She adjusts slowly to Columbus. It's hard. She feels like she'd been exiled by the trial.
She misses her mother, which may or may not be strange after their tumultuous four years. Growing up, she was her father's little princess and her mother was the perfect wife. Then, she got pregnant, and everything changed. She got kicked out and moved in with the Jones. Dr. Jones was a pediatrician, and she and the other Dr. Jones had balanced their careers when Mercedes' older brother, TJ had been born. When she moved back in with Judy, after Beth and the divorce, it was like they were strangers. They still fought like mother and daughter, but that was the only way they communicated. After her accident, somehow, the relationship changed. Judy opened up to her daughter. It turned out that Quinn's mother had hopes and dreams before she married Calvin Fabray. There was more in Judy's head than china patterns, church socials, charity balls and clean carpets. Quinn isn't sure she wants to grow up to be a woman like her mother. In fact, if she had to choose, she thinks that growing up to be Liz Cohen wouldn't be bad. But, Judy Fabray is a close second.
She misses New Directions, which is strange after he self-imposed exile. She misses sitting by the pool in her stylish one-piece watching Puck, Finn, Mike and Sam play each other in two-on-two basketball or chicken fights with Artie and Finn against Blaine and Puck. She misses sleepovers with Tina and Mercedes where Tina would paint her nails and Mercedes would turn up the music and they'd dance until Mr. Chang threatened to make them go sleep outside. She misses shopping expeditions with Kurt and Rachel. And, she misses sneaking into movies with Santana and Brittany. Even if the other girls just sit in the back row and make out, it's still fun. She hasn't paid for a movie ticket since she began high school. They Skype and Facebook, but it isn't the same. She misses her friends.
She misses her office. Liz was a good boss; she encouraged her to set up an organizational system and made sure the girl was comfortable. Tina's mother was more likely than her employee to send the blonde home on days she was in pain. And, Thad isn't a bad person to work with. Worthington and Howell and Carlyle and St James (Jesse's more ambitious sister) are a tight little clique. No one wants to play in the sandbox or share their cookies and juice with the new girl who walks funny.
The only bright spot in her life right now are Sebastian and her housemates.
Sebastian still has the Columbus-Lima Courier run, so he's not around as much as she'd like. But, he's made a point to bring her coffee in the morning (drinkable stuff from Starbucks or that he brewed at home) or sometimes a cup of tea. They don't have lunch together, but on nights he doesn't have support group and she doesn't have PT, they'll eat dinner and gossip. He brings her all the exciting, and not so exciting news from Lima. Like the fact that Tina and Mike have broken up. Or that Kurt has finally found the zebra print hoodie Mercedes used to wear when they were sophomores and is having a ritualistic burning of it in the Cohen-Chang's yard. (Okay, so most of the gossip is Cohen-Chang related, but that's okay). He also mentions that he's going to kill someone if he has to go to the Gap with Trent one more time. She makes a mental note to drag him into the offending store before the end of the summer.
At first, she thought it would be strange to live with two boys, even if one of them was gay and the other she'd known for most of her life. This is her first time living with only guys. She never had brothers growing up, and all her male cousins were older and lived far away. Her daddy was the only man she'd ever shared a house with, and they'd never shared a bathroom. The truth is that it takes a bit of getting used to. Even in the Anderson's palatial home, she somehow manages to find toilets with their lids up. She's screamed both times she's fallen in.
Blaine, or more likely the housekeeper and maid, set up a suite of rooms on the first floor for her. There was a sitting room that connected to a garden, a small bedroom and an in suite. The walls were a soothing gray and decorated with seascapes. The bed had been made up with a neat gray spread, but she replaced it with her pink and blue quilt from home. Her grandmother had made it for her when she was five out of pieces of her old baby clothes and scraps left over from dresses she'd worn. And, amid squiggly patterns, quilted into the fabric were hearts, stars, 5's and the letters L, Q, and F. The floors were hardwood, without rugs, and the bathroom spacious. When she'd first seen the grab bars, she'd asked Blaine if he'd installed them. "My great grandfather lived here," Blaine explained sheepishly.
Her wheelchair mostly stays folded in the closet. Blaine and Wes didn't do anything but offer to help when her mom unloaded the wheelchair, crutches, and shower chair from the car. They seem to have decided that she will talk about it, if she wants to, but they don't push in. In return, she doesn't ask about the butter compartment labeled "Blaine" or the crisper drawer full of bottles of adult formula. Wes and Blaine have rooms upstairs, above the kitchen. Wes' room feels more lived in than Blaine's, which is strange because this is the Anderson's house. She's been in both rooms a few times, but the stairs are hard.
There are lots of visitors to Chez Anderson. Kurt spends a few nights, although not as many as he'd like. Burt is strict about the boys sleeping over together, and even more so when he knows that Blaine is without adult supervision. Nick and Thad each come for a weekend, and David stays for a week.
Living without parents and working a job makes her feel mature. So, at some point during David's visit, over grilled pizza for the three who eat solid food and beef broth for Wes, she suggests a dinner party.
Wes seems on board, immediately pulling out black pen to jot down a list of people he things they should invite. It ends up being half of New Directions and most of the Warblers. David takes the stairs two at a time to find his computer so he can start looking up recipes. Only Blaine seems a bit put off by the idea. He's resistant to have a bunch of people over after seeing Warbler parties. Not to mention the Rachel-Berry-House-Party-Trainwreck-Extravaganza. Although, he admits later that he'd love to see Santana and Sebastian make out the way he and Rachel did.
She's only a little surprised when Blaine agrees to let them have the party, although he caps the guests at ten people, not counting the four already living in his house.
She's somewhat more surprised when Wes invites her to the stationary store to buy supplies for invitations, menus, and place cards. For an ostensibly straight man, he is very conscious about the weight of his paper. She doesn't know why, but she's delighted when Wes pulls out a set of calligraphy pens and starts writing. They're not just the calligraphy markers, but actual pens with nibs. When she says something, Wes blushes and mutters something about time in the hospital and infusions taking too long.
A few days before the party, they have a council of war over the menu. David sits at the kitchen table in a pile of cookbooks. Wes has the yellow legal pad and a pen. The boys joke that the Dalton finches' scratches in the dirt are more legible than Thad's handwriting. David's writing makes Thad's look like something typed in Helvetica.
"What should we cook?" David asks, nervously.
"Chicken?" She isn't sure who is paying for the dinner party, but it's not a bad way to feed a lot of people. They're had all fourteen guests RSVP in the affirmative.
"Is Nick still vegan?" Blaine had never understood his friend's refusal to eat animal protein. But, Nick had also never attempted to make weight while fighting his body. There had been a time when animal protein had been the only thing that made Blaine feel full.
"Yep." David sighed, "Also gluten-free."
"I don't eat gluten, either," Wes reminded his friend. "I would think you, of all people, would remember that."
Blaine puts his head in his hands. "Edible statues should only be made out of structurally strong baked goods like pound cake or chocolate. Gluten free cake is like dry sand."
"Soy gives Thad gas," David contributes.
Blaine idylly flips to an article in one of the cooking magazines, featuring pictures of rats. The real kind, not the Pixar variety. He pushes the article toward Wes. "And soy shrinks your balls."
"Duly noted." Wes carefully folds over the corner of the page and passes it back across the table.
David chooses to ignore the former lead soloist's comment. "Do you remember Sectionals my freshman year?"
Wes glances at his hands and turns a charming red color. "The one where you went on stage with only eleven members because Thad and I were having a discussion of the qualities of poop?"
Blaine looks at the two older members of the Warblers. "Is this a Warbler legend?"
She isn't sure when the sophisticated, dapper gentlemen she's been living with turned into five year olds, but it's clear they have.
Wes catches her eye. "Nah, it wasn't that great." He rescues the conversation. Or else he doesn't want to talk about bowel movements now. Either way, she's grateful.
She tries to steer the conversation back to their menu. "Tacos?" She suggests. "You can make vegan tacos. Or at least, Rachel used to."
David looks at Wes. "Fiber?"
"Liquid diet," Wes responds cryptically.
David and Blaine both make faces. "You're no fun to have at a party," David complains.
"… Although, we may want to keep Thad away from the beans, too, if we don't want a repeat performance of the post-sectionals dinner two years ago," Blaine suggests quietly.
"The expression on Kurt's face. I don't think he knew the human body could be quite so… Orchestral." David's smile splits his face.
"You didn't have him your room!" Wes exclaims. "He spent half the night in the bathroom and the other half moaning. You guys can be such babies when you're sick."
David extends his hand. "Pot, kettle. You're black."
Wes sticks out his tongue.
She rests her head against the table with a quiet thud. The boys glance at each other. Now is not the time to relive their glory days as Warblers.
Wes neatly prints TACOS: RICE AND BEANS; CHICKEN. "Should we do all corn tortillas?"
Blaine makes a face and mutters, "Rubber."
"… Or a mix of corn and wheat?" Wes ignores the picky younger boy.
They work through most of the sides without too much fuss or mentions of bodily functions. She is amazed at how much the Dalton boys know about each other's eating habits. The only reason she knows that Rachel doesn't eat anything from animals is because the girl is so vocal about it. Although, Rachel cheats a lot. She wonders if this is why the brunette's special vegan powers haven't manifested. (She and Wes have been going through Blaine's extensive collection of movies. They're on a Michael Cera kick right now. She thinks she might be in lesbians with him, but she doesn't want to move too fast.)
They move onto dessert.
Wes talks David out of one of his infamous cakes, citing the heat. He doesn't mention that most gluten-free cakes are still too rich for him, and that he doesn't want David trying, only to be disappointed when Wes either doesn't eat the sweet or spends most of the night throwing it back up.
"Crème Brule!" David suggests, excitedly.
Blaine informs his friend that his parents only let people of legal drinking age operate torches of any variety in their home. Quinn limps out to find a flashlight, and shines it in Blaine's face. The ravenette sticks his tongue out at her.
They finally decided on flan and fresh berries. It satisfies David's desire to make a custard with Wes's desire not to eat dessert and Blaine's requirement that there be no fire.
She wonders how the Warbler council got anything done.
The day of the party does not begin well. In the pale gray pre-dawn, the house is alive with sick teenagers.
A knife is cutting into her leg.
Her leg is a knife.
Small and hard and tight.
Cutting into her.
She wakes to a haze of pain.
She does not know what time it is.
She does not know her name.
She does not know how to make it stop.
Beneath the covers, her legs spasm.
That's what they are right? Legs? Not just aches?
She concentrates on breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
She dissolves into pain.
Into fear
Into darkness
Into gray.
Wes knows he's going to be sick. Again. He leans forward from his pillows, looking into the trashcan already half-full of yellow-brown slop. He grips it awkwardly, his left hand protesting. He hasn't wanted to say anything, hasn't wanted to think about it, but lately, his hand has been swollen. The can back on the floor, the splays his palm, then tries to make a fist. He can extend his fingers all the way, but it feels like someone tied rubber bands to his fingers as he tries to make a fist.
He goes through the list in his mind. He's already disconnected the feeding tube from the bag, and flushed his port with saline. He'll go down and get his medicine in a minute or two, once he's sure that his body has stopped rebelling. And, possibly, after he's peed.
He knows what's coming. Today is his meth day, as David calls it. Spoonie humor, really. His methotrexate injection drains his energy. It leaves him feeling hung over and achy. It will make him dizzy, too, like he's spent too much time in the car. And, those things will make him cross.
At least he's learned to manage the nausea and diarrhea, not like that wasn't a problem already. But, the injections are supposed to help with those particular problems. Small price to pay, he supposes, for not throwing up all his medication. It's not like he's the only one in the house with syringes. David has his epi-pen, for bees. He assumes that Sebastian injects, or else sticks those inch-long needles in his abdomen. He's seen Blaine inject multiple times a day. He's given Blaine injections.
A sixth sense tells Wes that something is wrong. He slides out of bed, his feet hurting as he takes his first few steps of the morning. He hobbles and hitches up his pajama pants. They're getting to big on him, again. He supposes he could just wear boxers to sleep in, like the others, but he's not an exhibitionist. And, wearing pants hide some of the sins. His thighs and calves were once strong from dancing. Now, they're shadows of their former glory. The fatigue, the inability to lift things, the weakness, it's a price of his disease.
In his closest, his pants are arranged neatly in stacks. Gray flannel Warbler's trousers. Tailored chinos. A pair of black dress pants. Two pairs of jeans. There are three or four piles of the same thing. Arranged by size, almost like a clothing store. He's been losing weight over the past few months. Well, not just weight loss, but cachexia. Wasting. His muscles are disappearing along with the pounds. He hangs onto the larger sizes as a reminder that someday he will be healthy again, someday he will be able to gain weight. Someday, he will eat.
He meets David at the top of the stairs. The younger boy is dressed in running shorts and tennis shoes. The two best friends study each other for a minute. David notes the overly-large pajama pants that fit well two months ago, the dribble of dried brown vomit on Wes' chin and the way the older boy gingerly takes steps.
"Can you go check on Quinn before you go out?" Wes asks, moving toward Blaine's room.
David shrugs. He's used to his friends sometimes seemingly odd requests. If it quiets Wes's concern, he'll do it. If Wes goes back to bed and his feeding, even better. David wonders if he should skip his run, or at least post-pone it until Wes is back in bed and getting food again. David is worried about his friend. He knows Wes too well. The older boy won't keep secrets intentionally, but he won't volunteer information if he doesn't have to. And, he'll minimize what he does say. It's not because he wants to lie; it's because Wes protects the people he loves.
Wes knocks on Blaine's door. There's a moan in response and Wes pushes the door open. Blaine is sprawled across the bed, a tangle of long tan limbs, wild black curls and crisp white cotton sheets. Wes can see the thin white line across Blaine's back and shoulders. They stand out against his bronzed skin.
Blaine thrashes and mutters. Wes puts a gentle hand on the ravenette's shoulder. He's covered in a thin layer of cold sweat. "B, wake up. It's just a dream."
The younger boy whimpers, and rolls over. His face is ghostly pale, his lips hold a blue tint. Wes takes the small black case from beside the bed, pricks Blaine's finger. Blaine moans, and blinks. He pulls his hand away, but not before Wes milks a few drops of blood and puts it on the strip.
The meter counts down and blinks to life with a number. Wes reaches for a juice box on the nightstand, and fumbles the straw free. His fingers resist making a fist, like rubber bands tightening across his knuckles, but he gets the straw in and passes it to Blaine.
The younger boy sips the juice, weakly at first, then greedily. The color returns to his face as the sugar works its magic.
"Wes?" Blaine's voice shakes.
"I'm here, B," the older boy says gently.
"I had a nightmare. That Kurt and I broke up. And I was drowning. And no one could see." Blaine's cheeks are wet.
"Shhh." Wes rubs Blaine's shoulder gently. "It was just a bad dream. You and Kurt are going to stay together. You guys are meant to be."
"S'Okay," Blaine mutters sleeping and turns on his side away from Wes. "Ok, Wessy." The sugar has worked its way into his system, and the ravenette is sleepy.
"Sweet dreams, B," Wes whispers, setting an alarm on his watch for fifteen minutes. He goes back to his room to lay down.
David knocks on her door. There's a moan through the door. David hasn't been in the girl's room before. He feels strange doing it, but he decides the worst thing that could happen is be embarrassment from walking in on a not-quite dressed Quinn.
He's slightly disappointed when he opens the door and finds a fully dressed Quinn in bed. Silent tears run down her cheeks, and she grips the edge of a handmade quilt with white knuckles. Her legs are shaking and twitching underneath the covers.
David doesn't know what to do. Wes has always been the one to care for the sick. Even when Wes was sick, he'd be the one to comfort his friends. David can feed the hungry and clothe the naked. He can burry the dead. But, he's not sure he can do this.
"Quinn?" David calls her name. Names have power.
"Hmm?" She stirs, makes and effort to come to consciousness. "Bac'fen?" She moans.
He guesses it must be the name of a drug. He doesn't see any pill bottles around, so he quietly goes into the bathroom, all the while feeling like the worst kind of intruder. He finds the pills and comes back with a glass of water. He helps Quinn to sit up, and gives her the pills and the water. She whimpers thanks, and curls back up in bed. David slides out, leaving Quinn to her sleep and her relief.
He thinks about going out on his run, but decides against it. He's been a Warbler long enough to take care of the little details. The boys are accident-prone enough that any leader has to be able to handle an emergency. David may feel faint around blood, vomit, and needles, but he can take care of the little details none of the other boys seem to think about.
He calls up Sebastian.
"What the fuck, David?" Sebastian is not pleased to be awoken. "It's six fucking am."
"Quinn's not coming to work, today." David ignores the senior's bad mood.
"Call Marilyn." Seb supplies the number, and they hang up.
David goes back up to check on Wes. He finds the older boy asleep, clutching his trash can full of vomit.
She sleeps fitfully, but when she wakes up to bright sun, she only has lingering pain. It's not the sharpness, just the ache that comes with a muscle clenched for too long. It's a mark of how bad she feels that she doesn't even contemplate walking. She pulls her chair from her closet, and wheels into the kitchen.
"Tea?" David offers her a steaming cup of something herbal and a buttered English muffin. He is always feeding people. It's an absolutely endearing trait. She accepts it, and sips. He's added honey.
"I've talk to everyone but Santana, Thad, and the Criminally Insane Meerkat." Blaine puts his phone on the kitchen counter. "They all understand."
She stifles a giggle as David glances over at the other boy. "Criminally Insane Meerkat?"
"Sebastian."
David snorts with laughter, too.
"You canceled?" She is disappointed.
David glances at Blaine. "It's almost two pm. You called in sick to work."
A toilet flushes in another part of the house. "And Wes is vomiting, again." David tries, unsuccessfully, to hide his worry.
"But, I thought…" her words trail off. She's not actually all that sure about what is wrong with Wes.
Blaine shrugs. "Just ask him, okay? It'll be better that way."
"Are you going to go back to bed, or …" David suddenly sounds uncomfortable.
She finishes her muffin. "I'm going to shower, and maybe watch a movie? I don't feel up for much." She glances, unconsciously, at her rebellious leg.
David nods. "B and I might go grocery shopping in a bit. Do you want anything?"
She's feeling awful and self-indulgent, so she gives David money to buy her comfort food before she takes a shower. It's out of their way, but she pouts prettily and the boys agree to go get her Sonic. She has a craving for tater tots.
Sebastian arrives at the house around six clutching a bouquet of flowers. He's not entirely sure who is playing hostess, but he thinks that either Quinn or Blaine will like them. He is not, as some people think, entirely uncouth. He is, however, cross. His blood sugar is running high. His dad is nagging him again about getting a constant glucose monitor. Like he wants another small, noisy electronic device strapped to his stomach twenty-four hours a day.
Blaine opens the door. "Hi Sebastian." His voice is flat, and his smile seems forced.
"Oh, shit," David comes out of the kitchen wiping his hands on his cargo shorts. "I thought I called you and told you we had to cancel."
Sebastian finds himself blushing. "Sorry," he says, turning to leave.
Just then, she appears from the back of the house. She's sitting in her black wheelchair, barefoot and dressed casually. She looks tired. "Oh, hi Bas."
"Hi Quinn," he extends the flowers at someone, begging someone to take them, so he can make his awkward exit. "I thought I'd just drop these off, and … go."
She frowns. She's disappointed that her party had to be canceled, frustrated with her body and still irrationally tired. Perhaps, most importantly, irrationally tired.
"Stay," she commands, taking the flowers and wheeling herself toward the kitchen.
Behind her back, the three boys shrug. Then, they follow to make sure disaster is avoided. David returns to the stove, where he's making pasta. Blaine cuts vegetables for a salad Quinn seems to be floating off in her own little world. He offers to help, but when nothing is needed, he excuses himself to follow her.
He's surprised at the size and opulence of the Anderson's home theater. The floor is covered in deep crimson carpet, and one of the walls is occupied by a huge flat screen tv blaring the problems of the Bluth family. One of the paneled sidewalls is open to show a stack of gaming systems and a tangle of stereo equipment. A plastic drum pad and a few guitars sit in the corner awaiting a session with Rock Band. Quinn is curled, cat-like, at one end of a dark leather couch. Her lids rest at half-mast, and her face has relaxed into an expression of pain. Wes is asleep sitting up at the other end. A bag of brown … something runs through an IV line into his body.
He moves to pause the tv show, but Quinn makes a moan of protest. He leaves the TV alone, and goes back to the kitchen.
Blaine sees Sebastian's face, and slides a can to him across the marble island. He has to admit, he could use a drink.
He glances at the label. "Hobbit, are you trying to poison me?"
Blaine shrugs. "I just figured…"
"You just figured what? That I can't eat sugar?" Sebastian's lip curls in disgust.
David glances between the two. "Blaine, let him kill himself if he wants to. Seb, let it go. He didn't mean it that way."
David remembers a stop for slushies. He remembers watching his friend rolling on the ground crying, a hand over his eye. This is not an argument he wants to watch now, not with the only people who seem to be able to handle Sebastian either in Australia or doped up on muscle relaxants.
Eighteen months ago, Sebastian would have taken the anger calmly, then gone home and ran until his feet bleed. A year ago, he would have lashed out with harsh words. Six months past, he might have indulged in the feeling of over dosing and gone out dancing. Now, he just takes a few deep, steadying breaths and counts to ten. He can always take a sip from the fifth under his bed, later.
"Look, I'll just have water," Sebastian suggested. "No carbs, no fake sugar."
Blaine frowns. "We have juice… tea… beer… Gin…"
David gives the two boys a warning look. "As hilarious as it would be to watch the two of you make out and release your sexual tension, I want it to happen on a day when Wes and Quinn can watch."
"Water," Sebastian repeated, "Please."
Blaine got a glass, and filled it from a purifier on the refrigerator. "Why don't you drink diet?"
"Why do you?" Sebastian countered, accepting the cup.
Blaine shrugs, and slips a kit out of the fridge on this way out.
"Is he? … Does he?" Sebastian turns to David, his mouth agape.
David shrugged, draining the pasta over the sink. "It's not my business." He sounded more frank that usual.
Sebastian raised his eyebrow. "Is he Trent's old friend?"
David shrugged again, tossing the noodles with olive oil and cut herbs. He tasted the sauce on the stove.
"Slice that loaf of bread."
Sebastian complied with the order.
"Shall we eat with Wes and Quinn?" Blaine prompted, sliding the black case back in the fridge.
The other two boys shrugged as they made up four plates.
"Wes?" Sebastian asked.
David glanced at Blaine. This was Warbler business; they cared for their own. And, Sebastian was undeniably a Warbler. Possibly more so than Blaine, since Sebastian had never left Dalton.
"He's sick," Blaine supplies. "He'll eat later."
The five sit together pleasantly, eating their pasta and watching the Bluth family continue with their tribulations.
"I've always wanted a stair car," Wes mused once he had been roused from his nap. "Think about how awesome that would be for off-campus performances."
David snorts with laughter. "As if anyone would ride in that monstrosity with you."
"Thad would," Quinn comments.
Sebastian nods. "Thad totally would."
"There is very little I can't imagine Thad doing on a dare," Wes says.
Blaine considers for a minute. "Eat soy riblets?"
"He's done that," Sebastian points out. "After we lost sectionals, he bought every boca product in the freezer section and had a soy pity party."
"It shrinks your junk." David announces.
She glares at him. "I'm eating! I don't want to talk about genitalia! … Although, that's something Thad won't shut up about. He thinks penis is the funniest word in the English language."
"That's because it is!" David announces.
"Especially yours," Sebastian mutters.
She make a move to transfer from her couch to her wheelchair. "You're assholes. I'm leaving!"
Sebastian notices that she's less inhibited than normal. He wonders if its because of th medication.
Wes shifts in his seat, tugging on the brown line running underneath the blanket. "Stay, Quinn," he orders gently. "I'll make them stop."
Dinner continues without incident or more talk of penises. Instead, they talk about college (where Quinn, David and Wes will be going in the fall), show choir antics ("She really wanted you to weld? Is that even legal?") and tv ("I couldn't do Matt Boomer, although he is georgous. He looks too much like my brother.").
After Sebastian excuses himself to the bathroom to inject, he and Blaine do the dishes together. David and Wes have disappeared, and Quinn is curled up with a Say Yes to the Dress Marathon. Kurt has been over enough to get her hooked. Or, more accurately, Rachel got Kurt hooked. And, Kurt got Quinn. They work together in companionable silence, Blaine putting away food and Sebastian washing.
As he slides the left over salad into the refrigerator, the butter drawer slips open and an all too familiar white and maroon box drops to the ground.
"Blaine?" Sebastian's tone is uncertain.
The curly haired boy scoops up the bottle and ignores him.
"Have you ever thought about how awesome it would be to date another diabetic?" Sebastian's voice is silky. "I mean, think about the advantages. You wouldn't have to explain about the scars or the fat, or what you're doing or why."
"I'm with Kurt," Blaine says firmly. "I love Kurt."
Sebastian runs a sponge around the inside of the colander. "Lighten up, I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just asking a question."
"I love Kurt," Blaine repeats finally.
"It wouldn't kill you to have a discussion," Sebastian says coolly. "A lot of relationships between seniors and freshman don't work out."
Blaine dries a glass. "Kurt isn't a freshman. He's staying here." Deep down, he knows that his boyfriend needs to go and be free. He just can't admit it to himself, yet. "We'll be fine."
"Sure." The word comes out like a condemnation.
The silence in the kitchen becomes pregnant and unfriendly. "Sorry," Blaine apologizes after a minute. He doesn't know what's he's apologizing for, but he's too uncomfortable to let the silence stand.
"It's fine," Sebastian says. The tension remains.
He's standoffish as he says his goodbyes to Quinn, David and Wes. He promises to go shopping for school supplies with the older girl, and hugs the two boys. He shakes Blaine's hand, friendly but cool.
She gets ready for bed early, and lays there listening to the sounds of the house. David and Wes bicker quietly off somewhere. Blaine murmurs to Kurt on his phone in his room. She feels alone.
EVERYTHING OK? She texts Sebastian.
FINE. WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME BLAINE WAS DIABETIC? He texts back.
HOW IS IT YOUR BUSINESS? She returns. ITS NOT LIKE I TOLD HIM ABOUT YOU.
Her phone chirps with his response. NO, THAD DID.
DOES IT MATTER? She's quick to ask.
NO. He takes a while. She wonders if he's brushing his teeth. YES.
I DON'T NOW.
She yawns, she's still tired. CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS LATER?
SURE. SWEET DREAMS, her friend responds.
A/N: I don't quite know where this came from. Pi-on-a-skateboard is responsible for the diabetic Blaine thing… a discussion which culminated in an excited "He has a Juice box!" message last episode. I'm not entirely sure how this will play out in the context of things… or how it works in what I've built. Blaine was diagnosed a lot later than Sebastian, which may be why he's still on shots.
Second, in regard to Wes and Crohn's, I've tried to do research and get my details as accurate as possible, but this isn't one of my diseases. Please let me know how I'm doing and how I can make it better?
Finally, thank you to all of you for bearing with me, and that you to the people who reviewed. I'm not sure if this is what you asked for Martina, but here it is?