AN: You may have noticed by now that my Blaine calls his mother, 'Mama.' I don't know why. At least he's consistent.
Warning: This chapter contains undiagnosed OCD and underage drinking. Sort of.
-#-
Kurt's throat closed, his chest suddenly so full of panic and denial, exhales crashing into inhales, that he couldn't form a coherent thought that didn't start with 'nonononono' and end with 'can't be happening.'
"Blaine!"
He was better. Blaine was better. He got the ICD so this couldn't happen.
"Blaine!" He didn't swim through the motions now, sleep fully erased and synapses firing in every muscle of his body, taking Blaine's undershirt by the fistful and shaking him. "Blaine!"
It couldn't happen. It couldn't.
"BLAINE!"
-#-
Blaine didn't remember setting an alarm. In fact, he didn't remember much after the final slump and sigh other than Kurt unceremoniously tossing his underclothes onto the bed beside him and opening his eyes some minutes later to find the room cloaked in darkness and butterfly kisses ghosting over his shoulder. He supposed Kurt might have set an alarm, but that's what wakeup calls were for.
Whatever had started the high-pitched din, Blaine was doing his level best to ignore it until the bed started to shift beside him. He imagined Kurt reaching for the clock or phone or television remote, whatever it was that would stop the wailing, and sighed into is pillow in anticipation of the good morning kiss that was sure to follow.
He'd almost completely slipped back into the thick sponge of sleep when the entire bed jolted. He opened eyes, suddenly hyper aware that the noise had never ceased, and now the entire world shifted in counterpoint, forcing him to sit up and take stock of his surroundings. His entire under shirt twisted as he rose, the collar pulling at his neck hard enough to burn before he realized Kurt had hold of it and wasn't about to let go.
"Kurt?"
Rising up onto one elbow, it took him a minute to make out the shape of Kurt lying beside him. A single stripe of street light from between the curtains rippled over his chest as it rose and fell in tempest as if trapped under some crushing weight, each breath a cresting wave of agony capped off by an indecipherable albatross cry. Reaching above him, Blaine found the switch for the reading lamp over his head, then dropped his hand to grip the one fisted in his shirt as he turned into the sink in the mattress. Kurt's eyelids convulsed over rippling sockets, trapped in a nightmare as his jaw clamped to near tetany around whatever scream was clawing up his throat in choked punctuation to every heave of his chest.
Wrenching Kurt's hand free, Blaine tried to stroke him into waking by massaging his thumb into the sweating palm and jiggling his wrist. "Kurt! C'mon."
When that only caused Kurt to suck in a heaving breath, jaw unclenching even as his nostrils flared, Blaine writhed around, feet still twisted in the bedsheet and knuckled into his ribcage, no longer inviting a response but pulling one out by the root.
"BLAINE!"
Kurt choked on the scream, eyes wide open in the span of a heartbeat to find Blaine leaning over him, brow furrowed as he thumbed over Kurt's cheekbone.
"Kurt?"
Fast, tight breaths deepened into long tenuous draws as recognition dawned, Blaine's gaze locking onto Kurt, an anchor chain through the rippling turmoil.
"It's okay," Blaine soothed. "It's just a dre..." His words were cut off as Kurt heaved himself up, arms wrapping Blaine in a vice grip that knocked him onto his back.
His sobs broke Blaine, a desperate keening wail that scraped over every nerve ending so that he met Kurt's onslaught of open-mouthed cries, ropes of tears and spit joining lips to throat, with a full body clutch, fingernails cutting through thin cotton and shoulders burning as Blaine pressed his own desperate kisses again and again to the top of Kurt's head and waited for the shaking to stop.
After a while the heaving quieted to more of an exhausted slosh and sigh, the wail to a chant, "okokokokok."
The way Kurt turned his ear so that it was directly over Blaine's heart as he held his breath and listened to it pound in his chest, it wasn't hard to guess what Kurt's dream had been about.
"It's okay," he soothed. "I'm okay."
A stuttered, hiccupping inhale, and a fresh swell of hot tears soaked through Blaine's t-shirt. Kurt choked, "I-I woke up, and we were h-here, but when I tried to wake you...y-you, you were..."
"I'm fine," Blaine whispered, smoothing the tension with a continuous stroke of his palm up and down between Kurt's shoulder blades until the space between them opened and he sighed deeper into Blaine's embrace. "It was just a dream."
"But it could happen."
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"No, I don't." Blaine let himself go still, metered his own breathing as he wagered a truce with the truth. "But I have to believe it won't. I can't be afraid it will happen and be afraid of the thing that's supposed to stop it at the same time. I couldn't take a breath if I did that."
He felt Kurt's fingers ghosting over the scar under his collarbone, exposed by the stretched neckline of his shirt, feather light touches over the slight bulge beneath it. "I know," Kurt sniffed. "I don't even... I don't know where that came from. Yesterday, last night, this... all of it...it's been so perfect. I'm so happy. I don't know why...why now?" A beat, then two as they matched breaths. "Is this what it's like for you?"
Blaine's voice felt sticky, his tongue thick and heavy at the opening of his throat. "Mmm, sometimes, maybe. It probably would be if I wasn't... if I didn't have the help I do."
Kurt's next breath was more of a sigh, the tide of desperation having ebbed. He tilted his head up, eyes sliding slowly as if they were following the tear tracks along Blaine's stubbled jaw and up over his cheekbones until they were locked with Blaine's. "I don't want you to be sick anymore."
"I know." Blaine sighed as well, his arms folding a little tighter around Kurt's torso, "But you should know that being here with you, like this, makes me feel..."
Kurt picked at the growing wet spot in Blaine's t-shirt where it was soaked with tears and saliva, and whatever else had leaked out of him when his soul oozed out. "Soggy?"
Blaine rolled his eyes. "No...invincible."
"Really?"
"Kurt," Blaine thumbed along the jut of Kurt's jaw to make sure they were looking directly into each other's eyes when he said, "we're going to make it... to forever."
"Promise?"
"I promise." And he did. Not because it was in his power to make it so, but because love and hope were infinite, and he knew exactly where to find both.
-#-
"I wish your dad was here," Pam sighed, her eyes fixed on the road ahead as it was illuminated by the headlights, too early yet for natural light to filter through the fog of an early thaw.
"Me, too," Blaine agreed, "especially if they want to do another biopsy. I really don't think I'd have made it through the last one if he hadn't been there." He hated going into these things blind. 'Tests,' he'd come to learn, could mean anything from a simple blood draw to minor outpatient surgery. Since he was being admitted for the day, hence the godawful hour, he had a feeling there'd be more involved than 'a little stick' that they could cover with a smiley face band-aid.
"You're feeling better, though, right?"
Blaine knew she was referring to the cold he'd been getting over when he went in for his checkup a couple weeks ago, right after he got shocked. Fortunately, he hadn't experienced more than a mild pacing charge since then and hadn't had a cold symptom in over a week. Dr. Schwartzmann hadn't wanted to do more than examine his incision and interrogate the ICD while he still had the cold, but taking into account the other complaints, headache, lack of appetite, and the tired, rundown feeling he'd been fighting, they'd set him up for more tests, which was how they found themselves making the trip to Columbus again. Blaine would've much rather been taking the American Civics exam he'd been excused from, blocking music at Cheerios practice, or singing another Barry Manilow or Spice Girls song for the guilty pleasures week he and Sam had organized for glee while Mr. Schue was on his honeymoon.
"Yeah, I mean, I still have the headache most of the time, but I'm starting to think that's my wisdom teeth moving again."
"Hmm, I'm sorry we had to re-arrange the dentist appointment for this. I remember how miserable I was when my wisdom teeth came in," his mom commiserated.
Blaine shrugged. "It's not that bad, yet." He would know. And the tight little frown his mother gave him said she was sorry he had anything worse by which to compare it.
For some reason, that was the one injury they never talked much about. Broken bones, major or minor internal bleeding, brain contusions and collapsed lungs could happen in a car accident, maybe, or playing football, maybe in a tragic show choir accident, he supposed, like falling into an orchestra pit or something. Out of context and other than the fact that they could've, and nearly did, kill him, none of those injuries was particularly horrifying. None carried any particular humiliation.
But something about knowing someone hated him enough to kick the teeth right out of his head...
Yeah, they were all glad it had been his back teeth, and once he'd recovered from the final oral surgery to remove the broken roots from his jaw, they didn't spend much time talking about what lay behind that open, toothy smile. Once his wisdom teeth stopped moving, they could replace the missing molars with implants, and it would be just like it never happened. So, bring on the headaches and the occasional urge to drive a nail through his jaw bone. He'd had worse.
"Oh, I forgot to ask, did you pack an overnight bag, honey? Just in case?"
"In case of what exactly? They're just tests, Mama." No way was he spending the night. He was doing Phil Collins in glee tomorrow.
"Well, if they find something..."
Blaine clenched his jaw and shoved himself back in the seat, fingernails dug into the armrests and ground out a 'hmmf' of denial through his nose. "That's not really how these things work, is it? Usually they spend all day running the tests and don't have any results 'til, like, a week later."
His mother gave him a beat or two to relax, then nodded. "Probably so. Did you at least bring something to read? If they make you wait in the room between tests like they usually do, you're going to get bored."
"I'll probably just nap or watch television."
"Blaine you haven't napped since you were in kindergarten."
"What can I say?" he grumbled. "I've found a new appreciation."
"There's no need to snipe at me," she scolded.
"I'm not." He was, but he didn't really know why, just so... tired of being tired, he supposed, which was no one's fault. His sigh fogged the glass on the window. "I'm sorry, Mama. It's really early."
"I know, baby." He'd barely relaxed in his seat, when she added, "Here's our exit. Almost there."
He glanced at the clock on the dash. 5:47 a.m. Yeah, it was way too early.
-#-
He was already admitted, changed into a ridiculous paper gown, and had endured the drawing of enough blood to feed a really small vampire when the nurse came in to start his I.V., the first confirmation that he was in for a very, very long day.
"It's just saline for now, dear," she reassured, "but it will save you extra sticks when they do the contrast dye and sedatives later on. You might get a little cold. Just let us know if you need extra blankets."
He tried not to show his disappointment, waiting until she'd left the room to flop his head back into the pillow. While he'd suspected the tests would be numerous and complex, he'd still somehow managed to hope that maybe he'd be out and home in time to make Glee practice. If they were doing contrast dyes and sedation, there was no chance of that. Even with his mom to drive, they wouldn't release him until the sedation had mostly worn off, and he knew from experience that it took him longer than most.
"I hope you didn't make dinner reservations," he grumbled. Between the suggestion of food and the smell of the rich McCafé his mother had been nursing for the last two hours, his stomach gave a growl that verbalized his frustration.
"I'm sorry, honey. I know you were hoping for an early day, but I just hope they actually find something useful with these tests for a change. I'm tired of seeing you like this."
Blaine didn't say anything. He'd actually thought he was doing a better job of hiding just how exhausted he was. He couldn't have been doing half bad, or she wouldn't have let him stay with Kurt after Mr. Schue's wedding, but he was definitely ready to be done with this cold or flu or whatever it was. They both turned toward the door, his mom standing from her seat as Dr. Luxeter came in and shook their hands.
"Mrs. Anderson, Blaine," he greeted. "Back for round two, are we?"
"Three," Blaine corrected, though Dr. Luxeter hadn't been present for Blaine's initial diagnosis.
"Right," he granted with a nod. "I'm sorry you had to come in so early. We scheduled quite a full day for you but wanted to make sure we had some wiggle room to move things around based on how you were feeling when you got here. I hear you're getting over a cold?" He released his hold on Blaine's face where he'd been shining a light in his eyes as Blaine nodded. "And you're feeling better, now?"
Blaine shrugged. "Mostly, I guess. I mean, I'm not stuffed up or coughing anymore but I'm still kind of tired, and I feel kind of puffy and bloated like when I had all that drainage going on."
"Tired, how?"
"Um, I don't know, like I'm usually fine, but I might mince choreography if it means I have to cover a lot of ground, like sometimes it just doesn't seem worth the effort, I guess."
Luxeter's chin dipped almost imperceptibly, "Breathlessness?"
"Not often, but yeah, sometimes," Blaine admitted, "I definitely don't remember there being that many stairs in the auditorium," he joked.
The doctor took that in, already feeling for swollen glands. "I see, and the nurse says you're still running a low grade fever."
"Does that affect anything?" his mother asked. "Test wise, I mean? Dr. Schwartzmann wouldn't do any tests as long as he still had the cold, and we already had to cancel a dental appointment to be here today."
"That's understandable," Dr. Luxeter granted, shoving his pen into the pocket of his lab coat after making a few notations on his chart. "A viral infection can confound some test results, and it's common practice to wait until it's run its course before committing too many resources to tests they might have to redo otherwise." Then, addressing the second part of her statement. "You cancelled a dental appointment? So, you haven't had any recent dental procedures, cleaning or scraping of any kind? That kind of thing can also throw a wrench into some of our results."
"No, not since last spring."
"Well, that's all good, then." Luxeter seemed pleased, clasping his hands.
"So you're going to go ahead, even if he's not completely over his cold?" Pam pressed.
Luxeter nodded thoughtfully. "I think, at this point, it's probably safe to say that any symptoms you're having are not cold-related."
"Then what are they?" Blaine asked.
"That's what we're here to find out, now, isn't it?"
"Do you think it's his heart?" Pam speculated. "Is he getting worse? The ICD was supposed to help..."
The doctor lifted a hand, chin tilting down as he interrupted, "The ICD manages symptoms. It doesn't treat the condition. And whether or not Blaine's current symptoms are a result of something that's going on with his ARVC or are caused by something else, there's a definite chance that whatever it turns out to be will affect his heart in the long term." At his mom's somewhat stricken expression, one that Blaine was doing his best to keep tamped down himself, Luxeter smiled reassuringly, "Which is why we're pulling out all the stops. I have the utmost confidence that, while it may take several days to get some of the test results back, by the end of today we'll know enough about what's going on with you, Blaine, to make some pretty confident steps to manage it better than we are now."
"What do you think we need to change?" Blaine asked. "I don't think I can handle many more restrictions."
"Well, after reviewing all of the uploads from your ICD, I'm a little concerned."
"About what, exactly?" Pam prompted. Blaine raised his eyebrows. He was expecting her to deflect.
"It's been long enough since Blaine's diagnosis that we should be seeing a more dramatic response to the medication. He should not still be having multiple episodes of NSVT on a daily basis. I'm well aware that you've got some substantial... um, emotional stress, and that can trigger minor episodes. However, that wouldn't explain the other symptoms."
"Well, if not the cold, then what else would it be?" Blaine wondered.
"He wasn't really complaining about anything before he got the ICD," his mother noted. "Could that be it? I know they told us there was a possibility of infection, but..."
"It is a possibility, one which I hope to rule out, because that's one complication we definitely don't want."
"Because you'd have to take it out again, right?"
"Possibly." The doctor patted Blaine's knee, "But that's why we're here, right? To sift through all the possibilities until we know for sure. Now, I see you've already had your blood draws. We'll get most of those results back by the end of the day, depending how backed up they are downstairs, and until then, we're going to do another chest X-ray and MRI to see if there's any progression with the cardiomyopathy, and if we see anything there, possibly another biopsy." Blaine's jaw tightened at the suggestion. Neither one of those tests had been pleasant the first time, and he'd never endured them back to back before. "BUT," the doctor reiterated, "hopefully we won't need to. A tech should be in here shortly to set you up with an EKG, a few more leads than we've used in the past, and luckily for you, there will be plenty of time for hanging out and watching television while we let that run. So, just get comfortable and try not to worry, okay? We'll take good care of you like we always do."
"Thank you, Doctor," Pam said, grasping Blaine's hand, as Luxeter dismissed himself. Blaine knew she thought he couldn't hear when she said, "Should've packed that overnight bag."
He really hoped she was wrong.
-#-
Though Blaine was thankful that his mom hadn't checked her phone or excused herself to take a call at all in the past few hours, he really wished she had found something more engaging on the television than reruns of 'Mork and Mindy.' He was as big a fan of Robin Williams as the next guy, but you had to sit through ninteen minutes or so of poorly written melodrama to get to the thirty seconds or so of truly inspired performance at the end where Mork delivered his observations to Orson. He wondered why she didn't just change it, when, halfway through the third episode, she started to obsessively check her watch. He was just about to call her out on it when she stood up.
"I'm sorry, honey," she apologized. "I have to run out to the car for a minute. You'll be all right here, won't you?"
"Well, if I'm not, I imagine there's someone around here who can help me," he snarked. In all honesty, he was contemplating how he was supposed to go to the bathroom without disconnecting himself from what looked like the entire power grid. He'd rather a nurse helped him with that, anyway.
"Blaine..." It was obvious she was trying not to scold him for being short with her.
"I'm fine, Mama."
"Well, all right then." She leaned over to give him a quick kiss on the forehead. "I'll be right back."
He followed her out the door with his gaze and was reaching for the call button to get that nurse to help him get to the bathroom when he noticed his mom had left her jacket and her purse in the chair on which she'd been sitting. Not a very convincing ruse, then. If she was bored sitting with him, she could've just said so. She didn't have to make up excuses to get out of the room.
He was still slightly miffed as he made his way back to bed, toting just the I.V. pole. The nurse was reconnecting all of his leads, when the door swung open as if it had been hit by a battering ram and in strolled Finn and Sam, each with a motorcycle helmet under his arm. His mom slipped in behind them, a somewhat coy smile on her face as she said, "Look what I found in the lobby."
"Blaine, bro," Sam greeted. "You didn't really think you could leave me to suffer through class while you're here hanging out with all these hot nurses."
Blaine returned his knuckle bump with a grin. "Last I checked, you had a girlfriend."
"Which is why Finn asked me to come as his wingman."
"Dude," Finn grinned. "Kurt told us you were stuck here all day. No way we were going to just let you sit here without dropping in to keep you company."
Blaine took in the matching helmets and raised a skeptical eyebrow at Sam. "Tell me he didn't drag you all the way here in that sidecar."
"What?" Finn scoffed. "He was testing it out for you. We're still doing that bro trip to visit Kurt once it warms up, right?"
"That depends," Blaine countered. "Did it pass the test?"
"Dude, it was a blast," Sam grinned. Then he shrugged, "Well, at least it was once we got on the highway." Turning to Finn, he added, "You really need to get that clutch checked out, though. We almost went through that intersection. It was a good thing no one was coming from the other direction."
"Yeah, man, that was kinda hairy," Finn admitted. "I guess it sticks a little when you first start it up. I'll get one of the guys at the garage to check it out."
"So," Sam said, switching gears, as he studied the readout on the EKG "What's the good word? You're passing all the tests with flying colors, right?"
Blaine scowled. "They haven't actually done any yet. Well," he corrected, pointing out the leads stuck all over his chest, "other than this one. They drew a bunch of blood, shined a light in my eyes, all the regular stuff. Still waiting for the real fun to begin. I hope you guys brought cards or something, because it's going to be a long day."
Finn shoved Sam's shoulder. "You did bring the cards, right?"
"Better!" He reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a handful of dice and a pad of paper. "Pocket Yahtzee!"
Blaine couldn't help but grin at his enthusiasm. That grinned faded quickly, however, when a young guy in a lab coat came into the room.
"I hate to break up the party," he apologized, "But I'm here to take Blaine for his X-rays."
Blaine sighed. "Well, all right then. Let's get this show on the road, I guess. You guys start without me."
"No problem, man," Finn said, patting him on the shoulder as the technician disconnected the EKG and attached the IV bag to a hook on the side of the bed. "We'll be here when you get back."
-#-
And they were there.
When he came back from X-ray, and they had an hour to play Yahtzee while the doctor looked at the scans.
When the nurse came in to inject the contrast dye before he was wheeled off to his MRI, and Finn and Sam speculated about the superpowers it might bestow upon him and shared groans of disappointment when they found out it wasn't actually radioactive.
When he came back from MRI, and another group of techs did a diagnostic scan of his ICD and the presets, while Sam gave a play-by-play as the entire cast of "Grey's Anatomy."
When Blaine had a minor freak-out at the prospect of enduring another cardiac biopsy without his dad in the theatre, and Finn distracted him by walking through their setlist options for Regionals while they waited for the sedative to finally kick in.
So, they were there, too, when they were waiting for some orderly or other to come and wheel Blaine down to the surgical theatre, and Dr. Luxeter showed up instead. He entered with his clipboard in hand, his pen pinched against it with one thumb, and raised an amused eyebrow at the state of the room, which bore all the trademarks of having been occupied by three teenaged boys for the greater part of a day.
"Well, I guess now I know why my interns kept volunteering to for 'the party room,'" he quipped. "I thought they were exaggerating."
"I'm sorry, Doctor," Pam apologized, "I tried to keep things down to a dull roar. I hope they didn't disturb anyone."
"No," he countered. "Quite the opposite. The staff seems to enjoy having them. Due to the nature of what we do here, things do tend to get rather somber from time to time. Not many people would voluntarily spend a whole day just 'hanging out' here."
"Well, my son does have... extraordinary... friends," she smiled.
Blaine fist-bumped Sam with a slightly groggy smile to show his appreciation.
"I have to say," Pam segued, "we weren't expecting you, just yet. They told us an orderly would be coming to get Blaine."
"And that was the plan," the doctor nodded, "but I'm afraid there's been a slight change of plans." He lifted the clipboard from his side and held it out in front of him, the bottom pressed into his stomach. He nodded toward Finn and Sam. "We've got some of the test results back. Would you prefer to discuss them here or..." He lifted his eyes suggestively toward where Finn and Sam were seated on the opposite side of the bed.
"They can stay," Blaine interjected. Then, glancing up at them, "If you guys want to, that is. If this stuff makes you uncomfortable..."
"Dude, you're the one with wires and needles jammed everywhere," Finn pointed out. "What do we have to be uncomfortable about?"
"Yeah," Sam agreed, facing the doctor. "I've been watching you put my bro, here, through the wringer all day. If he's okay with it, and it doesn't go against some hospital policy, I'd kinda like to know what you found out."
Blaine tilted his head in thanks, registered his mother's nod of consent, and turned his attention back to the doctor.
"Well, all right, then," he conceded. "While the MRI and X-ray don't show any substantial advancement of the cardiomyopathy when compared to previous scans, it appears as though the anti-inflammatory treatment hasn't really been effective either, and the ICD data seems to indicate that Blaine is still in what we call a 'hot' phase of the condition. We were going to attempt a second myocardial biopsy to get a better idea of what's going on at the cellular level, but we just got some of the blood work back."
"What did it show?" Blaine asked.
Luxeter's chin tightened. "Unfortunately, you seem to have some kind of infection going on, Blaine. And without knowing for certain where it's originating from or whether it's metastasized from the site of infection, I don't want to risk doing anything invasive and possibly spreading the infection to your heart, if it isn't there already."
"Is it the ICD?" Pam ventured. "I know you said that was one complication we really hoped to rule out."
With a resigned straightening of his lips, the doctor nodded, obviously having recalled that conversation from earlier. "In all honesty, I don't think it is the ICD or the leads. There's no heat or tenderness around the implant site, and no localized inflammation that we can see either externally or on the scans, so far. However, we can't rule it out entirely without further tests."
"What kind of tests?" Blaine had dropped his gaze to the back of his hand where his thumb nervously traced up and down the veins.
"We're still going to take you down to the surgical theater, but instead of the catheterization, we're going to insert a probe through your esophagus and take an ultrasound of your heart that way."
"Because that's so much less invasive..." Blaine grumbled, a phantom gag already tickling his throat.
Luxeter conceded that it probably didn't sound pleasant with a half-shrug and sideways quirk of his facial features but continued. "We should be able to see any pockets of infection around the ICD leads or the device itself, if that's where it's starting. Whether or not we determine the ICD to be the cause, we're still going to want to keep you here, at least overnight, I'm afraid, so we can start you on IV antibiotics. I can't stress enough how important it is to get a jump on this before it can exacerbate your condition further. And if it is the ICD, then we'll have to seriously consider removing the device, as that's the only surefire cure for an infection in the implantation site."
Blaine's ears started ringing as soon as the doctor said he was staying overnight, and as much as he wanted to hear what came after that, most of it was lost between his eardrum and the part of his brain that was supposed to actually make sense of it. His mom knew how disappointed he was and rested her hand on the bed beside his arm, fingertips grazing just below his IV.
"But he needs the ICD," she said.
"Once again, I want to reiterate that I don't think the infection is related to the ICD, but if we do have to remove it, there would be no contraindication to implanting a new one once he's completely clear."
"But what if that's not the cause?" Finn this time, who didn't even seem to consider whether he was allowed to ask questions. Blaine had noticed he really didn't think about propriety once that giant furrow of concern had formed between his eyebrows. It was one of the things Blaine had really come to admire about him. "I mean, if that's not the problem, and you can't cure it by taking it out, then what do you do?"
"That's where things get tricky," Luxeter shrugged. "It could be anything from a urinary tract infection to sinusitis or even food poisoning. Most of those can be cleared up with antibiotic therapy. We'll still do the IV antibiotics and send him home with a course of orals to hopefully knock out the infection that's there now while we do some cultures to try and pin it down so we can keep it from coming back. If we can't pin it down, we'll do some more blood draws in a week to see if the antibiotics did their job and go from there."
"So, is he going to get better?" Sam followed Finn's lead.
Luxeter nodded. "It's too early to say whether there will be any long term effects, specifically in regard to the progression of his ARVC, but I am at nearly 100% certain that once we clear this up, he will definitely feel better than he does now."
"Well, then," his mom's voice had a slight waver to it, "that's good news, then. Right, honey?" she asked, squeezing Blaine's arm.
Blaine closed his eyes. Sure it was. It was good news. He wanted to feel better. He was going to feel better. That was the most important thing, so he didn't know why he was embarrassing himself by sitting there while the collar of his gown got mysteriously damp.
He always did react badly to sedation.
-#-
"Ninety-nine degrees," Blaine divulged, "I'm pretty sure that extra point four degrees is due to the fact that we're practically stacked like sardines in here. And look," he lifted a plate from his lap, a half -eaten slice of pizza nearly sliding off as he tilted it toward the camera, "actual food that I'm actually eating."
Kurt nodded, taking in the way Blaine grinned back at him from his spot on the couch where he was practically crushed between Tina and Sam. He did seem to be doing better after being on the antibiotics for nearly a week already. Kurt had been worried when Mrs. Anderson called him from the hospital last week and told him they were keeping Blaine overnight, and Blaine hadn't been in particularly good spirits the next day himself, since he'd spent another entire day being poked and prodded with no conclusive answers as to whether he was getting better or worse. But as the antibiotics started to work and he had, indeed, started to feel much better, everyone seemed to have come to the conclusion that the mysterious infection had been the root of all his problems. Even if they never got more conclusive results, clearing that up was worth the roundabout diagnosis.
Besides, with Tubbington Bop looming on the horizon of Brittany's Pringle's can, there had been a slight shift in perspective for everyone. No point in worrying over something as trivial as a heart condition when they were all nearly past their expiration date.
He shook his head at the amount of chaos the New Directions were wrecking on the Anderson living room. He wasn't particularly fond of sharing their Skype time, but since the entire Glee club had gathered in Blaine's living room at the drop of a hat for a 'Yay, the World's Not Ending But Now We Have To Finish All The Homework We Didn't Do While Preparing Apocalypse Later Songs To Perform in Glee Tomorrow Celebration Extravaganza' the options were to share their Skype time or cancel it altogether. Kurt could cyber share, once in a while.
Besides, it eased some of the anxiety that had been fizzing at his nerve endings like the mist over a freshly opened Coke to see Blaine safe and secure and surrounded by friends who cared about keeping each other that way.
In fact, he sort of wished the third option was a teleporter that would beam him directly into the throng. With Brody moving out and Rachel spending more time outside the loft away from every possible reminder, and Santana pre-occupied looking for work, Kurt had been alone for several hours a night every day since Blaine's last round of tests almost a week ago. Suddenly his and Blaine's standing phone/Skype date had just not been enough. It had taken his dad reminding him that he'd already bought a ticket to come home for Regionals in just a couple of weeks and couldn't miss more school this close to finals to keep him from jumping on a plane and spending the next seven days firmly attached at the hip with his boyfriend, thermometer and ICD telemetry wand at the ready.
As it was, they'd had to make do with two phone dates a night. The second, usually around 2 a.m. when he woke, drenched in sweat and strangling in his bedclothes, from some version of the same nightmare that'd haunted him since Valentine's Day, never quite had the same ability to soothe him back to sleep as having Blaine there in his arms had.
"Good, good," Kurt commented, noncommittally, trying not look as if he was mentally removing any digital filters Blaine might potentially be hiding behind. In the background, Marley started to sing along with a YouTube instrumental version of "Turn To Stone," by Ingrid Michaelson, and they all went silent for a moment before nodding their approval.
Blaine used the distraction to ask the question Kurt knew he'd been avoiding. He knew because Blaine had already asked it via text several times that day, and Kurt had deflected every time, twice with anecdotes about Elliott, the amazing new talent they'd discovered for Pamela Lansbury, and twice more with Elliott's glowing account of the music program at Tisch.
"So, I missed your call last night," Blaine prompted, ducking a little closer to his laptop after glancing around to make sure everyone else was distracted. "I'm sorry... you know, if I maybe said too much during our Skype. It's just, Mr. Schue's assignment really got me thinking, and..."
"No," Kurt interrupted. "That was... thank you for that. Really. I guess I got distracted working on my American Composers paper and figured I'd let you sleep."
It was only half a lie. He had been working on that paper most of the night, but only because that hour he and Blaine had spent pouring their hearts out to each other over the phone as part of Mr. Schue's 'Say What You Need To Say,' assignment had rendered him officially unable to sleep... or unwilling, and it really only took twenty minutes or so to rearrange his wardrobe so that he only wore bright, positive vibe invoking colors from then until Blaine was completely in the clear. He didn't mention that he'd passed most of his afternoon while Blaine was still in school polishing all of his shoes (exactly twenty-one buffs of the brush on each toe cap, upper, quarter, and vamp after letting the polish dry for exactly twenty-one minutes) and ordering extra pairs of sky blue socks.
The way Blaine looked back at him, skeptical but obviously reluctant to press for more in mixed company, suggested maybe Kurt was the one who needed to install filters on his internet camera. "So, basically you didn't sleep at all last night."
Damn, either Blaine was getting really good at reading between the lines, or Kurt was getting much worse at obfuscation. Either way, he was touched that Blaine noticed. "Maybe."
"Okay." The picture jostled as Blaine picked up the computer and moved to stand up. "Let me just try and find a little privacy, because we are going to talk."
"About what, Blaine?" Kurt tried to sound dismissive, wasn't actually sure whether he wanted to say more than he already had.
"About, you, Kurt. There's obviously more going on with you than you're saying, and if I have to lock myself in the bathroom, we are going to have some alone time. And then, I am going to sing you to sleep to the dulcet tones of..." He made an oomph as someone, either Ryder or Jake judging by the musculature of the momentary chest shot that blocked the camera, spun into him while practicing impromptu choreography between the furniture.
"Blaine, no... Look, I'm feeling much better seeing you having a good time. I'll be fine. Just," and he raised his voice loud enough to be heard over the chaos, "make sure those bumbling buffoons leave you in one piece." Then, with what he hoped came off as a gleam in his eye, he added. "I'm the only one that gets to make you fall apart."
"And put me back together?" Gaga, there was that adorable head duck and eyelash shutter that made Kurt's heart jump into his throat every time.
"And put you back together." It was a promise.
"All right, then," Blaine glanced over his shoulder. "They're calling me to pick a song. I'm thinking 'Pompeii,' by Bastille. Or maybe 'It's Time' by Imagine Dragons. What do you think?"
"I think you better get singing before they start a riot. It's okay, Blaine. I'll talk to you later."
"You'll call me, you know, if you need to, right? My phone is always on."
"I have a good feeling about tonight," Kurt deflected.
"That's called exhaustion, Kurt. I'm serious," Blaine pressed. "You get some sleep and you call me if you can't."
"I love you."
"Love you right back," Blaine cooed. A second later he was yanked away without closing the Skype session. The camera spun to focus on Tina who waved uncomfortably before mouthing 'bye, Kurt' and ending the transmission.
Kurt closed his laptop and drummed his fingers over the lid as he eyed the curtain to his bed space. He knew he should take Blaine's advice and get some sleep, but... yeah... he just wanted to hold onto the image of Blaine happy and whole and safe for a while longer. He wasn't ready for cold, and still, and grey, and...
Yellow. He needed some sunshine yellow to go with his sky blue socks. He had yellow, didn't he? Sure, scarves, skinny jeans, a vest or three. No coats, though. That would look too much like a rain coat, and that would imply rain, and he was going for clear skies, only clear skies, and...
A red patent leather purse dropped on the table beside him, causing him to jump to attention, not even aware that he'd started to doze where he was sitting.
"Funny thing happened to me on the subway," Santana quipped, arms crossed over the plunging neckline of her red minidress. "Some guy calling himself 'Nightbird' texted me to say my services were required on the home front, and I quote, 'The Confident Color Schemer is gravely depleted of nighttime restoration. Report immediately to the loft and proceed with Operation Put Kurt to Bed. For this, Nightbird will be ever in your debt. You know what you have to do, Latin Leia, and you know it is right.'"
She rolled her eyes, but the quirk of her mouth suggested she was at least partially amused. She always did have a soft spot for Blaine. "All I can say is there better be a gold bikini in it for me." Sliding out a chair, she sat down sideways, the only manner she could manage in that dress and leaned in. "So, spill. And don't tell me Blaine's over-reacting. I'm only a curtain away from your 2 a.m. phone calls, and even if I didn't have this whole place miked for sound, I'd still know all of your secrets. That thing you do by throwing that creepy boyfriend pillow over your head while you talk into its memory foam chest ain't fooling anybody."
"It's just a little rough patch. Stress from school and anticipation about going home in a couple weeks. It's nothing to worry about."
"Well, I wasn't, not really. I mean, when you take a look at things from where I'm standing, it's kinda hard not to roll my eyes. There you are, living in the city of your dreams, accepted into the only school you applied to (which is either really ballsy or incredibly stupid), doting family back home, and a preppy little boyfriend so adorable that even I want to carry him around in my pocket. If you're losing sleep, it's gotta be about ending up as bald as your old man or whether any of us caught an STD from sharing a bathroom with Brody, and I ain't gots time for that."
She looked down at him from her upturned chin where she was splayed in her chair, one arm across the back and the other elbow on the table, fingers wrapped around her phone. "Except then I also got a message from Spongebob Finnpants that says, 'Check'—and that's a checkmark, which I'm pretty sure takes longer to insert in a message than it takes to type the actual word –
'on my bro. B is worried.'"
She looked back up at Kurt, blinking her false lashes to half-mast over her piercing eyes. "And I assume he only knows that 'B' is worried because you've got him watchdogging your boy toy when he's supposed to be getting his own half-baked education at Lima U. So, drop it on me. Just take whatever you got on our chest—most likely edema due to lack of circulation from those ridiculous skinny jeans you insist on wearing, because I know it's not hair—and lay it on me."
Kurt stood, his chair scraping across the floor, and he reached for the tea kettle. "You've been out all day job hunting. Let me make us some tea."
"I gots mine right here," she snarked, pulling a tiny bottle of Jim Beam out of her purse and taking a quick pull.
"Santana, you can't just carry alcohol around with you. You're underage. If you get caught with that on you..."
"They'll what? Take away my license? I don't even own a car." Noting his disapproval as he turned on the burner with a scowl, she added, "And don't bother pulling that judgmental twist outta your jock. I went to school in Louisville, remember? A bottle this size is strictly medicinal, and you'll notice it wasn't even open until I sat down here to talk about your white boy problems."
He sighed. "I'm fine, Santana. Too much caffeine before bed is all."
"He says as he steeps another cup of tea. Fine," she said, plunking her little bottle onto the tabletop. "If you won't talk about your problems, tell me about Blaine. Just, please try to do it without the sickening heart eyes if you can. I snarfed a Gyro on my way home, and I really don't want to know what that tastes like on the way back up." She nodded her chin at him, half invitation, half accusation. "So, what's up with ol' Jekyll and Hyde, and which one is better in bed? Enquiring minds want to know."
"Blaine's fine, too," Kurt said, a strange lurch in his stomach, even though it wasn't supposed to be a lie. "Well, he will be. He was kind of under the weather for a while, but the antibiotics are working. No temperature for almost a week, and his ICD hasn't intervened at all in almost two. He seems..." He gave pause, searching for the right word to sum up the change he'd been noticing in Blaine. "still. He seems still."
"Really?" She darted her eyes side to side, brow furrowed. "We're talking about the same person, right? Blaine Anderson, aka, the Tom Jones of McKinley High?"
"He's never been known as that." Kurt got a cup down from the cupboard and set out the cutting board to slice the lemon. "And yes, really. He's turned a corner, I think. He hasn't had any real episodes since before Mr. Schue's wedding, and I don't know. Maybe getting shocked turned out to be just what he needed to stop worrying about it and just let the ICD do its job. He seems more relaxed, I guess, more like his old self, hanging out with his friends, happy."
"Yeah, Britts sent me this sickeningly cute pic of the whole glee club piled on the Andersons' couch not forty-five minutes ago, your Warbler looking as dapper as ever, even in that Cheerios uniform." She flashed the picture at Kurt but didn't actually hold it up long enough for him to get a good look. "So, if he's fine and back at school, why are you still waking up in the middle of the night shouting his name? I know it's not a recurring sex dream, and if it is, then Anderson needs to work on his game, because those are not moans of ecstasy."
"Why does anyone have nightmares, Santana? If there was a logical reason for it, don't you think I'd have thought it out during the day and put it to rest before I even tried to sleep?"
"Well, maybe that's the problem. You're only looking for a logical reason. In Auntie Tana's experience, fear is completely illogical. If it were logical, then I would be the most fearless bitch on the planet. So, why don't we start with what your dreams are actually about. My Mexican Third Eye is pretty good at picking up on subtext. Maybe I can make some sense of it? C'mon, what you got—slow motion running, erectile dysfunction, the condom broke? Lay it on me." She wiggled her fingers toward her temples and dropped her chin, which Kurt figured was supposed to indicate the opening of her Mexican Third Eye.
"Nothing as metaphorical as that," he mumbled, focusing on slicing the lemon in perfectly even slices without cutting off his fingertips. in his mind he calculated the exact number of quarter inch slices he could get from a three inch lemon with the ends removed.
One, two, three.
"Kurt..."
"I dream he dies."
Four, five, six.
"Which we all will, eventually."
"No, I dream we're asleep together, like right now, and when I wake up..."
Seven, eight, nine.
"He doesn't. I-I try to shake him, but he's just, cold. He's gone, and there's nothing I can do except hold him and scream."
Ten, eleven... the last slice was too thin. What did that mean? Did that mean his dream would come true now? It did, didn't it? No, no, he couldn't let that happen. He needed to fix it. He needed... "I need another lemon." The knife clattered to the cutting board as he spun for the fruit bowl on the other end of the counter. "I didn't get that one right."
"Kurt, Blaine's got half of Lima, Ohio looking out for him. If he's not fine, he's going to be. Nothing bad is going to happen to him just because you're not there."
"I know that."
One, two.
"And I know that what's going on with him is nothing I could stop even if I was there. But it just..."
Three, four.
"For a long time it seemed like he never had anything but setbacks, like we could never get a full breath before the next big punch to the gut. First, t-there was the ARVC, then the depression, then bipolar. And then when he started to get a handle on that, his ARVC went hot, and the ICD was supposed to manage the symptoms and keep him safe, but the first time it did its job it triggered this bipolar...rage, which I was definitely not ready for, because no one ever talks about that part of it, like it's this big secret, and then, WHAM!"
Five, six.
"The ICD shocked him while he was asleep, for crying out loud, ASLEEP, which practically gave him a panic attack, and now they're saying this infection could have long term effects... but he's just...still."
Seven, eight.
"It's like… nothing has ever really gotten better before, how can he... how can anybody believe it's better now?"
Nine.
"But that's how this whole therapy thing works, though, right? One day at a time, and live the moment you're in. Sounds like he really is doing better."
Ten.
"I know, and I'm happy for him. I am. And I'm so proud to be with him, just knowing how hard he's willing to fight, but I can't help but feel like we're letting our guard down too early. Like, we're on the cusp of something really, really bad, and it's going to hit us completely out of the blue because we're not paying attention to what the universe is trying to tell us and not doing anything to stop it."
Eleven, twel..."Crap!" This time he almost stabbed himself in the foot by setting the knife down with too much force and too close to the edge so it tipped over and clattered to the floor. "I need another lemon!"
Santana intercepted him on the way to the fruit bowl and switched off the burner as the kettle began to whistle. "Hey! Hey, hey!"
Kurt flinched, picturing that moment in those old commercials where the guy was freaking out until someone slapped him, and then he grinned and said 'thanks, I needed that.'
He wouldn't put it past Santana to slap him, but she didn't. Instead, she fisted her raised hand into the shoulder of his shirt and held him at arm's length while she stared him down, her other hand pointing in his face. "You stop right there and listen to me, okay? I know that things have been bumpy for you two this past year, and I know it sucks. I hear you go on and on about everything that's going wrong for Blaine, and I know you love him, so you're frustrated and scared, but the way I see it, you're overlooking the one thing that's going right." She grasped his chin and made him look at her.
"You, Hummel. Blaine has you, and what the two of you have is something some people never get in their whole lives. No matter what crap life is throwing at the both of you right now, I can't help but think it gave you each other to make sure you'd come out the other side. And you will, together." She dropped his chin. "So says my Mexican Third Eye. And that is why Blaine is better and that is why even though he knows there will always be setbacks, he isn't standing around waiting for the next one to happen, because he knows you will make it better. Just like you always do."
Kurt digested the words and wished for a second he'd been slicing onion instead of lemon, because then he'd have a legitimate reason to burst into tears. But just like fear, tears were illogical, and these were feral as well, giant whooping sobs that ripped him open as she pulled him into a hug. "But for now, let's take care of you, okay? Because I know a certain curly-haired Cheerio captain that needs you, and you're not any good to anyone like this."
"Thank you," he sobbed.
"Here, let me get that 'tea' for you," she offered, pressing him back into his chair. She grabbed the bottle of Jim Beam with a flourish. "Likes I said, medicinal," she explained, putting three full glugs into the bottom of his tea cup before she added the water. "We'll call it Irish," she shrugged, taking another hit herself, which effectively drained the bottle.
He wasn't sure whether lemon and honey complemented bourbon, but he added some of each on top of his Earl Grey. Chamomile would have been more appropriate for bed time, but he'd pretty much depleted their stock of that. He was eyeing it skeptically and about to take a hesitant sip when Santana's phone vibrated on the tabletop. She reached for it but shook her finger at him in the process.
"That is not Milady's sippy tea. Toss that puppy," she scolded, then glanced at her phone before flipping his computer back open. He did as he was told, raising a quizzical brow at the same time as he stifled a cough. "Apparently the Bat Signal has gone up."
Of course, Santana knew his password, and when the burn had quieted enough for him to open his eyes, Kurt spun away again in horror to find an open Skype conversation in front of him—Blaine, Sam, and half the glee club all around the piano in Blaine's sitting room.
His hair was a mess, and his eyes were probably red and swollen. He couldn't be seen like that.
"Kurt..." Blaine greeted, his voice soft and consoling. "C'mon, you didn't really think I'd hang up on our date just to hang out with these clowns, did you?"
Kurt sniffled but didn't turn around, his shoulders slumped as he tried to straighten his hair with trembling fingertips. "Blaine, I..."
"No, don't say a word. You are going to take your gorgeous but tired, drooping ass back behind that curtain, put on your pajamas—the silk ones I got you for Christmas with the little pocket in the shirt where I know you like to keep a little sachet spritzed with my aftershave—step into your slippers, and grab that fluffy blanket off the linen rack—you know the one, that one we used to snuggle under while we watched our favorite musicals on your laptop—and then come back out here and get snuggled up on the couch while Santana sets this computer up on the coffee table." A pause as Kurt found his feet somehow cemented to the floor. "Go on. We'll wait."
Kurt did as he was told, taking an extra minute to dab the corners of his eyes and apply some gel for the puffiness before shuffling out to the sofa. He couldn't help but grin when he caught Blaine's eyes over Santana's shoulder, gleaming bright with love and inspiration.
"Okay, now get snuggled up on the end of this couch. Just, I don't know, push Santana down to the other end or throw your feet over her lap or something. It is of utmost importance that you are completely comfy, because I have dragged all of these lovely people away from their neglected homework just to sing you to sleep."
"It's only eight o'clock." Kurt's words objected, but his body sagged into the cushions, nonetheless. "And I still have to moisturize."
There it was again, that adorable head tilt, complete with twinkling eyes and ducked chin that made Kurt melt so completely there wasn't a weight in the world he couldn't slide out from beneath. When the piano plinked the intro, he immediately recognized the song as one that was inspired by the "Hunger Games." Still entertaining the fantasy of becoming a Capitol Stylist in another lifetime, Kurt couldn't even find it in himself to criticize the use of a Taylor Swift song. Sam's accompanying guitar lent it a more mellow, richer timbre than the original, and when Blaine picked up the lyrics, his voice made the song.
(Safe and Sound, Taylor Swift)
"Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire
The war outside our door keeps raging on
Hold onto this lullaby even when the music's gone, gone."
By the time Kitty, Marley and Tina picked up the harmonies on the chorus, Kurt was already nearly asleep.
"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down
You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now
Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound."
Maybe it was the song, or Blaine's voice singing it. Maybe it was the way Santana pulled his legs across her lap and rubbed back and forth over his shin. It could have been the weeks of broken and restless sleep, and the fear of whatever was on the horizon that kept him ever vigilant. More than likely, it was a combination of all those things, plus the soothing scent of Blaine's aftershave from the sachet in his pocket.
Kurt was asleep before the second chorus, and stayed that way until dawn.
"Safe and sound."
-TBC
AN: I picture Blaine's version of the song to sound to be one of the guy covers you could find on YouTube if this site didn't make it so difficult to share links. And I apologize for the dream. That wasn't even supposed to happen. I was just thinking things were going entirely too well, there, and Kurt was so happy… and then he woke up… and somehow that image of Blaine just came to me.