When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It's where my demons hide
It's where my demons hide
You're tired. You're angry. You're fed up.
You're yelling at him.
All you want him to do is to cook the goddamn dinner, because you're exhausted and you're not in the mood to cook, even though it's your turn to. But he has had a rough day too, and you don't know why, still don't know why you suddenly got angry when he said you two should go out to eat. It was like the last straw, on top of the tiring day you've gone through with the theater and all that. One minute you were lying on the couch, the next you found yourself face to face with him, shouting words at him. Words that don't make sense. Words that you don't mean.
"I'm have had so fucking enough of your bullshit, Blaine! I'm tired of living like this, of dealing with everything, of dealing with you!" You're shouting at the top of your lungs, knowing that your face has probably gone to an unattractively dark shade of red. You cannot help it, even though deep down inside you know it's a lie, that you're being all kinds of unreasonable and unfair to him, that he's obviously biting his tongue, because he knows you, knows that you're stubborn like this, knows that you don't mean it too. "You know what, Blaine? I remember all your words at the wedding about us being equal, and it's such a shame that you're not keeping them. I'm fucking tired, why can't you just cook the fucking dinner for once? Why am I the one who will have to do everything and anything, when all you do in one day is sitting around and doing absolutely nothing at all?"
Another lie. He goes to work, makes money for both your living and helps you with the housework all the time.
Your stomach twists with guilt.
He opens his mouth in protest, but quickly closes it again, then stands up and walks closer, closer to you. He looks tired, his eyes sad and huge, mouth turning downward into a frown. You shoot him a glare, and he stops, standing still to look you in the eyes. Finally, he just puts a hand on your shoulder, but you flinch away immediately.
"Don't fucking touch me!" You're shouting again, and you don't know why you two are doing this. It's just a meal, after all. You two can order in, or go out to that Chinese restaurant across the street, or maybe you can just quit it for today and eat more than usual the next morning. There's no need to fight, not at all. But something inside you keeps you shouting, fighting, flinching away from him. He doesn't get closer either, just standing there, looking at you sadly. After a few beats, he opens his mouth, dries his lips, and says:
"I'm gonna go out to drive. Call me if you need anything, Kurt."
And with that, he turns around, makes his way towards the door. You keeps your eyes glued on his back, on his small, yet solid and strong frame. He grabs his coat and fumbles to open the lock, ready to get outside. A fire burns up inside you, an unpleasant, unfamiliar feeling racking through your veins, aching in your muscles.
It's easier to be angry than to be sad.
"Yeah, Blaine, walk away and go call that friend of yours from high school—what's his name again—right, Eli, and have a little bit fun with him. I bet you treat him much better than you treat me; you two surely make a cute couple."
Everything feels like a slow motion that you often see in the cinema. He slowly, slowly turns around, his eyes wide, mouth gaping in shock and everything, everything inside you hurts when you see that horrified look on his face.
You heard yourself say the words, but now you can't wrap your mind around what it means, to you and to him. You just know that this is bad, this is so bad, and you can't redo it, can't do anything to take it back. Both your hands flung over to cover your gaping mouth when you see his face screwing up, eyes blinking rapidly.
"Y-you-you think… I'm gonna.."
He tries, then trails off. A few tears begin racing down his cheeks despite his desperate effort to stop them.
You shake yourself back into reality and step forward, your limbs feeling numb and paralyzed and you don't even feel like yourself. You open your arms and try to reach out for him. All you want to do is hold him, to have him sitting in your lap, and you'll tell him you're sorry, you don't mean it, because obviously you don't, you will make up for this, you love him so much, you don't mean it, you're sorry, you're sorry, you're sorry.
But he flinches away and steps back as soon as you touch his arm.
Your stomach aches. Your heart twists painfully. You feel sick.
"Blaine, I'm sorry, I don't mean it-" You try, but trail off, too. More and more tears begin racing down his beautiful face and before you can't do anything about it, he's turning back, practically running outside, a loud sob escaping his mouth as he runs past the door.
Running from home. Running from you.
You drop yourself on the floor, feeling warm tears leaking out from your eyes.
You're sitting in the bedroom when you get the call.
Your heart speeds up as soon as you hear the familiar tune, and you grab your phone and press it to your ear, not even bothering looking at the screen to see the caller ID. It should be him. It must be him. He must want you two to talk, he must want to hear you, he must still want you. You need to hear him, too, then you can convince him to come home and you two will hug, will kiss, will fuck it out and you will make it up—
"Hello, sir. May I ask if this is Mr. Anderson-Hummel?"
A woman's voice rings in your ear. Not his.
"Yes." You hear yourself reply, both disappointment and worry creeping up in your stomach. You feel ill.
"Sir, I'm calling from Brooklyn Hospital Center There has been a car accident and your husband, Mr. Blaine Anderson-Hummel has been transferred to our place."
What happens next is a blur.
You remember dropping your phone on the floor. Running to the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet. You remember feeling cold and hurt and shocked and bitter and depressed when you realize his familiar hands are not rubbing your back and messaging your shoulders like they always do when you get sick. He isn't here. He isn't with you.
He is in the hospital. He was in a car accident.
All thanks to you.
You remember pushing yourself up, grabbing a coat, your wallet and your keys and running outside. Calling a taxi and rushing to the hospital.
You remember feeling sick to your stomach the moment you step inside the building and the overly clean smell of the hospital hit you in the face. You remember struggling with your own mouth in front of a nurse, then eventually letting her lead the way to his room. You remember seeing many people going past your way, remember the cries and screams and injuries and blood and even death being shoved in your eyes and ears, making your limbs tremble and your eyes water up as you force yourself to keep on running, swallowing down the urge to just collapse and gag and cry.
Please, Blaine, please be okay.
You try to cast your fears aside, you really do, but your head keeps on creating different, but equally terrible scenarios and it isn't helping your case. It terrifies you. The feelings of hurt, of fear, of worries, of guilt and regret, regret, regret creep up in the pit of your stomach, aching in your limbs, hurting your head and twisting in your chest like a knife going slowly but deeply into your heart, bleeding it out. And you can't do anything about it. You can't stop anything. You can't save yourself.
You're helpless.
After 10 minutes in the hallways and 2 in the elevator and five times of tripping in your own feet, you have finally reached the fifth floor.
Your whole body is trembling as the nurse leads you through the hallways to his room. You even try to ask her about him once, but she only knows that he has been transferred here 30 minutes earlier, and they have taken care him since then. You will have to talk to the doctor or the other nurses to get a hold of the rest. She tells you not to be worried and gives you a tender, small, calm smile.
After a few moments, she stops you in front of a door and exchanges a few words to another woman standing nearby. The other woman listens attentively, then nods as the nurse walks away towards the stairs. She approaches you quickly and your inside twitches up with worries as she introduces herself and begins to explain everything.
"There's no any damage done other than a few bruises and cut on his body and some on his forehead, because the glass of the car broke and he hit his head in the wheels. He may be feeling a bit light-headed; his limbs may hurt and he may have a stomachache every now and then until he's completely healed, but your husband is alright, sir. He will be," Dr. Howard finishes.
A wave of relief washes through you.
He's fine. He's okay. And he will be.
The rest can be dealt with later.
"You can go and see him now, sir. He may be sleeping right now, but he will wake up soon."
She looks up to you with bright eyes and gives you a smile, which you don't know how to respond to.
You rushed here to see him. And now you're too hesitant to even open the door to his room.
What if he doesn't want you near anymore? What if he wants you to get the hell out as soon as you step into the room? What if he's badly hurt and he won't let him touch you like earlier? What if he wants a divorce, wants you out of his life for good from now on, because he doesn't love you anymore, because he's disgusted with the human being that you are?
How will you deal with it all when you know for sure that you can't?
How will you deal with it all when you know for sure that it will take you to pieces?
But it's not like this is something that can't be fixed, is it? You love him and he loves you and didn't you two promise to be each other's forever? Maybe you'll have to fight to get his trust back, step by step, but after all, you've been together for nearly 10 years… you two will always end up together, right?
There's only a way to find out.
Your breath stutters in your chest when you see him.
He's laying on his back in the only bed in the big room, hiding himself under the layers of various blankets, and your chest hurts, because God, he looks so small, so young just like that, as if he could disappear into them, get lost inside the white cloth if he wanted.
He's sleeping already, black eyes squeezed shut and swollen, bloodstained lips parting slightly, chest raising up and falling down each time he takes a breath. There's a white, thin bandage typing around his head, and near his left cheek there's a purplish bruise along with a thin, long cut right below his cheekbone.
You stand by his bed, silently feeling your heart break into pieces in your chest. A few hours ago, he was still this goofy, cheerful, loud man that you have fallen in love with, he's still poking your ribs and touching your shoulders and kissing you cheeks and smiling brightly each time he sees your face, and now he's laying here in the bed of a hospital, surrounded by the overly clean smell of the room, fragile and vulnerable and hurt, physically and probably emotionally too.
What have you done?
You move closer to the bed and reach your hand out to touch the white cloth. It's too thin and cold in such a way that makes you shudder slightly. Your heart aches in your chest as you pull the covers up around his shoulders, and you place your hand tenderly over the center of his chest and you let out a shaky breath when you feel his heart beating steadily under your palm.
You just stand there, paralyzed and numb and hurt and you didn't know you were crying until you feel a warm stream of tears roll down your face, wet and damp in your eyes and your cheeks and your chin. Your shoulders are shaking slightly, and you remove the hand in his chest and hold it up to cover your face, cover your eyes, letting the tears pooling in your palms. You can't help it, can't help crying, choking in the air and sobbing loudly into your hands, and you feel like someone has cut off your air supply, like you're suffocated, like being trapped in a dark closet and not being able to get out. You snort loudly now and you feel dizzy and light-hearted, like someone has banged you in the head with a stick, and you wish that you could stop, that this pain could stop, that you could remove your hand from your face and your tears would dry off in your cheeks.
But your crying doesn't stop until a soft rustling from the bed startles you and brings you back into reality. You wipe away the tears in your eyes and cheeks quickly, then open your eyes to look at his figure. He's stirring slightly in his sleep. A soft groan escapes his lips as he blinks himself awake.
He squirms lightly in the bed, looking tired out. His eyes dart around to look at the ceiling, the bed he's laying in, before they drop on you, wide and full of surprise. He lets out another groan, then manages out a question, voice low and raspy:
"K-Kurt? Why are you crying?"
You don't know how to respond to that, you really don't. You open your mouth but all that escapes your mouth is a loud, choking sob. Your eyes water up and your vision comes blurry again just as he's reaching out for you with one hand, touching your arm and tugging you closer, closer to him. His movements seem hard and forced, and he lets out a soft groan now and then, but he reaches out for you anyway, and it only makes you wanna cry louder.
"What happened?" He whispers softly, patting at your arm and reaching up, catching your tears with his hand and wiping them away.
Your head spins and the world beneath you feet spin and you still can't form a word. The warmth of his fingers tenderly caress your face, your cheeks, catching your tears, touching lightly at your lips, as he tries to get you to calm down enough to talk, but to no avail. You feel choked, suffocated, standing there with tears rolling down your face, down your chin, its salty taste lingering on your lips.
Eventually, through the tears you see him pushing himself up to a sitting position, steady himself with his hands until he's comfortable enough with the blankets in his lap and covering his legs. He reaches both his hands out to grab your arms, and then you're being pulled gently towards the bed, his hands firm around your shoulders and supporting your back, pushing you down until you're sitting in the side of his bed.
"C'mere," he says, and he pulls you in to seat you between his legs, then wraps his arms around you, enveloping you in a tight hug. The warmth of his body washes over yours and you're having to bite your lips from crying out again. You shift closer and bury your face in his chest and wrap your arms around his waist. You suck in a deep breath, feeling your heart twisting painfully again when he begins rubbing small circles around your back and playing with your hair. You bury your nose in the crook of his neck and press your cheek against his shoulder and breath deep in the sweet scent of his smell, trying to calm your hammering heart down.
After a while, you manage to mutter out a quiet I'm sorry, and your voice is so low and your throat feels raw, words muffled in the fabric of the hospital gown, punctuated by your small hiccups. "I didn't mean it. I-I swear. I'm so-so sorry."
His body goes stiff immediately and he stops rubbing circles in your back. His hand stops messaging your scalp and he lets it drop awkwardly to the side. Your heart breaks into a million pieces when he loosens his grip on your waist and you can feel tears burning up in the back of your eyes again when he places his hands on your shoulders, gently pushing you back.
Please, don't, Blaine, please. Please don't.
This is bad. This is so bad.
You don't know what to do anymore, and you're back to struggling with yourself again. You let your head drop, keeping your gaze at your hand in your lap. All of a sudden you're so cold, so lonely, even with him in the same room, in the same bed, right in front of your face. You miss his arms and his sweet scent and his everything around you and you just want him to do something, do anything, maybe kick you out, maybe yell at you, but please, just do something, please, please don't keep you waiting.
"You're sure?"
He says, after what feels like a century. You look up instantly, surprised to find him running his hand through the untamed mass of curls. He looks down at you quizzically, then whispers, his voice soft, face confused:
"You know, I thought you forgave me already, but then you-you brought it up again and we were fighting and-and it's just a stupid thing from high school and I regret it horribly, you know, and I've been trying to make it up for you since then but I-I just-"
"I did, Blaine. I did forgive you." You hear yourself say, "I don't know how to explain this but I don't even remember it anymore, but it just slipped out. I trust you, and I still don't know how I could let it slip out like that, but I'm just-just so sorry."
"You trust me?" He whispers, and your heart breaks at the fact that he doesn't believe that you trust him.
"Yes, Blaine. Yes. I wouldn't be here if I didn't completely trust you. I'm so sorry."
He keeps his gaze on you and suddenly you see him, looking just as confused and hurt and scared as you are and you want to do something about it so badly. You have this urge to reach out and pull him in and press your bodies together and tell him that you love him over and over and over again and kiss him everywhere to make it up, but you have to resist it, because maybe it doesn't work like that, maybe he still doesn't want you near and maybe if he does, you still don't deserve it.
"Okay." But eventually, he just nods and smiles and you're shocked and surprised and startled, because all of a sudden he's pulling you in again, his arms are wrapped around your waist again and he lets out a sigh and plants a kiss on your forehead, pressing his smile to your skin. "It's okay now. I'm okay. You trust me, it's alright."
For the one hundredth time that day, you feel your tears building up in your eyes, because he's Blaine, he's your Blaine and he's so easy to forgive and he's smiling brightly with you again already. You don't know what to do, how to react, just know to press your face against his chest and mutter your apologies all over again, telling him that you regret it so badly, regret ever fighting and telling horrible things to him and you don't mean it and you're sorry—
"Shh.. It's okay now. I love you." He cuts in, and he lowers himself to the bed, pulling you with him until you're both laying together and you can't help but wonder a bit, because maybe one of the nurses will come in and they won't be amused to see you too like this.
But he's wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you in as close as possible, and this familiar warmth you feel whenever he's around is stirring funnily in your stomach, seeping through your limbs again even though your head is throbbing painfully and your eyes feel like they're about to explode, you can still feel relief wash over your body, because he's here, he forgave you, he's holding you, and he loves you.
He loves you.
"I love you back." You say, planting a kiss on his chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You help to get him out of the hospital in a wheelchair and then help him to stand up and get inside the taxi waiting for you two outside. It's really a beautiful day, and you feel even better, being in the same car with your husband, who is grinning at you, excited to get out of the hospital and get home.
As soon as you close the door and the car starts running to the nearly empty streets, he lowers himself until he's laying on the seat with his head on your lap, turning to lay on the side and pressing his nose against your stomach, smiling when you reach down and play with his hair.
You laugh, and then lean down to place a kiss on his forehead, and you smile when you feel him laughing quietly, breath ghosting over your shirt.
"We're going home." You tell him, "I love you so much."
"I love you too." He whispers back, shifting closer to you. "And you're my home."
"You're my home, too." You say, and press your lips on his forehead again.