Well, hello there! This is chapter 2. Slightly longer than the first but not really that long at all. I'm making the chapters short because I want to ensure that I'm not going to run out of story in three chapters and then have everyone waiting until I can produce another, just-as-lengthy installment.

I should warn you guys: this is not just sick!Kurt, but it's like, reallysick!Kurt. Just so you know. It's gonna be sad.

On that note, will someone who knows a lot about hospitals and the medical field and stuff please PM me? I have some questions for you that I hope you can answer!

Disclaimer because I forgot last chapter: I don't own Glee. This is very sad, but alas, I have to make do with fanfiction.

Enjoy!

EDIT 05/23: Hey everyone. I realized that Kurt was still in his basement bedroom in this chapter while he was in his upstairs room in all the others, so I fixed it! Hopefully I didn't make that mistake anywhere else...


"Kurt, you're a little warm," Burt says, feeling his son's face as he helps him into the car. "I think you've got a fever."

Kurt groans loudly, ready to be home and crawling into his covers, ready to have familiar-scented warmth surrounding him so he can just go to sleep for a few days.

"So I have a fever. It's probably just a virus, Dad, okay? Can we just go home?" He is not looking forward to the almost two-hour drive.

"Yeah, buddy, okay. Lucky it's a Friday, huh, so you can have a couple days' rest. But we're taking you to the doctor if you're still sick Monday, deal?"

Kurt settles back into the seat after buckling himself in and says, wearily, "Fine."

His dad pats him on the shoulder before moving around the hood to the driver's seat.

The ride is awkward; Burt makes many attempts to start conversation, even asking him how things are with Blaine (and unfortunately, they seem to be perpetually doomed to remain just friends) and mentioning Wicked (because he knows it's his son's favorite), but Kurt is just too tired and irritated to respond with more than one syllable. In fact, he is completely unwilling to even open his eyes. They are both highly relieved when the elder Hummel cuts the engine in the driveway.

And soon, Kurt is buried in bed surrounded by his soft, warm comforter, with the promise of some of Carole's homemade soup when he wakes up.

It makes him feel just that little bit closer to good, dozing like this, and being home. At school, at Dalton, he just always feels this pressure: to fit in, to do well, to attract only the good kind of attention. Being there is very stressful for him.

Being home, on the other hand, drains all of that tension out of his body and he can relax. And Cheesus, he's really tired lately and he needs to relax.

He drifts to sleep in minutes, but he can't stay there for long; it's already about seven o'clock and about a half hour later, dinner is ready.

"Kurt!"

His dad's voice breaks through his sleep and pulls him into consciousness. He whines softly, so desperate to not be awake and not have to deal with this miserable grogginess, this ache. If anything, the nap has again made things worse. He should really stop taking naps.

"Dinner's ready! Come on upstairs."

Slowly, he manages to pull his hurting body out of bed. He's still in his Dalton uniform and it's wrinkled and horrible. He peels it off, not bothering to fold it. Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he makes his way over to his closet to find something comfortable to slip in. He doesn't have much that fits the description; he settles for a slim pair of sweatpants and a white v-neck.

He drags himself upstairs in a fog, barely aware that his hair is disheveled; he cannot possibly begin to care.

"Hey, Kurt, feeling any better?" Burt asks as the teenager slumps in his spot at the table. They look at him expectantly.

"No," he grumbles in reply. Carole pats his arm and Burt leans over to feel his forehead again. The hand feels cool and he closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the feeling as long as it lasted.

"You got a fever still, kid. Are you up to eating anything?"

Finn, always up for eating, makes an impatient noise and everyone sort of glares at him.

"Yes, I can eat," Kurt assures his father. "I'll be fine." He reaches out to start spooning green beans onto his plate and his dad makes a weird noise.

"Kurt, give me your arm," he snaps.

Shocked, Kurt withdraws his hand and it hovers somewhere over his plate. "Dad, what—?"

"Just give me your arm." Despite the harshness in his tone, he grips his son's wrist gently. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"Get what?"

There's a dark, nasty bruise above his elbow.

"Oh my god. I don't know," he murmurs.

"Damn it, Kurt, if someone at that damn school is hurting you—"

"Dad," Kurt interrupts, "no one at Dalton, or anywhere else is hurting me." He desperately searches his memory for an explanation for this purple mark on his skin. "I honestly don't know how I got it."

Ever helpful, Finn points across the table and cries, "Dude, you've got another one!"

There it is: his v-neck just barely reveals another bruise on his chest.

Carole casts a worried glance over at the elder Hummel. "Burt," she says, her voice made to be carefully pleasant, "can I talk to you in the living room for a minute?"

"Yeah," is the gruff reply.

Kurt doesn't like this sinking feeling in his stomach. It's dread—thick, cold dread dripping into his stomach like he swallowed molasses. Coupled with the general feeling of illness he's had for far, far too long, he pretty much just feels like going back to bed and going to sleep to never, never wake up.

Their parents walk into the next room and the boys fall into an awkward silence. Finn stares at Kurt, who, in his turn, stares at his hands in his lap.

"Wanna listen?" the larger teen offers. His step-brother finds this prospect juvenile, but his aversion is completely overridden by his near need to hear what Carole and Burt are talking about. He nods and they sneak over to the doorway to eavesdrop.

"Carole," Burt says, and his voice is firm, "don't say that. I don't want to hear that."

"I know, honey, and I'm sorry," she responds softly. "I'm not saying it's anything serious. I'm just worried, and it doesn't hurt to be careful."

There is a short moment of silence, in which Kurt can almost feel the tension in the house pushing against his skin, crushing his heart.

"You're right. I'll take him to the doctor first thing tomorrow morning," his dad whispers. "I just really hope it's nothing, Carole."

"Me too." She sounds so sincere, so genuinely troubled. There is only quiet for a short while, and so Kurt and Finn steal wordlessly back to their seats at the table. They settle into the chairs and say nothing, avoiding looking at each other. A few moments later, Burt and Carole come back in.

As they start dinner, Kurt finds what little appetite he had waning quickly. He can't shake this horrible feeling of foreboding in his stomach that's making him want to throw up instead of eat. There's something wrong with him—how could there not be? Carole said it might be nothing, but how could it not be something?

Everyone else tries to make conversation but it's stilted and uncomfortable. Kurt doesn't make an effort. After dinner is over Burt excuses him in a soft voice. "Oh, hey kiddo, before I forget," he says, making Kurt stop in the doorway, "I'm gonna take you to the doctor in the morning."

"Okay," the boy responds flatly.

He settles down into a cocoon of comforters and slowly twirls his phone in his hands, wondering whether he should call Blaine. He wants to, badly—he wants comfort. But he just doesn't know anything yet and he thinks it might be stupid of him to mention it.

The phone vibrates, startling him.

From: Mercedes

7:57 PM

hey babe, I heard ur sick, finn told me. he said it was serious. u ok?

Kurt is going to kill Finn just as soon as he has enough energy. He slowly, clumsily thumbs out a reply and sends it:

To: Mercedes

7:59 PM

I'm just fine, mercedes. Finn's just being dramatic.

He is almost asleep when her response comes.

From: Mercedes

8:04 PM

Ok, boo. just take care of urself

Instead of texting her back, Kurt searches for a different name in his contacts. His heart thumps in his chest as he stares at the screen, his thumbs poised but unsure of how to proceed. He's really unsure of whether he should be doing this in the first place; he really wants to talk to Blaine, to have that smooth voice reassure him. But he also really wants to hide out under a rock. If it's nothing, if it's just a virus like he originally predicted, if he got those bruises sleepwalking or something, he doesn't want to embarrass himself by worrying about it to everyone within earshot. And if he is sick, really sick, well then… he'd rather just keep it to himself. He doesn't want the drama and the emotion and the pity of telling people about it. The thought of it is awful.

But Blaine would want to know. Blaine stayed with him after he woke up this afternoon.

Eventually he decides to keep it neutral.

To: Blaine

8:09 PM

My dads taking me to the doctor tomorrow.

That's it. Simple and clean and not a big deal at all. Blaine will be expecting a doctor's visit anyway.

From: Blaine

8:10 PM

Good. Let me know how it goes?

Kurt stares at this message for a long time but doesn't reply because honestly, he doesn't know if he will.


Danke schoen for reading and for all the lovely feedback in the form of reviews and favorites and alerts. Keep 'em coming!

Also, all the grammar and spelling mistakes in those texts are intentional and were chosen very carefully. :) It kills my soul to write in textspeak but I wouldn't put it past Mercedes. And Kurt tries, but he gets lazy.