Hey there! :) I've been reading Klaine fanfiction for, well, ever, and I finally decided to give it a try because all of you are so talented and each and every one of you inspired me. So thank you!

Warnings – Well, I describe Blaine's injuries. And it's really sad. I'm not sure if it'll trigger anyone, but if you think it will, then there are so many other fics...all of them beautiful and probably much better than this one.

I love Klaine and Crisscolfer more than food, but I don't own them. Sigh.

Here we go! :3

Chapter One – Tell Him Your Story

*.*.*.*.*

As soon as Kurt Hummel opened the door to he, Rachel Berry, and Santana Lopez's apartment, he knew something was wrong. Not the "Rachel-Stole-My-Clothes" kind of wrong. The real kind of wrong.

His first sign was the air. The air was just...different. Thick. The air is always so thick when something's wrong. It's thick and dry and really, really hard to breathe in.

His second sign was the whimpers. They were small, and choked, and barely audible, but Kurt heard them. Kurt heard them clear as daylight. For Rachel, whimpers were normal. But not Santana. Santana would rather be killed in her sleep than be seen crying. She thinks it's a sign of weakness, and vulnerability, and she simply won't have it.

His third sign came when he walked further. He saw something that he didn't think was humanly possible. He saw Rachel and Santana – and they were cuddling. They were cuddling and crying into each other's shoulders and their mascara was smudged all over their cheeks and their knuckles were a creamy white from grasping onto each other so tightly.

The fourth and final sign was the conversation that followed.

"K-Kurt, you're home." Rachel says, immediately retreating from Santana's hold. They both wipe their eyes frantically, the makeup smears only becoming worse. Santana takes a few breaths, like she was trying to calm herself. If that's what she was attempting, it really was not working.

Something is definitely, definitely wrong. So wrong that Kurt is actually beginning to feel sick.

"What's going on? Is it my Dad?"

And then they tell him.

"It's Blaine."

They tell him that he was in accident. That he's in the hospital. That he's in a coma.

Kurt felt all the blood completely drain from his face, his breath hitching in his throat, and the world –the world was spinning.

Because Blaine.

But Kurt didn't cry. He wouldn't cry. Blaine hates it when he cries.

"You're lying. It's not true. He's watching reruns of Friends, waiting for me to Skype him. So that I can hear his voice and see his face. I know he is." Kurt says through gritted teeth, clenched together so tightly that for a second he thought they would crack, crumble, and fall out.

Rachel rushes over then, her hands gripping Kurt's shoulder, shaking him only slightly, her words quick and firm, "He's gonna be okay, Kurt. He'll wake up. For you. You know he'll wake up for you."

"You're lying, Rachel." Kurt says again, his jaw so stiff it was trembling because Blaine hates it when he cries. "He's okay. I know he's okay."

Blaine just proposed to him last week. It's not possible – he couldn't – he was not in a coma. This was all some sick joke. For Santana's acting class. She and Rachel were acting. Their tears were fake, their raw voices forced. They had to be.

Because Blaine wouldn't leave him like this. Like he said so many times, "I'll always fight for you."

"He's going to be okay, Kurt." Rachel nods, a crooked smile plastered onto her lips that was anything but believable. "You're right. He'll be fine, back in your arms before you know it."

Then Santana knocked some sense into him. And it hit him. Like an enormous, billowing wave crashing onto the shore, it hit him. The kind of wave that roared, and drowned people, and sucked them under the waters so that they couldn't breathe.

They wouldn't lie about this. Who in their right mind would lie about something like this? Not them.

So it was true. Blaine was in a coma. His Blaine, with his beautiful eyes and beautiful smile and beautiful heart, was in a coma.

"No, please. No."

Rachel just looks at him. So many tears fill her eyes, they look so glossy and lifeless and – and sad. She looked down for just one moment and she closed them. So many tears slide down her cheeks. Kurt tries to count them, but he can't.

She looks up at him, only saying one word.

"Yes."

*.*.*.*.*

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't you remember? Blaine said, "You look stunning when you cry, Kurt, but I hate it. When you're upset, it kills me. Smile, beautiful. Smile because you can." Don't you dare cry, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel. Not now.

He's on the plane with Rachel and Santana, sitting in the middle of them. Rachel's holding his right hand and Santana's holding his left, but it's not the same.

Their hands don't make him feel all warm and fuzzy. Their hands don't fit perfectly with his. Their hands aren't meant to hold his, fearlessly and forever. Their hands aren't Blaine's hands, so they might as well not be hands at all.

He wasn't sure about a lot of things at the moment. He wasn't sure if he had a bag packed. He wasn't sure what time it was. He wasn't sure how Santana and Rachel got the money for their tickets. All he was really sure of was that the nausea was making him dizzy, he wasn't going to let himself cry, and his fiancée was currently in a coma.

"Hummel." Santana says, awaking him from his thoughts. "Not crying is not going to do anything for you. I want you to get up, walk calmly to the bathroom, and once you're in there, you let everything out. Go."

"Santana–" Rachel protests, to no avail.

Because Kurt's already getting up. He walks calmly to the bathroom. He waits for the elderly woman to leave. He goes in. He closes the door behind him. He looks into the hazy, smudged mirror.

"Blaine..." He whimpers.

Then he sobs.

*.*.*.*.*

When Burt picks them up at airport, Kurt doesn't ask how Blaine is. He doesn't ask if he's awake yet. He doesn't ask if he's going to live. He can't speak.

He knows that if does, he'll collapse to the ground, his body trembling with strangled, miserable cries.

*.*.*.*.*

Everyone's at the hospital. All the New Directions, current and former, Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury – well, Mrs. Schue now, the Warblers, and Carole, and his Dad, and Blaine's family.

As soon as he walks in, Kurt's bombarded with hugs and looks of sympathy and the smell of tears.

He needs to get out of here.

*.*.*.*.*

The doctors and nurses are trying to keep him away. They're saying that he can't go in the room, that no visitors are allowed, that his body isn't stable enough to risk anyone seeing him.

Kurt can't bring himself to care.

Suddenly, his no-violence policy is thrown under the subway he rides everyday and his blood is bubbling with rage because how is he not supposed to see him?

"Mr. Hummel, we understand your frustration. But Mr. Anderson's breathing and blood flow need to be stabilized before–"

Kurt shoves him. He's never really shoved anyone before, and it didn't feel good, but he did it for Blaine. And he would do anything for Blaine.

He shoves him, and he shoves all the other people that try to hold him back, too. Except the women. His dad taught him never to hit a woman, so instead, he simply slides out of their grip.

It isn't really that difficult. Not while he does it for Blaine.

*.*.*.*.*

When Kurt sees him, he almost collapses.

He looks so broken. He looks like he's been torn to shreds by some rabid animal. He looks so lifeless.

He's hooked up to all these different kinds of machines. Kurt doesn't know what any of them were, and he really doesn't care.

There's a sling on his arm and a cast on his leg. And – And the majority of his skin is black and blue and this purplish navy color. Not like it's supposed to be. It's usually a beautiful tan, and smooth, and tasting like heaven under Kurt's lips.

His lip's split open. The lips that Kurt kissed endlessly, over and over again, soft and sweet and senseless, look like they've been crushed by the world's weight.

He has a black eye. His beautiful, hazel eye is so beaten and battered and bruised and it just hurts.

And now the doctor's speaking to him. Maybe explaining Blaine's injuries, maybe scolding him for being so abrasive, maybe trying to get him to leave. He doesn't hear any of it.

He sits in the chair next to Blaine's bed. He reaches for Blaine's hand. And he holds it. He holds onto it like his grip was the only thing keeping Blaine breathing. He holds onto it with everything he has, everything he is, and everything he will ever be.

*.*.*.*.*

The Doctor told him he was holding Blaine's hand too tight. That it would cut off circulation or some crap like that. When Kurt didn't believe him and didn't let go, he physically pried Kurt's fingers off.

"No...no, please." Kurt says, his voice cracked and broken and completely raw and dry. "I promise I'll be gentle. I'm sorry. Just don't take him away from him me."

Kurt sounded so desperate and needy. He was aware of that. He usually hated being so vulnerable to people, but now it just didn't bother him.

The doctor simply nodded at his words. He patted his shoulder in a gesture that was supposed to provide comfort but instead was just really awkward and started for the door.

"You're gonna let me stay, right?" Kurt asks before the man has a chance to leave the room. "I-I'm sorry I shoved you. And everyone else. Just don't make me leave."

"No one is supposed to be in here, Mr. Hummel." The doctor says. Kurt's heart sinks in his chest, his grip on Blaine's hand tightening. "But...I'm gonna make an exception. Just this once."

"Thank you." Kurt breathes, relief flooding every square inch of his body.

Once the man is out of the room, Kurt shifts his chair closer to the hospital bed, pressing soft kisses to each of Blaine's fingertips.

He inhales shakily, trying to get Blaine's scent familiar once more. It made every muscle in his body ache at the fact that he was so powerless. He couldn't hold Blaine, he couldn't comfort him, he couldn't kiss away all his fears like he always did.

So he just sat, holding Blaine's hand to his cheek, nestling into the cold skin that was always so, so warm.

"I love you." Kurt whispers. "I love you more than anything else in the entire world. More than coffee and my McQueen sweaters and every Broadway Show. And you have to wake up. Please, Blaine, come back to me."

Silence answers him.

*.*.*.*.*

Footsteps are shuffling around the room. Kurt's not sure who they belong to, because he's just been staring at Blaine for the past two hours.

"Kurt, you gotta talk to me."

It's his Dad.

Both of them are quiet. Kurt's trying to speak, trying to find words to say, but it's not as easy as it sounds. Nothing ever is.

"What if he doesn't wake up?" Kurt asks, not facing his father. He can't tear his eyes away from Blaine. Broken, beaten Blaine.

"He's gonna wake up." Burt says. Kurt feels his father's hand on his shoulder and his nerves go somewhat down. "Doctor Berkley said he doesn't how long it's gonna take, but right now, things are lookin' good."

Kurt was about to spit out a witty, sarcastic remark, but then thought less of it.

"Don't lose hope. Ever." Blaine told him.

Quite frankly, Kurt doesn't trust doctors. They told him that his mother was going to live. That she was going to be okay. That she would be normal again. She died a week later.

But the glimmer of hope is still there, shining bright through all the darkness.

"What if he doesn't r-remember me, though? What if he forgets everything?" Kurt asks, although it sounds more like a heartbreaking whimper than anything.

Burt doesn't say anything for a moment. Kurt still doesn't turn around. He just wants to look at Blaine. He wants to look at Blaine and see him laughing, and smiling, and being happy.

"Don't let him."

Kurt's face contorts into an expression of confusion. "How do I have any control over that?"

Burt grabs another chair and finally, finally Kurt faces him. He looks tired, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks red and tear-stained. He looks old, too. It hurts to think like that, especially now, but he looks really, really old.

"People that are in a coma can hear what's goin' on around them. Remember when I had my heart attack?"

"Yes, dad." Kurt says, restraining an eye roll at the feel of Blaine's fingers in his. "I remember."

"I could hear, you know. You and Carole and Finn and the girls singin' to me. I could hear everything."

Again, Kurt's confused. He runs his fingers across his ring, a sharp pain stinging his chest at the memories that went along with it.

"You should talk to him." Burt says, gesturing to Blaine, "Tell him your story. How you met, fell in love, all that sappy stuff."

Kurt glanced back to Blaine, lying motionless except for the rising and falling of his chest.

"You think he'll hear me?"

Burt nods, "I know he will. And he'll love it. He'll want to hear your voice more than anything, bud."

Kurt's eyes return to Blaine. He's still beautiful. He'll always be beautiful to Kurt. Broken, beaten, battered, bruised he's always, always be beautiful to Kurt.

"Okay." Kurt says, that tiny glimmer of hope growing just a bit bigger and brighter, "I'll do it."

*Peeks out from behind a wall* Did anyone like it?

Please leave your thoughts. I need to know if I completely failed.

You're beautiful. I just thought you should know :3

–klisses xxx