AN: Thanks again, everyone for reading. And once again to my amazing guest commenter who seems to be astoundingly astute when it comes to mental illness, thank you so much for keeping me honest in my storytelling. I actually knew that about antidepressants and bipolar disorder, so I'm glad you realized where I was going, so I must have set that up correctly. As for both ARVC and bipolar being hereditary, I actually mused to myself that whenever Klaine decide to have kids they're going to be hard pressed to decide which gene pool to dive into, since Blaine's got the ARVC and mental illness on his side, and Kurt apparently has heart issues and cancer (though I don't include the prostate cancer in this story). They should either adopt or just take a chance that medicine will advance faster than their kids will age. As for the medication madness, I touch on that several times over the course of the story, but don't go into too much detail, as the more detailed I get, the more likely I am to screw something up completely and render this all a farce. I hope you continue to enjoy, especially since you took the time to comment at 3 in the morning, which is, incidentally, the time I'm most likely to be awake and writing this story.

Warnings: There's sex in this chapter. It's written rather pretentiously, so you have to read between the lines. I'm not opposed to writing the sex scenes, but I prefer not to in established relationship stories, and I didn't want to raise the rating on the story. I felt like it needed to happen here, so I went with this. I'd say it's PG-13.

Summary: This is probably a Wednesday episode.

It wasn't quite the summer vacation Kurt had planned. Instead of spending every waking minute and as many non-waking minutes as possible with the love of his life engaging in doctor approved sex and planning every visit, Skype and otherwise, to New York for the upcoming year, he spent most days with Finn or Rachel or (ugh) both, planning the big move in and renovation to the Bushwick loft. Not that Kurt wasn't excited about that. Re-designing the open space of their new apartment with Rachel actually made hours of time fly by, and he managed not to feel guilty for anticipating the move at least ninety percent of the time while he was planning it.

The rest of the time he just spent missing Blaine both presently and pre-emptively. It really did feel like both torture and practice in anticipation of future torture, like the four months of Saturday long runs leading up to a marathon.

"Dude, where's Blaine? He's not doing the show?"

"No, uh, he's... in L.A... with Cooper. Big brother bonding trip," Kurt lied. "He won't be back until the weekend before." He regretted lying to Sam, even more that they hadn't really discussed how much Blaine wanted everyone to know about his condition before he went into the hospital. Kurt knew mental illness was nothing to be ashamed of, but since he'd been dating Blaine for over a year and was only just finding out about his struggles, it was obviously not something Blaine was comfortable sharing. Kurt didn't necessarily agree, and hoped they'd help him work that out in the hospital, but until then, he didn't see outing Blaine as an option any more than he'd have outed Dave Karofsky.

"That sucks," Sam lamented. "I mean, not the bro bonding time, but missing our last big gig together before all you guys leave for college."

"For real," Puck added, leaning down from the row of chairs behind them. "Sam can make it all the way from Kentucky, but preppy can't blow off his brother until after the Fourth?"

"We're going out with a bang, literally. It won't be the same without him bouncing around like one of those hyperactive little designer dogs." Sam grinned fondly.

"I know," Kurt agreed, "And Blaine really hates missing the Star Spangled Spectacular, but since he can't make any of the practices..."

"Maybe he's afraid of fireworks," Brittany interjected from the row directly ahead of where Kurt sat in the choir room. "Some puppies are afraid of loud noises. You should get him one of those thunder shirts."

"Blaine's not a puppy, Brit," Kurt explained, not sure how to respond. It was Brittany, after all. Delusion and clarity were practically common denominators in her reality.

"Yes he is," she said. "You know how he gets."

"No, Brittany, how does he get?" Kurt huffed, rolling his eyes as he slouched lower in his chair.

Brittany shrugged, her high pony bobbing. "You know. He gets all kind of hyper and yappy like he's gotta pee, but then he won't go no matter how many times you put him on the paper. Then, just when it starts to get really annoying you realize all he wants is someone to pat him on the head and rub his belly. After that he'll curl up in your lap and go right to sleep."

Sam and Kurt traded incredulous shrugs. Even if Brittany was possibly onto something more astute than either of them wanted to acknowledge, neither was willing to consider it if doing so meant revisiting the image of Blaine peeing on a newspaper or rolling over to get his belly rubbed. They elected to delete that particular interaction and edit their conversation back together where they'd left off.

"Since when does he need to practice?" Sam scoffed. "With his experience at Six Flags, he could probably wing it. That Fourth of July show is always huge. Compared to that..."

"Well, he just wouldn't feel right..." Kurt dismissed. He'd forgotten that Blaine sometimes made performing look so easy that most people didn't have any idea that it only looked easy because of the hours he spent perfecting every detail. It was still mildly unsettling to realize, in hindsight, just how hard Blaine had always worked to stay ahead of anything that could possibly go wrong so that no one would have to see him be less than perfect. To think, Kurt used to find that motivation and work ethic kind of endearing, a hint of true passion. Now, he couldn't think of it as anything other than exhausting, heartbreaking that Blaine always had to be perfect and never just be Blaine.

"Maybe if Mr. Schue had known about this gig before yesterday, he could've rescheduled his trip," Kurt suggested. It wasn't an outright lie. Maybe if Blaine had been preparing for their Fourth of July show, he'd have been too distracted for the loneliness and abandonment to swallow him whole the way it had. Maybe... but then he wouldn't be getting the help he needed, either.

"Mr. Schue did say it was voluntary," Quinn noted. "Not everyone can just re-arrange their whole summer at the drop of a hat."

On cue, a waft of barely aged nostalgia strolled through the door and up to the white board where Mr. Schue wrote "Independence" before turning to face the group. "Great!" he said, hands spread wide in a gesture of welcoming. "Thanks for agreeing to this completely voluntary disruption of everyone's summer vacation plans. Looking around, it seems like just about everyone has made it." His hands clapped shut in front of himself. "We're just missing Sugar, who's in Italy with her family and Blaine, who..."

"He's afraid of fireworks," Brittany interrupted.

"I don't think that's quite the situation, Britt…" Mr. Schue stammered.

Brittany stood, addressing everyone. "Unless we band together and sell American flag pins to raise the money to buy him a thunder shirt, he'll be spending the Fourth of July hiding behind the sofa. We can't let that happen. The dust bunnies have been breeding like bunnies back there." Santana took her by the hand and pulled her back into her seat, but Brittany wasn't quite ready to give it up, squeaking out a final, "Stop the tyranny. No puppy left unprotected!"

Santana patted her on the back. "No more late night Animal Planet marathons for you, Britts."

Kurt threw a cupped Miss America hand in the air, "Blaine is in L.A. visiting his brother, Cooper, until the end of the month, but will definitely be at the performance for moral support. He sends his best."

Mouth still open, Mr. Schuester raised his eyebrows and snapped it shut, butt chin wrinkling around the silent judgment Kurt imagined he was making in the face of the bold-faced lie. Luckily, Schue seemed to pick up on the hint, supported by Finn's nervous duck of his head and glance away when he was looked to for a silent explanation.

"Okay, then. Those of us who are here need to pick a set list. I've spoken with the organizers, and since the community orchestra is going to be doing all the classic patriotic standards, they're allowing us to sing anything we want, so long as we stick to the theme of 'Independence.'" He paused briefly. "And... go."

-#-

Kurt hoped he wasn't overdressed. Despite almost always being on the more fashion forward and put together end of the spectrum amongst his peers, he really wasn't sure what constituted appropriate attire for visiting day at a mental health facility. Subconsciously, he knew he'd dressed like this was a date, like he'd be picking Blaine up at the door and taking him away for a few hours of romance, when in actuality, they wouldn't be allowed to leave, and he wouldn't even know if Blaine was available for visiting until he actually got there. He'd been warned that the first week of treatment was often the toughest, and Blaine might not be feeling up to seeing anyone.

He would see Kurt, though. Right? He had to. After a week of non-communication, which was part of the treatment program and not anyone's choice, he didn't think he could possibly wait any longer to see Blaine. It was hard enough sitting through the Saturday glee club practice with an empty chair next to him where he'd become accustomed to having Blaine, constantly scooching the chair a few inches closer than everyone else's, the whole time knowing Saturday was the one day a week he was actually allowed to be with more than just his empty chair.

He stopped at the desk, only ever having been there on the day Blaine was admitted and still not entirely sure what visiting day protocol involved. "Um, excuse me," he said almost apologetically as the woman on the other side was forced to look up from what she was doing to address him. "I'm here to see Blaine Anderson. Is he taking visitors today?"

"Ah, Blaine," she noted. "Let's see. His doctor was actually just by a bit ago. Let me see what she put on his chart." She rolled her chair to the other side of the cubicle near a stack of plastic mail trays and pulled a folder from the stack marked, 'In.' She flipped open the cover and made a sympathetic frown as she cocked her head slightly. "It says here he can have visitors in his room, but he's not going to be able to go out in the common areas today." She closed the chart with a swoosh and met Kurt's gaze. "I hope you weren't planning a picnic or anything."

"No, uh no. That's fine." He nodded and turned around, then realized he didn't know which of the three hallways to go down and spun back on his heel. "Sorry. I'm sorry, but this is my first time visiting. Can you tell me where his room is, exactly?"

She grinned. "Sure, sweetie. It's 147. You'll need this." She handed him a sign in sheet and traded it back for a visitor badge, waiting for him to write his name on it with a provided Sharpie and fix it to the lapel of his suit coat. Satisfied, she stood and leaned over the desk, pointing down the rightmost hallway, a set of glass doors blocking the entrance which proclaimed in block letters to be the CLOSED PSYCHIATRIC UNIT- registered visitors only. "Down there, about halfway on the left."

Thanking her, he strode over to the door, waved to the middle-aged gentleman on the other side who looked like some sort of security personnel and flashed his super official Visitor badge. When the door buzzed, he walked through, suddenly more nervous than he'd been all day, and smoothed his hands over the front of his jacket. Blaine's room was right where he'd been told and took him less than a minute to find. Still, he spent another minute trying to decide what the etiquette was before knocking brusquely three times and poking his head inside with his firmest grin plastered in place. "Knock-knock. Visitor for Mr. Blaine Warbler," he announced.

"Kurt!" Blaine greeted from across the room. "You're here!"

Kurt took the opportunity to enter the rest of the way with a flourish, squinting to find Blaine. He hadn't been expecting the room to be so... dark. The only light streaked in between window blinds that were just slightly parted, painting faint stripes of illumination across the wall behind the lone bed, which was empty. A flickering fluorescent bulb hummed to life from above the nightstand, casting Blaine in silhouette where he was sitting in a recliner beside it. Apparently these rooms were set up to be a little more comfortable for more ambulatory patients.

Spying him, Kurt came over and plopped on the bed as if it was just another after school afternoon spent in one of their bedrooms where they feigned studying between makeout sessions. "Of course I'm here. It's the one day they let people in, and I miss you like crazy. I'd have been here hours ago except Mr. Schue got us a gig doing the Star Spangled Spectacular, and now we have Saturday practices until then."

"The Fourth of July celebration? That's awesome, Kurt." Blaine's voice was a little tight, like he was trying to speak with his back teeth locked together. "It sucks that I'm missing it. I do a mean 'Grand Old Flag.'"

As Kurt's eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior of the room, the plastered on smile became a little higher maintenance than he cared to acknowledge. Even with the light above and behind him doing unflattering things to the shadows around Blaine's face, Kurt thought Blaine seemed hollower somehow, his eyes just a little deeper in the sockets with less internal light than Kurt was used to, and his forehead shone a little too much, moistened with a damp sheen that ensnared the loose curls around his temples.

"Really?" Kurt teased. "I'd have pegged you for more of a 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.'"

Blaine snickered, immediately flinching and pressing a knuckle between his eyes with a grimace.

"Headache?" Kurt ventured. That would explain the lack of light in the room.

Blaine nodded, still massaging the knuckle into the space above the bridge of his nose. "Which may or may not be a side effect of the new meds. Could just be stress, too. That's the thing about headaches. They're a symptom of just about everything." He worked his jaw. "And I think my wisdom teeth are coming in."

"Have there been a lot of those? Side effects, I mean?"

"Not a lot," Blaine shrugged. "Just the worst ones." A mirthless smile which only caused Kurt to frown deeper. "I've only been on these for a couple of days, so it's hard to say. The first ones they tried didn't seem bad at all, but they did something to my heart rate, probably an interaction with my other medication, so they didn't want to risk it. They put me on these, and they haven't been bad either, just a little shakiness until this morning when I woke up with this headache. Don't seem to be affecting my heart, though." He pointed with a slightly trembling hand to the device on his hip that Kurt recognized as the power unit for the Holter monitor. The doctor had explained on admitting day that they'd have Blaine wear the monitor as long as he was an inpatient, both to monitor his reaction to the medications/treatment and to get a better understanding of the progression of his condition.

Kurt leaned across the space between the edge of the bed and the chair, reaching for Blaine's hands which were offered freely. The trembling was more noticeable under his fingertips, and he tried to soothe them away with the pads of his thumbs. "They asked about you in glee club this morning." He didn't look up to gauge Blaine's reaction, just kept up the ministrations of his hands over Blaine's.

"What-what did you tell them?"

"Well, we hadn't really discussed it, so I told them you were in L.A. visiting Cooper." He tightened his grip on Blaine's hands, just holding as if to add sincerity to his next words. "But Blaine, I want you to know that I don't think this is something you need to keep secret. I don't know if you are, but you shouldn't be ashamed. I just didn't think it was my place..."

"No, no," Blaine assuaged, pulling gently on Kurt's hands until he crossed the space between them and ended up on the padded arm of the chair, his legs draped across Blaine's, and Blaine's head fell against his shoulder. " I don't want it to be a secret. I'm sorry we didn't talk about what you should tell people. I was kind of wrapped up in my own head there for a while. I still kinda am." He sighed. "I'm glad you didn't tell them today, though. I'd really rather they didn't come here. I don't think I have the energy for all that... drama, you know. I'd rather address it on my own terms." His hand fell warm and heavy on the span of Kurt's leg at the junction of knee and thigh, his thumb stroking over the tendon pulled tight along the back. "You can tell them if you want. You shouldn't have to make up stories for my sake."

"If I do, I'll let them know to give you your space." He draped an arm around Blaine's neck, pulling his head closer against his side and slouched down a little farther against the back of the chair. "So how are you otherwise?"

"Tired." The weight of the word felt heavier in the air than its one small syllable would justify.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. All I do is talk about it. Therapy. Group therapy. With my psychiatrist. With the other patients. I know that's what I'm here for, but..."

"Shhhh." Kurt stroked the backs of his curled fingers over the hair just behind Blaine's ear and felt some of the tension release. "Later," he said. "When you're feeling better."

They stayed like that, silent for a few breaths more, and Kurt felt Blaine's jaw tighten and release a few times as if he was trying to scrape the right words off the roof of his mouth or the back of his brain. "I did learn something, though, from all that talking."

"Hmm?"

Gripping Kurt's thigh just a little tighter and sliding his palm up to the jut of hipbone so he was effectively hugging everything from the waist down, Blaine pressed a kiss into the silken fabric over Kurt's ribs and exhaled, his breath clinging over the underlying skin like the fog over a late thaw.

"This is real. It's real for me, too."

"I know." Kurt did. What he didn't know was how something so real could, in the thick of it, the two of them wrapped up like halves of the same double helix, feel so much like a dream.

-#-

"All right!" Mr. Schue exclaimed. "So, we've got a New Directions re-arrangement of the Trouble Tones' Regional Number of Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive' mashed up with Destiny's Child's 'Survivor.' That's one. Any other suggestions?"

"Kelly Clarkson's 'Breakaway,'" Tina suggested.

"Perfect!" Mr. Schue seemed especially excited, Kurt noticed. He usually only got that way when he was planning to hijack the number himself. Somehow he didn't see Mr. Schuester doing Kelly Clarkson, though. Maybe he was just enjoying this one last chance to have his National Champions perform together.

"Oh! Oh! I have one!" Rachel jumped out of her chair. "My m-Miss Corcoran has a lot of connections in the industry, and there's this song that totally fits the bill, and it hasn't even been released yet. It's from the new Disney movie that's currently in production and won't be released until probably next fall. It's called 'Let It Go,' and..."

"And I'm sure it's perfect, Rachel." Mr. Schue's voice couldn't have been more like a pat on the head if he'd actually patted her on the head. "But after the whole cease and desist scare with My Chemical Romance, we're not going to touch that with a ten foot pole."

" 'Independence Day' by Martina Mcbride," Sam suggested. He would be pick a country song, and a highly inappropriate one, at that.

"No!" Kurt had to protest. "If we do that one, we might as well do 'Blown Away,' by Carrie Underwood while we're at it."

"Oooh! I love that one," Brittany squeaked.

"Mr. Schuesteeeerrr." Rachel rolled her eyes. "We cannot do songs about murdering abusive spouses, even if it's justified or an act of God."

"I have to agree with Kurt and Rachel on this one, guys. No songs that appear to condone violence," Mr. Schue said.

"Riiight, because 'rocket's red glare and bombs bursting in air' implies the Americans and the Brits had a completely amicable split," Quinn simpered.

"I wanna do 'Follow the Drinking Gourd," Mercedes said, crossing her arms.

" 'Let My People Go," Puckerman countered.

"Touche´," Schuester agreed. "However, not appropriate for this particular venue. I don't think our final performance should be an act of defiance. Some of you will be back this year, and some of the rest of you will likely get the chance to come back and mentor on occasion. Let's try to keep things positive and save the social commentary for another forum."

"This is our forum, Mr. Schuester." Finn spoke up for the first time. "We might legally be adults now, or almost adults, but let's be honest, here, the only time anyone really listens to us is when we're up there on that stage. Maybe half of them are doing it just to have something to tease us about later, but some of them actually listen. Maybe this is exactly when we should be saying something."

They all turned their heads to Kurt whose phone ringtone went off at that moment. He glanced down, and seeing that it was from Blaine's mom, excused himself, the conversation following him out to the hallway.

"That's a good point, and you may have just given me some fodder to present at the National Show Choir Rules Committee meeting when it convenes here in the fall, but for now..." The rest was muffled by the closed door as he answered his phone.

When he returned a few minutes later, hoping that pressing back the tears with the insides of his wrists had been as successful at keeping his eyesfrom getting red and puffy as keeping the tears at bay, he was glad the song suggestions seemed to have tamed down a bit.

"I suggest we solve two problems with one song," Artie suggested.

"Go on," Mr. Schuester prodded.

"Well, since Blaine can't be here for the practices, why don't we rehash 'Control'? It fits the theme, and if I know Blaine, he will only need one practice to have it back to performance ready. Plus, if you let him know what we're doing, I bet Cooper would help him work on it while he's in L.A."

"Good thinking, little dude." Puck traded him an over the shoulder high five.

"Mr. Schue?" Artie must've noticed Schuester's obvious hesitation. Kurt noticed it, too, but wasn't entirely sure that wasn't due to whhisole world stopping momentarily. It had a way of doing that lately.

"Uh... Kurt?"

Kurt wasn't sure if Schue was deferring to him or if he was enquiring about whether Kurt had something to share with the room. "I'm sorry?" Both a statement and a question to cover all the bases.

"How do you feel about asking Blaine to do 'Control' for the show?" A clarification. If only Kurt could harness some of that clarity for himself.

"Um, no," he finally muttered. "For one, Nationals was Blaine's last big dance number. He's not allowed to do anything that intense anymore. Doctor's orders."

"Dude, I totally forgot about that..." Artie apologized.

Kurt shook his head. "No, that's okay. If you wanted to do the number without the dual lead, I'm sure Blaine would be okay with that."

"Well... that's an option," Mr. Schuester admitted. "What about you, Kurt? Did you have a song in mind?"

"Y-yes and no." Kurt stood and rifled through his bag for the thumb drive he'd put in there that morning in anticipation of his visit to the hospital after glee rehearsal. "I have a song, but it's not for the Fourth." He held up the thumb drive. "May I?"

"Sure, Kurt. You're always welcome to share in this room. You know that," Mr. Schuester said.

Kurt plugged the stick into the sound system and turned to address the room. "First, I need to apologize. I should've shared this last week, but I didn't think it was my place."

"Is this about Blaine?" Rachel prodded. Kurt suspected that Finn had confided in her. He was frankly surprised she'd managed not to say anything until now.

"Yes, it is." Kurt looked down, straightening the points of his vest to avoid being overwhelmed by the weight of the stares, and took a deep, resigned breath before continuing. "Blaine's not in California. He's at Columbus Springs undergoing three weeks of inpatient treatment for bipolar disorder. He's been there since the tenth, and if they get his medications worked out, he should get out on the thirtieth, which is why he can't make any of the practices for the Star Spangled Spectacular. And that's why I don't think he will be able to perform on the Fourth."

"Thank you, Kurt," Mr. Schuester said, patting him on the shoulder. "I'm glad you shared that. I have to admit, I was a little surprised you made up that story about L.A. in the first place."

"Well, I didn't want to," Kurt sighed. "It's just, it all kind of happened so fast, and I realized we never actually discussed how much Blaine wanted everyone to know. I didn't feel comfortable taking that step for him. But we talked about it at visitation last week, and he doesn't want secrets. He just wanted me to make sure you all give him some space."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Rachel asked, and Kurt could sense a one of her typical, half-informed opinions on the verge of spewing over. "In my admittedly very limited experience but notably extensive research on the topic of mental illness, due to the widespread affliction of well-known performers in my industry of choice, I have learned that the most important ingredient in attaining and maintaining good mental health is the establishment of a strong support system. I'm sure we all want to go and show him how much we're here for him. We could do a song! When does he have visitation next?"

"Firstly, there's a difference between establishing a support system and being bombarded with attention you're not in a good position to handle at the moment," Kurt snapped. "That's exactly what he doesn't want or need, and if he's still dealing with side effects like the migraine he had last week when I visited, then it would actually hurt him. Secondly, an important part of his therapy is knowing when to ask for help. He will come to you when he wants your support. Until then, he asks you to respect his privacy. Finally," his voice cracked despite his determination to keep himself together, "we can't go and visit. Because things can be particularly volatile with bipolar until they get it stabilized, his doctor had him restricted to visitation on Saturdays only, and his mom just called to tell me he's not taking visitors today."

"Well, why not?" Rachel pried.

"Yeah," Finn seconded. "He's okay, isn't he? Mom and Burt were planning to go see him this afternoon."

"No, he's not," Kurt choked. "Not today, anyway, but they're watching him very closely and adjusting his medication again so hopefully he can still be discharged next week."

"I can't imagine what he's going through right now," Rachel conceded. For a moment she seemed genuinely sympathetic, but then, "Is it true his father deleted his own Facebook page just to keep Blaine from posting on his wall?"

"Finn!" Kurt growled. "Why didn't you just go straight to Jacob Ben Israel?"

"Wait, that's true?" Puckerman huffed.

"We don't know that his dad did that," Kurt answered. "He's in Syria now, which is a war zone. It's possible it was taken down by one of the security organizations that are set up to keep the volunteers safe over there and to close any potential routes for dangerous hackers. Blaine had posted some videos and live links, which are usually red flags…"

"That's messed up," Mercedes mused, the rest of the group mumbling agreement.

Finn's cheeks reddened as he studied his own fingers in his lap. "I'm sorry," he mumbled with a shrug. "I was just a little freaked out by the whole thing, and you and Blaine were all wrapped up in your 'just being there' for each other. I didn't feel like you wanted to talk to me. I hear things, you know? I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret. And sometimes Rachel's the only one who notices that I care, too."

Kurt closed his eyes and took a deep breath, let it out slowly as he tried to maintain his self-control. Of course Finn hadn't meant anything by talking to Rachel. Rachel on the other hand, really needed to learn when to keep her mouth shut.

"I know, Finn," he sighed. "I'm sorry. We've all been distracted. We shouldn't have ignored you." He raised his voice to make sure everyone got the picture when he said, "But we are not going to sit in here and gossip about Blaine's private life when he's not even here to set the record straight."

"Word," Artie agreed.

He waited for a couple of beats to make sure there were no other questions, but either everyone respected his wishes or they were only interested in gossiping and were waiting for him to leave so they could continue without being scolded.

"Well, anyway, I had planned to sing this song for him when I went to see him today. If it's okay, I'd still like to sing it. Even if he can't hear it, I think I might feel better just saying it." He nodded, and Mr. Schue started the backing track for "Me" by Plumb.

I haven't had a chance to sleep
And when I wake, I wake with your dreams
I guess, my pillow holds some kind of key
To your peace, your peace

It was early in the song, only the first verse, too early already for Kurt's voice to crack with emotion, but it did under the weight of the burden he'd chosen gladly to share, still not sure it would ever emerge out of the black hole gravity speeding it away at the terminal velocity of lightspeed... uncatchable.

Me, I wouldn't trade your love
For all the candy in this great big world
Me, I feel so crazy blessed and oh, so lucky
To be the place you go, I'll wash your face
To make room for all the kisses of tomorrow
And everyday that I get to be here with you is sweet

He almost missed a beat, having to swallow hard to keep down the emotion snaking icy tendrils out the corner of his eye and melting down the contour of his cheekbone, a tiny icicle growing beneath the eave of his jaw. Numbered days already, and this one was stolen away.

When you need a kiss, oh, don't be afraid
'Cause what you'll have is me

It was a lot to promise and possibly not enough.

-#-

Maybe it was too much, too soon. But he'd have done it in a heartbeat before, and if there was anything he wanted, it was for things to go back to the way they were before, even if he wasn't. So, Blaine could take Mr. Schue up on his offer to crash the Sunday dress rehearsal for the New Directions' Fourth of July performance, or he could stay home with his mother hovering over him, and wait for Kurt to finish with said rehearsal so he could come over and hover for a while, too.

Then, eventually he'd bump into the rest of New Directions, Kurt's friends not his, who either wouldn't know what to talk about (Sam, Tina, Artie) or would try to show just how sympathetic they were to his situation by dropping as many mental health catch phrases as they could to show he had an ear to talk to (Rachel, Mr. Schue... okay, mostly Rachel) or would be inadvertently (Puck and Finn) or purposely (Santana) offensive in order to break the tension. Or he could just break the tension for everyone. It was his problem, after all, not theirs.

Besides, like anything else, Blaine preferred to face things on his own terms. He'd spent the last three weeks being blindsided in therapy by engrossing topics like 'unhealthy attachment,' 'separation anxiety,' and 'loss of identity,' not to mention the daily doubler 'socially prescribed perfectionism,' which he totally didn't buy into as a thing, but he wasn't the therapist. What did he know? Apparently, he didn't even know himself, judging by the amount of time everyone spent trying to teach him how to be more self-aware. Which sucked. There wasn't a whole lot about himself that he liked right then, and the more aware he got, the less he liked.

But he was trying. He wanted to get better, so he tried.

At the moment, though, he was still having to take a lot on faith. Like when everyone told him the whole self-awareness thing only really sucked because of how much he'd been avoiding and for how long. They promised facing all of his crap would make it less crappy going forward, as though he couldn't just make more crap. It sounded good, though. It sounded better than a lot of other things they'd addressed in therapy that he was definitely not ready to face outside of therapy just yet. Those things, he most definitely wasn't about to take on faith. Those things made him want to lose faith.

For now, he could sing. He didn't care if part of him was doing it to please Mr. Schue, which was probably something they'd talk about in therapy next time (with the caveat that he recognized his desire to please Mr. Schue and decided he also wanted to do it because he enjoyed singing). Besides, it kinda killed two birds with one stone. Singing always made him feel better, and now he could feel useful as well. He was, after all, going to be one of only five returning seniors in the New Directions next year. At least, he thought so, since no one really knew about Sugar and Joe. Did they even really go to school there?

Anyway, the artist formerly known as Blaine Warbler had been the lead singer of the Warblers (whether that was his true identity or the one that filled the vacancy when he lost his was yet to be worked out in therapy). Alternating leads with the rest of the New Directions was a cake walk in comparison, even if the Warblers had handed him solos, and the New Directions fought for them tooth and nail. No pressure there. None at all.

This wasn't about a solo, anyway.

It was a performance. Blaine was a performer.

He didn't know why he was so nervous.

"Hey, Blaine! Glad you could make it. You're looking great!" Which would have been an innocuous enough greeting if Mr. Schue didn't follow it up with a hug. Since when did Mr. Schue hug him?

"Yyyeah. Thanks for asking me. I'm so glad for the opportunity. I'm still bummed about missing out on all the prep for the show."

"It's summer and not mandatory," Schue excused rubbing the back of his neck, the other hand on his hip, too overtly casual to be successful in his attempt to avoid the elephant in the room. "Did you have trouble finding music?"

"I had the perfect song." Blaine couldn't help but pull his chain a little. "It's by a little indie band that Cooper introduced me to, Louden Swain?"

Mr. Schuester shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"The chorus of the song is perfect. 'You seem like you're kinda strange. Why can't you be a little less insane. I may be crazy. At least I'm medicated.' Perfect right?" He forced a grin, since his real one was taking too long to make it to the front of his emotional queue today and waited for Schue to get the joke.

Instead of laughing, to show he got the joke, or cringing in horror, because really, even Blaine knew that was probably inappropriate and entirely too 'on the head' (that was the point, after all), Mr. Schue nodded in agreement and patted Blaine on the back. "Okay. I assume you brought a backing track."

Taking a beat to decide what it meant that Schue was apparently not tuned in to anything he was saying at the moment, Blaine decided to just let it go with a sigh. "Actually, that song wasn't quite upbeat enough for what we're trying to do here, so I went with 'Unwell' by Matchbox Twenty."

He wasn't sure if Schue looked mildly relieved or if that was just wishful thinking on his part.

"Perfect! I'm sure you'll rock it." He motioned to the portable stereo system on a shelf at the back of the warmup area and the microphone stand. They were in the small outbuilding attached to the back of the band shell in the park where the New Directions would be performing on Wednesday and where they'd be practicing as soon as they arrived that day. It was a little dusty and a lot disorganized, but there was the stereo, an old upright piano, and even some old music stands for last minute practicing. "You can practice back here. Since we're behind the band shell, I don't think the group will be able to hear you until I introduce you, so we won't ruin the surprise." He turned to make his way out to the stage before the rest of the group started to arrive, then spun back around in the doorway. "You didn't tell Kurt, right?"

"No," Blaine assured. "I like the idea of a surprise."

"Great! And Blaine? Thanks again. I know you've had a lot going on lately and..."

"No problem, Mr. Schue." Blaine started fidgeting with the stereo and didn't turn back around until he heard the door shut. This room was too small for that elephant.

-#-

Kurt was trying his best not to look completely put upon, like he'd rather be anywhere but sitting on the stage at Faurot Park. It was true. He would rather be anywhere else. He'd just rather be one other place. Better yet, he wished Blaine was there, because wherever Blaine was, that was where Kurt wanted to be.

Leaning back against the shell of the amphitheater with one knee pulled up to his chest and the other dangling over the edge of the stage, he checked his phone one last time before practice could start. He frowned to find no new messages. Blaine's messages had been cryptic at best since he got his phone back yesterday afternoon. Between Saturday glee practice and Blaine's mom insisting on taking him out to dinner, they'd barely shared a short boyfriend Skype since Blaine was released. And Blaine had nodded off during that, obviously still exhausted and on hospital time.

Kurt: Good morning, love! If you decide you'd like to come watch practice, we'll be here all day. Everyone misses you.

He sent the text even though it wasn't much different than the one straight above it in the conversation that he'd sent two hours ago.

Kurt: More importantly, I miss you. Please call me when you're up. Love you.

He stared at the phone until the screen went black, and then held it in his closed hand as if he could cause it to vibrate by force of will alone. By then, the rest of the group had arrived and were in various postures of aloof boredom all across the stage, everyone already starting to melt in the early July humidity. Kurt wondered if he was the only one wondering how they were supposed to perform on the stage as it was set up. With the band set up in the back and a row of mic stands set up along the front, there didn't seem to be a whole lot of stage left for dancing.

Right about then, Mr. Schuester's car pulled into the parking lot, and he unloaded a cooler out of the back, filling it with ice and bottled water before wheeling it down the sidewalk to the stage.

"Thank you, everyone for sacrificing your Sunday to rehearse. It's going to be a hot one today, so I brought water. Stay hydrated! I'm treating everyone to ice cream after practice, so let's try to make the best of a less than ideal situation in this heat."

"Speaking of less than ideal," Kurt segued, "how exactly are we supposed to fit our numbers onto this stage? Wouldn't the main stage be more appropriate?"

Mr. Schue put his hands on his hips, dropping his gaze to the ground with pursed lips as he nodded. "It would, but the concert band is a much larger group than we are, and since we're performing right before them, the organizers have moved us here so the band would have more time to set up."

"Doesn't that kind of wreck our whole set?" Puck asked, already stripping down to just his wife beater undershirt.

"It does present a challenge," Schue acknowledged, "but I'm already on it." He pushed up his shirt sleeves and motioned to the row of mic stands at the front of the stage. "Obviously, Mike, Brittany, and Santana will still dance, but to avoid too much traffic in such a tight space, the rest of us are going to use these."

"So we're just going to stand there and sing?" Rachel protested. "Isn't that going to be kind of boring?" This from the girl who did just that, and at a school dance of all places, Kurt snickered to himself remembering her contribution to Glee Does Prom from two years ago.

"Yeah," Finn agreed. "We all picked pretty upbeat numbers. I kinda want to move."

Everyone mumbled agreement before Schue raised his hand. "Which is why we're all going to learn how to handle a mic stand like the rock stars I know you are. And to show you how it's done, I've got a special guest lined up to give us a crash tutorial. He's without a doubt one of the best mic handlers I've ever had the opportunity to work with." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, walking to the back of the stage and knocking on the door. "So, if you'd all have a seat in the front row..."

Not interested in the conversation at the least, Kurt's glance was still down at his lifeless phone as he slid off the stage and slumped onto a bench seat, arms and legs both crossed in silent protest. The more new choreography they had to learn, the longer this was going to take, and the longer he had to wait to see Blaine. No amount of singing and dancing was going to make this day better.

The rest of the group looked around at each other when the band started playing the opening bars of Matchbox Twenty's "Unwell," and still no one had materialized to sing it.

Twenty seconds in, the backstage door opened to reveal pitch darkness on the other side, and then...

All day staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall

Kurt knew that voice. He sat up stick-straight, dropping his phone to the pavement in the process, as Blaine stepped out of the darkness and strolled to the lone mic stand at center stage.

All night hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good for something

Blaine fixed the wireless microphone to the stand with the practiced dexterity he'd no doubt been perfecting since he could walk. Lips nearly touching the metal windscreen, he cupped both his hands around the housing, tipping the whole stand toward him as his knees pinched together, pigeon toeing and rising up onto the balls of his feet.

Hold on
Feeling like I'm headed for a breakdown
And I don't know why

He punctuated 'hold on' and the brief pause before 'breakdown' with what Kurt liked to think of as a cross between a Michael Jackson pelvic thrust and a crucified Jesus. The mic stand in his right hand and the microphone in his left, he flung his arms wide while bouncing up on his toes and dropping his chin to his chest.

With the stand tilted all the way out to his right, Blaine held it out like a dance partner he'd just spun out to the end of his arm span. The rest of his body bounced with the rising energy of the song as it moved into the chorus.

But I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me

Blaine snaked his forearm around the pole, first around the front and then the back of his hand so the whole stand started to spin and then rocked it around on its base so it started a slow walking circle with the top of the pole in a wider arc than the bottom. As the moving radius of the circle rolled back toward him, he bent forward and slid underneath it, doing a wave from his right hand fingertips through his arms, over his back and shoulders to his left hand fingertips. It looked like the mic stand rolled over his body instead of just continuing on its arc while he danced underneath it and caught it on the other side. The move ended in a mirror image of where he started, the mic and stand in opposite hands.

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be, me

The chorus concluded with a repeat of the choreography going in the opposite direction, but by then, Kurt had stopped paying attention to the dancing. He already knew Blaine was master of the mic stand and owning the stage. This performance had nothing at all to do with preparing for the show. This was about Blaine doing what he needed to do to move forward, and whether it was him on that stage or just who he needed to be today, he was here and trying.

Kurt knew he must be terrified. He also knew why Blaine hadn't mentioned it or responded to any of the texts Kurt had sent him that morning, but it twisted his stomach to think of Blaine sitting backstage by himself all morning just to preserve the element of surprise. Had Kurt known, he'd have sent a more appropriate text.

Brushing the pavement grit off carefully so as not to scratch his screen, he sent the text he wished he'd sent earlier.

Kurt: COURAGE.

I'm talking to myself in public
Dodging glances on the train
And I know, I know they've all been talking about me
I can hear them whisper
And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me
Out of all the hours thinking
Somehow I've lost my mind

And then another because he couldn't wait for the song to end.

I've been talking in my sleep
Pretty soon they'll come to get me
Yeah, they're taking me away

Kurt: I'm so, so proud of you.

Maybe a little unwell. True. But Blaine wasn't alone, which became abundantly clear as soon as the music faded and the rest of New Directions jumped to their feet and stormed the stage. The mic stand didn't withstand the onslaught and toppled over with a clatter. Finn and Puck both patted Blaine on the back hard enough to stagger him sideways.

"Dude, good to have you back," Puck grinned.

"You had us all worried for a while there," Finn confessed, trading an elbow bump while Puck high fived. Sandwiched between the two without enough hands to go around, Blaine sort of squirted forward directly into Brittany who wrapped herself around him and all but climbed on his back.

"Uh, hi? Brittany?" Blaine stammered, twisting his neck one direction and then the other to try and make eye contact.

"Don't mind me," she explained. "I'm a thunder shirt."

A collective, "Huh?"

"Gentle compression acts like a full body hug and has been shown to reduce anxiety in lab animals," she explained.

"Then it must for surely work on hobbits," Santana smirked as she crossed her arms over herself, hip cocked, as far in Blaine's personal space as she could possibly get without prying Brittany off. "So, half pint," she teased, "Since there are no guys in white suits sneaking through the bushes, I'm assuming they let you out through the front door. So tell me, after all that time in the cave, are you a Sméagol or a Gollum?"

Blaine cleared his throat and stood up straighter as Brittany finally relented and slid to the ground, but he still had to tilt his head up in order to look Santana directly in the eye. "Um? I don't know?" He obviously didn't know what she was getting at.

"That depends," Santana shrugged. "Do you now, or have you ever, in the throes of baby gay passion, ever referred to Lady Hummel over there as 'My Precioussssss,?"

Taken aback, Blaine grimaced, "What? No? That's… just NO."

Grinning, Santana unfolded her arms, "Well, then, you're just Sméagol to me," she said. Turning to the rest of the group, she raised her voice, "And anyone who says otherwise is going to have to deal with Auntie Snix, is that clear?"

For a second a shadow passed over Blaine's expression that Kurt couldn't quite read, but before Kurt could make his way through the crowd, Blaine had Santana wrapped up in an enthusiastic glomp not dissimilar from the one Brittany had just laid on him.

He released her just as quickly and stepped back scrubbing at the back of his neck with a self-consciously murmured, "Thank you, Santana."

She just nodded with a slow blink to show no thanks was necessary, unwilling to actually drop her tough girl act to hug him back in front of God and everyone.

"No, I mean it," he explained. "My head is all kind of stuffed with foam right now, and I'm not sure I've had a genuine emotion in at least four days," he said flatly. "But… I felt that."

Obviously touched, she frowned, then broke throwing her arms wide. "Well, hell." The facade dropped and she hugged him quickly, the hug equivalent of a peck on the cheek, then hid behind Brittany before anyone could see the blush creeping up her cheek.

"Awwww."

Kurt had a tough time breaking through the group hug that followed, but that was okay. This was one time he was willing to share.

-#-

Blaine hadn't been exaggerating. He did feel like his head was full of foam. If anything, he'd been understating just a little, but the thrum wasn't just gone from his head. It was just gone, like his whole body was a sponge and everything he felt wrung out over a bucket and tossed out, leaving him to fill up on nothing. Dead air.

He'd thought maybe it was just at home, the way his mom tiptoed around him, muffled everything she said and did through a filter of carefully weighed circumstances and outcomes to make sure to toss the smallest pebble. That's just what she did, what she'd always done, at least, when she didn't just disappear. Like being there but only in silhouette was better than being a full color promise that never quite came to fruition.

It wasn't just at home, though. It wasn't just sitting in silence, or staring at the television with the volume turned up and a stereo blaring in the next room. It just was, and he knew that now, because of the song. He'd spent hours picking the perfect song, analyzing the lyrics, the tone, the rhythm and sway of it and delivered it exactly the way he planned, every note, every move, every expression, even the twinkle in his eye perfection, a flawless performance.

All of it with no reverb.

Nothing.

Singing into dead air or singing out of it felt pretty much the same. At least he could still act his ass off when it mattered. And tomorrow they'd talk about it in therapy, how it was normal and temporary and all a part of the process of being okay.

Maybe if they spent enough time talking about the amount of time he spent moving around the stale air inside of him without any cool breeze to help the process, they wouldn't get around to addressing the one thing that still hurt.

Kurt: Missed you at the ice cream social. :( They had blueberry cheesecake and Reese's peanut butter cup. I got a pint of each to go. Movie night? Popcorn and ice cream are on me. We've got the whole house to ourselves.

Or, it didn't hurt yet, but only because that band-aid hadn't quite been pulled off. He was still picking at the edges, yanking out the hairs one follicle at a time, not entirely convinced that wound could heal in the open air. Or maybe he didn't want it to heal. At least if it was covered, he couldn't keep pouring salt into it.

Kurt: Or we could look at fabric swatches for the loft apartment and sing along to the "Chess" soundtrack.

Kurt: Ooh! "Spring Awakening!"

"Aren't you going to answer him?" Cooper had been watching him read the texts and drop the phone back in his lap all afternoon.

Blaine rubbed the back of his neck, opposite hand on his elbow as though he couldn't raise that arm high enough despite his shoulders and head being perpetually slumped forward. "I'm working up to it."

"You two usually have like five conversations going at once," Cooper sniggered. "I've never known either of you to be at a loss for words." He flopped down on the couch next to Blaine and patted him on the knee. "Is this about that thing we talked about with your therapist?"

"Don't you mean that thing that you and mom brought up that is suddenly the root of all my problems?" Blaine knew there should be more heat in his voice, but he could barely bring it up to a low simmer.

"C'mon, Squeak. It is not the root of all your problems. I thought we cleared that up. It's just preventing you from getting better."

Blaine's phone pinged again.

Kurt: Seriously, though. Is your phone broken? We don't have to do anything. I could come to you. We can just feed each other ice cream and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling. I really, really miss you.

Cooper reached over and nudged the phone closer to Blaine's hand. "Answer him."

Blaine furrowed his brow. "Maybe I'm just practicing. Isn't this what you wanted?"

"No!" Cooper shifted around in his seat to face him, and for a second Blaine thought he was going to take him by the shoulders and give him a solid shake. Luckily, he just took a firm hold of one bicep, enough to keep Blaine from turning away. "This is exactly what we don't want, Blainey, you closed off and in denial about what you need to do for yourself. We want to get you happy and whole again."

"By cutting out my own heart!" And there it was, exactly one exclamation point worth of spark, one more hair ripped out by the root, band-aid still firmly in place.

"We want you to take a step back so you don't end up lost again like you were when..." Cooper stopped abruptly, throat still working but lips sealed tight.

"You can say, 'Dad,' you know." Blaine yanked his arm away from Cooper just enough to fold them tightly across his chest. "If you want to avoid 'triggering,' me," and yes, he did just use air quotes, "by avoiding every single reference to our father, then we should probably move out of his house and not sit on his couch and watch his T.V. while the portrait of our perfect patriarchal American family hangs over the mantle." He slumped back into the couch. "Besides, Kurt is not my Dad replacement."

"That's not exactly..."

"That's sick."

"And if you were healthy, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Blaine's phone went off again where it was sandwiched half stuffed down between Blaine's thigh and the arm of the couch, and this time Cooper picked it up.

Kurt: Blaine, I need you to please answer me.

"Fine," Cooper stated, the challenge clear in the tone of his voice, "then answer him. If you're really committed to getting better, then answer him. Only you have to tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him what you need, Blainey. You know what that is. You just have to want it as much as you need it- enough to ask for it." He dropped the phone on the ledge of Blaine's arms where they were crossed over his chest. "Answer him."

Blaine didn't know why he had to clear his throat in order to answer a text message, but something was caught there, thick as tar. So, he cleared it and punched out a reply, dropped the phone back in his lap where he knew Cooper could see it and turned his head away.

Blaine: I'm on my way.

"Blaine..." Disappointment was thick in his voice.

Blaine snatched his phone and lurched to stand. "Don't wait up."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

Blaine didn't have an answer for that. He just knew Kurt made him thrum again, kept him in tune. If that's what he needed, he wasn't currently high minded enough to know if that was right or wrong, just aware enough to know it could go either way.

-#-

Kurt had already popped two giant bowls of popcorn, set out glasses and coasters for the Diet Coke he had in the refrigerator, checked the ice drawer to make sure it hadn't randomly stopped working, as it was prone to do, and fanned out a half dozen movie options on the coffee table, and Blaine had only replied fifteen minutes ago to say he was coming over. He wasn't sure what he expected to transpire or even what he wanted to happen, but he hadn't been alone with Blaine outside of his hospital room in over three weeks and he'd just spent more than half his day worrying himself sick over the increasing number of shakily typed, unanswered texts daisy chaining together on his side of their phone conversation.

Every nerve in his body twanged with what he was sure was ninety percent nervous energy and at most ten percent sexual frustration. If he didn't complete as many menial tasks as possible before Blaine got there, the ninety percent was quite possibly going to take on the task of trying to relieve the ten percent, and he was absolutely not going to molest his gorgeous but somewhat fragile boyfriend the second he stepped through the door. He needed to be able to step back and take stock of the situation with a clear head and (oh!) no popcorn hulls between his teeth, which was why there were also two different flavors of flossers on the counter in the bathroom.

More options. They needed more options. Blaine should be able to come over fully aware that Finn, Burt, and Carole were all out of the house for the night and not feel any pressure to do anything. Kurt would never presume... Rummy! He opened the game chest to find a deck of cards and found a cribbage board and a stack of board games, of which at least half were suitable to play with two players or less. And then there was the diorama of the Bushwick loft he'd built with his three extra weeks of arts and crafts time, which he set out on the kitchen island next to his big book of fabric swatches.

Crap! The throw pillows were still stacked up in the corner of the living room where they'd ended up when he vacuumed the couch earlier. Usually he only took them off when Blaine came over if he anticipated needing more room on the couch. And Blaine knew he did that. In fact, he'd learned it from Blaine. If Blaine saw the pile of haphazardly thrown throw pillows, he would assume that Kurt was presuming, and Kurt wasn't presuming. Not at all. But if he put the pillows back, would Blaine assume that Kurt didn't want...? Because he did want, but only if Blaine wanted it first, and only if...

Oh crap! The knock on the door came while he was still sorting the pillows by size, pattern, and texture, so not only were they not where they belonged nor piled inconspicuously in the corner, they were very obviously stacked up in the recliners and on the end of the couch so there was no place else to sit except the very cozy love seat. So much for subtlety.

The front door clicked open, and Blaine pushed in. It wasn't normal for Blaine to enter without being invited in. His sudden intrusion had Kurt's heart lodged under his hyoid, pounding hard enough to rattle his back teeth, and the breath through his sinuses felt about ten degrees hotter and thicker than it had a few seconds ago.

Blaine's shoulders heaved up and down with the same rapid tempo as Kurt's, a flush on his cheeks several shades deeper than what Kurt would expect from the short walk up the driveway and segregated to the highest points of his cheekbones and over the pulse points in his neck.

"You said we had the house to ourselves, and I didn't see any cars in the driveway, so..."

"It's... it's okay," Kurt stuttered, flustered more than he could remember being since he'd gone looking for Blaine after opening night of West Side Story. There was something darker in Blaine's eyes now, something a little deeper with a gravitational field all its own. Only startled confusion kept Kurt back, hands still attempting to fluff the throw pillow despite being clenched entirely too tightly to do anything except smash it down further.

It was futile, anyway. As soon as he slid around the recliner under the pretense of shutting and locking the door, he and the pillow were crushed into the back of said door, and the pillow wasn't the only thing with all the air squeezed out of it.

"Is this?"

Kurt's mind was too shorted out from Blaine's hot breath panting into his ear to register what Blaine was asking, but the throw caught between them provided buffer for Kurt to get his senses back enough to answer.

"Yes! I mean, more than okay." His fingers flailed momentarily, dropping the pillow before digging into Blaine's hips, thumbs already working to pull the front of his polo out of his waistband and expose the stretched skin underneath.

Teeth on his collarbone and fingers tight in the hair at the nape of his neck, Kurt gasped, hands sliding up under Blaine's shirt to the swell beneath his ribcage, bending and molding them together into the single trunk of a wind-swayed tree. Scrape and thrust, grip and rut. It was lips and day old stubble, July heat and boiling blood, stewed together with panting breath and the steadily dropping pressure of bone deep yearning that picked them up and dropped them together into the vortex.

Inside the funnel, the whorl of a single fingertip etched and pocked with the spiritual force of a hail stone, sudden and sharp then placid and liquid, a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

The storm burgeoned from there, Kurt all lightning and thunder, Blaine the darkness that split and then collapsed in around him. It swallowed them both, saturated breaths like ozone bonded to sulfur, at once dissolving and melding. Summer slick skin slid frictionless in the exposed plains between rucked up shirts and constraining belts, Blaine arched up on his toes and Kurt bent in the knee, legs coiled within and without. Thighs chafed where they twined together, inseam to outseam and inseam to inseam, and the storm door rattled in its frame.

It ended up not mattering at all where the stupid throw pillows ended up, because they never made it to the couch. Instead the storm path blew through the foyer and around the corner, a swirling updraft that swept them up the stairs. Caught at the edge of the squall line, Kurt was marked before they even tipped onto the bed, Blaine's mouth a force of nature all its own, devouring the rolling landscape of straining sinewy throat and angular collarbone, quivering deltoid to ticklish ear.

Normally he'd protest, 'not too much,' 'not there where everyone will see,' but now he didn't care, let his head fall back, an offering. His fingers wended buttonholes and beltloops, fingernails scraping inside zipper plackets, feeling for the pulls until all had fallen away but damp cotton and overtaxed elastic. The whole mess tangled in their feet and hobbled them together at the same moment their fingers laced together, arms stretching up and over so there was nothing left to press them apart except the natural spinning of the earth.

Scrabble and climb, the bedspread rucked up and finally slid off, sheets wadding in the arch of back and shoulder, behind the crooks of knees. Swollen lips thirsted into divots and over peaks, stretched over and around, shielding teeth and loosing tongue. The crinkle of foil and squelch of lube got lost in the perfect storm of sighing, moaning, slowly dying, the creak of a spring, bang of a headboard, a breaking, sobbing breath.

And beneath the cacophony a wavering tremolo, "Sorry. Sorry. So, so sorry."

"Blaine?"

As suddenly as it had dropped, the funnel ascended, and in the freefall, silence. Blaine's eyes were wide, liquid and deep when he started to fall, a triplet heartbeat palpable through abruptly stilled chests. The last breath was first held and then swallowed, reverie and wonder as a slick spread between them without moan or shudder.

"I love you."

"So much."

Kurt was nearly asleep, the mark on his throat throbbing and Blaine snuffling softly in his arms, when he remembered the apology, soft as a whisper, urgent as a prayer, the 'sorry, sorry, sorry,' that seemed to yearn for and yet preclude innocence.

His boiling blood had never chilled so quickly.

When morning came, his bed was as cold as his blood. He was marked, red and blue over porcelain white, and though it was the Fourth of July, he didn't feel independent so much as just alone.

-TBC

AN: I've been posting twice a week, but since this chapter was over 11000 words, I feel like this is the only update for this week. Editing takes away from the time I spend writing, and I still have three chapters to write. Also, the more I post, the more I obsessively check my inbox, which is an unhealthy pattern of mine that I have struggled with in the past, and I don't want to have to give up writing to break it. Thank you all so much for reading.