AN: I grew up with four channels on the television, and in the afternoon, three played soap operas and the other played Sesame Street. So, I gained an appreciation for serial stories at a very young age. If you've ever watched a soap opera, you know the most important day to watch is Friday. Everything important happens on Friday. Monday resolves the cliffhanger, and the rest of the week deals with the consequences and sets up the next Friday. This chapter is a Friday episode.

AN: I've been posting on Wednesdays, but I have to ride my horse and sleep tomorrow. You get this a day early. You're welcome.

Warnings: As a writer, I spend so much time writing and re-writing that I become de-sensitized to my own words, so I can't judge how these words may affect you. That being said, I know I intended them to be intense. There are a lot of song lyrics in here which are a direct window into Blaine's state of mind. If you have a mental illness, or if you love someone with a mental illness, this chapter may upset you. Or not.

Blaine had lost track of how many files he'd uploaded to Dropbox by the time he figured it was probably late enough in the day that Kurt might actually be allowed to listen to them. He did know they didn't amount to even half of what he'd been playing since he sat down at the keyboard that morning, just the ones he wanted Kurt to hear, the lyrics that spoke to him, melodies he couldn't stop playing. His fingers throbbed with a dull ache from pounding a little too hard at plastic keys that felt too flimsy for the songs he used them to play.

He would probably have been stopped by now, his mom or Cooper knocking to suggest (politely, because God forbid, they should upset him) he keep it down, except he had the keyboard wired into his laptop and could only hear it through his headphones. Well, that and, Cooper had flown to L.A. for a spur of the moment audition his agent had gotten him, and Mom had popped her head in the door a couple of hours ago already to tell him she'd be working late. Of course she was. She was practically a single parent, after all, though he knew the household bank account probably got regular boosts the same way his own checking account did. Why should she take a day off?

She wasn't even on Facebook, anyway, so she probably didn't remember what today was.

And Blaine couldn't forget.

He hadn't been able to forget since the notification popped up on his phone, in the middle of the night, like Facebook somehow knew he'd been on his medication for a little over five days and had gotten to the insomnia stage of stabilizing. He'd hoped maybe there'd be no side effects this time, that maybe his body just remembered how it worked and wouldn't put up such a fight this time around. But no, first there were the headaches and now, there he was not sleeping when Facebook decided to give his mind something to worry over until sleep wasn't even an option.

At least there had been no panic attacks to speak of. Cooper was convinced they'd dodged that bullet and stopped hovering after about day three. Cooper was the self-appointed expert on how Blaine's brain worked, based, you know, on the one previous experience. But here, again, was the insomnia, and if he'd been just about to the point of being tired enough to drift off for a few minutes, running his last phone call with Kurt over and over in his head like a lullaby, the spell had been broken by the ding of his phone and the gnawing curiosity that made him check to see what it was.

Today is Thomas Anderson's birthday. Post to wish him a happy birthday.

Huh. The hairs at the back of Blaine's neck bristled, static electricity zinging out the crown of his head, and he checked the date twice to be sure it wasn't a mistake before clicking on the link to go to his father's wall. There'd been a time he would've relished the chance to be the first one to post, but he didn't this time, not even a "FIRST!" That was one more word than he had at the moment. Instead, he just scrolled down the wall to find it hadn't been updated since before last year's birthday, all the old posts from people whose names Blaine barely even recognized still visible at the top.

Down from that-pictures of the '59 Chevy they'd rebuilt together, taken right after they'd finished, and not even updated with the ones they'd taken to sell it less than a year later. Mom took those pictures, since Dad wasn't even around at the time.

He'd meant for Blaine to drive the car but hadn't even called his son the day he turned sixteen or when he got his license, the last semester of his second freshman year. Mom made the decision to drive only hybrid cars and sold it, a decision based less on its propensity to guzzle gas and more on her concern for the air quality in their garage. Blaine hadn't really been able to blame her.

It only had an AM radio, anyway.

So, no, Blaine didn't post any birthday wishes on Thomas Anderson's Facebook page. He didn't fall asleep, either. Instead, he locked himself in his room and played Good Charlotte's "Emotionless" on repeat for three hours on his guitar.

When the strings started to peel the prints off his fingers, he decided that if he was going to be wallowing in music all day, he might as well record some, and switched to his keyboard.

He opened his laptop, and the wallpaper of he and Kurt at Renaissance Faire last fall popped up, the two of them suspiciously eyeing a display of souvenir magic wands, their cheeks red and eyes puffy from laughing. For a second, he caught his breath and the throbbing in his fingers slowed. Kurt had that effect on him.

Kurt.

Which reminded him of a song he'd been meaning to share for a while. It took him less than half an hour to record a verse of "Ascendio" by Ministry of Magic and upload it to their Dropbox account. Kurt would get the notification and listen to it when he had the chance. In the meantime, Blaine had just thought of another song Kurt absolutely had to hear.

And so it started.

-#-

"Is that your phone again?" Burt huffed. Between the GPS constantly reminding them that they'd gotten hopelessly lost, and Kurt's phone pinging a couple times an hour, the Burt and Kurt road trip to New York City had involved decidedly less father-son bond forming conversation than Kurt had anticipated. Not that he was too disappointed. Given their recent trends toward awkward discussions about Kurt's boyfriend in which Burt was obviously trying to suss out whether they were having sex or not, Kurt would prefer PG-13 text conversations with said boyfriend about the when, where, and how of the sex they were definitely having.

"Yeah, sorry," Kurt apologized.

"We agreed, no phone calls or texts until we get back to the hotel," Burt reminded him.

"I know, Dad," Kurt grinned. "Blaine knows, too." While it was maybe asking a bit much to swear off his phone on the nine plus hour drive between New York and Lima, there had been more than enough for them to talk about once they actually got into the city to take the edge off the separation anxiety just a little. Four days into their trip, it was almost old hat. Not that he didn't still miss Blaine like crazy.

"Besides, isn't Blaine in L.A. with Cooper?"

"No. They decided to hang in Lima for the week, 'given the givens.'"

"Given what givens?" Burt asked. "Just because you already had plans?"

"I don't know. That was the exact reason he gave me, and then he... distracted me before I could get clarification." Kurt could feel the blood cresting the tips of his ears and cheekbones and pretended to scratch the back of his head while cupping a hand to cover the blush, sure that his dad would take one look at him and realize that Blaine's preferred mode of distraction was sex. Okay, it was Kurt's preferred method as well.

"Huh," Burt responded, an obvious preamble to some speculation, or press for Kurt to speculate, on why the Anderson brothers had called off their trip, but the GPS interrupted with a command to turn right ahead when they were, of course, in the far left lane and blocked by traffic. His speculation turned into more of an expletive-laden mumble about what a stupid idea it was to drive themselves around New York rather than taking a cab like every other self-respecting tourist.

So, Kurt was off the hook for having to say he thought Cooper and Blaine had called off their trip because Blaine was still adjusting to his meds. He wasn't sure how much his dad knew about everything that was going on with Blaine right then or if it was his place to say anything. He suspected that at least some of it had come up during his and Cooper's marathon discussion in the garage the day of the graduation party, though. There was no other reason for Cooper to have been so intent on meeting Burt Hummel except to get fatherly advice, now that Cooper's actual father seemed to have deferred his duties.

While his dad argued with the GPS, Kurt glanced at the phone in question, to find not a text message but a notification from his and Blaine's shared Dropbox account. They used it to share music when they were working on a collaboration or had just discovered something that reminded one of the other. Sure, they could've just texted YouTube links like everyone else, but that lacked the intimacy of being able to record and share bytes of their own voices singing to each other like blown kisses.

And there was something about not knowing where the other boy might be when he finally had the chance to log in and playback the message that made it a little like a Christmas present just waiting in the ether to be opened. Of course Blaine had found a way to both dodge the daytime texting ban and make Kurt quiver with anticipation at the same time.

It was a voice file, the title not one with which he was familiar, "Ascendio" by Ministry of Magic. His anticipation quickly turned to confusion when he saw the note attached to the notification. "Harry Potter music, FTW!"

While Blaine's enthusiasm for Harry Potter was no secret, Kurt's relative indifference to it was equally well known. Their trip to the Renaissance Faire had literally been made when Kurt picked up one of the many iterations of a magic wand souvenir, available for purchase at literally every vendor on the lot, and dubbed it, 'Ye Old Anal Probe,' since it was obviously a medieval sex toy of some sort.

By the end of the day, their eyes were swollen from laughing until they cried every time they rounded a corner to find some other variety of wand-glow in the dark, LED lit, carved to look like a flying dragon, glittered, battery powered, and extra long-that set them off all over again. And that was literally the most appreciation Kurt had ever had for Harry Potter, being that there was no music in the movies... So, yeah, Harry Potter music from Blaine totally made sense. He'd definitely give that a listen after they checked out two more apartments on their list and took a break for lunch.

When he got not one but two more notifications during the tour of the Bushwick loft (which was saying a lot considering the entire tour was basically, a twirl around and a 'there's the bathroom') Burt wasn't impressed, but he nodded approval when Kurt didn't immediately take out his phone to check it. After four days, he seemed willing to cut a little slack where Blaine was concerned. Kurt supposed it was inevitable that he brought it up at lunch, though.

"So, all those messages you've been getting? They all from Blaine?"

"Sort of," Kurt hedged, not sure how much of an offense his dad would take.

"Sort of?" Burt mused with a smirk, "What, are they laundering text messages through offshore accounts, now?"

Kurt flushed at just how close to the truth his dad managed to hit. "Um, they're email notifications from Dropbox telling me that a file has been uploaded to my account."

"And who, pray tell, is uploading files to your account while you're riding around in a car with me all day?"

Kurt meant to huff with something akin to righteous indignation the way he would if he was seconds away from getting grounded, but halfway between conception and execution it turned into something of a dreamy, pining sigh.

"Blaine," he conceded. "He's apparently having a music discovery day or something, and every time one of us hears something we want to share with the other one, we sing a snip-it of it and upload it for the other one to listen to when they're not available to call."

"Sounds like he's been at it all day. Must miss you." Burt chased the statement down with a sip of his iced tea so Kurt couldn't fully read his expression, but the single raised eyebrow implied he wasn't just talking about Blaine.

Kurt dropped his gaze to the cutlery, still wrapped in its napkin sheath even though the food had arrived several minutes ago, his fingers fiddling instead with the few tortilla chips still crumbled in the basket. He could feel his father's gaze studying him, hear the deliberate chewing he saved for dinners when he was listening to Kurt and Finn bicker over the table, waiting for them to give away something he could use to figure out what was really going on beneath all the bluster.

"Y'know, Cooper filled me in on everything that's going on with Blaine." A couple more chews and a visible swallow. "It's okay if you're worried about him. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little worried myself."

Kurt couldn't help a sad laugh at how easily his dad looked right through him, a little relieved that he didn't have to keep pretending he wasn't so distracted he'd ordered his smothered burrito with the traditional refried beans instead of asking for the whole beans and swapping the sour cream for guacamole.

"It's just weird," he confessed, "driving around, looking at apartments, planning a whole new life, and one minute I'm so excited about it, I can't believe it's really happening. Then I realize the one person I want to grab by the shoulders and jump up and down with while squealing like a little girl is not here. Then I think about how he's doing the same thing, in a way, trying to live this whole new life, but he didn't get to choose it, and there's not so much squealing as self-deprecation and wallowing. It just got dumped on him, all at once..."

"And you feel guilty," his dad finished. He pushed his plate away, even as Kurt's barely unwrapped fork toyed with the refried beans he had no intention of eating. "Look, Kurt, as much as it kills me to admit it, I like Blaine. I like him a lot, and it kills me that he's having a rough time right now." He slid over in the booth enough to face Kurt. "I promise you, like I promised Cooper, that as much as I can, I'm going to look out for Blaine, but you can't let this throw a shadow over what you're trying to do with your own life. You owe it to him to be your amazing self, and take this city by storm, exactly the way he's going to once he gets his head above water again."

"I know. And you're right. You're right! Of course you are." He dropped his fork onto the plate with a dissatisfying smoosh into the sour cream. "I just feel like I'm not doing enough to help him. Like I don't even know how."

"Did you try asking Blaine?"

"He never really asks for help," Kurt frowned. "I think he likes being the guy who helps everyone else."

"So maybe you show him that he helps everyone else by helping himself first."

"You say that like I can just wave a magic wand and make him believe me." He pushed his own plate away as well and threw his napkin over it.

"Which is why I said to show him, not tell him." Burt leaned over, fished Kurt's phone out from where Kurt had it half hidden under the dessert menu card. "Start by listening to whatever it was he thought was important enough to skirt around my phone silence policy. And then, let's go put a deposit on that place in Bushwick, pack up, and head back home. I can't keep getting angry with my GPS for steering us the wrong way on a one way street when my co-pilot's not even in the same state."

"Really?" Kurt knew he sounded entirely too excited. "I don't want to ruin your trip."

"Nah. We did what we came to do. We saw some sights..."

"From the hotel room..."

"Took in a show..."

"Pay-per-view..."

"And found you an apartment that you can make over into whatever you want it to be. So, I'd say, mission accomplished."

Kurt lunged, wrapping his arms around his father's neck. "Dad, thank you!"

-#-

Between signing the papers on the place in Bushwick and fighting the sketchy phone signal, Kurt wasn't actually able to open any of the Dropbox files until they were on the road back to Lima. By then, he had lost track of the number of notification pings he'd received.

(Ministry of Magic, Ascendio)

I'll be a wizard, I'll be a hero

More than just a boy, wanting more than just a home

I'll witness wonders, never ceasing

So much more than I could imagine with my mind

Kurt frowned. Listening to Blaine's first musical file for the fifth time in a row only left him more conflicted. He didn't know what exactly he'd been expecting Harry Potter inspired music to say to him, or what Blaine was trying to say, but if he was trying to convince Kurt to join the fan club, he'd mis stepped.

I'll have a family, someone that loves me

Mother, father, son, just like everyone

I'm not a burden, not good for nothing

I am The Boy Who Lived, the one to save the world

The vocals were flawless, as always, and he marveled at how Blaine managed to make it sound like a professional recording when Kurt's music messages were usually just Kurt's voice recorded on his phone. Blaine never did anything half way, including the way he poured himself into every lyric.

It occurred to Kurt that he hadn't heard Blaine do a sweet, poppy Katy Perry song in ages.

Even this, what was supposed to be inspired by a kid's book, seemed a step darker than Blaine's normal faire. Between what could be interpreted as an allusion to their discussion that day on the piano bench, where Kurt had told Blaine he didn't have to be superman, and the pining for a family, the song had undertones that felt vaguely like an ice cube dropped down the back of his shirt.

"What's with the face?" Burt asked, glancing over from the driver's seat. "You're usually grinning like the cat that ate the canary when you get something from Blaine."

Kurt shrugged off the shiver before it could climb the entire length of his spine. "N-nothing," he dismissed, "I'm sure I'm just overthinking." Sure he was. How many songs inspired by Harry Potter could there be to choose from, anyway?

Seeming to accept that answer, Burt nodded, fingers of his right hand drumming to the Mellencamp playing through the car speakers.

Maybe he was reading too much into things. He clicked back to his notifications and pulled up the next file Blaine had sent.

(Jason Mraz, Life Is Wonderful)

And it takes no time to fall in love

But it takes you years to know what love is

It takes some fears to make you trust

It takes those tears to make it rust

It takes the dust to have it polished-yeah

Ha la la la la la la life is wonderful

Ah la la la la la la life goes full circle

Ah la la la la la la life is so full of

Ah la la la la la la life is so rough

Ah la la la la la la life is wonderful

Ah la la la la la la life goes full circle

Ah la la la la la la life is our love

Okay, that was more like it. Maybe not as top 40 as Kurt was used to, but upbeat and definitely catchy.

Possibly a little... twitchy.

But then again, Kurt had been cooped up in a car so much in the last week, everything made him a little twitchy.

"I like that one," Burt shrugged, probably reacting to the undecided expression Kurt was most likely sporting at the moment. "Catchy."

"Sorry," Kurt said, "I didn't realize my earbuds came unplugged." He moved to plug back into the jack, always a challenge with the way his phone case fit around the holes.

"No. You don't have to do that," Burt protested. "I mean, unless you think he's going to send you something racy. I kinda like listening to him sing."

"Well, okay, then," Kurt mused, eyebrows peaked. "Let's see what else he sent us. If my inbox is anything to go by, he's been at it for hours."

He didn't recognize the next artist but shrugged as he clicked on the file.

(Plumb, Damaged)

Healing comes so painfully
And it chills to the bone
Will anyone get close to me?
I'm damaged, as I'm sure you know

I'm scared and I'm alone
I'm ashamed
And I need for you to know

I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say
And you can't take back what you've taken away
'Cause I feel you, I feel you near me

Kurt was chewing his way through a thumbnail on the third listen through, blinking back some emotion he couldn't quite pin down, when he felt his dad's hand give his knee a nudge.

"Why don't you try calling him." Kurt couldn't miss the slight quaver in his father's voice that matched the tremble in his own fingertips.

"Yeah. Yeah." He stilled his fingers and cleared his throat before hitting speed dial, massaged at a furrow growing across his forehead when it rang through to voicemail. "Blaine. I'm listening to your songs, but I'd much rather be listening to you live. We're in the car now, about two hours into the drive back to Lima, and the phone ban is officially lifted, so call me back as soon as you get this. Please? Love you. Bye."

He ticked off a text with the same basic sentiment and sent it into the ether as well.

"If he's wrapped up in recording, he probably doesn't hear his phone," Kurt rationalized. "He's been at it all day, by the looks of it. He's bound to take a break soon."

"Yeah, I'm sure he will," Burt agreed, squeezing Kurt's shoulder across the console of the car as Kurt brought up a file Blaine had uploaded just before lunch.

(Cyndi Lauper, Fearless)

Sometimes I'm afraid of the dark
I can't find the light in my heart
I can see my hand pushing away
Hard as I can

But if I was fearless...
Could I be your wreckless friend
And if I was helpless...
Could be the one comes rushing in.

Sometimes I'm afraid when you go...

"He's not there by himself, is he?" Burt had an elbow on the console, his whole body leaning against it, one hand on the top of the steering wheel.

"I don't know," Kurt answered. He almost lost his grip on the phone as the slick of sweat spread across his palms. "Cooper won't be back until tomorrow, if he comes back at all. His mom's back, but she's probably working."

"And he still hasn't answered your text?"

Kurt shook his head, throat working fiercely around just the word 'no' to the point it wouldn't come out at all. His knee had started to bounce up and down, already having whacked into the bottom of the dashboard enough times to feel bruised beneath his pant leg.

His dad scrunched his baseball cap up in his fist and used it to scrub over his face once before cramming it back down over his head.

"Text him again, and try calling his mom. I don't think I like this head space he's in. Not if he's been at this for hours."

Kurt might have imagined it, but he thought the car lurched forward, the cruise control overridden. Upon getting no answer on the house line, he tried Mrs. Anderson's cell, left a voicemail there and on her business phone, as well, knowing that she spent a lot of time in meetings and in the car and wouldn't answer in either situation but would respond as soon as she could.

"No answer at the house, at all," Kurt huffed. He slammed his head back against the head rest in frustration. "He has to be there. All of his recording equipment is there, and the last notification I got says he uploaded again half an hour ago."

"I'm sure he's fine," his dad soothed, even though his body language pretty much mirrored Kurt's, and Kurt was beginning to have serious doubts about the relative fineness of any of them.

"I'm not."

(Sia, Breathe Me)

Ouch, I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found
Yeah, I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend, hold me
Wrap me up, unfold me
I am small, I'm needy
Warm me up and breathe me

The tremble in Kurt's fingers had long since encompassed his whole hand as he began to click through the files in succession barely listening to one, bracing for the kick in the gut he got from each, then playing the next.

(Red, Pieces)

I tried so hard! So hard!
I tried so hard!

Then I'll see your face
I know I'm finally yours
I find everything I thought I lost before
You call my name
I come to you in pieces
So you can make me whole
So you can make me whole

-#-

Blaine laid down track after track, one flowing into the next as he just went where his mind wandered, and if at some point his intended audience shifted along with the tone of the verses he chose and the words got bitten off by the tension in his jaw that seemed to twang some invisible guitar string stretched between the insides of his skull, then he didn't notice. Or he didn't care.

Or he cared too much.

Somewhere, sometime during the course of the day, he got a little lost, couldn't find the time or the need to eat, to drink, or check his phone, but he found the words he hadn't had in the dark hours of the night when he first began searching. He also found that posting an original recording of a song sometimes allowed you to get around Facebook's music blocking software. And when that didn't work, posting a link to a public Dropbox file sometimes did. Either way, it was possible his dad got an earful. Unlikely, but possible.

"Happy birthday."

Someone had to hear.

-#-

By the time he noticed the tone of Blaine's song choices was changing, and not for the better, they'd been driving into the sun for over four hours, the summer twilight seeming to last forever, and Kurt's eyes had begun to water.

From squinting.

He had no plausible excuse for why his sinuses were draining down the back of his throat, but he definitely wasn't ready to cry.

Definitely.

Not yet.

(Stone Sour, Bother)

Wish I was too dead to care
If indeed I cared at all
Never had a voice to protest
So you fed me sh** to digest
I wish I had a reason, my flaws are open season
For this, I gave up trying
One good turn deserves my dying

You don't need to bother, I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on, I won't let go til it bleeds

Kurt thought he might throw up. White-knuckled fingers clutched around the arm rest, he was one hard swallow away from telling his dad to pull over, when his phone vibrated in his hand.

"Hello?!" He answered without checking to see who was calling, hoping for Blaine, but willing to accept any one of the return calls for which he'd been waiting.

"Kurt! Tell me Blaine's with you."

"Cooper?" Kurt palmed his forehead, fingertips threading into the already mussed front of his coiffed hair where strands had long since succumbed to the abuse and started to wilt downward into his eyebrows, tickling like spider webs. "No. No, he's not. My dad and I are in the car on our way back to Lima, but we're still a couple hours out."

"What? You drove? Crap!" Kurt imagined Cooper's hair receiving the same treatment as his own from the sound of a palm scraping over five o'clock shadow and envied Cooper the freedom to pace the floor, which would explain the metronome-like clacking over hardwood and the slightly elevated respiration rate puffing into the phone. "Look, I called home, and no one answers, but Blaine's posted some really... disturbing stuff on our dad's Facebook page."

"Wait, your dad has a Facebook page?"

"Not one that he checks. He set it up when he was still living at home, because everyone was doing it at the time. Probably doesn't have ten posts on it. But... crap! Kurt, if I had remembered I never would have come back to LA."

"Remembered what?"

A beep sounded to indicate another call coming through, "Wait a second, Coop. That might be him, now."

Kurt swiped over to the other call. "Blaine?"

"No, honey. It's Pamela."

"Mrs. Anderson! Thank God. Are you home? Is Blaine okay?"

"I'm actually still at a consult over in Columbus. I'm heading home shortly, though. Why wouldn't Blaine be okay? Have you talked to him?"

"No, Mrs. Anderson, we haven't talked to him, that's why we're so worried. He's been uploading music all day that makes us question his state of mind, and Cooper says he's making posts on your husband's Facebook page. Do you have any idea why he'd be doing that?"

"On Tommy's page? I don't know. I don't have a Facebook anymore. I couldn't stand all those notifications in my inbox. How can so many people have birthdays on the same...? Oh no."

"Mrs. Anderson?"

"Today is my husband's birthday." A very pregnant pause. "I'm sure Blaine got a notification." Another beat. "He's all alone. Kurt, he can't be alone. Not today. I can't believe I forgot. Oh God!"

"Calm down. Okay. We're on our way there now. If you get in your car, we'll probably get there about the same time. In the meantime, I'm going to send out a mass text to all our friends. I'm sure someone will go and check on him."

"Good. Right. Okay, thank you, Kurt. I'll do the same. Maybe the neighbors are home."

The call disconnected without either one saying goodbye, and he must've accidentally dropped Cooper, as well, because when he clicked back over, the line was dead. Kurt dialed Blaine's number one more time, refrained from tossing the phone out the window when it went straight to voicemail without ringing this time.

"He's either got his phone off, or it's dead. He probably didn't charge it overnight. He says you have to let it almost die before recharging or it shortens your battery life. He's always giving me crap for overcharging." His laugh was mirthless, more of a hiccup, knowing if Blaine would answer right now just to start that argument again for the dozenth time, Kurt would be so happy he'd let him win.

"Are you still getting notifications?" Burt asked.

Kurt checked his inbox, frowned. "The last one was over an hour ago."

"Carole's working, but Finn's got to be home by now. Call him before he heads over to Rachel's. Or Schuester. He lives on that side of town, right? If you can't get them, then go ahead and send that text out to everyone you can think of. We're still almost two hours out..." Burt slammed the flat of his hand against the steering wheel as the car engine revved a few hundred rpms higher.

-#-

(Good Charlotte, Emotionless )

It's been a long hard road without you by my side
Why weren't you there all the nights that we cried
You broke my mother's heart
You broke your children for life
It's not okay,
But we're alright
I remember the days, you were a hero in my eyes
But those were just a long lost memory of mine
I spent so many years learning how to survive
Now, I'm writing just to let you know that I'm still alive

Yeah, I'm still alive

Blaine felt it. Alive. It felt real in a way it hadn't for days and days, maybe weeks. Maybe more. And maybe what he was really feeling was alone, forgotten and pissed off, but did it really matter where the thrum came from? Did it matter if the voice he was playing off, pinging back at him through the reverb speaker wasn't singing the same song? He'd always been a master of tough harmonies and mash-ups.

Even the pins and needles ache in his fingers, the bone weary creaking in his wrists made him feel awake, alive, crackling, zinging... anxious.

If at some point he realized he should stop, take a breather, get himself together, there was no conscious decision to keep going. He just didn't know how to stop. And maybe he didn't want to. Maybe it was nice, for once, to feel like even if he was fractured in a million pieces, there was light shining out between the shards, an imminent rebirth into something bigger, better, and more amazing, instead of an impending collapse and doom. He hadn't felt that in... forever.

So, if he originally wrapped his fingers because they were tired and starting to swell, and if he had to dig into the bottom of his gym bag to get the tape, then what could it hurt to throw on a tank and some sweats, too? He was entirely too stiff after sitting at the keyboard all day and needed to loosen up. Besides, the thrum was only getting louder, and if he hit the keys any harder, they were going to break.

But Blaine wasn't. He wasn't going to break.

Not without putting up a fight.

-#-

(Fightstar, You and I )

I can't carry on for long
I'll start to feel the pain again
Now the days all look the same
Losing sight and hold of home

You and I
Will never make it out of here
Alive

Oh, they just got better and better. Kurt shut his eyes, a parade of lyrics from songs he'd never heard and now couldn't forget playing across the blank screen of his mind as he tried to make sense of what Finn was saying on the other end of the line.

"Finn, stop! No. You can't just break in." Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead reached across the console for his dad's hand while he dropped his chin to his chest, focusing his voice into the phone like it would make him jump the distance between them and be there in the flesh.

"Is Blaine's car in the driveway? It is? Then he's there. If he's not answering, then get the spare key. There's a gap between the landscaping timbers next to the bottom step. If that's gone, there's one in the back under the…" An exasperated huff. "We don't have scorpions in Ohio, Finn. Centipedes, yes, but..." Kurt shut his eyes. "God, why isn't he answering?"

"Wait is that? Mr. Schuester? He's there, too? Good. Okay, you remember where Blaine's room is, right? Top of the stairs on the left." A pause while he waited. "He's not there? What do you mean he's not there? Find him!"

-#-

Wish I was too dead to cry
My self-affliction fades
Stones to throw at my creator
Masochists to which I cater

Blaine found himself singing along to the traces of songs still swirling around in his head, the verses from one blending into the chorus of another, the bridge just the rhythmic ricochet of the speed bag as he buffeted it with his taped fists. He'd never been one to spend much time on the speed bag. To be honest, most gyms hung them too high for him to get a decent swing at them, and he never quite got a good rhythm going. The one in his basement was just right, though, and he wasn't allowed to hit the heavy bag.

Maybe no one cared enough to be here to stop him, but he said he wouldn't. So, he didn't.

He never said anything about the speed ball. Potato, potahto. It had to be safer, anyway, right? The ball did most of the work. He didn't even have to move his feet if he didn't want to. All he needed to do was find the right power and the right rhythm, and get lost in it. Lose himself, the way his dad lost him.

And breathe.

Please just let us go insane
We're travelling where spiders lay eggs
With our heads above the waves
The water broke our fall

It surprised him how hard he could hit the ball, how his brain still managed to count the reverberations before he hit it again. It surprised him even more how hard he wanted to hit it. That little niggling part of his brain that always wanted to one up himself kept pushing him to try for one more back and forth, thunk-a-thunk-thunk between each swing.

When he didn't get it, the niggling had a voice that pointed out his failure. He recognized it too well. And it wasn't his own.

It's been a long hard road without you by my side
Why weren't you there all the nights that we cried
You broke my mother's heart
You broke your children for life
It's not okay,
But we're all right

Breathe. So, he hit it harder. Breathe. And again. Breathe. Until all he could hear was a deep fryer sizzle super imposed over the memory of a voice he hadn't heard in person for months.

Harder and again.

Maybe he forgot to breathe once or twice.

Maybe he just couldn't.

Breathe.

Wish I'd died instead of lived
A zombie hides my face
Shell forgotten with its memories
Diaries left with cryptic entries

And you don't need to bother, I don't need to be

Sweat in his eyes, a grind between his teeth, a quiver started in his exhausted arms and tremored down to his knees. Knuckles split, blood smeared and splattered, his tired fists went lax even as his arms still swung, committed to a rhythm he could no longer hear, a breath he could no longer breathe.

I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on, I won't let go til it bleeds

"Blaine! Blaine! Hey, stop!"

It feels as black as the thoughts I had
When the road was as dark as my fears
And just take comfort in knowing that
All of this ends when I am done

When the tremor became an entire body quake, arms caught him from behind and lowered him to the ground before he could fall.

Will Schuester's face swimming into focus above him made him wonder whether there was just sweat in his eyes or his eyes were sweating of their own accord.

He wasn't crying. He didn't do that.

Not anymore.

His body felt encased in Jell-O, like he was a specimen trapped in the agar on some mad scientist's petri dish, movement sluggish and nearly impossible. Nothing sounded right either, muted and garbled, at once underwater and lost in the breaking of waves.

Waves... tremors, shakes, spasms, quakes, all of the above in his body and his mind while his ability to focus and quiet any of it greyed out in single pixel increments, collapsing the space around him. Collapsing his chest, his lungs, his throat, while his eyes flew open wide, desperate, the horizon curved around the gravity of the moment.

Someone's hands patted his face, pressed into the pulse point at his neck. Mr. Schuester.

His back arched, scapulae pointed downward, the damp cold of the concrete impaled him.

Someone else at his side, one hand in his, holding tight. Finn. Finn's eyes wide as he shouted into his phone, words Blaine couldn't hear.

You and I
Will never make it out of here
Alive

Then black.

-#-

"What? No! No, his lips should not be blue. Is he breathing? Well, check! Finn, put me on speaker so I can talk to Mr. Schue."

Burt was already looking for a safe place to pull off the highway. Traffic had been light since the sun finally went down, but they were going to wreck if he didn't get them off the road and right now. Multi-tasking was a skill for menial tasks, and right then he needed to be a dad more than he needed to be driving the goddamned car.

"You, too, Kurt."

"What?" The kid was breaking Burt's heart with his face so stoic, even while his hands were shaking. Big wells of tears pooled in his bottom eyelids and reflected the headlights of oncoming traffic before spilling over without a blink or a whimper. How he managed to keep his voice so steady, his face expressionless while he was so obviously coming unglued was testament to years of practice Burt wished he didn't have.

"Put it on speaker," Burt explained, finally finding a spot on the side of the road where the shoulder was wide enough to pull off, and instinctively bracing a hand across Kurt's chest as they veered over.

"Oh. Right. Sure."

As soon as Kurt complied, Finn's voice came out of the speaker, sounding distant as if not directed into his own phone. "Dude, I've never seen anyone's lips that color. He's still breathing, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Will Schuester answered, farther away still, "He's trying to, anyway. And he has a pulse, but it feels strange, like it's there and then it's not. I don't think I'm doing this right."

"Has anyone called 911?" Burt refrained from shouting, even though his nerves were starting to get the best of him, too.

"An ambulance is five minutes out," Will answered. "I've got dispatch on my cell." His voice got quieter, probably directed to the dispatcher when he said, "No. He's not conscious. He was hitting one of those, those ball things that boxers hit... I don't know... but he was shaking all over... God, his knuckles are trashed. I have no idea how long he was doing that, but as soon as I came up behind him, he just collapsed."

"He has a heart condition," Kurt offered. Clenching his eyes shut might've helped to keep his voice and thoughts under control, but it broke the dam holding back the flood of tears that rolled down his cheeks. His next breath was audibly shaky, but his voice was still clear when he continued. "He's not supposed to be boxing. He's not supposed to do any strenuous exercise."

"Kurt, the dispatcher wants to know if you know what condition Blaine has?"

"ARVC," Kurt answered. "He's taking Atenolol, and he just started an anti-depressant, but I don't know which..." This time a sob constricted the words. "I should know. He just started them, though, and I've been so busy. I should know!"

"Hey, hey, kiddo," Burt interrupted. "None of that." He took his son by the elbow with one hand and patted his knee with the other, forcing him to open his eyes and focus on what he was saying. "This is not your fault, and beating yourself up isn't going to get Blaine the help he needs any faster."

Kurt just nodded, and quickly swiped at the tear tracks down the sides of his face.

"I think I hear the ambulance," Finn chimed in. A rustling sound punctuated by what sounded like footsteps pounding up a wooden staircase, followed by a door squeaking on its hinges. "Dudes! Down here! He's in the basement!"

The sound of more footsteps and then the stairs again. "His name's Blaine, and he's almost eighteen, I think. He's been like this for, I don't know, five minutes or so."

"Dispatch says he has a diagnosed arrhythmia?" One of the paramedics came over loud and clear, and Burt could almost imagine Finn hovering ridiculously close in that clumsy way he always managed to cram his hulking frame into a situation like everything was a football huddle and personal space was a foreign concept.

"Yeah. Yes," Schue answered. "Do you think that's what this is?"

"We'll know in a minute," a second paramedic's voice, slightly farther away. "Attaching the portable EKG now... power on... monitoring..."

"Patient is exhibiting signs of cyanosis, respirations rapid and shallow, responsive to pain stimuli but not conscious."

"He's in VTach. Shockable rhythm. We're going to have to stabilize before we can load for transport. Charging…And clear!"

The rest of the call ran together into just so much gibberish as Burt shoved the center console up and dragged his son against his chest while he shook. "He's going to be fine," he whispered. "Blaine's a strong kid. He's going to be fine." Kurt only trembled harder as the phone call played out like a scene from a thousand television medical dramas, the entertainment value lost in panic and desperation. "C'mon, kiddo. You gotta have a little faith, okay? You gotta believe in Blaine."

And just like that, "We got a normal rhythm. Let's load up!"

"Kurt, bro. Did you hear that?" Finn's voice had a breathless quality it hadn't had moments before. "He's okay. Blaine's okay. They're taking him to the hospital right now. Mom's on shift tonight. You know she'll keep an eye on him 'til you get here."

"Thanks, Finn. Schuester, you too," Burt said. "We're just," a deep breath and wipe of sweaty palms over jean clad thighs, "going to get ourselves together here, and head out. We'll be there in about an hour and a half. We can't thank you guys enough."

"Anytime," Mr. Schuester supplied. "Just drive safe. We'll follow the ambulance and keep you posted."

The phone call cut out as Kurt straightened in his seat, taking a deep, sniffling breath. He blinked until the wells under his eyes dried up, except for what clung in his eyelashes. Swallowing, he fixed his gaze straight ahead, as if the miles between them could be diminished by force of will alone. And in case Kurt's will wasn't quite strong enough on its own, Burt held his hand and loaned him some of his, foot heavy on the gas.

-TBC