Chapter Four: Coffee and Dandelions
Blaine loved the winter. He loved the feeling of snow melting in his untamed curls, his rosy cheeks tingling as the breeze nipped at them like an affectionate puppy, the dandelions turning white and puffy as they blew in the raw wind. He loved the smell of wood and chocolate, the sight of frozen lakes and naked trees, and most of all, the taste of the Lima Bean coffee that was, for the next three months, in charge of keeping him from dying of hypothermia (or suffering from the tragic illness known as the hospital cafeteria). But, even though he loved all of these things, Blaine was not well-known for sitting out in the cold on the two-foot-wide balcony of their tiny apartment with his overheated laptop as his only source of heat, which is why his roommate was currently digging around the cupboards for the warmest blankets he could find.
As he wrapped the Disney blanket around the shivering man's shoulders, Wes sighed, resting a hand tentatively on the laptop. "Come inside, Nightbird. We need to talk."
At the serious tone of his voice, Blaine looked up and nodded. Wes gently pushed the device shut, escorting Blaine back into the room and latching the door.
Hazel eyes stared uneasily up at him, but their owner remained silent as Wes darted around the kitchenette, assembling his uninspired but well-meaning version of a medium drip. The coffee changed hands, and Blaine brought it to his chapped lips, wincing as cold mug touched his skin, not yet warmed by the boiling liquid. "Thank you," he whispered, too afraid to break the peaceful atmosphere that seemed to only have settled around him.
Yet for some reason, Wes was compelled to match his tone. "You know I would do anything for you," he muttered, taking the opposite seat. Blaine frowned, eyebrows scrunching.
"It's a coffee, Wes."
"I know." He eyed the laptop on the counter. "But I need you to know that."
"I do," Blaine replied.
Wes leaned forward. "Answer me this, Blaine. Why were you out there in the cold?"
"The WiFi is better out there," he stated matter-of-factly yet without meeting his friend's gaze. "I needed to get some research done."
"Blaine, look at me." He lifted his head, and Wes saw in his eyes a muddle of exhaustion, unhappiness, and the unfailing dedication he had become accustomed to over the years. "I know you have finals in two weeks, but this is ridiculous. Please, you need to take care of yourself if you want to take care of others."
Lips parting, Blaine nodded, looking almost relieved. "They should put that on a t-shirt and sell it at the hospital," he joked, a hollow air to his voice as he downed the rest of his drink.
Picking up the empty mug, Wes eyed him, worry etched on his face. "Go to bed, B. You need to be in class bright and early."
Blaine rose, taking his fogged glasses off and folding in the sides. "Thanks again, Wes. And goodnight." Disappearing into his bedroom, Blaine's footsteps quieted, and the roommate settled himself onto a stool in front of the counter.
Pulling the discarded laptop towards himself, Wes hesitated, glancing back towards the closed bedroom door. Blaine was nowhere in sight, and the quiet, breathy snores that Wes only heard when the man was really and truly exhausted carried into the kitchen, just as melodious as his singing voice.
There was a fine line he drew between caring for his friend and invading his privacy, but Wes knew when something was wrong. And right now? Something was wrong.
He cracked open the laptop, typing in the password. There, opened, were several tabs across the top of the screen; from what he could see, they were made up of medical jargon. It was far out of his realm of understanding but enough for him to gather that Blaine was studying head trauma in extensive detail.
That was normal. Blaine was a med student studying medicine. Maybe Wes' instinct was wrong, just this once.
Even then, as he guiltily closed the laptop and shoved it away from himself, the pit in his stomach would not ease. Perhaps it was indigestion, or maybe a stomach ulcer. He figured he'd best consult WebMD.
To bring himself to the Lima Bean after classes, Blaine had to force one foot in front of the other. He was certain he'd have bailed and settled for instant coffee had anyone other than Marley and Sebastian been waiting for him there - Marley because she was too sweet to disappoint, and Bas because he would have kicked him where it hurt if he deserted them again. Luckily for him, there was a steaming medium drip waiting at the table when he arrived, and suddenly he felt a little less like death incarnate.
"Thank you. You are my life force," he breathed, immediately taking a long gulp. Coffee and research seemed to be all he did these days.
"You're clearly talking to the coffee, but thanks," Marley laughed, shaking her head. "It's nice to see you again, Blaine."
"You saw him an hour ago," Bas pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, but we haven't hung out like this for ages," she replied, taking a sip of her own drink. "Don't get me wrong, I love school. But this is where the real party is at."
Blaine smiled into his styrofoam cup. "Quite a party this is."
"Shut up! You know what I mean," she giggled, glaring at him. Her face contorted weirdly as she wore the conflicting expressions on it. Dipping his finger in the cupcake she ordered, Blaine swiped icing across her nose, and she shrieked with laughter, flushing when she realized that they were still in public.
"Ass," she muttered, shooting him a badly-concealed smile.
Bas smirked. "You guys are adorable together."
Blaine snorted, flipping him off, and Marley mirrored his movements. "He's more likely to end up with Hunter than with either of us," she pointed out, hands on her hips.
Sebastian faked hurt. "I'm wounded. Are you saying I'm not his type?"
"Not a chance in Hell," Blaine interjected.
"You might wanna tell Cooper that," he retorted, hiding a knowing smile behind his cappuccino. Blaine slammed his hand down on the table dramatically.
"Damn that son of a-"
"Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch. He merely told me about a lovely dream of his." He grinned, wide and eerie like a Cheshire cat. "Besides, isn't it you who always goes on about dreams?"
Blaine scowled. "Touché."
"I think it's sweet," Marley intervened. "The way we choose to live our lives... we've sacrificed a lot. None of this is how we imagined we'd be back when we were teenagers. But keeping that hope, wanting for love, I don't think there's anything wrong with that."
The two men fell silent, lost in the meaning of her words. "I wish we'd known you back then," Blaine mused as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The tug in his chest, the emptiness that had been growing and growing was threatening to tear open right then and engulf him.
"I don't know that you would have liked me," she replied uncertainly, eyes hardening a smidge as she stared at her untouched brownie. "I was... different."
"I think we all were," Sebastian said, leaning back in his chair. "We grew up, realized things that changed us, that changed our dreams. All I wanted was to get out of school and never look back, and now here we are." He coughed a couple times before breaking his demeanour, grinning wildly once again. "At least Christmas is close."
"But so are finals," Blaine added nonchalantly, resisting the urge to grab his book bag and start studying right there and then.
Marley groaned, attempting to ignore the awkward air of broken seriousness. "Finals are a bitch."
"No, not just *a* bitch. Several bitches. Like, in a line, waiting to pummel my ass," Sebastian complained. "I'm especially screwed for the code blue lab."
He paused, glancing at Blaine. They had been careful of mentioning the incident at the hospital, since Blaine had been the only one there. He hadn't been the same since, and neither had the rest of the hospital staff - it had been a long and hard night, the worst Lima had seen in their careers, and it still wasn't resolved. Not until everyone who had come in was either dead or alive, nothing in between.
"You can ask about it," Blaine said, fiddling with his cell phone. "I'm not sure I'll be much help, but you can always ask."
And so they did. Blaine answered as much as he could, but he could hardly remember anything before... before *his* arrival. The blur of papers and IVs and things he could do in his sleep had been broken by returning sirens and a blue-eyed boy on a stretcher who needed things that Blaine couldn't give him - and for Blaine, that was the worst possible thing.
Blaine Anderson was the man who took care of everyone but himself, and he was okay with that. But Kurt?
He needed to take care of Kurt.
"Those are lovely," said the grey-haired woman behind the counter. Her eyes crinkled around the corners as her lips turned up, watching him finger the petals of a vibrant bouquet. He was focused, stopping at each display and analyzing, as though he was a computer and his eyes had the capability to determine which flower would bring his companion the most joy merely by having them by the bed, illuminated by whatever light the bedroom window allowed in. There was a curiosity, too, as it was not love she saw in his expressive eyes - rather, emotion just as intense, but of a different origin.
"Yes," he replied, not appraising or being polite, only stating an objective fact. They were intricate, cylindrical yet tangled like wrestling eagles, white as the fresh sheets of a hotel bed - not roses but a different kind of flower that he didn't know the name of. He wanted them for that reason, too, as they were just as beautiful and deserved the recognition. Blaine was always one to appreciate beautiful things... like those flowers.
She stepped out from behind the counter, grabbing a paper wrap. "For a special someone?" He did not reply, too entranced in the light of the flowers. They were not illuminated by the frosted window, no... they seemed to be creating light from within them, as though they were little pieces of the sun on Earth, and each second his eyes perceived such beauty, the hole in his chest grew larger, wider.
"Hmm?" he hummed, brought back by her gentle hand on his shoulder. "For a... an acquaintance. Recently in the hospital."
"May your acquaintance recover in good health," she replied, eyeing the bouquet.
Blaine tensed. "Thank you." The woman moved to pick up the bouquet to wrap, but he stopped her with a gentle hand. He continued, voice constricted, "Please, do me one favour, and I will buy a dozen bouquets."
She froze, stunned. "What is it?"
"Please," he croaked, tears filling his eyes, "sell these flowers to someone truly in love."
A dozen colourful bouquets in his trunk but not one of pure, beautiful white, Blaine drove towards the hospital with tears drying on his cheeks and three fleecy dandelions resting gently on the passenger's seat, picked carefully from the ground outside the flower shop.
Maybe it had been hours, or seconds, or minutes or even enough time so that the sun had set completely and the moon, hiding in its shadow for so long, had finally risen to the top of the sky and was riding out its maybe nine or ten hours of fame, but however long it had been, Blaine did not notice. He didn't notice the thick, chemical smell of iodoform or the throbbing headache he got from staring at the uniform white walls. He didn't notice the constant wail of sirens or the incessant ring of telephones, the heavy air of loss or the passionate devotion of gain.
What Blaine did notice, however, were the waves of the heart monitor and the mechanical rise and fall of the sleeping boy's chest.
He watched vigilantly, yet still out of the corner of his eye, holding on desperately to his styrofoam cup of coffee. It was half empty, having lost its heat long ago, and had the consistency of... well, cold coffee. Still, he took mindless sips of it.
Rise, fall. Rise, fall. He checked - the monitor was steady. He looked back. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. A sip of coffee without removing his eyes.
The room wasn't empty; it never was. Not in the last four days. Well, there had been a moment on the third day at 11:56 pm when the middle-aged man and his wife had left the room, but a boy had taken their place, just as miserable. He looked about Kurt's age, perhaps in his late teens. He must have been Finn Hudson, the step-brother, the one who found... the body.
Blaine waited outside, always. He watched Kurt's vitals from out of sight, made certain he was never too far; he began to study in his brother's office after school, sometimes even sleeping there or in a call room (his brother had connections, but unfortunately was in the habit of asking questions, to which Blaine was in the habit of bullshitting answers). In class, his feet tapped against the floor anxiously, and his mind was far away.
It wasn't like Blaine didn't wonder why he was so fixated on the unconscious boy. He even debated asking Wes, who had a dual degree in psychology and English literature - of course, he ruled out that option, as it was basically signing up to never see Kurt again, the mere thought of which made his stomach churn and his throat close up. He concluded that his preoccupation was just because Kurt was his first real challenge, his first chance to do what he had been studying for almost seven years. He told himself that until Kurt was one way or the other, alive or... dead, he wouldn't have closure, his job wouldn't be done.
That was why his heart clenched with every irregular heartbeat, why he couldn't concentrate when he was far away. That was why he felt weaker with every passing day that Kurt remained comatose in that bed, why he could never, despite noticing every blue thing in sight, find the shade of his eyes anywhere else, as though there was no name to the colour, no other object on the face of the Earth with the same hue.
It was because he needed closure that he felt all of those things.
On the twelfth night of Kurt's coma, Blaine found himself outside of an empty room. The frightening man with murder in his eyes, the tender woman by his side, and the boy whose eyes carried the guilt of a million prisons were out of sight, perhaps down in the cafeteria or out by the curb, getting some fresh air. It seemed almost unfit for such characters to be in as mundane a place as this, as though their destiny was to be out there, as though they had a purpose. Kurt Hummel was not exempt from this observation.
The lights were off in the room, making Blaine's tired eyes droop as they landed on the boy. Illuminated by the light beneath his bed, he was as always, motionless on the uncomfortable hospital mattress, wires protruding from his body at every angle. The superficial bruises on his face had faded, the cut on his lip mending, and his beauty only grew with each passing day.
Closer than he had been in weeks, Blaine stood in the threshold, listening to the hum of the vending machine at the end of the hallway, watching the monitor light up, waiting for something that wasn't going to happen; after a moment, two, three, he began to measure time by the number of Kurt's heartbeats. He could measure everything by Kurt, he realized in a dangerous thought.
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, but stayed so far away that the handle pressed into his back painfully. Clearing his throat, he whispered into the darkness a simple, "Hello."
The darkness did not reply, not that he expected it to. "I'm Blaine," he croaked, voice hoarse and dry from lack of use, as he stepped further inside. "You're Kurt, right? I don't know if you remember me, but we met twelve nights ago when you visited the hospital."
Hesitantly, he sat in the bedside chair. "I'm sorry if this is too personal, but I've been... wanting to talk to you for a while. I don't really know why. And I'm scared-" He stopped abruptly. "Look at me, complaining about being scared. You must be terrified. I don't know what it must feel like in your head right now, Kurt." His hand hovered over the boy's, but he shook his head, retracting it.
"Please," he whispered, unconsciously leaning away from him as though he would break at an accidental touch. "If you can hear me, try something for me. Just... take a moment. Push away all the bad things around you, and focus on this, right now."
A pause. The clearing of a throat. A gentle melody filling the air, rough and scratchy and the most beautiful sound to ever fill that dismal hospital room. The pop song, while having entirely unfitting lyrics for the situation, was somehow perfect in that moment, and the gentle tenor seemed to change the meaning entirely.
As he finished the last chorus, Blaine let out a meaningful breath. "I remember hearing that song on the radio for the first time," he murmured. "It reminded me of how love is supposed to feel. I figured you could use some reminding that, no matter how dark it gets in there, love will always be real out here." He placed his hand beside Kurt's on the bed, not touching but with enough pressure to dip the bed slightly. "Courage, Kurt. I'll see you soon."
Blaine stood, having said his piece. He left, not knowing how long it would be before he got another moment with Kurt. Outside the room, he stopped at the glass window overlooking the room. He ran his finger along the dusty windowsill where a glass vase sat, the delicate home to eleven wispy dandelions. Inside, he placed another. Twelve dandelions for twelve days.
It was nearing midnight now, and the thirteenth day was approaching, but Blaine knew there was no space left in the vase. His heart began to pound, palms sweaty as panic overwhelmed him.
It was at that exact moment, 11:59 pm on the twelfth night of his coma, that Kurt's heart monitor exploded into a frenzy of deafening beeps.