It's Thursday, Thursday, gotta get down on Thursday... :D A new update, I hope you'll enjoy this too - and please take notice of my end note after this chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize in this chapter, except a genuine love for London.
Kurt wraps his arms around his bent knees, pulling them closer to his chest. The thick blanket slides down from his slumped shoulders, but he is too numb to care. The coffee he mindlessly, automatically made for himself when he came home, is turning cold, standing untouched on the table.
He knows it's irrational, stupid even, but he can't help but feeling exposed and violated. His body has never been an easy place to inhabit for him, and presenting it for someone else makes him feel vulnerable and out of control.
He doesn't mind being seen because of the fabulous outfits he puts together – he actually likes that kind of approval. But naked, he feels… Well, naked.
At first, he suppressed Blaine's plea to see a doctor. But it turned out to be difficult to ignore, when he realized that Blaine was back in his life in some capacity or other. When he went over to Mercedes for their weekly reality TV-marathon, Blaine had been there, hanging out with Sam. Wen Kurt met Elliot for lunch a few days later, his friend mentioned how he'd given Blaine a tour of the best record stores in the city. And when Artie invited them all to a party the next weekend, Blaine of course was there. He hadn't said anything, but the worried glances he kept throwing Kurt were deafening in and of themselves.
When Kurt came home that night, still buzzing from too much wine and hidden in the dark under the covers, he pulled down his pajama pants, and puffed hot air on his cool fingers, before touching himself further down than down there. He hadn't been there in some time, it never did anything for him when it was his own fingers he felt, so what was the point? But he tried to get reacquainted with that particular area of his body, using both hands to compare weight, texture, size and shape. His stomach fell when he realized his two testicles were far from as similar as they used to be.
So the next Monday he called his doctor, and got an appointment eight days later. Which was today. And the entire conversation had been humiliating.
Standing with his pants and underwear pulled down midthigh – because he had thought it would make him feel more comfortable than removing the garments entirely, stupid as he was – while a middle-aged woman wearing a latex glove that smelled of artificial chemicals pulled and prodded at his most private area. And then the awful conversation, where she scolded him for not doing monthly check-ups in the shower, and for not coming as soon as the suspicion of something being off had been aired. She asked him about family health history, and when he reluctantly mentioned his Dad's scare a few years prior with prostate cancer, she had looked disappointedly at him. And then she'd given a long rant about how Movember had become a thing for a reason, didn't he know it was about more than moustaches, and hadn't he seen the ads and merchandise for the upcoming breast cancer awareness-month?
And that's when Kurt had felt himself pale and get dizzy, because he hadn't dared thinking about the C-word, he had mainly focused on his deviating testicle, refusing to consider any plausible cause.
The doctor aggressively fired off questions, asking if he'd experienced any back pains, tenderness in pecks and nipples, swollen legs, pain downstairs, coughing, and the list went on. He answered "no" on most of her questions, but back home he can't stop thinking and worrying. His back had been aching, but why wouldn't it with the stress he had at work – that was the only reason, right? And he had been coughing the other day, but a mix of New York-smog and excessive singing without proper warming up can do that to you. And his feet had been so swollen he couldn't get his favourite boots on the other day, after five hours of dance rehearsal the day before. He may have felt a certain ache between his legs, but had chalked it up as blueballs, and then the wedding happened, and Blaine got it out of his system. He could rationalize every symptom, but did it mean it was the only potential answer?
God, he'll be in dire need of a manicure after all this stress and anxious wait.
The doctor had agreed that there was a lump in his left testicle. Blaine had said one of them was reduced, but it was the other way around – his left testicle has grown substantially larger than the other.
The first step to figure out what this is, the doctor recommended, was a broad STI test, along with a blood test to examine his hormonal level. She had said a lot more, but he couldn't understand half of it, and he was too humiliated to ask, just wanting to get out of there and away from her. He'd caught himself missing Carole, imagining how she could have helped him interpret the doctor's endless rant and ask the best follow up-questions.
But he did this alone, and he is going to do this alone, because he remembers the chilling worry and aching pain from when his Dad got his diagnosis, and he sure as hell ain't gonna tell anyone anything before he absolutely has to. If he has to. If. There's still a chance of an IF, although his doctor had called his testicle a "classical case". Lucky him.
Kurt is so lost in his own mind, he doesn't hear the heavy door being slid open.
"Honey, I'm home!"
The blanket hasn't even fallen to the floor when Kurt is out of the couch, running to greet his long gone roommate.
"God, I've missed you," he all but sobs into her shoulder, and holds Rachel tightly. She wraps her arms around him, and bless her heart, doesn't say anything, just hugs him all the way to his bones.
He finally realizes how ridiculous he's being, and lets go of her. Like a true gentleman, he offers to take her coat, and hangs it on their coat stand for her. Even if he made Rachel's bed and prepared her room for her yesterday, the knowledge about her return had completely vanished on his way to the doctor. But this is probably what he needs today. Rachel's been three months in London, and although it has its ups to live alone, he's missed her too. It's a big and cold loft when you're lonely.
"I desperately need a shower, the air-conditioning on the plane is atrocious," Rachel scrunches her nose. "I smell like… Fried strangers dipped in Mayo."
Kurt rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but it's awfully good to have her back. He's glad she's still reeling from London and travelling, and unable to question why he's home at this hour. He took the entire day off from work, and he did so by calling in sick this morning, faking a food poisoning. Telling about a doctor's appointment would only lead to questions he isn't willing to answer.
While Rachel is in the shower, he decides to make them a late lunch. It's still too early for dinner, but he hasn't been able to eat anything since breakfast, so a larger meal is probably part of the message his revolting stomach has been trying to tell him for the last few hours.
They sit across of each other by the kitchen table, and Rachel tells him all about her visit to Stratford-upon-Avon; the cradle of The Bard. She saw his childhood home, the theatre where his first plays were ever performed, the quaint buildings from his days, she had been rowing on the lake, and experienced an authentic performance with true British accents – it had of course been uttermost helpful for Rachel, to perfect her own accent as Eliza Doolittle.
They forego the dishes in favour of cuddling up on the couch and look through Rachel's pictures from her three months in London. She's posted some of them on Facebook, but that's not even half of them. Kurt may not use his profile there anymore, but Mercedes has kept him up to date, and showed him what she deemed absolutely necessary of Rachel's pictures.
"I have to pay attention to my reputation, and some of the pictures might not be what my fans want to associate me with," she explains as if it is obvious. She has an unfortunate tendency to befriend anyone who asks on Facebook, and her private life there is drowning in her professional life as a musical artist and touring star. Kurt had suggested she make a fan page, and keep her personal Facebook-page for family and close friends. It would make it easier to keep in touch with her, when karaoke night-invitations drown in praise and worship from overzealous fans.
She pulls up her laptop, and starts the picture viewer-program, adding commentary as the photos slide across the screen, now and then going back to a picture to add an anecdote. Kurt lets her voice and storytelling lull him into a serene calm, ignoring everything but Rachel's true fairytale. He's not even jealous of her, because she's worked so hard, and deserved this. And he knows she worked equally hard across the ocean, it's not as if she had the time and opportunity to go shopping on Oxford Street or visiting The Tower of London each day.
He watches tourist pictures, moments from backstage, her first fish'n chips, going out to a pub for a pint with her colleagues, all the experiences in Stratford-upon-Avon, and meeting Rowan Atkinson.
"Ooh," she suddenly squeals, "I bought you something. Hold on, it's in my luggage." She dances off to her room, humming something, and sounding so ridiculously happy. Kurt smiles fondly at her back, and randomly flips through her newest pictures. He already has an entire bulletin board full of postcards from her, sent from every sight she managed to visit properly and not just pass by during her hectic days. It's nice to see more pictures, though. London has always had its own magic appeal to him. He notices a handsome man next to Rachel in several of the pictures. He can't recognize him, though, and makes a mental note of asking her who it is. She sent him the playbill from her opening night as guest star, but Kurt doesn't think he was one of the photographed actors. In another picture, he has his arm wrapped around her, and something difficult churns in Kurt's stomach.
"Here it is!" she announces, dancing back to him with a ridiculously big wrapped present.
"Rachel, you didn't have to…"
"I know, but I wanted to. These are things that made me think of you."
He hugs her sideways, and she moves the laptop out of the way so he can open his gift. Carefully, he peels off the adhesive tape. The first item to fall out, is a pillow, and on it is printed the map of the tube station system in London. He traces a finger along the Circle Line, the Red Line, the Yellow Line, stopping at some of the more well-known stations. One day…
He smiles ruefully at the pillow, and checks the other things. She's gotten him a savings box shaped like the red telephone box, and he can't help his wide grin at the sight of it. He loves it! Next is a big ceramic Big Ben with a lid and filled with candy. Maybe it'll look sufficiently innocuous to be left alone, and not raided for cookies whenever they have visitors. There's even a teddy bear in a Beefeater-costume for him, and he has always been fond of cute boys in uniform. And lastly, she's gotten him a…
"Rachel!" Kurt shrieks scandalized, throwing the Union Jack-string at her. "Please don't tell me you actually thought of me when you saw that!"
"Someone's been single for far too long," she says cheekily, "and that one might change that."
"If," Kurt says with gusto, "and let me repeat that – IF anyone ever sees me in this, it will indeed mean I'm not single anymore, because it'll take approximately seventeen years of dating until I'd be comfortable enough to show myself in this… National napkin," he shivers.
Rachel makes a disbelieving sound, and nudges him with her shoulder.
"I bet seven years will suffice plenty," she winks. "I did buy you one more thing, but I was afraid it wouldn't survive the flight, I've seen how roughly some of the luggage is handled. And I didn't have room for it in my carry-on. But Hugh will bring it when he's visiting in less than four weeks."
"Well, now you got my curiosity peaked for several reasons. What more did you get me, what have I done to deserve all these clichéd gifts, and who the hell is Hugh?"
"I'm not ruining that surprise for you, thank you very much. But I only get the best for my bestest gay and favourite roommate," she smiles sweetly, and rests an arm around his shoulders, tugging him closer. "And about Hugh…"
She looks out of the window, as if she can see all the way to London.
"I think Hugh may be someone very, very special," she murmurs dreamily.
That particular statement rises loads of questions Kurt won't ask. He has always been the cynical one, the realistic (pessimistic, says Rachel) one, the one with his feet solidly planted on the ground, the anchor that prevents his friends from floating too high. But Rachel hasn't been in a serious relationship since Brody, and then after him almost getting back with Finn again, brutally destroyed when he passed away. It took time for Rachel to get over him and mourn his death. This is the first time in literally years that Kurt has seen her look like this, not one single New Yorker taking her out on a date has managed to create that kind of smile. So he's not going to take that away from her yet.
"So, what's been going on here lately?" Rachel asks happily, shuffling to sit closer to him.
His stomach feels cold and heavy, and all the fear he's been suppressing all day wells up, trying to force its way out of him. He has to breathe deeply, and closes his eyes, because he can't cry now.
"What is it, Kurt?" she asks worriedly.
"Umm," he swallows. "You'll never guess who's moved to our city."
"You look as if you're talking about a ghost," Rachel smiles hesitantly, trying to ease his mood. Kurt blinks again, several times. The ghost from his past haunting him now, is his Dad's cancer scare. In comparison, having to live in the same city as his first love, is anything but scary. "Oh my God," Rachel gasps, "it is Blaine? Blaine is living in New York?"
Kurt nods minutely, glad that Rachel realizes how difficult that might be to him, and thus not looking for anything else causing his blues.
"Oh Kurt," she hums, hugging him tightly, "and he's still friends with Sam, is he?"
"Sam asked him to be his best man," Kurt says dryly.
"Mercedes!" Rachel exclaims again, "I can't believe the nerve some people have, to do something big like that when I'm out of the country," she grins. "We'll have to invite her over one day; I need to see that rock in better lighting than the picture she posted on Facebook."
Just like that, Rachel is musing wedding arrangements, and successfully gets Kurt's mind off of anything related to his ex-boyfriend or testicles.
I'd like to remind my readers that I am not a medical professional, so anything written in this story of medical information is based on my research, and with a touch of author's creativity when needed to make it fit with my vision for this story. Please don't take the medical aspects in this story as correct science. I've done my best to make it realistic, and I've done a lot of research, but it can't compensate for a doctor's degree ;)