A/N: This is inspired by the Klaine Advent Calendar Day 6 prompt - falter
Watching someone you love falter through no fault of their own, and without possessing means to help them, is heartbreak.
:: ::
Blaine's collection of bowties has been carefully cultivated since he was a teenager, having grown exponentially since he moved to New York. Especially thanks to Kurt. For without Kurt's devotion to exploring every nook and cranny of every tiny boutique in every borough, the wall wouldn't exist.
Even before New York, Blaine had many a bowtie to match each shade of the rainbow. Now though, he's practically poised to open an exhibit. The world's largest, guests to their home suppose.
It's as much Kurt's as it is Blaine's. Collector and curator.
:: ::
The wall is merely that: a wall. It was ugly and bare, and when they needed a place to store all their junk after moving into the cramped apartment, the wall held nothing but promise. Decorating was a challenge. But challenges and decorations are two of Kurt Hummel's very favorite things.
Kurt installed shelves to start. Well, he designated their artful arrangement, then let Sam do all the dirty work. Having absolutely no idea what to put on these shelves, he took comfort in considering them a place to start.
It wasn't always a home to Bowtie Central.
At first it was an unconventional bookcase, housing film and literature alike. And the occasional potted plant. But the plants were quick to die amid their busy schedules. And their books and movies were more easily stored on phones and tablets and game consoles.
Then it was used for photographs and assorted trinkets they picked up around the city. For things they couldn't bother to find better homes for. As the wall is conveniently beside the front door, many things had been placed and forgotten just upon entering.
Then Kurt bombed an audition and his retail therapy resulted in more bowties than he knew what to do with, all of which with no place to go.
Luckily, cleaning is another of Kurt's favorite things. When he got home from shopping, he immediately set about getting the house in order. Starting with the junk on the wall. Inspiration struck somewhere along the line, and when Blaine came home that night, Kurt sat surrounded by every one of Blaine's bowties and a few of his own, save the one Blaine was wearing, placing them neatly on the freshly swept and mopped floor. The shelves were nearly empty, retaining only those few framed pictures and another plant on the verge of dying.
Blaine walked off to let Kurt be, overcome by a sudden feeling of tension within his chest. A sense that something was wrong. A feeling that passed by morning. A feeling that returned with greater depth every time he passed the empty wall.
Kurt stayed up late that night, until he'd organized to his heart's content. The bowties stayed in place for nearly a week until Kurt could figure a way to repurpose shelves to hold bowties. Eventually settling on affixing racks to the front of the shallow shelves. Creating cubbies behind the bowties for the knickknacks both were bound to bring home.
Now, the wall is bright and magnificent. An array of bowties trickling downward like a rainbow caught inside a waterfall. Drowning.
:: ::
It started quietly, small in the way that big things often begin. Signs passed unnoticed until Blaine was wedged deep into his compulsions. Until the people around him were already unwitting accomplices.
:: ::
College is hard for everyone. It's meant to be challenging. What worth is there in relearning what you already think you know?
Sometimes the challenges are rewarding; hopefully, on as many occasions as possible, you'll learn something entirely new, or find your past perception of truth has evolved with new understandings of the world.
Sometimes all you get in return for your efforts is a headache.
Blaine has never quite worked well under duress. Based on output, he may seem able. But time is telling. And the story goes that all the problems Blaine pushed aside in his tunneling toward success did not disappear but laid in wait for a glimpse of vulnerability in his foundation.
His foundation cracked in college, but it was so small it was imperceptible even to Blaine.
Four years and a surgery later, it's glaringly obvious.
:: ::
Kurt is not a patient person. He is kind and compassionate and devoted, a good ear and a good friend, but patience never quite landed in his grasp. Based on his behavior, Kurt may occasionally seem patient, but a mind swimming with thoughts of self-doubt and crushing anxiety tells otherwise. He wants what he wants when he wants it.
What he wants at present is a way to simply beckon Blaine to bed. Without ruining the system or having to fight back tears when the inevitable attack of words Blaine will inevitably apologize for tomorrow.
It's becoming more difficult to accept the apologies.
He believes them. He knows Blaine isn't Blaine in these moments. Not really.
But then, what is he? Is it fair to credit disease so much power?
:: ::
Such conditions are meant to affect other people's lives. Destroy other families. Are we on the brink of destruction? Kurt doesn't like to imagine what happens if the effects of a now-gone tumor never go away. Therapy is supposed to help. Only if he sticks with it.
:: ::
Kurt was first to finally notice. He wished harder than anyone else that he'd been paying more attention.
Blaine brushed his accusations off. So did Sam. And Tina. And Rachel.
And then Santana didn't.
She sat beside him hand-in-hand as he confessed all his fears about the gnawing sense that "something is seriously wrong with Blaine."
Together, they staged the world's most fruitless intervention. Seeing as no one believed them, the "intervention" that wasted ten horribly awkward minutes was quickly repressed in favor of trashy television and Chinese delivery.
Blaine, of course, was furious. And then, of course, restricted himself from acting on his anger by self-imposed rules of decorum.
Kurt, sufficiently shamed, withdrew from conversation and waited patiently for Blaine to come to him. Patiently – meaning a breath away from a panic attack.
The day's purpose was not lost, however.
Santana, never one to be foiled, took the afternoon get-together as an opportunity to prove they were right. Also never one to be subtle, her brazen maneuvers at unraveling the tightly wound strings holding up Blaine's façade were recognized by all except one: Blaine. Then, much in the way we observe a car wreck across the barrier or a storm outside our window, no one said a word but watched from a safe distance as destruction wreaked havoc before their eyes.
:: ::
Kurt wasn't pleased with Santana's tactics. Not with how she treated it like a game; like this horrible truth was a prize to be won. The agony of his heart ripping apart kept him distracted from his comparably miniscule displeasure with the woman who, quite honestly, was simply doing what he couldn't.
Hurting someone you love can send aftershocks through your own heart. Love prevented Kurt from hurting Blaine. Kept him from helping.
Santana wasn't blinded by the same self-protection.
:: ::
The Andersons are sweet. A bit aloof at times. But they love their sons.
After the diagnosis, Blaine's parents received the first phone call.
They cried. Blaine cried. Kurt tried and failed to hold it together, so he cried too.
:: ::
Coasters brought it to Kurt's attention.
They'd always had coasters lying around. But they weren't often used. Then they were.
Blaine never said a word about having to use them. But anytime a glass was put down directly on any surface, Blaine was there to lift it up, clean the area, dry the area, place a coaster, then put the glass back down.
At first, it just seemed quirky. Kurt certainly took no offense to cleanliness, so he joined in. He matched Blaine's ritual with one of his own and felt happy to be on the same page. And they were on the same page. Then, of course, they weren't.
Kurt came home from work one day, having grabbed the mail from downstairs, intending to throw it in the first empty cubby he could find on the wall. He did find an empty space. Though, it was after he found stacks upon identical stacks of coasters nestled firmly behind Blaine's bowties.
He'd been noticing Blaine spend more time organizing his ties. More time organizing in general. Chalked it up to the new cleaning kick they were on. But proper as Blaine liked appearances, he had become a fan of leaving messes behind to take care of later. Living with Santana, always ready to rifle through someone else's personal belongings, made him a bit more detached than he'd been in the past. And when he and Kurt moved out on their own, he brought his new inclinations with him.
It shouldn't have been a big deal. It wouldn't have been, either, but Kurt is a curious person. And sometimes forgetful.
He took a handful of the hidden – no, not hidden, just not readily apparent – coasters and dumped them on the coffee table just so he'd remember to ask Blaine why such an insane amount of them existed in their home.
He never got the chance to ask. Not right away.
He was in the shower when Blaine came home. By the time he'd emerged, the coasters where back in their rightful spot. Back in the stacks Blaine had removed and recounted and replaced exactly five times.
Of course, Kurt didn't know that part.
When Kurt did get around to asking, it was with another small, careless handful he waved around and tossed on the kitchen counter, proclaiming "this is ridiculous!" and looking quite amused. Quite unlike Blaine's expression.
Blaine collected the squares and returned them home with trembling hands and anxious features.
Kurt stayed up late that night dwelling on all the possibilities for such odd behavior. In thinking back on the past few months, on longer, Kurt considered that maybe he should have noticed sooner.
::::
"Everyone in my life who matters to me gets sick or they die. You are sick, Blaine. And I can't do this alone anymore. At the very least, your parents deserve to know."
The thought was simple. It was clear in his head, if a bit untrue. In his attempt to confess, panic about the harsh reality of their life set in and the words were jumbled in-between the tortured sobs and freefalling tears.
Blaine held him close until he calmed. When he calmed, the guilt that plagued him daily clawed back into his heart, doubled in size by his need to be comforted by the man who needed him to be strong.
:: ::
Cancer and death are two of Kurt's least favorite things. But, or rather because, they're familiar terms to Kurt.
Too familiar if you ask him.
:: ::
Santana never saw it as a game; Kurt had that wrong. Her ex-girlfriend's brother had OCD. She saw what it was like for a family to live under the rule of a disease. She didn't want the same for two of her best friends. For herself or for the rest of their bunch.
Blaine deserved better. And she had no problem stepping in if he wouldn't do it for himself.
She now knew about the obsession with precision and she used it to her advantage. Maybe it wasn't smart or kind to purposely do so. It definitely wasn't. She took no pleasure in making messes, in watching Blaine struggle in resisting order until he was sent into overdrive, in seeing the humiliation on the face of a man who lived for propriety when he recognized his own actions. It's not as though she wanted to be right. She just was.
Gone was any more room for denial.
:: ::
"What if I say something and it triggers some new obsession. I mean, is that possible. I've been reading about OCD, about brain tumors, but I don't know what to trust. What should I be asking? Are they even related conditions for him? What if I do something wrong? How do I – how do I not make him worse?"
"Kurt. I'm right here."
"Well, you haven't been."
The doctor steps in. "Mr. Hummel. A good place to start is by not insulting your husband."
"I didn't mean – Oh honey, I'm so sorry."
"It's okay."
"None of this is okay, Blaine."
:: ::
Sometimes he thinks the problem is solving itself. That Blaine's brain is recovering from the damage triggered by a mess of biology.
Standing in this doorway, watching Blaine fiddle with all the contents of that damn wall. In this moment when the disease is in control. Kurt thinks otherwise.
When the tumor was still in there, hidden beneath that beautiful mess of curls, there was something to blame. Something physical. Nothing he could put his hands on, but it was there. Dealing with its absence was meant to be the healing process.
But the chemicals responsible were already existing symptoms.
He wonders how long ago it all started. What he may have caught if he knew what to look for. If it began when Blaine forsook hair gel that one semester, a phase wildly out of character. Or if it was when he'd started using it in the first place. If Blaine's eccentricities are due to disorder. How much of Blaine is Blaine.
He wonders if he should have been concerned when their plants stopped dying.
Rationally he knows Blaine is more than his disorder, even when it takes the reigns and leads him astray. He loves all of Blaine. Even now, when he's wishing away the hardship, he knows they'll be okay. That Blaine will be okay.
It doesn't happen as often anymore. This is just a slip. Something best not to make a habit out of.
Music helps, they've found. Making music keeps Blaine's hands busy. Gives him something worthwhile to focus on. Allows him reprieve.
Kurt tears himself away from the sight. He knows Blaine knows he's watching. Sees Blaine's hunched shoulders and frustrated frown. He knows Blaine is disappointed in himself. He shares in that disappointment, only aimed at a different target. He hates resenting Blaine when it's not Blaine he's angry with. Hates that life can throw such cruel curveballs.
Down the hallway, they've turned a room that could've been – could still become, they're young after all – a nursery into a music room. Leaving the light off, Kurt sits on the piano bench, taking care to lift the fallboard lest he give Blaine a new distraction.
He isn't playing long before Blaine joins him, quiet and reserved in a way that doesn't suit him.
They play together, draining their stress and urging sleep to crowd their thoughts.
"Will you come to bed now?" Kurt mutters cautiously, that fear of misstep lingering lightly.
"Of course."
A smile.
A hand slipping into his own.
A tug off the bench.
A tiny victory in the midnight darkness of their Manhattan home fills Kurt's body with hopeful warmth. They've made it through the holidays with minimal damage, rung in the New Year with promise of progress.
I might make this a verse in order to actually get Blaine's side of things...
Reviews always welcome! :)