on him, being as overbearing and overwhelming as they always have been, all big hearts and good intentions that didn't always come across in the right way.

It was something more, too, I guess. It was the fact that Kurt was something really special to me. Something that I treasured and cherished. Something that just meant so much, deep down, that you could hardly decide whether you wanted to show it to the world, yelling praise off the highest mountaintop, or hide it, keep it safely tucked away somewhere where no one could find it, so it's your special thing, unable to be tarnished or stolen by others.

I realized I was thinking too much again. I blinked, looking up at Larissa's eyes, wide with concern. I still didn't want to leave Kurt, whether or not my parents liked it. But I had no choice. So I gave Larissa a tight hug, whispering my thanks and hoping I'd erased some of her fears. She didn't need to be worrying about me when Kurt was in the state he was.

Sighing, I climbed into my car and tried to make a final, logical decision on what to tell my parents. At least, that's what I told myself I was going to spend the car ride doing. Instead, I spent it worrying profusely about Kurt and how he could be missing me and all alone and if he was in pain and no one knew about it or if he was having another nightmare or—

My thoughts ended abruptly at the tapping on my window. "Blaine? You've been just sitting there for a while; your father was getting worried." It was my mother.

I slowly climbed out of the car, keeping my eyes downcast so she wouldn't immediately be able to tell something was wrong. I haven't made up my mind just yet; I had no plan. My eyes stayed strictly on the fading, worn pavement, the fading green of the grass, the crisp white of her shoes—anything to avoid meeting her eyes.

Obviously, my doing this only drew attention to it rather than hiding it. "Blaine?" she said, her voice immediately filling with concern, her hands pulling me into the house. "What's wrong?"

We sat down in the living room as I tried to gather my thoughts and form them into coherent words. By that time, my father had joined us. "It's Kurt," I finally admitted.

(LINE)

-:-Kurt-:-

The first time I woke up could hardly be considered "waking up". The last remnants of my nightmare—or was it a memory?—had begun to fade before the blurred shapes of the hospital room could fully come back into focus. I was still exhausted; it felt like I hadn't gotten any sleep at all. I let my eyes flutter closed again, hoping for a few more hours of restful peace.

The second time I woke up was sharper, more shocking. I sat straight up in bed, pain radiating from what felt like my entire body as I panted and rubbed my hands over my face. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay. Safe. Safe, safe, you're safe," I told myself frantically, desperately, squeezing my eyes shut against the onslaught of phantom images and words. I fought to regain control of my breathing, reign it back in from panicky and erratic to calm and normal. I tangled my hands in my hair out of frustration, aggravated that I couldn't even control something as easy and natural as breathing.

"God damn it!" I hissed, hunching forward against the pain in my ribs, doing nothing but making breathing even more difficult. I couldn't take it, it was just too much. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, I wanted to explode, but I could do nothing but flounder for air and control. I couldn't move, I couldn't think, I couldn't function. I couldn't.

A pitiful, breathless sort of whimper burst past my lips, tremors shaking my body. My thoughts were tugged inwards, filled with harsh, spitting words, hate, and degradation. I barely registered the opening of the hospital room door. "Kurt?" The words floated to my ears, muted and distorted. Gentle hands rested on my arms, and I instinctively flinched away. Those weren't mean hands, but they also weren't Blaine's hands; they were too small, too soft and light and smooth. I wanted Blaine. Where was Blaine? Suddenly, the hands left, but I could still feel the person's presence. More words were spoken. "Kurt, it's Larissa. Can you try to breathe for me? If you calm down a bit, focus on me, I promise everything will be okay."

It took a few seconds for me to make sense of the words, searching for their meanings through the cloud of oh my god oh my god oh my god in my head. Once that was accomplished, it seemed like I had grabbed hold of something, found a sort of foundation, though the gaping pit in my stomach screaming for no one but Blaine remained. Still, the panic slowly began to ebb from my system.

"There you go," she said gently. "See? It's all okay."

I nodded, slumping back against the pillows. I wanted to curl up in a tiny, insignificant ball and let a black hole swallow me up. I was mortified. I was disgusted. I was ashamed. I felt so worthless, so unnecessary and problematic that I almost lost my breath again. I hated myself for being so weak. I hated how a stupid dream had pulled me apart completely. I hated that Larissa had witnessed it.

My thoughts must have shown on my face, because Larissa spoke up again. "Kurt, it's fine. People have panic attacks here all the time, especially after situations like yours. It's completely normal and nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of, alright?" Her tone was kind, soothing, but it only filled my gut with more revulsion. "Get some sleep, alright?" Her voice was gentle, and sleep was already calling, persuading me to slip gently back into its arms, so I really had no choice but to give in.

The third and final time I woke up was gradual and peaceful instead of jarring and panic-stricken. It's like I was gently lulled awake, but just so that my eyes still didn't have the willpower to open. I was warm and calm, and I knew the second I moved or opened my eyes I would lose it, so I snuggled a little bit more into my pillow, squeezing my arms around it tighter. I felt safe.

I settled my head into the pillow at a more comfortable angle. I had almost drifted off again when I noticed my pillow was… moving. Breathing. An irrational surge of panic washed over me, but I kept up my façade of sleep and slowly, cautiously, opened my eyes. I tried to make sense of what my slightly sleep-blurred vision was telling me I was seeing.

To try to confirm this, I paid more attention to my pillow-substitute. It was warm, yes, but it wasn't soft. It was firm, the good kind of firm—the kind that's all muscle, skin and hard body. And yes, this body was breathing. The shirt this person was wearing was soft, yet slightly scratchy. It felt like home. I breathed in slowly—

Blaine.

My eyes flew open and I shoved up from his chest reluctantly. The second I did, though, I regretted it. Not just because it hurt—because it hurt like hell—but because I immediately missed the warmth and safety. I cleared my throat. "I-I'm sorry," I whispered, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks.

Blaine just smiled at me, sitting up from his lounging position. "Kurt, really, it's no problem. It was… nice." Now it was his turn to blush. Blaine looked down at his lap, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Then those hazel eyes turned to mine. "Besides, I heard you've had a rough night, and I thought that… you know, maybe I could… um, you know. Help." His confidence seemed to waver as he went on, but my smile only grew.

"Blaine," I could stop the giggle from coming out. "It's fine. It was… nice. Really nice." I was blushing again, but it didn't matter because I was smiling, too. "It did. Help, I mean."

His smile warmed me all the way to the tips of my toes. I could just feel my heart melt inside my chest. I was still smiling and I felt like I would never be able to stop. It was a great feeling. Odd, unfamiliar, but great.

Blaine pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. "Come on, sleepyhead. They've just got to do a few more tests and such and then you can go home."

The smile slipped off my face.

Home.

The realization hit me so suddenly, so forcefully that it was as if it stripped everything else away and the only thing I was aware of was emptiness and fear. Home. I had to go home. Home to my father after all he'd done to land me here in the first place. Home, where it seems every drop of life, any sign of vitality was sucked out, leaving me as this empty shell.

Home, where he may try to finish what he'd started.

I must have zoned out, because I soon noticed Blaine had an increasingly concerned expression on his beautiful face. "Kurt?" he asked tentatively, lightly placing his hand on my thigh and squeezing. I flinched away violently, disgust and mortification broiling deep in the pit of my stomach. He must have felt it, he must have. My thighs were huge; fatty and squishy and just plain disgusting. I could remember all those hours I spent in front of the mirror, rolling the fat between my fingers, counting calories and cutting meals.

Just moments afterwards, though, the revulsion morphed into shame and regret. "B-Blaine, I'm so sorry, I-I didn't mean—"

"No, Kurt. It's fine," he said, giving me a soft, reassuring smile. And I believed him. I believed him because that smile could convince me of anything. But the sadness was unable to be masked, especially in eyes as expressive as his; eyes that were like crystal-clear glass windows straight through to the soul. Tears stung in my eyes, and I tried uselessly to blink them away. Ashamedly, they traveled in rivulets down my cheeks.

"No, no, no," he cooed gently, swiping them away with his thumb. "Really, Kurt, I understand. Something really bad happened to you; something I can't even begin to comprehend. I know this isn't going to be easy, and I knew you'd be jumpy. I just got ahead of myself. Really, it was my fault—"

"It is in absolutely no way your fault! It's all me. You're one of the only people I actually care about—"

"Kurt, stop," he tried, clasping my hand.

"—and I flinched away like you're my d—like you're one of those scumbags that did this to me!" I blushed as I tripped over my words, rambling on in hopes that it would be forgotten.

"Kurt, no really—"

"That isn't right or fair to you! I love you and I can't even show that because—"

"Kurt!" Blaine raised his voice, firmly but with a hint of laughter and the beginnings of a smile. He squeezed my hand as he continued, "Okay, okay. It wasn't either of our faults." He held up a hand to stop me from protesting. "Let me finish. But I still love you. How could I not love you, just because something bad happened and you're just beginning to deal with it? What kind of person would I be if I did that?" I cringed; I knew plenty of people like that. I looked down at our hands.

After a beat of silence, I peeked up at him. Only once I met his eyes did he say, "I will never say goodbye to you."

He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my lips. It hardly lasted more than five seconds, but I pulled away feeling lightheaded and flushed. I looked straight into his eyes, searching, and I could see nothing but admiration and love and wonder.

It confused me. How could that—something so glorious and awe-inspiring—be directed towards me? I was not worth that amount of emotion. Someone much better, much more perfect, deserved all of Blaine's love and affection. There were plenty of people like that who would kill to be with someone like Blaine.

He made me feel loved. He made me feel like I belonged. He made me forget that my life was in shambles. He made me see that there still are beautiful people in this world. He made me realize that you can find true love with your one special person. He made me feel the closest I have ever felt to perfect.

But I didn't deserve any of it.

Yet at the same time, I could not just give it all up. It meant too much to me for that. Does that make me selfish? Of course it does. But I could not give Blaine up any more than I could stop the Earth from turning. I was so dependent on him and all that he is; so much so that I knew I couldn't make it through my days without him. Darker, harder, harsher, longer.

I don't know what my face showed, or how much of what I was thinking had been revealed, but Blaine had obviously seen something. "Kurt?" he started to ask, leaning closer, "are you sure you're—"

"Okay, lovebirds!" Larissa said cajolingly as she entered the room. "Put the wild and crazy declarations of love, heartfelt speeches, and tender kisses on pause for a moment, we've got some work to do!"

I blushed; I could feel the heat spread all the way up to my hairline and down my neck. Blaine just cracked a fond smile. "Okay, Larissa, we get it," he teased, then turned back to me. "Kurt, she's right. The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can go home and relax."

'Relax' isn't quite the right word, I thought, looking away. But there wasn't much of anything I could do, was there? I had to endure these final few things that the doctors had decided to do to me, only to go back to where it all happened, not really even knowing what awaited me.

I did nothing more but sit there through every test, check or question they could possibly think of. I was numb. It was like I had become cyclically immune to feelings of panic and dread, and in place of them was just nothingness. I didn't know if I wanted my stay here at the hospital to last for eternity, keeping me safe and away from the destructive hands of my father, or to end as soon as possible, freeing me from this metallic and medicinal misery.

Time seemed to drag and race by all at once. It was like time itself was undecided, too. Every time I glanced at the clock, my feelings changed. One minute goes by and I'm itching to get out. Ten, and I'm mentally begging them to slow down or think of something else that they forgot to check or record.

In time, though, it seemed I was deemed ready to go. I sat on my bed to wait as they retrieved a wheelchair to take me out of the hospital. I examined the black plaster on my leg, smiling at the lone signature that contrasted against the darkness in bright, metallic silver. I remember what Blaine had said earlier: "I told them black because I figured it would match with anything you wore on the weekends and be mostly hidden by the uniform, anyways. Plus, you can have people sign it in this really cool silver Sharpie!" of which he then produced from his bag. He had gently propped my leg up on his knee, smiling softly as he elegantly wrote his name, the letters large and loopy. I remember laughing when he carefully colored in the heart he had drawn next to it.

I absentmindedly ran my hand across my ribs and shoulders, feeling the odd textures of the bandages that encased them. My hand trailed lower, ghosting over my stomach briefly so no one could notice.

God.

How long had it been since I'd last exercised? Two, three days, and I had already gained all this weight back? Everything was ruined. All my hard work, tarnished because of him.

But I was doing this for him; why would he want to ruin it? Why would he try to stop me from reaching my goal when it would ultimately make everything better? Didn't he want things to improve? It seemed very obvious to me that he did. Why else would he be so hard on me, other than to persuade me to do my best? Was this not what he wanted?

That thought was quickly dismissed when Larissa arrived with the wheelchair, a bright smile on her face. "In you go," she murmured as she guided me into the chair. I hobbled awkwardly across the short amount of space between the bed and the chair, wincing as pain shot up my leg. The doctor had put a boot on my cast so I would be able to walk; he had, however, warned me not to overexert myself and given me crutches to use for the majority of the days. I would be careful, but I also would have to push it a little. I needed to regain the muscle and more importantly the use of my leg before my dance recital. It was coming up quickly, and the Hawk is already preparing to murder me on account of this new and improved setback.

I hardly remember the trip to the car; I faintly remember wanting to push myself to at least burn off some of the calories they had forced into me, but Blaine had immediately stopped me, claiming it would irritate my collarbone and ribs.

I sighed and relented because, knowing him, as loving as caring as he may be, he would not let it go. I hadn't realized, however, that the next option in line would be for him to push me.

Now that was just plain horrible for a multitude of reasons, the first and foremost being me. He couldn't push this chair, I was way too heavy. I didn't need him to be straining and panting for all the wrong reasons. I didn't want him to realize how huge and disgusting I really was. He would finally notice how wrong he has been, calling me hot and lean and graceful, and would leave me right here in this damn parking lot because he would be too embarrassed to be seen with me any longer.

The other main reason also fell to me. I didn't need to be taken care of. I didn't need to rely on other people. I was perfectly capable and independent. Well, I was working on it, at least. It was something my father wanted me to do: act like a man. And so I would, if only Blaine would let me. Does he not realize? Does he try to unhinge my plans, all my hard work? Is he doing it unknowingly? My heartbeat sped up a little bit when I realized I could have just fallen for the sickest of jokes. What if—

My thoughts screeched to a halt when I started moving against my will. "No!" I choked out before I could stop myself. I quickly looked over my shoulder, seeing it was Blaine. I didn't know what to do—did I stop him, protest, cover up my outburst?—but before I could really think of any reasonable reaction, Blaine was hunched over a bit so his mouth was by my ear. "Calm down, love. I'll make sure you're safe," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, his hot breath tickling my neck and making me shudder.

A flush burned underneath my skin; love. He called me "love". Any doubts that lingered in my mind, taunting and haunting me, evaporated with that one word, said with such subtle, yet obvious, conviction and care. The soft kindness of his voice and the crafting of the word… how could one dispute? Nothing could ever be said with more truth. I looked once again over my shoulder, seeing that same conviction and that same truth reflected in those dazzling eyes.

The sight of his eyes, the eyes I still couldn't properly describe, brought up something I had earlier classified as Not Real. But, with a stroke of confidence, I decided Icould make it real. "What color are your eyes?" The question came out softer, more tentative and hesitant than I had wanted, but the sparkling smile it elicited was worth the brief moment of terror and regret.

"I'm not sure, really. Hazel, I guess? That's what I've been told. What about yours? I've been wondering that since that first day in the dance studio."

I smiled, taking a moment to stall and imagine. Hazel. What could that look like? From what I could see, it made the most dazzling and warm shade of gray I've ever had the luck to see. Hazel sounded like a warm color. Warm and soft and sparkling. Was it a blue? It looked lighter and softer, cooler; the kind of shades I associated with purples and blues and greens. Or was it browner, earthy, sun-touched? I knew there were hazelnuts. Was it that sort of color? I didn't know. All I did know was that I loved it.

Then it occurred to me that I needed to answer his question. "Um, well, I'm not really sure either," I said, really just procrastinating. What had Mercedes told me? Santana, Brittany? I couldn't recall exactly how they'd explained it. Blue? I would feel really stupid if I were wrong. "I haven't really looked in a while. What do you think?" I deflected, hoping he would fall for it.

I don't know if I fooled him, because there was a momentary pause in the conversation, as we had arrived at his car. "In you go," he chirped.

"What?" I asked, bewildered. "No, I can't leave my car here, Blaine. I'm fine to drive home."

He sighed. "Kurt…"

I tried not to sound too defensive or irritated. "Blaine, I am not a poor, injured, defenseless child. I can take care of myself. Really, I can manage the drive."

Blaine looked up, his face scrunched—rather adorably—in thought, as though he was internally debating, or trying to come up with excuses. "Fine," he said, looking me in the eye, "if you let me follow you home. Just so I know you're okay and got there safely," he added quickly when I tried to protest.

I was feeling conflicted; I was very touched and very happy that he apparently cared so much for me. But at the same time, there was so much I was hiding, so much he couldn't know, that the more time he spent near or at my house, or even around me in general, could endanger not only him but all the hard work and effort I've put into the rehabilitation of my relationship with my father.

I was snapped out of my thoughts yet again, leaving me surprised and bewildered about how I had arrived at my car so suddenly.

"…Kurt?" Blaine asked, a light chuckle coloring his tone. "Did I lose you there for a second?"

I forced a laugh along with him. "Yeah, I guess. Sorry."

"Are you s—" he started to ask, those adorable triangular eyebrows creased in concern.

"Yes, Blaine, I'm completely sure," I answered lightly with a tight smile. I was fine. I was. Really.

With a little bit of awkward shuffling and gentle-handed assistance, I was settled into the driver's seat of my Navigator. I sat there for a second, just sitting and thinking and feeling. I don't know why. I don't know why I felt like I needed that moment of silence and nothing, but something seemed to settle in my mind.

Was I trying to calm myself? Was the panic already getting back to me? I wouldn't, couldn't, let that happen. I needed to be strong. I needed to be a man. And to do that, I can't freak out over the slightest things, like sitting in my car ready to go home. I just can't.

Just as I reach for the keys, letting out a slow breath, I see Blaine out of the corner of my eye, standing a few feet back from my car, his lips slightly puckered and his gaze concentrated. When he had realized I had caught him, his eyes widened slightly. A laugh burst out of my stomach, unsuspected. Painful and unexpected, yet pleasant nonetheless. I rolled down the window, leaning out slightly and raising an eyebrow.

"See something you like?"

Immediately after it came out of my mouth, I regretted it. I slammed my mouth shut, my teeth connecting with a sharp clack! My cheeks flamed and I dropped my gaze. Shit, shit, shit! I thought, You shouldn't have said that, you dumbass! Now he's going to think you're even sluttier than you already are! God, can't you control yourself?

But instead of looking appalled, disgusted, or even put-off like I'd expected, his soft lips were turned up into a smirk. "Yes, actually, I did."

I couldn't even form any words. Was this… flirting? I'd never flirted before. What was I supposed to say back? Was I supposed to be shy, catty, playful, witty, sultry? I don't know if I could do any of those things. I didn't know how to respond to such a blatant compliment. I've never really been given the chance to learn.

Cheeks still warm, I schooled my features into a soft smirk that matched his. It only widened as he stepped forward, right up against the car door, his face only inches from mine.

The words came out softer and more breathy than I had planned: "And you're just going to stand there and stare?"

He tilted his head to the side a bit. "Nah, you know me; always the activist," he whispered, his voice matching mine. He closed the tiny space between us with his lips, moving them gently against mine in a soft, warm embrace. I sighed slightly into the kiss, leaning at an awkward angle out of the car window in an effort to press closer. Suddenly, his hand was cupping my jaw, resting there for a second before slowly starting to trail down my neck towards my shoulder.

I pulled back with a soft gasp, worrying for a moment that his fingers would brush against the layers of fat that hung under my chin. Those thoughts dissipated in an instant, though, when I saw the soft smile and sparkling eyes that still lingered before me.

"Blue," he said suddenly as he stared into my eyes. "Well, not just blue."

"W-What?"

"Your eyes. I think most people would call them blue, but they're not, not really. Maybe… cesious? Cerulean? Glasz? I don't really know. And they change color, too! Sometimes they're this misty gray, other times they've got this soft green tint to them, but usually they're this bright shade of blue, but it sparkles like when you're staring across a body of water during the sunset."

I stood there, shocked. Intrigued, too, but mostly shocked. He had paid that much attention to me; enough to figure out the all the apparently shifting shades of my eyes?

With a smile that looked kind of sheepish and embarrassed, he said, "You should… probably head home, I guess."

"Y-Yeah," I answered, shaking my head to clear it. Good. All was good. Fine. Really. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to think about. Nothing sad or depressing or panic-inducing, at least for the time being. For now, I would keep my thoughts trained on Blaine, on how the tingling in my lips and the slight breathlessness remained as a reminder, a memory; how his smile warmed up my heart and his kindness never failed to take my breath away.

With these thoughts, I would be fine. Really.

-:-Blaine-:-

My mind was rampant during the drive.

My thoughts were uncontrollable; bouncing all over the place and flitting over thought after thought after thought in rapid succession, barely giving me time to really comprehend what had just flown through my mind. It occurred to me that, in this state of internal disorientation, I maybe should not be on the road. But I didn't really have a choice. I needed to get Kurt home safe. Kurt was more important.

I focused on the car in front of me—Kurt's car—as we drove down the busy streets, scrutinizing his nearly indistinguishable movements and trying to decipher what they meant. How was he? Was he in pain? Was he sad, panicked, scared? I didn't know. This creepy spying wasn't helping either one of us, so I gave up on it and turned my thoughts strictly to the road.

Or… I tried.

The rest of the drive passed by in a sort of blur. I hardly realized half of what I was doing; the driving was automatic and required very little attention on my part. My racing thoughts never once slowed, not truly, until they morphed into a single, indefinable expletive when I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of me.

"Shit!" I breathed, letting out a harsh breath. "What the hell, Kurt?"

Kurt had slowed down abruptly as we turned into the roads leading into the subdivisions of Lima. Why, I was not entirely sure, though it did strike me as peculiar. I stored it away in my mental library for potential future use. Kurt sped up slightly, traveling at a decidedly leisurely pace down the street, taking the curves softly and seemingly over-carefully.

Maybe he had hurt himself? I didn't know. Maybe, while driving, he was moved in a certain way or jerked the wheel too roughly or swiftly, causing one of his various injuries to flare up in pain. I didn't know. An unreasonable amount of worry fluttered in my gut, but I shoved it down and pressed forward.

I returned to studying Kurt. I could pick something out of his actions, this time. We may have been nearing his house or something, as he was glancing from side to side as he gradually slowed even more. Eventually, his car crept into a driveway at the end of the street. I followed, parking right behind him.

I was just about to exit my car when I noticed Kurt was still in his seat. He looked tense; something in the set of his shoulders. I paused, my hand hovering over the door's handle, and waited. Observed.

He seemed to study the house in front of us—what I presumed to be his own. What called for this unusual and sudden scrutiny? Again, I didn't know. He seemed to glance to his right every few seconds; there was nothing there, however. Nothing but empty space in their driveway. There was just enough room for another car to be parked, but there wasn't one there at the moment.

Was that what was holding his attention? The lack of whoever usually parked in that spot? Or was it the opposite; confirming that its usual occupant wasn't there?

I wasn't sure—I was never sure with Kurt lately—but something had finally seemed to have settled. He swung the car door open, sliding awkwardly out of his seat, landing on his foot with a grimace. I rushed over to help, handing him his crutches and giving him a look when he appeared about to refuse.

We made it to the front door with little excitement—though the steps had posed an interesting challenge themselves—and it was like we were at another impasse. Kurt was just standing there, studying, listening, examining. Very similar to my earlier investigations, Kurt seemed tense and unsure. Worried, even.

Then it occurred to me; was I making him nervous? I was technically his boyfriend, after all—well, I was guessing; we had still yet to discuss the formalities. I mean, I was going to his house for the first time. It was like the first time you brought your date or even a new friend over; you obsessed about how everything would look and appear and how everything would be considered and conceived by the other person. You fussed over every little detail you could to show off your living space in the best possible light. And now, due to the situation, Kurt hadn't gotten that chance.

I saw him swallow thickly, hands trembling slightly as he fumbled to unlock the door. With a hurried glance over his shoulder at me, to which I gave a calm and encouraging smile, he shoved the door open and stepped aside with a meek gesture. "After you," he teased, though the slight waver in his voice took away from his attempt at humor.

I stepped passed him and into the house, letting my eyes roam over the small entrance hallway. The walls were a soft beige with accents of darker browns in the woods and pictures that hung on the wall. One hanging near the stairs hung crookedly; I thought it odd, seeing as Kurt could be so anal about perfection and exactness sometimes.

A little ways in front of me and to the left was the staircase. To the right of it and through an archway was the kitchen. The house felt… odd. Not quite homey—no, that was too warm, too safe of a word. It didn't feel too lived in, too loved. Maybe they had just moved here recently? I didn't think so, and certain things did seem worn, but the lack of homeliness did strike me as odd.

I turned around and smiled at Kurt, who was standing in the doorway nervously, wringing his hands together. "Is your father not home?"

His eyes widened briefly in shock. So briefly, in fact, that I was not entirely sure I had really even seen it. "N-No," he answered, taking a few small steps in my direction. "A-At least, not yet."

I nodded in response and returned to my light inspection of the house. I had barely taken another step forwards before I heard a slight startled gasp from behind me. I spun around. "Kurt?"

"Shit," he hissed, standing frozen for second, eyes unfocused before they snapped back to me. "Shit, uh, stay here. Please. Don't m-move, and, uh, s-stay here. Shit!" he muttered again and he edged around me, hobbling as quickly as he could for the staircase.

I took a small step towards him, just barely, and he rounded on me. "No! Please, just… just hold on a minute."

I stood there, perplexed, as he made his way up the staircase, his gait awkward and panicked. Something didn't feel right. "Kurt?"

"Blaine, no!" he called as he disappeared around the corner.

I couldn't help but to follow him, albeit slow and cautious. "Kurt, please, what are you doing?"

"Nothing!" he called again, his voice sounding slightly hysteric. "Just… Just ch-checking something out really fast. Please, just stay put!"

"Kurt, you're worrying me," I admitted, edging up the staircase. I waited at the landing for a moment, peering around the corner, anxiety bubbling in my stomach. "Kurt?"

I saw a beam of light cut across the hallway from a door that was left partially open. All the rest of the doors were closed, and Kurt was nowhere in sight, so I guessed that was where he had gone. "Kurt, seriously," I said, a jittery laugh bursting out of me. "C'mon, Kurt, just…"

I don't know what I was going to say. I never had a chance to even think about what it was I wanted to say, let alone actually speak the words. I had warily stepped down the short hallway towards the door. I could see movement; shadows flickering briefly across that line of light. "Kurt?"

He could hear how close my voice was. "Blaine, I said stay d-downstairs!" he had obviously meant to be stern, but the tremor that colored his words had dulled the effect. Now I was really scared. I glanced down at the carpet, taking step by watchful step towards the room. Fleetingly, I noted that the carpet looked freshly washed; slightly damp looking, a light, breezy smell wafting up with each step. When I was right outside the room, however, I dismissed the random and unnecessary thoughts. How could I be thinking of something as trivial as freshly-cleaned carpets at a time like this?

My hands were shaking as I held them firmly at my sides, balled into tight, anxious fists. I willed them to be still as I reached for the handle, giving it a slight shove. It swung open slowly—horrifyingly slowly, like in a horror film—with a piercing creak.

Indeed, Kurt was there. He spun on his heel to face me, surprisingly nimble and light on his feet considering recent events. My thoughts were stilled, suddenly and shockingly, when I took in the confusion etched into his white face, stripped of color as though whatever fear or apprehension that had consumed him had sucked out his very life essence.

"Kurt?"

One word, one name. I spoke it softly, carefully, tentatively, as though too loud a sound would shatter him. I didn't know what was wrong; the room, which I had guessed to be his own, was immaculate. The carpets in here, too, I noted, also looked fresh and clean. The bed was made perfectly, the sheets crisp and tucked in. Each of his dressers and the desk were very obviously organized; there were a few misplaced bottles or pens, but for the most part everything seemed to be in line. Everything seemed to fit how Kurt would have his room. So why did he seem so confused?

"Kurt? Is something wrong?" I had finally mustered up the courage to ask. "Were you… expecting your room to be a mess?"

He cleared his throat. "Um, yeah, a bit."

"So what happened?"

"M-my, uh, my dad must have cleaned it, I guess," was his answer. He seemed doubtful, dubious, concerned. I wasn't sure why, I wasn't sure what was the matter, but I walked to his side anyways.

"Relax, Kurt, everything is fine. You're house, you're room; they're wonderful."

He swallowed, nodding. He still seemed pale, though, and shaky. I grabbed his hand and tugged him gently out of the room.

"Let's just get you—" I started, before Kurt's hand tightened suddenly over my own. "Kurt?"

"Shh!" he hissed, eyes wide and posture tense as he listened, listened for something I must not have been able to hear.

"Kurt, what is—?"

"Shh!" he hissed again. After a moment, a moment of bone-crushing force on my hand, he let out a pained gasp as hobbled quickly for the stairs.

Confused and concerned, I automatically grabbed his arm and eased him down the stairs. As soon as we reached the bottom, he froze.

Then a heard it.

A car door, slamming shut. The heavy clump of boots making their way up the walk and across the porch. The annoyed huff of breath and the scratching of metal of the key in the lock.

"Dad's home," Kurt breathed.

(a/n): Oh my god, I am evil!

I feel bad for using that cliffy because you've been waiting forever for this. Well, hopefully with Holiday Break starting today, I'll have plenty of time to write. :3

Speaking of, I hope you all had a nice end of the world! ;) And also Happy Holidays to all of you; you've been so wonderful to me, I can't thank you enough.

Oh, and is it bad that I fangirl over my own story? XD Yes? It is? XP

Oh! And I would like to know how you would feel with the possible return of Carsonne in some upcoming chapters?

You all are lovely and deserve a cookie!

~DFTBA and Best Wishes!