Author's Note: So... this was supposed to be a drabble in response to a Tumblr prompt and it accidentally ended up at 18 pages. Oops. Enjoy some sick!blaine and an unbelievable amount of Klaine/Hudmel fluff.
"Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"
Blaine wasn't sure how many times he could watch It's A Wonderful Life before getting sick of it, but as the credits rolled and the television advertised a repeat for anyone who might have missed it he didn't feel compelled to change the channel. After watching A Christmas Story twice already, he welcomed the black and white antics of George Bailey.
The ever-growing mountains of tissues surrounding him indicated he hadn't left the couch for hours. Not that anyone was home to see. He'd woken up with a scratchy throat to an empty house and an envelope containing fifty dollars with "Merry Christmas" scrawled on the front hastily. He hadn't even bothered calling his father for an explanation. Instead, he stashed the money away in a jar under his bed and planted himself on the sofa at seven in the morning with a thermos of soup.
Ever since his mother had passed away three years back, Blaine had seen less and less of his father. Especially around the holidays. The previous year hadn't been so bad, he'd at least had Kurt to celebrate it with, but with his boyfriend in New York, his father probably at the bar, and his body heavy from sickness he braced himself for a long and lonely Christmas. He sniffled loudly and pressed his hand to his chest, trying to rub away the congestion in his heart that he attributed more to his melancholy mood than his actual physical health.
As Auld Lang Syne resounded cheerily from the television speakers, he chose the moment to collect the piles of tissues and throw them away. The sudden chime of a doorbell caught his attention on his way back from the kitchen and he grabbed a blanket off of the couch as he passed by it on the way to the front door.
"Merry Christmas, son!" Burt's enthusiastic face greeted him as Blaine wrenched open the door. He held out a lump of aluminum foil that Blaine guessed must have been covering a plate with some assortment of treats that Carole had baked.
"Thanks, you too, Mr. Hummel," Blaine smiled and stepped aside to let him in as an unruly gust of wind assaulted both of them.
"Pretty quiet in here," Burt quickly hustled in and Blaine all but slammed the door shut behind him, bundling himself up tighter in his blanket.
"Just me and ol' George Bailey," Blaine nodded towards the television set where the young protagonist chatted with two girls in the pharmacy he worked in. Burt's animated smile faded quickly as the weight of Blaine's words settled.
"You mean to tell me you're alone on Christmas? Where are your folks?"
"I uh—I dunno if Kurt ever told you about my mom?" Blaine rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and suppressed a coughing fit into a balled up fist. "She died a few years back. And my dad—honestly, I'm not sure where my dad is."
Burt didn't say a word as he picked up the remote and turned off the television. Blaine eyed him curiously before pressure tore through his lungs and he coughed with such intensity that it left him panting afterwards. His already raw throat felt scorched as he inhaled rushed gasps of air.
"And you're sick," Burt observed. "Come on."
"Come where?" Blaine sniffled and took in another large gulp of air through his mouth.
"Pack a bag for a few nights and meet me at the car," Burt left him no room for an argument. Not that Blaine intended to cross the man; he'd spoken with such conviction and anger—not that it was directed towards Blaine, and he knew that—that Blaine saw no point in trying to fight it. He nodded wordlessly and ascended the stairs to his bedroom where he proceeded to shove three days worth of cardigans, button ups, bowties, and jeans into an old Dalton Academy duffle bag. He glanced around the room and decided to just borrow anything else he might have forgotten from Kurt's bedroom before returning downstairs to see Burt had chosen to wait for him by the front door.
"Now I know you must be sick," Burt extended his hand for the duffle bag. Blaine glanced down at himself and took in his disheveled appearance: Dalton sweatpants and a looser-than-normal t-shirt. He ran a hand through his hair and realised it was still ungelled.
"Give me a minute," Blaine wheezed and made for the stairs again.
"Get changed later, kiddo. You should just try to stay comfortable and sleep for a bit. Come on, I've called Carole and she's expecting us soon."
"But—" Blaine protested with a pout.
"But nothing," Burt jerked his head towards the door. "Bring the blanket with you, it's freezing out."
Blaine went over to the closet and dressed himself in a black winter pea coat, red scarf and blue wool beanie before stepping into a pair of loafers and hugging the blanket tightly around himself again. He followed Burt out to the car and, by the time he crawled into the backseat, was already shaking violently. Burt cranked the heat up, directing all of the vents onto Blaine, and drove off.
"Kurt tells me Christmas is your favourite holiday," Burt's gruff voice sliced through the silence, sounding less angry and more worried now.
"Yeah," Blaine let the blanket go slack around his shoulders. "I usually go caroling every year, but I haven't been in touch with any of the Warblers since..." He cleared his throat as he brought his fingers up to the eye he'd almost lost his vision in and forced a smile. "Have you talked to Kurt yet today? How's his first Christmas in New York? I couldn't get through to him earlier."
"Oh, he's good. Yeah, he went and saw the tree lighting with Rachel," Burt glanced at Blaine guiltily, who was too preoccupied with watching snow start to fall to notice.
They coasted through the remainder of the drive on awkward exchanges of life updates, Blaine feeling too detached and sad all of a sudden to really keep up a decent conversation. Burt pulled into the driveway and Blaine's heart lurched when his eyes fell on Kurt's car, covered in a thin layer of white, dusty snow—he missed him quite terribly, and the sight of his car was enough to unload bags of salt in the pit of his stomach. How was he going to survive a few days in his boyfriend's bedroom without him there?
As Burt hurried into the house, Blaine lingered for a few seconds and tilted his head back, shutting his eyes, as he opened his mouth to catch snowflakes on his tongue. Burt reached the front door and turned back, watching Blaine with melancholy eyes. He allowed Blaine the moment to himself before softly uttering, "Inside, kiddo." Blaine's movements were sluggish as he opened his eyes and nodded at Burt, taking care to keep his blanket from trailing on the ground as he strolled past Burt into the warmth of Carole's open arms.
"I have soup and tea ready, unless you want hot chocolate instead. Dinner will be ready soon. So good to see you, Blaine. Merry Christmas, sweetheart," she pressed a kiss to the top of his head and squeezed him gently. Blaine couldn't help but think of how she reminded him of Mrs. Weasley sometimes, especially now.
"Merry Christmas, Carole," Blaine sniffled, inhaling too hard, and making himself cough. Despite being completely congested and unable to smell anything, he knew she probably emitted the wonderful essence of peppermint. It was a comfort whenever he visited, the aroma reminded him of his own mother.
"Should we give him his present now or later?" Carole turned to Burt with a twinkle in her eyes, her arms still draped over Blaine's shoulders.
"You guys didn't have to—"
"I think now would be good," Burt smiled back at her brightly. "It's down in Kurt's room."
Blaine looked between the two of them curiously and a little guiltily. He hadn't expected a gift from them.
"Well, go on," Carole nudged him towards the stairs.
He took his bag from Burt and thanked them shyly before descending the stairs. As he neared the bottom, he wondered how he was going to find it, if they'd left it in plain sight or if he would have to search for it. But, as he flicked on the light switch and dropped his bag and blanket to the floor, he saw it there on the bed: Kurt was curled up, eyes closed, a silver bow pressed to his hair. Blaine didn't even hesitate before gravitating towards the mattress and molding his body to fit the contours of Kurt's.
He was almost afraid to touch him, even considered the possibility that he'd taken far too much cold medication and was merely hallucinating his presence. But his fingers fumbled, clumsily, over the heat of Kurt's skin—he was real, he was here, he was home. Kurt stirred as Blaine was burying his face in the crook of his boyfriend's neck. He wanted, more than anything, to breathe in the scent of vanilla, to take in as much of Kurt as he possibly could because, although he was here now, Blaine knew he would be leaving again soon.
"Hey, you," Kurt mumbled sleepily, passing his fingers through Blaine's hair. "No gel? On Christmas? Have I got the right boy in my bed?" He cracked open his eyes and Blaine leaned back just the slightest amount so he could look up at him with tender, hazel eyes.
"I can't believe you're here," Blaine said breathlessly.
"Oh, sweetie, you sound awful," Kurt pressed a kiss to Blaine's forehead. "And I couldn't stand being away from you for Christmas. Now, how long have you been sick?"
"Since Friday," Blaine quickly shoved his face into the pillow as he started coughing. Kurt rubbed his back for a few minutes, pressing kisses to layers of fabric. Blaine was either in such a daze or had a very explicit imagination, because he could actually feel the little traces of heat where Kurt had planted his lips. He turned his head, but kept it against the pillow, and smiled dreamily at Kurt. "Your dad's invited me to stay for a few days."
"Has he?" Kurt hovered his lips over Blaine's neck. "And what did your dad have to say about that?"
"Nothing, he wasn't home," Blaine shivered as Kurt's breath made contact. Some nights, right before he fell asleep, he imagined it there. Constant, warm, inviting, loving—a single breath with a thousand tiny secrets.
Kurt frowned and turned his gaze upwards, earning a small whine from Blaine. "No, I love when you do that—"
"What do you mean he wasn't home? It's Christmas," Kurt argued softly, knowing full well that he was raising his dispute with the wrong person.
"It's my dad," Blaine stated simply, as though that offered clarification for the entire conversation.
"I know you guys don't get along, but... I mean, on Christmas?" Kurt sounded sad and Blaine immediately wanted it to end. He wanted to hear untamed giddiness in Kurt's words, the unbridled excitement he often dreamt of before and since Kurt's absence, not this sympathetic sorrow.
"I think if reminds him of my mom too much," Blaine dragged his sleeve under his nose and sniffled hard again.
Kurt lightly slapped his hand away and plucked a tissue from a square box beside the bed. "So you were just going to spend Christmas by yourself?" He moved to dab Blaine's nose and, for once, Blaine didn't object to being doted on. "Blaine," Kurt said in breathy disbelief.
"Everything worked out in the end," Blaine coughed loudly into the pillow again and moaned softly, rubbing his chest.
"Babe," Kurt whispered in the same ethereal tone and slid his hand over Blaine's. "Here, let me." He slowly replaced Blaine's hand with his own and rubbed small circles across his chest.
Blaine practically hummed relief under his touch, letting out occasional small, soft content noises. He wasn't truly aware of how severely his body missed Kurt until moments like this, where they were so in sync, so close and readable to each other.
"Have you been taking care of yourself?" Kurt asked in a quiet and serious whisper.
"You're so cute when you're worried," Blaine mumbled through a yawn. When he received silence, he forced his eyes open and was faced with Kurt's gaping right back, wide and concerned. "Yes, I have been."
Kurt pressed another kiss to Blaine's forehead, and Blaine's heavy eyes found themselves closing once again. "Good. Merry Christmas, love," Kurt murmured, so close and so tangible. And, though he had already drifted away to serene dreams of what the rest if their night would be like, the faintest hint of a smile graced Blaine's face followed by a soft snore.
The two-hour nap passed by like a five minute blur, leaving Blaine groggy and lethargic as Kurt roused him for dinner. It took him ten minutes and a few well-placed kisses to convince Blaine to finally get up.
"Wait, I have to get dressed," Blaine dragged his knuckles across his eyes, which did very little to squash out the drowsiness.
"They're not going to care if you get dressed up or not, sweetie," Kurt placed his hand on Blaine's lower back and tried to dissuade him against the effort. But he understood it; he'd have wanted to do the same.
"Just take a minute," Blaine didn't even bother to look at what clothes he extracted from his bag. "Do you have something I can borrow for my hair?"
"Not at all," Kurt ruffled Blaine's hair playfully. "I like it like this, can it be my present?"
"Present," Blaine echoed as the rest of his brain struggled to catch up to the meaning of the word. "Your present, I mailed it to New York!" he exclaimed miserably at his realization.
"I'll have a little piece of you waiting for me there when I get back then," Kurt kissed his cheek. "My request still stands though."
Blaine shrugged his shirt off with stiff movements. His muscles ached more than they did earlier, making it very difficult to pull off his comfort clothes; he looked at the pants and shirt he'd picked out almost dauntingly, as though the task of actually getting into them now was suddenly too much for him. Kurt read his expression like an open book and helped him get dressed, pressing light kisses into Blaine's exposed, overheated skin.
"Were you this warm earlier?" Kurt laid his hand across Blaine's forehead as Blaine grappled with his shirt buttons.
"Thought you said you always think I'm hot," Blaine jested half-heartedly. Truthfully, he felt worse than he did before. Kurt rolled his eyes and grazed his thumb gently over Blaine's cheek.
"Let's go find some medicine for you, then it's dinner, presents and—"
"Mandatory cuddle time," Blaine interjected, snaking his arms around Kurt's waist and laying his head against his shoulder.
"Whatever you say," Kurt suppressed his concern and tried to focus solely on enjoying the amorous moment. "Up we go. Before my dad and Carole start to get suspicious."
Blaine dragged his face across Kurt's chest, inhaling deeply in another futile attempt to breathe in the expected scent of vanilla. He wasn't hungry. Honestly, all he wanted was to curl up beside Kurt in front of the fireplace, blinking and breathing conversations back and forth to each other that only they understood. Everyone they knew made comments about this, the fact that they could convey an entire conversation to each other through facial expressions.
A faint sigh—yes, I know you still can't believe that was the dress she decided to wear.
Chewing on your lower lip—your father's been giving you a rough time today, hasn't he?
That twinkle in your eyes—don't worry, we'll have the house to ourselves soon enough.
The distance, the lack of those silent exchanges, wounded Blaine more than he ever thought possible. But he wanted Kurt to be happy, needed him to spread his perfectly handcrafted wings and fly.
They dawdled for a few more minutes before finally going upstairs to join Carole, Burt, and Finn for dinner. Carole, bless her heart, had a bowl of soup and a bottle of cough/cold syrup waiting for Blaine while she proceeded to scoop heaps of food onto everyone else's plates. Blaine pulled a chair out for Kurt and gestured grandly before having to shove his hand against his mouth to cover a coughing fit. Kurt responded with a kiss to his temple before sitting down, letting his hand linger on the one Blaine still had resting on the back of the chair.
Blaine practically collapsed into the seat beside Kurt and carefully measured out a spoonful of cough syrup, swallowing it down with a grimace, and coughed a few times through a tightly clenched jaw. Kurt's hand was immediately on Blaine's back, massaging it soothingly, as Blaine stared down at his bowl. His stomach churned, but not for sustenance—this was going to be the most uncomfortable dinner he'd have to bear through. He looked to Kurt helplessly, a quiet desperation painted boldly in his pupils. Kurt nodded and leaned forward, caressing his cheek with his lips before murmuring in his ear, "I know. Just try to eat a little and then I'll ask if we can go lay down on the couch, okay?"
Blaine nodded slightly in response and lifted up his spoon, his arm weak and feeling very much like lead. He'd participated in the conversations to some extent, though he wouldn't have been able to recall what any of them were about if he was asked; their words passed above his head in a droning buzz, indiscernible and relentless. He counted spoonfuls of soup and reached twelve before Kurt scraped his chair back and stood up.
"Dad, we're going to go lay down in the living room until you guys are all finished, is that okay?"
"Sure, we'll join you kids soon," Burt raised his fork to his mouth and turned back to Finn.
Blaine stood and made to grab his bowl along with Kurt's plate, but Kurt snatched them up and nodded towards the living room. "Be right there. Pick out a movie we can watch." Blaine thanked them for dinner before listlessly making his way to the living room. Rather than peruse the selection of DVDs, he tuned the television on to the channel showing the all day marathon of It's A Wonderful Life and flopped down onto the sofa.
As he settled in, he was finally able to get a good look around the room and his heart fluttered as his gaze fell onto the Christmas tree. There hadn't been a Christmas tree in his house for years. He missed the smell of pine, missed the careful planning when it came to decorating and the overall depth it added to the holiday spirit. He had tried to convince his father to get one the year his mother died, but the argument ended in screams and tears. He hadn't tried again after that.
Blaine cast a glance towards the kitchen before standing up, with some effort, and standing in front of the tree. Amongst the usual store-bought ornaments, Blaine spotted what looked like handmade wooden picture frames, painted—no doubt—by the hands of a child. Kurt's gleaming smile mirrored his mother's in the small 2"x4" photo kept safe within the frame. As tragic as it was, the shared loss of their mothers brought them closer together. Blaine had had no one to talk to about it, bottling up his anger and frustrations until the fleeting thought of leaving this world behind had taken hold of him. He never told Kurt about that, never delved further into the claim of, "You came along and saved my life, you know." And Kurt never tried to pry any further. He recognized the gratitude of salvation, though he had a feeling Blaine's ran deeper than his own, and left it at that. They provided stability for each other—that was all that really mattered.
"Admiring my handiwork, I see," Kurt's voice came softly from behind as he approached Blaine.
"So talented, even in your youth," Blaine replied fondly, touching another ornament.
"You and your compliments," Kurt laughed airily, colour rushing to his cheeks. "What have you picked for us to watch?"
Blaine pointed at the television and Kurt laughed again, louder this time. "I should have known. Your favourite," Kurt took a seat on the couch and patted the space beside him, looking up at Blaine with bright, expectant eyes. Blaine essentially floated over and sank down, curling up and laying his head on Kurt's lap. Kurt tousled Blaine's hair, filling the spaces between his fingers with thick curls he rarely ever got to play with.
"I missed you," Blaine whimpered into Kurt's thigh as he brought a hand up to rest on his knee.
"I missed you too," Kurt slid his hand over to Blaine's shoulder, squeezing out a knot. Blaine coughed into hand before catching a glimmer of red and white out of his peripheral vision.
"Have you been wearing that the whole time?" Blaine touched two fingers to the bowtie of the promise ring he'd made for Kurt the previous year.
"Slipped it on after I washed the dishes," Kurt held out his hand, admiring it affectionately.
"Alright, who's ready to open presents?" Burt strolled into the room with Carole and Finn and clapped his hands together. They all stopped when they spotted Kurt and Blaine on the couch, still deeply engrossed in each other, and Burt had to clear his throat to get their attention. Kurt lazily passed a glance over to his father before straightening up, running his hand through Blaine's hair again.
"Oh, is everyone ready?" Kurt asked as Blaine placed his hand back on his knee again.
"Mm," Burt grunted his response. "How're you feeling, Blaine?"
"I'm alright," he croaked in a raspy voice. As everyone began taking seats on the floor near the tree he mentally repeated Get up, come on, sit up a few times, but in the end he just couldn't convince himself to. Burt crawled over to the tree and picked up presents one by one, reading the names aloud and handing them out.
"Dad, Blaine's are all in that pile over there. I moved them together earlier," Kurt pointed to a neatly organized pile to the right of Burt.
There's more than one?
Blaine felt like a spectator rather than part of the group, watching the scene unfurl above his own body, as Burt passed down one, two, three… a total of eight gifts. The confusion must have been visibly evident on his face because four pairs of sympathetic eyes were suddenly on him now.
"You guys didn't have to," he managed to sit up, leaning his shoulder against Kurt's as Finn picked up the first present Burt had set down on the floor by them and held it out to Blaine.
"None of these are even from Kurt. He's hoarding all of those to give you to later," Finn explained. "This one's from me."
Blaine set the box on his lap and carefully slid his finger under the tape, unwrapping it as neatly as he possibly could. The laughter that bubbled up in his throat actually hurt, but he couldn't keep from squeaking out a few giggles as he eyed the box: a beautifully handcrafted miniature Nightwing statue.
"That one's your favourite, right? I kinda just went based on who I thought your costume looked like the most," Finn babbled uncertainly. "If it's not—"
"It is," Blaine interrupted. "I love it, thank you," he beamed at Finn. "I've forgotten everyone's gifts at home though, I'm afraid…"
"We're just glad to have you here, Blaine," Burt reassured him and handed a small box to Carole. Blaine spent the next few minutes watching everyone exchange and unwrap gifts, the familiar tug on his heartstrings strong and steady as he remembered his mother's shared enthusiasm for the holiday. He'd always made her something, and she claimed—each year—that it was the best gift she'd ever received. Kurt's eyes had reflected hers last year: full of love, pride, complete adoration and Blaine drowned in it. It had been the first Christmas since her death that he hadn't felt… lost.
"Glad to be here," Blaine whispered back.
He'd been in such a daze watching everyone else that Kurt had to nudge him and remind him to open the rest of his presents. He unwrapped them to discover two new cardigans, three scarves, and two bowties. He grinned broadly with the opening of each new box, wondering if they all had picked up on his sense of style by now on their own or if Kurt had guided them carefully to the right choices. As he was folding up the torn wrapping paper, Burt suddenly announced, "Oh, right. Almost forgot this one," and held out an envelope with a red bow taped to it.
Kurt's eyes immediately reflected the excitement he tried to keep stifled as Blaine humbly took it from him. "I take it you already know what this is," Blaine laughed softly when he caught Kurt's expression.
"Yep," Kurt grinned slyly and slid a hand over Blaine's knee; he was practically vibrating as Blaine opened the envelope.
Blaine could actually feel his heart spontaneously grow wings and tear right through his chest, fluttering around the room, on display for all to see.
A plane ticket. A plane ticket to New York.
"Merry Christmas, son," Burt stood up and patted Blaine's arm while he stared at the ticket, the date and time set for the following night.
"Merry Christmas, Blaine," Carole added. And before he knew what was happening, there were tears in his eyes and suddenly he was surrounded by far too much body heat, but it felt reassuring and necessary rather than stifling.
And then his tears had become sobs, uncontainable and self-deprecating, as he gasped out things like, "I don't deserve you guys;" "you don't understand what this means to me;" and "I don't know what I would do without you."
Burt, Carole, and Finn had all taken a step back as Kurt pressed a kiss to Blaine's forehead and suggested, "How about we head downstairs, okay?" Blaine nodded, sniffling and coughing as he raised his arm up to his nose and dragged it across carelessly.
"See you in the morning," Burt patted Blaine's arm again before Carole swooped in for a hug and kissed him on the top of his head.
"Thank you," Blaine mouthed as Kurt led him away to his bedroom.
"You alright, sweetie?" Kurt kneeled down on the floor in front of Blaine once he had gotten him to sit down on the bed. He settled between his legs, rubbing both hands up Blaine's thighs soothingly.
"How did I luck out with you? With your family?" Blaine pressed his sleeves to his eyes. "I don't de—"
"You do deserve this. All of this," Kurt interjected and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "You're not the only one who got lucky, by the way."
Blaine hiccupped as he let out a laugh mingled with a sob. "Kurt, I love you so much," he breathed out, all of the air evacuating his lungs to guide his confession safely to the brilliant source of happiness in front of him.
"I adore you, Blaine Anderson," Kurt trailed his hands up Blaine's thighs and settled them on his waist. "Now," he paused only to kiss the tip of Blaine's nose, "Do you want your presents from me now or later?"
"Tomorrow," Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt's neck. "I need to stay like this for awhile."
And it was true. He didn't just want Kurt, he needed him; he needed something to keep him anchored down because he strongly believed he would simply float away without Kurt's hands on him.
"Okay," Kurt kissed a patch of exposed skin on Blaine's chest. "Ready for your first New Year's in New York?"
"The first of many," Blaine whispered, his heart thumping wildly—so full of love, so full of life.