For a moment she panicked when the TV was gone from the living room, but she started breathing again after nearly falling over a cable that stretched across the room and under the curtain what separated Kurt's 'personal space' from the rest of their place.
Quiet rumbling voice filled the air, and it really didn't sound like a movie.

„Kurt?" she called, poking her head trough the improvised door and worry painted across her face. „Babe, are you okay?"
It was odd.
She found him at the exact same position she left him this morning, even though he obviously moved. He was dressed for work, and there was a cup of cold coffee on the night stand. And then there was whole TV deal. „Why did you steal our TV?"
If he registered her, he didn't show it. Laptop was open on the edge of his bed, and there was a cotton bag on the floor half filled with un-ironed clothes, as if Kurt just transferred the pile from dryer to it.
„Kurt? What's going on?"
„There was shooting at William McKinley. Rachel, I'm going home."

oOo

Kurt couldn't get to his phone soon enough. His chest felt tight and as if he had snake squirming and biting at his heart. Where was it? Charger. Yes. Charger. Nearly falling over the backrest of the sofa, he bolted to the kitchen and snatched the phone from the counter. His palms were slick and cold, and his fingers numb. Bloody touch screen. He fiddled with it, finally managing to enter the right pass code.

7 new messages.

His heart skipped a beat.

Okay. Breathe. Breathing is your friend. He pressed Read and counted to 10.

"Kurt, there was a shot here"

"I'm scared."

"I just wanted to tell you that I love you"

"And I know that we're just friends"

"But I love you so much"

"I don't ever wanna say goodbye to you"

"But"

Blaine.

His Blaine.

But? But. But? But what. Kurt pressed a shaky hand to his chest. Give me your hand. Hold it to your heart. Just like the song? Like the song. Stop that.
Sucking in a deep breath, Kurt closed his eyes, tightening the grip to the phone, in an attempt to stop his hands from shaking.

oOo

He replied to them. One, two, three times. No answer. Oh my God, was he hurt? Was he shot? Was any of them shot? Those kids were his family. Even if he didn't know some of them all that good, but they were all connected on higher level. Simple as that.
Please please please.
He was too scared to call. What if Blaine was hiding under a table, and the killer is passing by him right at this second, and his phone rings? Kurt would be the killer in that case. So he sent another message, chewing onto his lip. He could already feel iron-y scent against his tongue. Fuck. Please, Blaine. Please.