in the last few months, they'd slept in separate twin beds. quick-ordered from the furniture store, who cares about the money when you're almost out of time.
kurt had asked for it. he kept wetting the bed. and blaine would wake up and change the sheets and it would happen again.
"i just want my own bed," he'd said. "i'll sleep here."
it broke blaine's heart. it all broke his heart, but that. kurt shrinking away. that hurt the most.
blaine wanted to keep sleeping with him. but there was a fine line between loving and smothering and he was afraid of crossing it. wanted to give kurt his independence. wanted to let him make choices.
"let him" make choices. how hypocritical does that sound?
so he said okay, without much of a fight.
he thought kurt knew that he could never want to spend a night in another bed just because he was wetting it. side effect of a fatal illness. i need you by my side, i don't care what condition you're in.
kurt actually had his doubts.
blaine slept in his bed, looking at kurt's, night after night. sometimes their hands would entwine. sometimes kurt would turn away and bury himself in the blankets so blaine couldn't see him at all. sometimes, blaine would wake up to see kurt staring at him, afraid.
"don't be scared."
"don't be scared."
blaine still slept in his bed, looking at kurt's, night after night. he hadn't been on it. he just stared at it, trying to sleep. neat blue sheets. well-made, empty.
he had a pretty good idea of what he was doing to himself. he'd refrain from calling it "torture," but carole wouldn't. "you need to leave that house, hon," she'd say. "come stay a few nights with us."
but, god.
that would be worse.
kurt hadn't lived at home in years, but he still existed there. his presence lingered there. in the oven mitts he bought one thanksgiving and left there after they cooked. in a throw pillow his mother had embroidered on. in a sock he'd lost under his dresser before college.
blaine would only be able to see him and kurt, young again, running through school halls and holding hands, and maybe that pain would be no worse than the pain of seeing this empty bed every night, but he'd have to see carole and burt and he didn't think he could hold it all in then.
this still wasn't real yet, see. because he hadn't left home yet. the ceremony was here-kurt was cremated, per his wishes-and carole and burt stayed over for a few nights. they planned for a week or two, but blaine couldn't. just couldn't have people there. they left and he hadn't seen them since.
so he'd been able to pretend that nothing changed.
make coffee, make two cups. drain them both.
sweep the whole house and forget that he did half of it so he could pretend kurt did it.
set out clothes and pick out the wrong tie and repick it as kurt because he'd pick the better one.
forget he's alone.
he hadn't touched the bed yet, though.
too afraid.
tonight, he does.
he goes up to it tentatively, remembering monsters under the mattress when he was a kid. his dad brandished a flashlight three times and they went away.
blaine leans down. he's going to kiss the top of the pillow like you'd kiss a forehead. he presses against it and, he's been holding his breath, avoiding this, but he inhales in a rush.
he stills, little shockwaves sparking in his brain. "scent is the strongest memory trigger," he remembers, eighth grade science class, and he crawls onto the bed.
he doesn't really realize he's doing it, but he's curled around the pillow, rocking it vertically, hugging it like it's human.
"i need somebody," he says.
he's crying hard.
"i need somebody, please."
the thing about help is that you have to ask for it.
"please, please, please," he begs.
but you have to ask somebody who can hear you.
"help me. help me."