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.
Kurt learned three new things about the Andersons that weekend. Two were relatively positive, one not-so-much.
The first: Mrs. Anderson was understanding. She didn't press him for answers, even though it was her son that had been in danger (news apparently took a while to circulate from Lima to Westerville. Kurt was finding this rather difficult to believe given the widespread area that it had encompassed in Lima already, but he didn't feel it was really his place to argue).
The second: No one came storming down upon the Hudson-Hummel home insisting that Blaine transfer back to Dalton. In fact, Blaine himself was rather adamant that the fire 'changed nothing.' He was staying at McKinley, regardless of the consequences, and if someone thought he was in danger than they could take a look at Mercedes' boyfriend and reconsider how much 'danger' Blaine was in with a humanized mammoth for a companion.
However, Kurt realized as he sat sipping a cup of coffee at the breakfast table reading an older issue of Vogue, there was also something strange about the whole ordeal.
Shouldn't Blaine's parents have been raining down on them by now, insisting on taking their son back to Westerville? He was their only child, and only-child parents tended to be protective of their kid, as far as Kurt's knowledge extended. Given Blaine's unfortunate history at the Sadie Hawkins dance, he thought it all the more likely that his parents would want to pull him out of a threatening situation as soon as possible.
But you didn't exactly make it sound that dangerous, Kurt's conscience reminded pointedly.
He rolled his eyes and flipped the page of his issue. They know the story. They can make a parental decision if they want to.
The papers, however, were elusive and vague about the specifics. The only known factors were that most of the McKinley staff had been under the impression that the fire had been a result of a student messing around with chemical ingredients until the firemen had found traces of arson on several of the desks. That had been almost three hours after they arrived on the scene, given the task of making sure the area was safe and decontaminated before sending in a team to check what the chemical composition of the flames were.
The results all pointed at the same conclusion: it was a deliberate fire. The news had admittedly shaken Kurt up; Blaine had only muttered about someone shoving him into the basement with Mercedes before the door was barred and the smoke started drifting in. Blaine had actually thought that the alarm still might have been false at that point, texting Kurt using Brittany's phone to ask once he heard the distant shrieks of the alarms. The fire had, of course, been real and lethal, and Blaine's actions were commended by authority and student body alike as incredibly risky. There had been every possibility that he could have walked straight into a flame and been chemically burned, an unpleasant end to contemplate on any day.
Instead, he had played the fool's lottery and won: venturing blindly into disaster. The worst thing that had happened was when he sidestepped a little too close to the flames and got his legs singed. Mercedes and Brittany had followed him just as blindly, but he had forged the path. According to his disjointed account, Blaine had had to move several charred desks out of the way (a process which, he explained, took the majority of the time) and a couple of chairs. He had accidentally grabbed the outer door handle and been burned again for his efforts before remembering to use Brittany's furry hat to yank it open.
According to the fire department's estimates using the first and last texts Blaine sent regarding the issue, it had only taken eight and a half minutes to escape. Those were probably the longest eight and a half minutes of Kurt's life.
Stirring his coffee with the straight end of his spoon, Kurt frowned at the ghastly teal outfit on the next page before flipping quickly to the next. Even high fashion flopped sometimes; clearly that particular designer needed to be ousted from the business.
You're avoiding the issue, Kurt's conscience piped in helpfully.
Kurt rested his chin in his hand and scowled. If he was being honest with himself, then he wanted to put the entire issue behind him. He wanted to forget that he had ever woken up that Friday grousing about glee club elections and spent the rest of the morning wondering if he would even have a boyfriend to speak of by the end of it. The surreal nature of the day still baffled him; how could things have gone from so normal to so extreme so quickly? Wasn't there supposed to be some helpful 'three warning signs' beforehand?
But no, there weren't, and now all Kurt could do was sit back and breathe a deep sigh of relief that Blaine was alive. He had been both amazed and angry when he learned just why it took so long for anyone to call the fire department: apparently, most of the teachers had assumed that the glee club was fully accounted for when they saw their teacher arguing with the cheerleading coach. It wasn't until Finn forged his way through to Principal Figgins that anyone began to realize the enormity of the situation, and by then, most people were already anxious to be let out of school early, whether or not three glee clubbers were trapped underneath a burning chem lab or not.
Kurt shuddered to himself as he thought of it. The school's organization was terrible, and it had almost cost two of his closest friends their lives. Not to mention his boyfriend's. Kurt honestly might have just snapped if that happened. He couldn't imagine what he would have done if they had died because the staff had neglected their duties.
We need organization, Kurt thought firmly, then shook his head slightly to himself. Only a day ago he had been telling Rachel that organization was not the problem, some idiot pulling the fire alarm was.
That idiot was probably the one who set the fire off, Kurt thought. Unfortunately, the perpetrator had covered his (or her, Kurt allowed, although he suspected that it was a he; a girl wouldn't have been able to drag the table or shove Blaine in the basement so easily) tracks well. There were too many footprints on the floors to judge which ones were most likely the suspect's, and the alarm itself had been charred so badly by the fire it was next to impossible to get DNA samples. The ones that had been scraped off were of a synthetic material: a glove or a towel, maybe. Nothing useful.
Investigations were pending, but this wasn't going to be the quick wrap-up that Kurt could have hoped for when the fire deputees first arrived on the scene. There would have to be more tests and more searches and more narrowing of potential candidates.
Meanwhile, the arsonist would run free.
Feeling sick, Kurt let his coffee sit on the table as he stared blankly at a red satin dress on the page. He didn't want to think about that aspect of it: that it wasn'tover. That someone had deliberately targeted Blaine (Brittany and Mercedes were likely collateral damage) and nearly succeeded in killing him. Kurt wanted to believe that Blaine was safe now that the fire was out and he wasn't trapped underneath a chem lab, but it was hard to convince himself that when he knew that the culprit was still free.
It only amazed Kurt more that Blaine's parents had been so understanding, so willing to let him stay with the Hudson-Hummels, knowing that the incident was still listed as 'under investigation' in the papers. Kurt had already read about five different versions of the events, noticing that each listed the 'recent transfer, Blaine Anderson' as the general hero of the tale. Blaine's parents, however, seemed indifferent to the event on a whole; aside from the phone call, Kurt hadn't had word from either of them.
They should want to know what's going on. They shouldn't be this understanding. What's wrong with them? Their son was nearly burned alive, and they haven't even told him that he has to come home.
Yes, something was very, very strange about the Andersons, and Kurt wasn't sure he liked it. At all.
"I smell pancakes."
Finn's public service announcement was largely ignored as he stepped into the kitchen, lead more by instinct towards the stove than actual awareness. Kurt, wanting something to do with his hands, had made enough breakfast to satisfy ten people, which would keep Finn satisfied until about noon before he complained that he was 'starving' again. Kurt didn't know if he honestly was just hungry all the time or enjoyed food that much; either way, he was still as lean as ever, never putting on more than a couple pounds at any time.
Piling six of the eight pancakes Kurt had prepared onto one plate, Finn sank down into one of the chairs and happily devoured the first one in four bites.
"Finn, I do not want to see you digesting your food," Kurt said loudly, still looking down at his Vogue magazine as Finn opened his mouth to shovel down another pancake.
"Sorry," Finn muttered thickly before swallowing.
Kurt sighed and shook his head. "I should go check on Blaine, anyway," he said, shutting his magazine and picking it and his coffee up with him.
Blaine was exactly where he had left him, reclining on the couch with a misty-eyed expression on his face. It cleared a little as Kurt entered the room, brightening to its usual satisfaction as he smiled. His face was still a little gray from the smoke. "Morning," he said, his voice slightly thinner than usual. Sore throat, Kurt deduced, taking his usual seat in front of the couch. "Anything good?"
Kurt shrugged a shoulder half-heartedly. "Somewhat. It's an older issue."
Blaine smiled a little. "Finn?"
"Devouring pancakes whole," Kurt said, shaking his head. "I think I'm scarred for life. Remind me never to be nice to him again."
"Mmm. 'Kay." With only a slight wince, Blaine propped himself up until he was actually sitting upright, draping his legs carefully over the edge of the couch. Kurt winced slightly at the sight of the burns, involuntarily averting his gaze. Blaine didn't seem bothered, probably anticipating the reaction. Kurt felt a little guilty—he wasn't even the one burned and he couldn't stand to look at it—but Blaine shifted until he was standing and walked carefully towards the bathroom.
Kurt watched him disappear around the corner before returning his attention to his phone as it vibrated.
Did you buy him a pony yet?
Smiling slightly, Kurt typed back, Not yet. I'm still torn between a chestnut or palomino.
I'd go palomino, Mercedes suggested. Chestnut's overrated.
Kurt held it together for three seconds before he couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. Of all things, he was most happy that Brittany, Mercedes, and Blaine were okay. Brittany and Mercedes were even miraculously unscathed (no doubt Blaine's decision to go first had an impact on that) aside from minimal side effects from moderate smoke inhalation. Mercedes had insisted that Kurt owed Blaine every magical creature under the sea for being 'too noble for his own good,' which Kurt was more than happy to joke around with.
Still there, white boy?
Still here, Kurt assured, looking up as Blaine walked back into the room, carrying a plate of pancakes and giving Kurt a wounded look.
You didn't offer?
Kurt rolled his eyes slightly. You didn't ask.
A pause. Then his phone vibrated. Go make out with your boyfriend, Mercedes wrote.
Kurt choked. Blaine gave him a concerned look, which was impressive, considering one cheek bulged with pancake. You okay?
Waving a hand half-frantically and typing back, Mercedes! with what he hoped was enough indignation to put her off, Kurt rolled his eyes to avoid blushing.
He could almost hear her laugh when she responded. Have fun, white boy. At least give him a hug from me. He seriously deserves it.
Shaking his head to himself and ignoring Blaine as he tilted his head to one side curiously, Kurt replied, I'll let him know. And I'm glad you're safe, too, you know.
I know. But your beau deserves all the credit for this one.
My beau, Kurt thought as he turned to look at said-beau. Blaine was watching him with an expression of mingled curiosity and resignation.
You're not going to tell me?
"Mercedes," was all Kurt said.
Blaine hummed in understanding. "She okay?" he asked after swallowing another bite of pancake.
"She's fine," Kurt assured, "and she still thinks I owe you a pony."
Blaine chewed his pancake slowly, looking thoughtful. "I could work with that," he said at last.
Kurt rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Of course you could."
"I can't believe I know you personally," Rachel bubbled the instant Kurt left to grab their coffees. "This is perfect. Not only do I have on-scene relations to the incident, but I know you."
Blaine blinked, shrugging a little. "Glad to be of assistance," he said, doing his best not to speak. Whenever Finn's girlfriend came over he wasn't quite sure what he should and should not say, which was usually no problem, since Rachel had enough to say to rewrite the Encyclopedia Britannica. Contributing to the conversation wasn't a prerequisite of making Rachel Berry happy; in fact, the less Blaine talked, the happier she seemed, taking the silences as excuses to keep talking.
"I can write all about this in my biography from an on-scene perspective. That is novel gold. This could be the single most exciting non-music related event of my high school career."
"That's, um, good," Blaine said. Don't encourage anything, he reminded himself, remembering what Kurt had said about Rachel and encouragement.
"Chapter four would be the ideal placement for it, since it's early in the novel but not too early. I could incorporate your heroics in as well," she assured with a nonchalant air. He blushed a little. He knew that everyone was talking about his 'heroics,' but honestly, he just hadn't wanted to end up as a human torch. The unintended notoriety was exactly that: unintentional. Even the patrons in the Lima Bean were giving him sideways looks, seemingly unable to help checking again to see if it really was the Blaine Anderson. Blaine, on the other hand, kept simultaneously checking his sweats to see if they covered his ankles. The burns there did merit at least some staring.
". . . but I don't want to enter the trauma too early," Rachel sighed as Kurt reappeared with his and Blaine's coffees in hand. Blaine grinned gratefully and accepted his with his 'good' left hand. The right had a bandage along it that was still extremely tender; the left was relatively unharmed, only used to push aside the tables.
"Rachel, as fascinating as your future bestseller will undoubtedly be, don't you think you should preserve its secrets else someone else decide to write it first?" Kurt asked dryly.
Rachel's hands clenched around her coffee cup so tightly Blaine actually braced himself for a spray of coffee before she shook her head and released it. "You're absolutely right," she said in that same dazed voice Blaine had come to associate with 'I can't believe you figured something out before I did.'
Kurt smirked in satisfaction. He seemed to be the only person who could effectively bring down Rachel's 'queen of the universe' high, and while Blaine knew he shouldn't be grateful for it, he was glad that someone still had the metaphorical ego-popping pin.
"And I agree that we need more organization in glee club," Kurt said suddenly.
Both Rachel and Blaine gaped. More accurately: Rachel gaped, Blaine half-choked on his coffee and then gaped.
"You're kidding," he practically wheezed while Rachel said in a very self-satisfied tone, "Thank you, Kurt."
"Are you serious?" Blaine asked, still a little breathless from half-choking.
"I'm glad someone else has finally seen reason in this club," Rachel continued, oblivious to his reaction. "We need someone in charge—"
"I didn't say anything about anyone in charge," Kurt broke in calmly.
Again, Blaine's and Rachel's reactions were identical with one minor adjustment: Blaine simply looked thunderstruck, while storm clouds were quickly occluding Rachel's cheerful demeanor.
"You can't expect to keep everything organized without a president," she began stiffly.
"So you don't support a president?" Blaine chipped in, confused.
"We need someone besides Mr. Schuester who can keep track of our setlists and routines," Rachel went on.
"I'm confused," Blaine added eloquently.
Kurt shook his head at both of them, nursing his coffee in one hand. "We don't need a president, but we do need organization. Did neither of you notice how no oneseemed concerned that three students were missing when the fire started?"
Well, in accordance with the general standards at McKinley, that didn't exactly exceed my expectations, Blaine's cynical side remarked absentmindedly.
Blaine inwardly rolled his eyes at himself. There are plenty of reasons not to have noticed three missing students.
"And these weren't just any students," Kurt continued, ignoring Rachel's stormy gaze. "These were our friends. We should have been keeping track of everyone. We're supposed to be a team. How can we be a team if we can't even keep track of a third of our members?"
"This is why we need a president," Rachel insisted. "Someone who can—"
"No. We don't need a president. But we do need unity. Mr. Schue's right." Kurt shrugged a shoulder. "If we're going to make it to competitions this year—if we're going to make it this year—then we need to be better organized. We have to look out for each other. And if someone's missing, or in trouble, or whatever, we need to do something about it."
A long pause. At last, Blaine cleared his throat a little and prompted, "I think that's reasonable."
Rachel sniffed. "You're trying to thwart my presidency already," she said.
Kurt closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and staring at Rachel seriously. "People's lives are more important than transcripts, Rachel," he said quietly. "This isn't about you anymore. This is about everyone. What if it had been Artie in there? Or just Brittany? Or Puck, or Finn, or anyone? We need to stick together, and a president would only create this false sense of superiority."
Rachel looked slightly pained as she considered the names he threw out, seeming reluctant to answer. At last, she conceded with a long sigh. "I suppose we can postpone the election."
Kurt inclined his head a little. "For now, thank you."
Well, at least we don't need to convince Puck to vote for Brittany anymore, Blaine mused.
"You're an okay guy, Anderson. Saving somebody's else's girl is pretty noble. Saving my girl is downright saint-like."
Blaine grinned slightly, grateful to be relieved from listening to Rachel chatter on. Kurt had told him that Mercedes and Marcus were at the food court and wanted to meet up with them. Bravely agreeing to fend off Rachel until Finn arrived from Burt's shop, Kurt would come around once Finn appeared. For the moment, sitting across from Mercedes' boyfriend in a booth, Blaine was glad that he had accepted to leave early.
"You can be saint-like all you want as long as you don't touch my tots," Mercedes said warningly, sliding in beside Marcus and smiling up at him. "That includes you, babe."
Marcus made a disgruntled noise before saying nonchalantly, "I'll just mooch off the saint."
Blaine lifted an arm in mock indignation to defend his basket of churros which Mercedes had insisted on buying since she 'owed him' for saving her life. Blaine had rolled his eyes and tried to tell her that he didn't want to put a price on it, but she had insisted and despite the general low-class of the rest of Lima food, the churros were surprisingly good.
"Do I get free churros if I save you from a burning building?" Marcus asked, genuine consideration in his voice.
Mercedes punched him in the shoulder. "No, but I will cut you if you try to save anyone from a burning building. Only one glee guy per year can put himself in mortal danger to save someone else."
"But I'm only half a glee guy," Marcus protested. "I'm like . . . a mascot or something. How's that even count?"
"Because I said so," Mercedes said sweetly.
Shaking his head at the general banter, Blaine yelped when Marcus reached over and casually liberated him of two of his churros. "Gotta have faster reflexes than that, Saint Anderson."
"Be nice to him," Mercedes said, rolling her eyes and taking back one of the churros and setting it back on the basket. "If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here, and if I wasn't here, then there wouldn't be any churros to speak of right now."
Marcus squinted at Blaine for several moments before shaking his head and depositing the churro back on the otherwise untouched pile. "You got off lucky this time, Andy," he said in a tone of mock-disappointment.
"His name's Blaine," Mercedes reminded.
"Yeah, but now that he's Saint Anderson it's easier to just say 'Andy' rather than 'Anderson' all the time. Agreed?"
Blaine shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat."
"See, even the saint agrees," Marcus said as though nothing could possibly refute his argument. "But seriously, Blaine, you ever need anything, you got it. We're here for you."
"Absolutely," Mercedes agreed.
"And we don't let anyone mess with our saint," Marcus finished in a tone of great satisfaction. "'Specially that guy with all the slushies. Though it's nice of him to have such a giving heart. I swear, I don't even need to pack my own drinks anymore. He's better than clockwork."
Blaine hid a smile as he picked up a churro, nearly jumping out a his skin when someone nudged his mostly unharmed shoulder lightly. "At last, the Berry has left the building," Kurt said with a deep sigh, sinking into the booth.
"Who's Berry?" Marcus asked, mouth full of a churro he had slipped away while Kurt scooted into the booth, Mercedes and Blaine both distracted by his arrival.
"Rachel. The most obsessive person I have ever met."
"Mm. She the one that talks a lot? Short, brown hair, big eyes?"
"That's her," Kurt agreed.
Marcus grunted. "She mistook me for a mountain gorilla my first day."
"She mistakes everyone for some form of animal at one point or another," Kurt assured. "Although Brittany already took care of mine."
"What're you?" Blaine asked, curious.
Kurt flushed a little and picked at a churro distractedly, clearly embarassed. Blaine, unable to resist the opportunity, waited patiently. At last, Kurt muttered, "You know. . . ."
"I do . . . ?"
Scowling at his plate, Kurt said very quickly, "Dolphin," and bit into the churro before Blaine could say anything.
Marcus grinned. "Dolphin?" he repeated.
Kurt's face flushed redder. "It's just her—made-up way of referring to—you know."
"Gay people," Blaine elaborated, smiling slightly at Kurt. "And I don't think it's that bad. Kind of cute, actually."
"Say one more word on the subject and I will denounce you for life," Kurt said seriously.
"Oh, look, they've finally installed a new slushy machine here."
"That's been here for weeks," Marcus pointed out.
"I'm subtly changing the topic," Blaine stage-whispered, while Mercedes just laughed.
Kurt scowled at them all, still blushing scarlet.
Blaine stood in the fresh midnight air and breathed in the calmness, imagining what it would be like if the world lived at midnight. Everything was so subdued, so muted: shades of blue and purple and violet dominated a landscape opaque and oblique. He wanted to reach out and capture the night itself in his palm, tuck it away for those moments during the day when everything else felt too chaotic and he needed a moment of peace. Right now, the outdoors was soothing in a way that even Kurt's house couldn't be. All he could taste in his throat was the acrid stench of smoke, a distinct thread of the flame itself seeming to be lodged there.
The memories were too recent for him to have forgotten what the days were like when he was finally released from the hospital after the Sadie Hawkins dance incident. He had used anger as a shield and frustration as a lance, spearing anyone who dared stepped within his gaping, vulnerable pit of emotions. He didn't want anyone venturing there—there was too much for him alone to comprehend, but he didn't want anyone else seeing that sacred, weak part of him as well—and had fended off prying questions and eyes with as much coldness as he could.
Now, however, coldness wasn't an option. The people he was associating with weren't nameless doctors and nurses who brought morphine and pity in equal proportions. They weren't newspaper reporters hounding the door waiting for his statement about the incident. They weren't dog-eyed investigators, baleful, solemn gazes unfazed even as he related the tortured incident.
They were people like Kurt, and his family, and Mercedes and Rachel and everyone else he'd come to know in Lima. He couldn't shunt them aside so easily, but at moments like this, he wished that one of them had been around so he could. His emotions felt tight, wound, twisted in a knot in the wrong direction. He had to reverse the chiropratic nightmare before he could possibly reconsider entering the house.
So he walked.
Barefoot, with only his sweats and hoodie for protection, he padded silently down the sidewalk, letting the night solicit him. It was soothing, in its own way, to be away from civilization for a while, even if it was only in the sense of his mental isolation. Everyone was still present—there were still quiet homes around him, lights out and inhabitants similarly asleep. He had just ventured outside the usual realm of life and stepped into his own place, where he could, at last, be alone with his thoughts.
The cement under his bare feet was vaguely sharp, but that didn't stop him from walking to the end of the block. His sense of direction was passable at best, but that didn't stop him from turning the first corner, and the next, and the next.
His neck was prickling with suspicion, but that didn't stop him from turning around and walking back.
It should have.
Blaine awoke with a start, nearly jerking upright as his left side gave a painful throb where the burns were. He had known that something like this would happen—the Sadie Hawkins dance had permanently branded the memory in his mind—but it didn't make it any easier to convince his mind that he wasn't in danger. You're at Kurt's place, he told himself fiercely. Not a basement, not the parking lot . . . Kurt's place.
Still, as images from both the chemistry lab and Sadie Hawkins night drifted eerily through his mind, Blaine couldn't shake the suffocating feeling of helplessness he felt.Am I doomed to repeat it? he wondered, tasting bile. Is this what will happen again if I stay at a public school?
But no, this had nothing to do with public school. Had it not been for Dalton's 'zero tolerance policy,' then he could have faced the same prejudices there (still unlikely, given the pedigree of students that generally entered). In the real world, he would certainly face the same assumptions, the same jeers. The same threats, too.
Climbing laboriously to feet that didn't want to cooperate, Blaine dropped the blanket onto the couch and walked slowly up the staircase. His legs protested with every slight bending of the knee, the barely healed burns still unpleasantly painful at times. With a resolution born from a desperation to avoid being left alone in the dark below again, Blaine managed to reach the top hallway.
He blinked stupidly at the sliver of light underneath Kurt's bedroom door, staggering over there almost reflexively, and gently tapped the doorjamb.
There was an almost audible pause from within before he heard the bed shifting. At last, Kurt appeared, holding the door open with a curious expression. "You're still awake?" he asked, sounding surprised.
Blaine shrugged once and wrapped his arm around his left side involuntarily. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"No, it's okay," Kurt assured, gently grabbing his arm and guiding him inside, shutting the door behind him. He's not supposed to do that, Blaine thought even as he crawled gratefully to the empty side of the mess of papers Kurt had out on his bed.
"What're these for?" he asked, fingering one of the papers with his bandaged hand.
Kurt shrugged and gathered them together in one pile, setting it down on his vanity. "PFLAG," he said simply.
Blaine hummed. "You don't have to do it alone," he muttered. He was oddly grateful that Kurt had shut the door and left his light on, even though both had nothing to do with him. It felt safe, protected, outside of the influences of the world beyond. Blaine relaxed without conscious thought, only grimacing when one of his legs brushed against a piece of paper. Kurt picked it up a moment later. "Sorry," he repeated quietly.
"You're fine," Kurt assured. "Although," he added, gently opening the door a smidgen as he turned off the lights, "you're kind of breaking the whole 'don't sleep in the same bed' rule."
Blaine would have said 'Sorry' a third time, but Kurt had already slid into the warm space nearby, comfortable and warm. "Are you okay?" Kurt asked seriously, after an uncountable period of time had passed in silence. "You're being very quiet."
"I'm sleeping," Blaine replied, unable to help himself.
He could almost see Kurt roll his eyes. "Of course you are," he said. Then, with a grin that was almost visible: "Which means that I'm allowed to do this, since you're 'sleeping' anyway."
Scooting a little closer, Kurt draped an arm casually over Blaine's waist, silently inviting him closer. Blaine didn't respond aloud; he simply dropped his head forward and let it rest against Kurt's collarbone, the warm, solid, comforting presence of his boyfriend enough to chase the residual aches away.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Blaine could actually feel the vibrations in Kurt's chest as he replied softly, "You're welcome."