To Blaine:
Babe, where are you? This is your 4th day off I'm getting worried
To Kurt:
I had a doctor's appointment today. I'm sorry, I love you
To Blaine:
Ok, you had me worried! Hope everything's all right. Love you to, with all my heart
That was 2 hours ago. 2 hours ago that he got that text, before his doctor's appointment, before the test results came back. 2 hours since he was last whole.
He stood in the bathroom, chest bare and legs free of denim, only clad in his black boxer briefs. The sharp V of his hips could be seen in the mirror before it disappeared behind the sink. In his hands he held a pair of scissors. Sharp, black plastic handles. His mother used them to cut his father's hair before business meetings or important client meetings. But Blaine had a better use for them now. He looked at his reflection, red, puffy, tear soaked eyes, blotchy olive skin, salty tracks running down pump cheeks, brown curls wild and free from gel. He looked a mess. He was a mess. He looked back down at the scissors. Back up at his curls. More tears fell. He lifted up his free hand and grabbed a lock of curls, pulling it away from the rest. He rose the hand that held the scissors. Snip. The locks fell to the sink. Dark brown contrasting beautifully against the stained white. He grabbed another lock. Rose the scissor. Snip. Another lock. Scissors. Snip. Another. Snip. Another. Snip. The tears fell. Snip. His throat tightened. Snip. There was a knock at his bedroom door. Snip. A call of his name in angelic voice. Snip. Footsteps. Snip.
"Blaine?" sni- "love?" Kurt "Blaine honey" a knock of the half closed bathroom door. He hung his head. Scissors falling into the sink with a clatter "Blaine? You ok?" a sob "I'm coming in, sweet heart" the door opened with a squeak. The padding of Kurt's boot clad feet on tiles. The gasp as he took in the sight in front of him. His boyfriend, practically naked, with locks of his hair littering the sink and the floor around him. His beautiful curls cut at all different length's that it looked like his 8 year-old vision pulled a prank on him while he napped on the couch. His face was tear stained and broken. Head hanging low and hands gripping on to the white laminate counter "oh Blaine" the light stomp of his heels as he ran to his broken boyfriend. The warn embrace of his cardigan covered arms "what have you done to yourself?" a sob "oh sweet heart"
"I'm sorry" voice cracked. Broken just like him "I'm so so sorry" another sob
"for what Blaine? What are you sorry for? You've done nothing wrong" he leaned into the warm touch.
"I'm so sorry" he repeated. The arms tightened. A pale face buried itself into the remaining messy locks.
"Blaine, your scaring me" he felt tears as they fell onto his head. He felt to struggle Kurt had to keep his voice steady.
"I'm sorry"
"stop saying that! You have nothing to be sorry for!" voice tight, strained, full of concern. His arms tightened around Blaine's form further.
"I just needed to start getting used to it" he whispered. Eyes wide open, fixed on the acrylic covered bicep in front of him.
"use to what?" a shuddering breath.
"losing my hair" the arms loosened. The tears stopped.
"losing you hair? Blaine? I don't understand" he removed himself from his other half's chest. Fingers intertwined with pale hands. Hazel boring into glaze.
"the test results came back" a breath was held "they found a tumour in my lung" the tears again "I'm being put on Chemotherapy this Thursday" a sob. A cry. A scream "I'm sorry"