Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.
The pre-retching feeling wouldn't let Kurt eat on Friday morning despite Carole's mild insistence that he should at least take something with him. He had wanted to simply curl up underneath his covers and wait for Blaine to text the results of the 'Glee Club Presidential Election' to him, but he knew that practically he still had the rest of school to deal with beyond glee. Handling the official decision of Rachel's insanity seemed almost unbearable now that it was actually here.
Of course they're going to elect Rachel. And she'll go completely crazy and we'll all fall to pieces.
Kurt sighed, shouldered his satchel, and bravely pressed onward, ignoring the general ebb and flow of students around him. He didn't want to be here—one, it was a Friday, and no one wanted to be in school on a Friday as far as he was concerned—but for more reasons than simply the day of the week. He had glee first, which meant that he would know the dreaded results without too much anticipation. It also meant that, come what may, he would have to plow through the rest of the day with said results lingering over his head.
This is ridiculous, he thought, flicking through his locker combination and tugging it open. I just need to grit my teeth and bear it. That's all there is to it.
Dissatisfied with rationality's bracing attempt at cajoling himself, Kurt tugged out his books for the rest of his morning classes and shut his locker once more.
It can't be that bad. It's just an election. One tiny election. Not the end of the world.
Kurt smiled grimly.
The world, no. The end of my enjoyment of glee club, yes.
And then the fire alarm rang.
Seriously? This early? Kurt thought in exasperation as pandemonium erupted around him. It was tradition that some egotistical idiot had to pull the alarm at least once a month, and apparently said idiot had decided to start a little early this year.
If only he'd known how complicated it would become.
"This is exactly why we need a president of glee club," Rachel told Kurt in a confiding tone, practically bouncing on her heels. She was standing in the middle of the football stadium with him and the rest of the school, the glee club congregated in a general sphere around them. "Organization," Rachel added seriously. "We need to be more organized for our competitions or—"
Kurt rolled his eyes, not caring if she saw or not. "Rachel, this isn't a problem of organization. This is someone pulling a fire alarm. It's pretty elementary."
"Well, it wasn't me," Puck prompted, crossing his arms as he surveyed the school without interest. "First of all, it's stupid. Second, it doesn't even get you out of school for a day, and third—"
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Puckerman," a new voice interrupted. Lauren appeared a moment later, one binder tucked in her arms as she looked him up and down skeptically. "I would have thought you would have been responsible for this sort of juvenile delinquency. It seems to be your forte."
Puck scowled. "Pulling the fire alarm is like fifth-grader cool. Not twelfth grade awesomeness. I'd have to actually set a fire to get that sort of notoriety."
"Well, you might just get your wish," Mr. Schue piped in. "According to Figgins, this is legitimate. Someone set off a fire in the chem lab."
"For real?" Puck asked, raising his eyebrows. "How come I didn't hear about this badassery beforehand?"
"Maybe because the culprit would have been caught if you'd known," Kurt suggested dryly.
"It's a real fire?" Rachel asked, her voice instantly switching from 'leader' to 'diva.' "I can put this in my future bestselling biography! Of course, I'll have to spruce up the deal—"
"Berry, no one wants to hear about your future plans for a bestseller," Puck broke in loudly.
"Tetchy," Lauren said, elbowing him.
Puck grunted noncommittally.
"Where the hell is everyone else?" Finn interrupted, stepping forward. Tina, Mike, and Artie were at his shoulder, looking surprised. "We can't find Brittany, Blaine, or Mercedes."
"The hell? My girl's in there?" Marcus demanded, turning to join the circular conversation and swelling impressively. "Whose door I gotta break down?"
"Guys, calm down. I'm sure they're around here somewhere," Mr. Schue said, waving his hands in a placating way.
"You would do well to keep better organization of your precious glee clubbers, butterhead," a familiar voice said loudly nearby.
"Thanks, Sue, but I don't need your advice," Mr. Schue retorted, just as loudly, turning to face her.
"Really? Because it would seem like you're missing a pretty penny's worth of your little glee club. I would have thought you would have had better leashes for those flee-bitten rodents."
"Sue—"
Kurt's phone buzzed.
"You know, for someone who's so obsessed with her poll numbers, I'm surprised you haven't noticed the surge in popularity of that rapist from prison," Mr. Schue quipped.
Tugging his phone out, Kurt noticed the From Brittany and frowned. To his knowledge, she didn't even know how to use a cell phone unless someone else was instructing her exactly what to do.
"Well, midget, I would suggest a copious amount of dishwater detergent to wash out that hideous mane of lard that you have but I fear it would back up the plumbing system to the other side of the state."
Is it a drill?
Kurt stared at the screen, brow furrowed, baffled.
Is what a drill? he wrote back, suspecting that it was one of Brittany's more eccentric observations.
"Sue, you are a terrible influence on your Cheerios—"
"I raise my Cheerios to be champions. If I must squeeze every ounce of blood, tears, and dreams from these kids to do it, so be it."
The fire alarm.
Well, Kurt thought, more confused than ever. That made sense, but from Brittany, it might as well have been calculus. The answer startled him so much that he didn't respond for several moments. At last, another text: Hello?
No. It's not a drill. What are you doing?
"I remind you that I have won six consecutive cheerleading championships—"
"But not a seventh?" Mr. Schue broke in in a mock sweet tone. "Oh, that's so terrible, Sue, I can't believe—"
"You watch your mouth or I will rip it off and feed it to homeless pigs as fodder."
Evasive action. One min.
And now Kurt was definitely sure it wasn't Brittany texting, because there was no way Brittany knew what the word 'evasive' meant, let alone how to spell it.
Mercedes?
A long pause. Kurt actually shifted on his feet as he waited, at last peering down anxiously at the screen.
Blaine.
What are you doing with Brittany's phone? Kurt asked at once. His fingers itched for the Call button, and he was already wandering away from the main group of Glee clubbers with his phone pressed to his ear and listening anxiously for a response when it lead him to voice mail.
Can't talk. Smoke. Sorry.
Another disconcertingly long pause. Kurt could vaguely hear Mr. Schue and Sue shouting at each other, the other teachers mingling around uneasily, students in general boredom. There was a brief noise followed by an audible shove and a crow of laughter from the nearby watchers. "You will regret that," Sue said, but Kurt didn't bother listening for the response as Blaine answered.
Took you long enough, he thought, more worried than annoyed.
Phone at home. Underneath chem lab. Complicated.
"What?" Kurt yelped aloud.
"It's a type of marsupial," Rachel informed smartly, clearly referring to the rapidly escalating shouting match between Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester. "They live in—"
"They're still inside," Kurt interrupted. "In the basement."
"The hell?" Marcus repeated, pushing Rachel aside urgently to reach him. "'Cedes?"
Are you alone? Kurt texted in response to Marcus's question.
The answer was mercifully quick, although it still wasn't very encouraging. No. Brittany and Mercedes here.
Can you get out? he hedged, half-terrified to read the answer.
The reply was almost immediate. Not really.
Kurt closed his eyes, doing his best not to think about that.
However. . . .
Blaine, do not do anything stupid, Kurt answered at once. I swear to God, if you do anything dangerous. . . .
I thought you didn't believe in God? He could almost see the smirk on Blaine's face.
Do not joke about this! Kurt argued seriously. Be safe. I don't want you or Brittany or Mercedes getting hurt.
A third long, agonizingly drawn pause. Then: We won't, Blaine promised.
"What the hell's going on?" Finn asked, slipping around Mr. Schue as he shook his head in disgust at Sue. "Who're you talking to?"
"Who do you think?" Kurt retorted, more snappish from nerves than anything. "They're underneath the chem lab."
Finn stared blankly at him for exactly five seconds before swearing once explosively. "How the—why were they there?"
"I don't know," Kurt bit out, jiggling his phone anxiously in his palm as he waited for some word. "I just—"
Okay. We're definitely stuck.
Kurt's heart plummeted.
That doesn't sound good.
Long, long pause. Kurt swore that the seconds sheared off at least five years of his life as he waited for the response.
At last: It's not.
The good news about involuntarily choosing your crisis companions, Blaine thought, was that neither was losing her head.
In fact, Brittany seemed a little too calm about the whole thing, wandering around the tiny room in general bemusement, telling no one in particular about her plans for a 'unicorn.' Mercedes, on the other hand, had resorted to sitting at the base of the stairs watching Blaine pace with the phone, alternately looking up the stairwell and back at Brittany.
"All right, prep boy, you're supposed to come from the smart school, what do we do?" she said at last, not sounding the least bit worried.
In a weird sort of way, Blaine wasn't worried, either. The surrealness of the situation hadn't really kicked in: his brain was still half-convinced that he could just walk up the stairwell, open the door, and be standing in the middle of Mrs. Marley's chemistry lab.
Well, he mused dryly, tapping his fingers along the phone as he tried to think of responses and plans at the same time, he could do exactly that. If he didn't mind stepping into a nice big chemical fire, that was.
He should have seen the signs earlier, he realized, when Mercedes had told him that she was going to look for Brittany at Mrs. Marley's. Brittany didn't even take chemistry (somehow, she had passed during her junior year, probably due to assistance from Santana), and she had no reason to be wandering that area of the school in the morning; her class had apparently been in the afternoon anyway. Nevertheless, being a 'nice person,' Blaine had offered to help, since Brittany had a tendency to wander.
Ten minutes before Glee, he found Brittany locked in the basement. Calling Mercedes over, he'd pried the door open and gaped in blind disbelief down at Brittany, who looked completely unalarmed at the predicament. Mercedes had already been walking down to coax her back upstairs when someone shoved Blaine hard from behind and slammed the door behind him. Next second, he heard something heavy being dragged hastily in front of the door (likely one of the chem tables turned on its side) and the distinctly unpleasant smell of arson.
Oh, he'd realized stupidly then, someone's trapped us in.
To his credit, he'd hit the floor and toppled Mercedes in the process, and the nice linoleum floor wasn't forgiving on his skull. Still biting back the urge to curl up in a corner and hold his head as a crushing headache built up in it, he focused on keeping his mental processes together and responding to Kurt's texts as they came. Part of him felt guilty for refusing to let Kurt call and talk to him, to be reassured by the sound of his voice. Another part was certain that the moment he heard Kurt's he would lose all sense of the intangible tranquility he had gained in the room and panic. Which was something neither Brittany nor Mercedes could use, and a reality that he felt himself precipitously near already.
He realized that he was taking a while to respond as the time passed and the smell of burning wood became even more present, but he couldn't help it. There was nothing Kurt could do from his position, anyway, and Blaine wasn't in any immediate danger down here, either.
Well. Not unless the fire spreads, his logical side pointed out.
Shut up, his headache-riddled half retorted.
Looking over at Mercedes, who was gazing up at him in a mixture of curiosity and dubiousness, Blaine shrugged a little.
"We need to get through that door," was all he said.
"I can do it," Brittany volunteered, moving to walk over to the stairwell. Blaine stopped her with a hand on her arm. He'd already made the mistake of grabbing the handle when he first gathered his senses back together and received a blistering burn in return; there was no way he was letting Brittany near the door.
"We need to find a safe way to get through that door," he amended.
"It's safe," Brittany argued, frowning.
Blaine shook his head, rubbing the side of it a moment later. "Do you smell that?"
Brittany frowned.
"The smoke?" Blaine elaborated.
"There's no smoke in here, silly," Brittany said, rolling her eyes and shoving him lightly in the shoulder.
"There's smoke up there," Blaine replied, putting emphasis on the door as he pointed to it.
"Then we can't go through there," Brittany said with such a finality that it amazed Blaine she had volunteered only moments before to go through it.
Instead, Brittany sat down beside Mercedes on the tiny stairwell and clasped her hands on her knees, looking excited. "Is this like a game?" she asked, looking expectantly at Blaine, as though she expected him to perform a magic trick.
I wish, Blaine thought wryly. I'd even just settle for a boring escape route at this point.
There was another tiny exploding noise above as a glass vial burst. Blaine winced a little at the thought of glass littering the floor above, further foiling any contemplation of escaping the conventional way.
His phone—technically, Brittany's phone, but he didn't really care to correct himself—vibrated.
Still okay?
Blaine smiled a tiny bit. Yes. We're doing okay, just a little stuck.
If anything, Kurt's reply seemed even more anxious than before. What's it like down there? Is there a lot of smoke?
Blaine closed his eyes momentarily and held the side of his head with one hand as his headache raged. Then, carefully typing so as not to irritate his mounting headache, he replied, Not much. Tight door.
He could almost see Kurt worrying his lower lip.
You're okay?
Blaine shrugged to himself before answering. Fine.
Kurt's answer didn't sound very reassured. Be careful.
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes in mild exasperation, Blaine settled for, Promise and handed Mercedes the phone. "It's giving me a headache," he said, which was only partially true, since he'd already had a headache before he started texting Kurt. Mostly, he couldn't think of a way to escape while simultaneously attempting to comfort Kurt, and the most prominent concern was definitely the former.
Looking around, Blaine surveyed the relatively empty room for something.
Inspiration.
His eyes fell on Brittany's discarded hat. I never learned how to read a calendar, she'd told him, almost sadly, one morning when he saw her wearing the same furry winter hat.
A grim smile crossed his face. Well, I can't touch the door directly. . . .
Kurt felt like he was going to explode from anxiety.
Rachel certainly wasn't helping, still chattering on inanely about how this 'drama' would aid in her future career in some obscure way. It would probably make her something of a celebrity, Kurt thought sourly, if she had a drama like this to include in her adolescence. Of course, some serious editing would be required before publication: Rachel's stand-offish role right now wouldn't warrant much attention otherwise.
She can have her drama, Kurt thought, as long as I still have my boyfriend.
Kurt was doing his best not to think pessimistically, but he couldn't help himself. It had taken ten full minutes before Principal Figgins realized that he needed to call the fire department, during which everyone else seemed relatively unalarmed by the emergency. Several of the nearby football players were talking longingly of being let out early, other students expressing similar sentiments.
Gritting his teeth slightly to avoid snapping at all of them that this wasn't the time to be worrying about something so stupid, he stared at the school and waited.
His phone had been quiet, but Marcus and Finn had apparently been receiving regular updates from Mercedes, who had taken over Brittany's phone. Kurt fretted inwardly that the change in speaker (well, writer, since they still hadn't actually talked with either Blaine or Mercedes) meant something was wrong with Blaine, but he had no way of confirming it when Mercedes insisted that they were all fine.
How can you be fine? he thought, barely holding back hysteria. You're trapped under a burning chemistry lab.
That was exactly the sort of bad luck that had to happen to him; Kurt just thought it was karma's way of being particularly cruel that it was Blaine in his place. He should never have come here, Kurt thought fervently. He should have stayed at Dalton, he should have—
Finn nudged Kurt's shoulder lightly with his own. "You okay?"
Kurt swallowed back a scream. No, I'm not okay, my boyfriend's trapped in there! "I'm fine," he whispered.
"They'll be okay," Finn said, his voice amazingly calm.
Of course, Kurt thought, his emotions whiplashing so hard he felt dazed. He's not invested in this beyond friends. It would probably be a relief for him if Blaine left.
That last was as uncharitable as Kurt could be, but he couldn't help himself. Blaine was in there, he was out there, and right now, he had never felt like the distance between them was so great. Not when Blaine was out of state for Six Flags performances. Not when Blaine was stuck at his parents' house for weeks entertaining relatives. Not when Blaine was at Dalton and he was at McKinley.
No, it was when a physical distance of less than a thousand feet separated them that made Kurt feel like he was going to scream.
He has to be okay. He has to be.
He better be.
"You do know what you're doing?"
Blaine smiled grimly. "Sure," he chirped, because cheerfulness seemed like a better alternative to terror.
He lifted his hat-covered hand and gripped the handle.
It burned.
He hissed, wrenching it until the door gave slightly.
"Damn," he coughed, waving the hat to clear the air as smoke flooded in.
"I found the smoke," Brittany announced happily while Mercedes coughed out a, "Brilliant plan, prep boy," from nearby.
Blaine didn't answer. He had committed to this route, and he wasn't going to wait for the situation to get really bad before making his move. He knew the general routine of disaster circumstances: wait too long, something bad happened (Murphy's law), and then you couldn't get out. According to Hollywood, there was also supposed to be a rogue bear that came along to devour your half-alive corpse just when circumstances looked a little brighter, but fortunately Blaine didn't think he would have to worry about that particular end.
Well. Unless McKinley has more surprises that I thought, he mused, setting his shoulder against the door to push it open.
Whatever was blocking it wasn't large, but it was just heavy enough that he couldn't use his hand and arm alone to push it away. Mercedes hovered nearby, her mouth buried in her sleeve as she avoided breathing in the acrid smoke, Brittany doing the same beside her, looking confused. "If thiff a gamb?" she asked, her voice muffled by the cloth.
Blaine forced the door open as far as he could stand before leaping back with a curse that would have made Puck cant an eyebrow. Good thing he's not here, he thought absentmindedly. It wouldn't fit with the good stereotypical charming prep boy image of him he'd formed, hearing him swear, but the heat from the door had practically seared Blaine.
Now or never, Blaine thought and plunged ahead.
"Why aren't they saying anything?"
Kurt tapped his foot anxiously. He had no answer to Rachel's question, and while his conscience desperately wanted to say that Blaine and Brittany and Mercedes were fine, he had no idea. The fire department was still on their way, and somewhere, his boyfriend and two of his best friends were slowly roasting underneath a fire.
Wrapping his arms around himself, Kurt waited with the rest of them, anxious and desperate and sick for news.
Good news, he amended quickly. Only good news.
At last, his phone vibrated.
Kurt nearly leaped out of his skin in surprise, staring down at the screen a moment later.
OK.
OK? OK what? OK, we're still trapped? OK, we're in trouble? OK, what?
His phone vibrated again.
Where are you?
Football field, Kurt answered, heart beating hard. Finn frowned and edged closer, trying to see his phone, but Kurt's fingers were gripping it so hard he half-worried he would crush it.
Meet us at the gate.
Kurt didn't even bother respond. He just tossed the phone to Finn and ran.
"You need to buy this man a pony," were the first words out of Mercedes' mouth as she gave Blaine a little nudge forward.
"Or a unicorn," Brittany put in happily, brushing some soot-covered hair over her shoulder.
Blaine shrugged, looking half-embarrassed, half-grateful.
"And you better watch out, because I might steal him," Mercedes added.
"Totally," Brittany agreed.
Kurt barely heard either of them. He simply stared at his boyfriend.
"You okay?" he asked, mouth incredibly dry all of a sudden.
Blaine shrugged a soot-covered shoulder, face almost gray with smoke. "Yeah," he said, coughing a little. "Think so."
And then he sagged limply forward, Kurt's arms wrapping underneath his firmly, supporting him. "Mmm. You smell good," Blaine mumbled inanely against his shoulder.
"You smell like smoke," Kurt replied, almost teasingly. His voice was still too breathless to pull off genuine jocularity, however, overshadowed with seriousness as he trailed his fingertips lightly along Blaine's back, searching for injuries. He felt more than saw Blaine wince when they grazed his left shoulder; he brushed them apologetically against his neck in return.
"Hey, baby girl," Marcus greeted Mercedes, sweeping Mercedes up into a hug as he appeared. Brittany shrugged and casually cuddled up to Kurt.
"You do smell nice," she concurred.
Kurt laughed, light, breathless, and didn't respond.
He couldn't, really. Blaine was okay (mostly, he reminded himself), and that was all that truly mattered.
School was, as the hopefuls had speculated, canceled for the rest of the day. The fire had spread to encompass several other classrooms before the firefighters arrived on the scene to put it out. Given its nature, they had openly speculated that if it wasn't for Blaine, Mercedes, and Brittany's timely escape, then they might have suffocated from gradual smoke inhalation before anyone could have gotten to them. (Kurt shuddered at the thought.)
However, there was definitely something to be said about the 'new guy's' act. Whether or not people had cared about glee club before, it was suddenly the only thing people could talk about. Most people seemed to know that Blaine had been involved, whether or not they knew Blaine personally, and by six o'clock Kurt had seen dozens of people talking about the fire and how 'some new transfer' had been involved.
Blaine himself was being fairly neutral on the issue as a whole, seeming much more appreciative of a few pints of fresh oxygen and a good burn cream than anything. He didn't bother dissuade Mercedes' statement that he was either the craziest or smartest former Warbler alive. All he did was lean against Kurt's shoulder and listen to the appraisals with half an ear, occasionally wincing when one of the paramedics fussed with his hand or his shoulder. The burns on his face and to his front were mostly minor—he wouldn't have any lasting damage from those—but there were some on his legs that looked fairly painful.
"'M fine," Blaine murmured even when one of the EMTs had shimmied his pant leg up to his knee to look at it. He had winced and pulled away, only to eventually submit when it meant some burn cream to again help with the worst of it.
The chem lab was in ruins: exploded vials and charred tables lay everywhere, the remains of dozens of papers scorched. The fire department took care of washing out the place to ensure that the fire had been completely subdued; water damage would, of course, result in further delay of their return to school.
For now, watching his boyfriend snooze on his couch while the rest of the family talked about the incident in hushed voices, Kurt couldn't help offering a silent thank-you to that flying-dwarf-in-a-teapot that had protected his boyfriend from further injury.
Who would have thought that I would be here after worrying about glee club presidential results this morning? Kurt thought, musing, as his attention wandered between his French homework and the bandaged hand dangling off the edge of the couch beside him. He was sitting on the floor, having refused to take up any portion of the couch when Blaine's legs were still healing, and he rather liked this position as it still allowed him to feel close to Blaine without actually touching him. Kurt teased the end of his dangling hand with the eraser of his pencil gently, letting it rest on Blaine's chest and returning to his French doodling when he was done. Blaine let out a murmur and rolled partially onto his side, cradling the hand closer. Kurt's lips quirked upward in a slight smile.
I'm glad you're okay, Kurt thought in his direction, knowing that in Blaine's dream world it didn't make a difference.
"We're getting pizza—he want any?" Kurt's dad asked, appearing in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen and looking at the two of them briefly before orienting his gaze on Kurt.
Kurt shrugged and reached over with his pencil eraser again, this time to gently prod Blaine's right shoulder. He waited until Blaine grunted acquiescence before asking, "Want pizza?"
A pause. "Mmff," Blaine said.
"Sure," Kurt translated with a shrug. "No preference?"
"Mm-mm."
"Whatever you want," Kurt told his dad, who nodded before retreating into the kitchen.
Kurt watched as Blaine let out a low whine before rolling onto his other side, this time facing Kurt instead of the couch. His face scrunched up as he squinted at the television, left on a local channel for the noise rather than any real entertainment value. "Time'sit?"
"Six twenty," Kurt answered, snapping his binder shut and setting his pencil aside to look at Blaine. "How're you feeling?"
"Wiped out," Blaine grumbled, propping himself up with a laborious effort onto his elbows so that he was leaning against the couch arm. "The hell was in the stuff they gave me?"
"It's called morphine," Kurt chimed. "And yes, it does have a rather soporific effect combined with your additional trauma."
"What's—" Blaine yawned, the next word caught up in it as he mumbled, "soporific?"
"Sleepy," Kurt said.
"Mmm," Blaine agreed, closing his eyes. "Soun's right. Where're Britt 'n' 'Cedes?"
"Most likely spreading the news of your heroic antics." Blaine's eyebrows lifted in sluggish curiosity. "Barging through a chemical fire in the name of saving two damsels-in-distress? I daresay you are straight from a bestselling Shakespearean play, Blaine Anderson."
"Mmm . . . Shakespearean."
Smiling a little, Kurt fluffed the top pillow Blaine was using somewhat before patting it invitingly. Blaine didn't even bother argue as he slid down into a reclining position, snoring softly in seconds.
Barely resisting the urge to brush his hair back or rub his side lightly as he normally would, Kurt scooted over so he could pick up his phone as it buzzed.
And frowned. The number was marked as unlisted on his contacts, which normally meant he would have ignored it. He had no interest in hearing the homophobic spam that some people left him and especially mistrusted numbers that he didn't recognize.
This number, however, belonged to a residence he knew well enough that he was somewhat surprised at himself for not having listed it before.
He hurried to his feet and upstairs, where he wasn't as liable to be interrupted, and hit the call button to accept the call. "Hello?"
A slightly nervous voice. "Kurt?"
"Mrs. Anderson?"
"Hi, Kurt. I know we haven't talked much but—"
"It's fine," Kurt assured, sitting on the edge of his bed absentmindedly.
"We were just wondering if Blaine was staying with you folks tonight," Mrs. Anderson went on. "He hasn't answered any of my calls. . . ."
"Oh," Kurt said softly, remembering what Blaine had said about leaving his phone at home. It was probably sitting up in his room now, in fact, right next to his laptop, untouched. "Well, uh, you didn't happen to hear what happened at McKinley today, did you?"
Mrs. Anderson's voice was suddenly all worried mother. "Oh my God, something happened to him, didn't it? Oh my God—"
"He's okay," Kurt hastened to assure. Smooth, Kurt, very smooth. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Mrs. Anderson when someone had called to tell her that her son had had the 'living crap' beaten out of him by three guys after the Sadie Hawkins dance. It was something that made Kurt sick to his stomach to imagine; not only the thought of Blaine being in pain or hurt, but also the fact that he wouldn't have known the extent of Blaine's injuries until he arrived on the scene.
Mrs. Anderson was practically hyperventilating on the other end of the line, however, so Kurt knew that he didn't have time to muse over what had potentially happened to Blaine that merited such a description. Instead, he explained in as few and as gentle words as possible about the chem lab fire, doing his best to make it sound like it was a complete accident and Blaine had been at the wrong place at the wrong time rather than deliberately lured into danger.
This is wrong, Kurt chastised himself, even as his mouth continued to follow no orders from his emotional side and listened instead to reasonable neutrality. She should know if her son's in serious danger being at McKinley.
Truth be told, Kurt wasn't sure that Blaine wasn't in serious danger by being at McKinley, especially after this latest development. He had once been naïve enough to believe that Blaine was invincible, an illusion that had gradually been reconstructed over time. Blaine was strong and resilient and courageous, yes, but he wasn't indestructible, and there were threats that certainly exceeded the capacity of his arsenal to handle. Kurt would have loved to honestly say that Blaine would be absolutely fine being at McKinley, that was a complete fluke, but after coaxing most of the story out of Blaine and the rest out of Mercedes, he knew that a more malicious threat lingered behind it.
This is why we need a PFLAG, he thought, crossing his legs as he talked. We need to be united against this or it's going to tear us all down.
And, honestly, it didn't matter who started the PFLAG: what mattered was who joined and how it was run.
Finn was trying to do a good thing. He was trying to help you.
You need to forgive him.
At last, when Mrs. Anderson's voice had gone silent on the other end, contemplative, elusive, Kurt allowed himself to think of actually forgiving Finn for his past transgressions.
He isn't perfect, his cynical side interjected, but he is trying.
"Well, I know that since Blaine's comfortable being around you folk it sounds like it might be more convenient to just let him stay there for the weekend," Mrs. Anderson said at last, her voice soft and fragile. "You'll take care of him, won't you?"
"Of course," Kurt assured.
"Can I—can I talk to him?"
Kurt faltered a little. "He's asleep . . ." he hedged, "but I could ask."
Hopping up from his bed, he quickly climbed back down the stairs and shuffled over to the couch. As though sensing he was needed, Blaine stirred and sat up again, not fully awake or upright but still recognizing when Kurt gestured to the phone quizzically. He nodded in a weary sort of way, taking it and saying, "Hi, Mom," in a raw, smoke-burned voice.
"Oh, sweetie. . . ." Kurt heard Mrs. Anderson say on the other end before he excused himself to the kitchen.
"How's he doing?" his dad asked gruffly, lifting his gaze from his hands.
Kurt shrugged. "Okay," he said elusively. "I think he's still mostly out-of-it."
"He probably will be. Poor guy," Carole said sympathetically. "I'm amazed that they were able to get through that."
"Yes, well, I've already told him that he's never allowed to do it again," Kurt said. "I think I have a dozen gray hairs now."
"Trust me, kid, you've got nothing to worry about," his dad said, gesturing to his own bald pate.
Kurt laughed and shook his head, brushing his fingers across his bangs once delicately. "Yes, well, I'll try to avoid that," he put in dryly.
"Order up," Finn said, grinning, as he stepped in through the front door with the pizzas. "I call first dibs, 'cause I picked it up and everything."
"Such a gentleman," Kurt said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as Finn set the boxes down on the table. "Mind if I . . . ?" he gestured towards the living room, even though it was Friday night dinner and those were supposed to be sacred and everything.
Carole just looked at him with soft eyes, his dad giving him a nod and making a mock-shooing gesture while Finn started dishing out his own pizza. Kurt rescued a couple slices on a pair of plates and disappeared with a grateful smile, nicking a pair of water bottles on his way.
Blaine was sitting up against the arm of the couch, toying with the screen of Kurt's phone absentmindedly, looking up belatedly as Kurt re-entered the room. He gave him a slight, goofy smile and accepted the plate with his good hand, setting it on his thigh and picking up the pizza.
"Thanks," he said with a grin, taking a bite.
"I don't think it qualifies as one of the approved foods that you're allowed to eat after moderate smoke inhalation," Kurt said, taking a delicate bite of his own slice as he sat down beside Blaine again.
"Small words, Kurt, small words," Blaine murmured, chewing slowly.
"Here's one: Brittany has officially deemed you her 'number one unicorn' for apparently saving her life."
"I didn't save her life," Blaine mumbled. He took another bite to distract himself from an explanation while Kurt rolled his eyes.
"You just helped her escape from a burning building."
"Mmmhmm"
"That's totally not saving someone's life."
"Nope."
"At all."
"Uh huh. . . ."
Kurt sighed. "It delayed the election of a glee club president, you know."
Blaine scrunched up his face in mock-regret. "Damn. I was looking forward to that."
Kurt smiled and nudged his knee gently. "You swear more when you're on morphine."
"S'the morphine talkin'," Blaine grumbled.
"Mmm. . . ."
Kurt waited for Blaine to speak, unsurprised when he looked up and saw him dozing instead, still partially sitting up with his empty plate on his lap, head tipped forward to his chest. Shaking his head to himself, Kurt gently retrieved the plate from his slack grip and stacked it on top of his own, briefly returning to the kitchen to drop them off in the sink before returning to sit beside Blaine.
"Love you," Blaine murmured sleepily.
Kurt smiled and tugged and prodded lightly until Blaine was lying mostly horizontal again. Blaine wrapped one arm around the pillow so that he was hugging it. Kurt, unable to resist temptation, leaned forward and very lightly brushed his lips against Blaine's forehead.
"I love you, too," he whispered. "That's why you're not allowed to do stupid, crazy, brave things like this, okay?"
"Okay," Blaine agreed, compliant under the influence of sleep and narcotics before drifting off completely.
Kurt just stretched out his legs and rested against the couch. I could never stand to lose you, he added in the comforting privacy of his own thoughts. You can't be noble and brave if it means you get hurt, Blaine.
But Blaine was sleeping, oblivious, and Kurt didn't have the heart to wake him to tell him as much.