Blaine doesn't handle night time medication well. He never has. He had told Tina that at least a hundred times since she'd given him the get-well kit earlier in the day. He really had appreciated the kit, though. He couldn't remember the last time someone besides Kurt had noticed when he was feeling sick, let alone actually tryto help. He didn't completely understand the gesture, but he was touched nonetheless. Still, flattered or not, he hadn't wanted to take the night time cold medicine. It made him feel drowsy and heavy, and he hated it. Plus, it always gave him the strangest dreams.
But after Tina insisted for the hundredth time that Blaine take the medication before they work on her song for "diva week," Blaine finally gave in. It didn't take long for the medicineto take effect, and he soon found himself having trouble keeping his head up, his eyes open. So when Tina suggested that Blaine lie down, he was happy to oblige. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he could feel himself slipping into that strange place that night time cold medicine always sent him to, somewhere between consciousness and dreaming. He was vaguely aware of Tina saying something about how divas take what they want, and he muttered agreements distantly. He was trying to be supportive, he really was, but her voice was sounding further and furtheraway with every passing second. And then it was gone altogether. Some part of him still had the presence of mind to feel mildly guilty, suspecting she had left because he'd fallen asleep. Except he wasn't asleep, not really. He was just sort of floating. He was floating, and he was alone.
Then, all of a sudden, there was a weight on his waist, and hands at his chest. He could feel the buttons of his shirt being undone, the fabric pulled apart. He didn't understand what was happening. It felt wrong, but he couldn't stop it. His whole body refused to move, and his eyes were too heavy to open. So he just laid there, waiting for whatever might happen next. Then the hands were gone, but the weight which remained on his torso told him whoever was there hadn't left. When the hands returned, they carried with them the potent smell of VapoRub. The scent tugged at his memory, causing his drugged mind to drift back to another time and place. To a much younger Blaine with a nose too stuffy to breathe through, and ayoung woman with a pretty face rubbing the strong smelling ointment on his chest until he could inhale again, a gentle smile on her face.
Mom. It was the only coherent thought his drifting mind could form. He could see her then, in the eye of his drugged and sleepy mind. He could see her above him, smiling the fond smile she had reserved only for Cooper since Blaine started playing with Ken dolls instead of GI-Joes. Her hands were rubbing the heady scented balm onto his chest in soothing, gentle circles. There was nothing wrong about the scene anymore. The weight on his hips was comforting, not threatening. The hands were gentle, not violating. His mother was there, there was nothing wrong with him anymore. In fact, things were better than they had been in years.
Am I forgiven now, Mom? The thought floated into his mind, unwarranted, carrying with it all the desperate urgency he had denied himself for years. Please? Is everything okay now? Do you love me again? Please say you love me.
Blaine tried to speak the words in his mind, but his mouth couldn't manage the sounds. His mother smiled down at him, but said nothing. Blaine wanted to cry out and beg her to speak, to say something- anything, but he didn't want to ruin the moment. He didn't want to chase her away by overdoing anything, so he chose to smile instead. It was the one command his face seemed capable of following. He turned his mind away from the pain that his pastand her silence carried, choosing instead to revel in the bliss of the moment. He moved as far as his heavy body would allow towards her touch, savoring the warmth of the contact that he had missed for so long. He couldn't remember the last time she had touched him like that- like she loved him. Like she cared. If Blaine was being completely honest with himself, which he tried very hard not to be, he would have to admit that he couldn't really remember the last time she had touched him at all.
But none of that mattered now. She was here, looking at him with a softness he had forgotten could exist in her eyes. Her hands were on his chest, making slow, comforting circles until he could breathe again. And he did breathe then. If only for that moment, he let out the breath he had been holding for more years than he could count; the breath that caught in his throat every time she came near him- the hope that this time she might touch him the way she touched Cooper. The hope that she might touch him at all. That hope had never gone away, no matter how old he became. Whenever she was home, Blaine could feel that hope constricting his chest, making breathing a labor. The hope that she might reach out her hand and push a piece of his hair back into place, or wipe a smudge of dirt from his cheek. That she might grab him, kiss him, hold him, hurt him, hit him- do something, anything. That she might touch him somehow so he could pretend, if only for a moment, that she still loved him. And yet, even in the midst of all that senseless hope, Blaine had never had the nerve to wish for this. He had never dared to hope that she might be here when he was sick and alone; that she might be sitting on the edge of his bed, smearing VapoRub on his chest. That she might be helping him breathe again.
He focused as much attention as his drugged mind could muster on her hands, on that contact. There was some small part of his brain that was free enough from the medication to realize he wasn't actually looking at his mother then. His eyes were closed, a part of him knew that. He couldn't actually see her. But he knew it was her. It had to be her. Who else could it be?
He shifted himself under her almost imperceptibly, trying to move further into her touch. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the hands were gone. His chest felt oddly cold as the warmth of her hands disappeared. The weight lifted itself from his waist, and Blaine felt himself begin to panic.
No, Mom, wait, he thought desperately. He wished his mouth would move, that his eyes would open, that his throat would scream. He needed her to come back. He needed to make her come back, but he couldn't move, so he pleaded with her in his mind instead, hoping somehow she would hear him. Mom, please, I'm sorry. I'll be good I promise. I'm good, see? Please come back. I won't move again. I'll be still and quiet. Remember how you like it when I'm quiet? I can be quiet. I'll be good, I promise, Mom. Please come back. I need you...I need you to say...I just need to hear that you...
Blaine was fading, and before he could finish his thought, darkness washed over him and he wasn't floating anymore.
When Blaine woke up, his mother was gone. A hasty examination of the house proved to his now clear mind that she hadn't really been there in the first place. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn't help but feel disappointed. Of course she wouldn't have been there. She was off somewhere in California, helping Cooper move into a new apartment. She wouldn't be home for at least another week. Blaine scolded himself. Even half-conscious he should have been able to realize that she wouldn't have come home just because Blaine had a cold. That was ridiculous, he knew that. But he couldn't stop the distinct pain in his chest that swelled to a breaking point as he walked down the empty hallway towards the bathroom.
When Blaine reached the restroom, he stopped in front of the vanity and just stared at himself for a long moment in the mirror. He searched his features, trying to figure out what his mother, and his father alongside her, could see there that he couldn't. He studied the dark circles under his eyes, the shape of his nose, the color of his skin, trying to understand. He was so focused on his inspection, he failed to notice the unbuttoned front of his shirt, and the smell of VapoRub that lingered in the air around him. Instead, he shook his head and turned the sink on before splashing some water on his face.
He just wished he could understand; that he could figure out what was so wrong with him that neither of his parents could stand his presence. He placed both hands on the counter, steadying himself against the marble, his head hanging low. Water dripped from his lips and nose, and he watched the droplets race down the drain. He swallowed hard, trying to control the tears that burnedbehind his eyes. it was just the remnants of medication in his veins making him emotional, he told himself. It was pointless to entertain the feeling. Slowly he raised his head to study his face once more. He squinted at his reflection, biting his lip hard and trying to decipher why, even in his most drugged-up dreams, he couldn't get his mother to say she loved him.