(A/N): I've gone back to my old chapters and realized these are long and rambley. So I'll try to keep it short. :)

This chapter was surprisingly easy, coming in awkward 2000 word spurts. The only hard part was with Burt. I don't like writing this Burt. It makes me sad. :(

Oh! And I'm going to try to update this again before Friday, because then I'm going on vacation for a week and won't be able to update. So I'll try to give you these two to hold you over. ;) …Okay, and I'm just SUPER excited for next chapter. :D

Just a warning: This chapter is, like, my longest ever. Over 6000 words! Almost 6500! :O

SPECIAL THANKS! To xXHopelessXxXRomanticXx who was my 50th reviewer! Sorry, I just noticed today or I would have told you in our extensive PM's! ;)
Also to the beloved AlyDuartsGleek and The Songbirds Are Singing because I love them and they were 49 and 51, respecitvely. :D

Disclaimer: No Glee ownership. Sad. I WANT KLAINE!

Chapter 9: Consequences

"Really, Cedes. My dad must be… worrying about me. I have to go." A bubble of panic gurgled in my chest as I faced the realization: I had to go home and face the music. Hopefully he wouldn't even be there, or at least too drunk to care. Or maybe, if luck was on my side, he had even forgotten.

She nodded. "Yeah, he called while you were asleep. He didn't sound very happy."

-:-Kurt-:-

I froze, my brain immediately kicking into hyper drive as adrenaline flooded my system. "W-What?"

"Yeah, he said he hasn't seen or heard from you since before dance yesterday." Mercedes said, oblivious to the reaction that one simple sentence had.

I nodded. "I-I should g-go, then." I cringed as the words came out with a stutter, worried they would alert Mercedes to that fact that something was wrong. Fortunately, it didn't. Unfortunately, it was something else.

"Kurt, are you sure you're fine?" Mercedes asked skeptically with one eyebrow raised. "You're shaking like a leaf."

I cursed myself internally, taking a few seconds to come up with a feasible reply. "I'm w-worried about my dad." I said, hoping it sounded convincing. "I don't want him to have another heart attack because he's worrying about me." My voice shook, wavering with fear and sadness.

Mercedes' eyes softened. "I get it, Kurt. Go on."

I nodded through the torrent of thoughts, my eyes squeezed shut. Although it worked like a charm, getting accomplished exactly what I wanted, it brought with it too many things I did not want to deal with. Not again.

I steeled myself, turning away from Mercedes and rubbing a hand across my forehead. It's okay, Kurt, you can do this, I told myself. I took a deep breath through my nose and opened my eyes. Those thoughts were locked away once again. Securely. Well, maybe not so. I knew I would relive them again tonight, in my dreams—in my nightmares—when I was most susceptible, but for now… for now I had it under control.

I tossed a nonchalant look over my shoulder, smiling lightly at Mercedes as I headed to my car. "Thanks, Cedes. I really don't deserve you." And she had no idea how true that statement really was.

I tried to drive home. I did, but I encountered problems that I hadn't predicted.

As I neared my subdivision, my thoughts started to drift towards Burt. Angry Burt; a Burt who most likely was severely pissed off at me, and not unwilling to use violence to put me in my place. Violence and harsh, true words. The truth hurt, and Burt uses that to his advantage.

A surreal, dark sense of dread engulfed me, drowning me and filling my mind with nothing but pure panic. It was like a flurry of activity and a barren space of emptiness occurring simultaneously. It made no sense and would never make sense and was completely illogical, but there you go. My surroundings wavered and blurred. I had just enough sense left in me to pull roughly over to the shoulder and jam the car into park as I gasped for breath.

I felt as though a heavy, crushing weight had settled onto my chest, making breathing a laughable activity. I could do nothing but gasp pathetically as the tremors started. My thoughts were completely erratic and nonsensical. Everything around me was spinning and my hands flew to my head, clutching desperately as though it could keep my brains from exploding outwards. Nothing made sense and everything was indistinct and I couldn't remember where I was. Was I sitting in my Navigator on the exit, or was I lying crumpled on the floor of my house in a pile of shattered glass, unable to do anything but stay still and endure the kicks, the punches, the harsh, grating words?

I screamed. I screamed and yelled at the top of my lungs. I don't know what I was saying, or even if I was forming words at all. I just know sounds were coming out of my mouth and I couldn't stop them. The walls around me were closing in, trapping me and snatching away any chance of escape. I had to get out. With an anguished, desperate screech, I flung the door open and tumbled to the ground, taking huge gulps of the fresh air. I clutched onto my head tighter, grounding my thoughts and my body as I dropped to the ground and leaned back. My entire body was covered in a cold sweat and chills racked my frame, but I didn't make a move. Not until the last of my thoughts had settled, not until that dreadful, all-encompassing panic and all but completely ebbed away.

Just as I had begun to convince myself everything would be okay and I could finish the drive home, a car pulled up behind me on the shoulder. A pretty young girl stepped out, stepping cautiously over the roadside rubble in her high heeled shoes. "Are you alright?" She asked tentatively as she neared me.

I looked up at her, taking a deep shuddering breath and dropping my hands to my sides. "Yeah. Y-Yeah, I'm fine, thank you."

She seemed to observe me, taking in every detail, and I could only submit to her scrutiny. She nodded once and crouched down next to me. "Panic attack?" She asked in a wise, knowing voice.

"Was that what that was?" I mumbled, looking down to the ground as the realization hit.

"Ah, it was your first one." She said. The light breeze flicked her fiery red curls across her bright green eyes as she looked down, too, before she looked up and waited until I met her gaze. "That's the worst one, I promise. Once you know what it is that's happening, and soon enough how to stop them in their tracks, you'll be able to get through it."

I could do nothing but nod. My thoughts had awoken from their momentary peaceful stage and were once again rampant. She must have seen the wild look in my eyes, because she turned to me sharply. "Don't go riling yourself up again. One is enough for one day." Her voice remained gentle, but those emerald eyes were piercing.

I nodded again. "Thank you," I said sincerely. I honestly don't know how long I would have sat there, leaning against my car on the shoulder of the highway, trying to sort out exactly what had happened. And that didn't count the time it would take me to gather my courage and prepare myself to face was up ahead.

She stood up gracefully, smoothing out her plaid uniform skirt and extending a hand to help me up. I took it gratefully, standing on shaky, uncertain legs. "Really," I said as I held onto her hand. "Thank you."

"Anytime. I've been there; I couldn't just leave you there when I knew I would have been able to help." She said simply with a small smile.

I stood there and took a breath. "I'm Kurt." I said suddenly. "Kurt Hummel."

She smiled wider. "Carsonne." She said. "Carsonne Bell."

It felt better to know each other's names. It felt like we had shared such an intimate moment, this sort of shared experience, it would be odd not to.

"Tell you what," She said suddenly, "I'll give you my number. That way, if you need my help again, or just need advice or someone to talk to, you can come to me." She paused at the stunned look on my face. "I figured it would help to have someone who knows what you're dealing with."

I nodded, extracting my phone from my pocket and handing it over. She unlocked the screen and stared for a second at my background picture. She looked up at me with a sweet smile and said, "Oh, so you're a Dalton boy." She chuckled. The photo was of Blaine and I, both in uniform, relaxing on the grounds and just being teenagers. One of Blaine's friends had stolen his phone and snapped a picture. He sent it to me, and I set it as a reminder of what happiness looks like. "I go to Crawford." She said in explanation.

We exchanged numbers, a few more words, and tentative hugs, and before I knew it we were both on our way and I had pulled up in my driveway. I sat there for a few more seconds, really not wanting to go in, but knowing I was only delaying the inevitable.

I walked cautiously into the silent house, creeping silently through the deathly quiet halls. I hardly dared to breathe as I looked around, scoping out every detail in hopes of evading my father for just the tiniest bit longer. I had made it to the center of the house before a noise made me freeze. My breath hitched and I listened, listened for anything.

Nothing.

My heart was beating hummingbird fast as I looked in every direction. I steeled myself and searched the rest of the house.

Nothing.

He wasn't home.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Tears streamed down my face unrestrained and I stumbled a few steps, suddenly feeling like I could sleep for the next few decades as the panic and tension slipped farther and farther away. Sniffing and wiping my eyes, I made my way up the stairs and into my room. Dead on my feet, I swiftly locked the door before collapsing on my bed, asleep before I even hit the pillow.

I reentered consciousness suddenly, snapping up in bed and looking around my room in confusion. I blinked a few times blearily, wondering why I was awake and not enjoying the blissful unawareness of sleep. Eventually, it occurred to my brain that something must have woken me up. Through the sleep-induced fog, I listened, listened for any sort of sound, but there was nothing. Only silence. I tried to listen harder, but my eyelids fluttered shut and sleep once again dragged me under.

Looking back, there are so many things I wish had gone differently, anything that I could have done or changed to spur a different outcome. Little things I hadn't noticed, decisions I'd made. Anything that had contributed or led to this event occurring. Anything that I could have done to avoid it.

Had I been awake, I may have heard the thumping of heavy footsteps coming up the wooden staircase. I could have heard the footsteps increase in volume as they grew nearer, until they stopped right outside my bedroom door and the house was once again bathed in silence.

If only I wasn't sleeping, I could have moved, or hid, or gotten away. But I only slept on, unknowing, as the nearly-silent scrape of metal on metal tried to penetrate the stillness of the air. A light clack sounded as the metal of the doorknob encountered the lock.

I should have been awake. I should have been awake so I could have heard the frustrated growl that broke the silence. I wish I had been awake. I wish I had been awake so I could have gotten away… out through the window, or something. Any means necessary, as long as I was out and away from here. From him.

I wish I had awoken to the sound of the door knob jostling as he tried to pick the lock, the sound the metal made as he invaded the inner workings of the simple contraption. But I didn't. I slept.

Another growl, this time louder, angrier, impatient. Furious.

Wake up, Kurt, wake up!

Time was running out. By the time I would finally rejoin the conscious, it would be too late.

"Kurt…" My name once again shattered the tranquility, and yet I still wouldn't wake. Why wouldn't I just wake up?

"Kurt, open the door." The voice floated through the stillness, sounding vainly thin and neat, cajoling, not menacing on the surface, but beneath it all, beneath the guise was murderous rage and hate, simmering deep within and waiting anxiously to be released.

"Kurt, open the god-damned DOOR!" He thundered, kicking the door hard enough to crack and splinter the wood.

I flung out of bed and tumbled to the floor, breathing harshly and hugging my ribs against the pain and the panic threatening to burst out of my chest. I tried to hold back my desperate, gut-wrenching sobs for as long as I could. I needed to be able to think fast on and my feet if I wanted to get out of this.

I gasped in a breath, backing away from the door as another round of his attacks made it shudder in its frame. I prayed with every last bit of myself, hoping that what I was was enough to get through to whoever was listening up there. Okay, okay, Kurt. Think!

My thoughts were in a flurry. I searched around my room frantically, trying to force inspiration to hit in a spark of genius that could save my life. Amazingly, my thoughts fell into order. You need to stall him, deter him, and then get the hell out.

My eyes flew around my room with more purpose. They landed on my desk chair. I breathed out a shuddering sigh that soon turned into a choke when the door was once again assaulted and accompanied with a wild, animalistic roar of fury.

I grabbed the chair and swooped it in front of the door, lodging it under the handle like I'd seen done in so many movies. I prayed that would work long enough for me to construct an escape plan.

I started pacing my room, my breathing bordering on hysteric and my thoughts more rampant than they've ever been before. With the occasional interruptive flinch, I figured that the one and only way out was through the window. It's only two stories, I thought to myself unconvincingly. How bad of a drop could it be?

Just as I had steeled myself and had begun to wrench open the window, the door shook violently, and with a menacing yell, I heard wood cracking and splintering. The bangs and crashes were now never stopping, coming in constant spurts of noise and anger and hate, with yells of "You fucking faggot, be a man and face me!" and "You are going to fucking wish you were never born when I'm done with you! You god damned fairy, no one undermines me and gets away alive!"

With a frantic whimper, I slid down the wall as tremors shook my body. I was going to die. My own father was going to kill me. And it was all my fault. Why couldn't I have just been the perfect son he's always wanted? I was working on it, but I was such a fuck up and couldn't get it done fast enough. And now, I was paying for it with my life. My stupid, insignificant life.

With a gasp of air, I flung back up from the ground, wrestling with the latch on the windowsill with a renewed vigor and sense of urgency. My entire body was shaking and my hands were clammy. Terrified, anguished noises burst past my lips every time my fingers fumbled or slipped from the latch, and I full out screamed when the banging and sound of demolished wood reached its crescendo behind me. I pounded and shoved on the screen that covered my window, trying in vain to pop it out of the frame, but one corner was stuck. I yelled out in panic, my sobs taking over. I was so close, so close to escape. With shriek I threw my weight against it, and with a loud snap it came loose, tumbling into the bushes below. I caught myself on the ledge before I went with it, face first.

With a loud sob of relief, I began to maneuver my body for a safer, feet-first landing and steeling myself for the drop. I had just barely managed to situate myself near the frame when the door flung open, hanging brokenly, only attached to the wall by half a hinge.

"Don't you fucking run away again!" Burt Hummel shouted furiously, storming through my bedroom and towards my position at the window. I let out a petrified sound that was half a sob and half a yell, just about to fling myself out the window, ready or not.

Burt latched onto my elbow, tugging me violently backwards and into the room, away from my only chance of escape, my only chance of life.

He tossed me to the ground and wasted no time before he was pummeling every inch of me he could reach. My face, my chest, my arms, everywhere. I struggled, trying with all the fight left in me to get out, to get away as I screamed right back at him.

"You're vermin! You're nothing more than vermin!" He bellowed.

A tear slipped down my cheek, but it wasn't from any sort of physical pain. The ongoing, never ending physical pain. It had all reached a peak, and now I was only numb, barely there as my body was beaten by the only man who had ever loved me.

I couldn't fight anymore. I could only scream and sob as my body was battered beyond my control.

"You're nothing!" My father continued to screech as he flung me against the vanity, shattering the glass of the mirror. "You are nothing to me and never will be!"

I sucked in a breath, only to let it out with a pained moan as the wind was knocked out of my lungs. He continued to scream at me, incessantly tossing out words that cut deeper than the physical pain, more than any and all of the beatings he's ever given me put together.

"You're not my son." He growled, rattling me against the wall. "I didn't raise my boy to become a disgusting queer."

I did everything I could to tune him out; squeezing my eyes shut and screaming, fighting back, even going as far as focusing on the physical just to drown it all out. It was all too much. I didn't think I could take any more; my throat was raw and burning from the force of my sobs and screams, my body pulsed in agony with every breath and heartbeat, every thought I had turning against me.

And then he stopped.

Dropped me straight to the floor.

I thought he was I done. Foolishly, I thought it was all over.

He crouched down beside me and my cries of distress and dread increasing with his proximity. He launched into a sort of monologue, a horrible, soul-crushing monologue, deteriorating every once of self worth or willpower I had left in me with every word.

"You represent everything bad in my life," He started out, his warm, rancid breath washing over my face. "Everything was perfect until you came along. No, that's not right." He corrected himself nonchalantly, as if he was discussing the weather with a coworker. "My life was perfect until you chose this disgusting lifestyle. I had the perfect job, the perfect wife, the perfect family. The perfect life."

My breath hitched. He brought Mom into this. I sobbed harshly, brokenly, my entire body shaking and rocking with the force as I cried out, "No, no, no, no!" Hardly able to breathe, I could do nothing but cry, cry harder than I had even thought possible as my entire world came crashing down around me.

"Elizabeth was beautiful. She was my world." He said, but instead of sounding sad, he only sounded furious and spiteful. "Then you came along, and I couldn't have asked for anything more. I really had everything."

No, no, I couldn't lie here and listen to this. I couldn't hear how happy he was, how perfect his—our—life was, not when it hasn't been any semblance of right in so long. Not when it all fell apart because of me.

"And then you," he said, his voice quiet but simmering with something dark underneath. "If you were normal, if you were the son I've always wanted, she'd still fucking be alive!"

I wanted to die. Right then and there, with those words, my soul, my heart was annihilated, shattered beyond repair. I couldn't breathe; each breath took too much effort to only catch and lodge in my tear-clogged throat. Everything he said was true, painfully true, and I couldn't bear to have it all thrown at me at once.

And then finally, mercifully, the numbing blackness pulled me under.

It was odd.

Strange, waking up in a place that was so comfortingly familiar and safe, yet covered with traces and memories of the dark and brooding secrets.

My bed, my safe haven where I could sleep off a bad day, or wake up sick only to find my mother or Burt there with a cup of soup, sitting on the corner and petting my hair, was now splattered with droplets of vivid red. The sheets and comforter lie crumbled and askew, hinting at a former struggle.

My vanity, always so precariously organized with never a single bottle out of place now hardly stands, sprinkled with shards of broken glass and stained with not only products and powders but the liquid of life itself.

I lie unmoving on the carpet, waiting for the numbness to retract from my limbs, from my mind. For my senses to snap back into reality. Instead they zoned in on my nearest surroundings, the deep, rust colored stains holding my attention as memories of its origin flashed behind my eyes. A light, almost airless sigh left my lips as my eyes traced the outline of the indefinable shape, seeing the color contrast brilliantly with the pale tone of my carpeting. The stains were darker, heavier in some places and lighter, small spots in others.

I still couldn't feel my body, my limbs, not really. But I now had a sense of where they were, instead of just being a disjointed and disoriented collection of thoughts. I decided I should try to move, starting with the most insignificant thing. My eyes follow the length of my arm, settling on my fingers as they twitched almost unnoticeably, watching and waiting for them to respond to my wishes and clench.

I had still hardly moved from my sprawled position on the floor of my bedroom, not knowing exactly how well my body could handle movement at the moment. But the rational part of my brain had begun to awaken and speak up, telling me that I was alive, and not dead, and was under the mercy of adrenaline. I had to move, to do something, while the pain was dulled and bearable.

Even through the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the next few minutes were enough to make me never want to move again. Every movement, each motion sent up flares of white-hot pain and dots in my vision. Somehow, I managed to lift my torso. I figured I should try walking, and slowly pulled myself along the floor a few inches so I could grab onto the bed and haul my body upwards. I could just barely get my legs under me. I hissed and my breath hitched with the struggle.

Okay, okay… stand. Go. Now. Stand. I thought to myself constantly. With my internal encouragements, I settled my legs beneath me and started to stand, only for my left leg to give out beneath me.

I screamed as my leg throbbed tortuously. I shook my head and steeled myself for the worst few minutes of my life and began to make my way to the door, limping and leaning on anything and everything for support.

I collapsed into my car, breathing heavily and sweating. I wiped my hands across my face, and found that I was also crying, silently, tears streaming steadily down my cheeks. I couldn't tell if they were from pain or fear, but I didn't take the time to ponder and figure it out.

I pulled into the hospital in a thick fog, feeling as though I definitely should not have driven in my state. I stumbled drunkenly through the doors, covering my eyes against the sudden harsh light of the empty emergency room lobby.

A pretty young girl behind the desk was typing furiously on a computer, holding a phone between her shoulder and her ear. "Yes, sir, I'll do that. Okay. Thanks. Bye." She said with a few nods and a smile. I stumbled a few more steps into the room, my breath coming in short, staccato bursts and gasps.

She hung up the phone and turned to me. "Hello, how can I—oh, my god." She cut off suddenly, her eyes bugging out almost comically. I must have looked worse than I thought.

"Hello, I… I'm…" I slurred, bringing a hand up to my head. When did I lose my ability to speak? Why was the room spinning? What was my name again? Why was I here? My thoughts evaded me.

"Kurt Hummel." I finally said, almost unintelligibly, when the floor slanted underneath my feet, and the world began to slowly fade away.

Lights, faces, shapes, sounds… nothing.

-:-Blaine-:-

This was insane.

Mental.

Crazy.

I should not be so overcome with worry with this guy I've just met not two months ago. And though I can't deny how close we have gotten and the perfectly plausible reasons for the worry, this was too much.

I couldn't even contain myself. I was pacing a rut into the floor of my dorm, glaring into space as my brain came up with every worst case scenario possible. What if Kurt had some weird, creepy parasite that would eat him from the inside out? What if he got in an accident because Mercedes let him drive himself home too soon? What if he's scared? Or lonely, or hurt, or miserable?

So when my phone vibrated harshly against the wood of my nightstand, I pounced. "Hello, Kurt, are you alright?" I said without thinking, trying to breathe normally and stop the sudden surge of panic that twisted in my gut.

"Is this Mr. Blaine Anderson?" An unfamiliar voice asked me. My shoulders sagged in disappointment, yet at the same time, my stomach clenched with apprehension.

"Yes." I said slowly. "What's wrong? Who is this? What's happened?" The questions spilled out of me.

"This is Maggie from the Lima Memorial Hospital. We had a Mr. Kurt Hummel come in here looking quite worse for wear," She said delicately. All the air rushed from my body. I leaned against the wall for support, my legs suddenly shaky. "He's been asking for you. Unconsciously, but asking nonetheless. "

"I'll be there in thirty minutes." I deadpanned, hanging up without waiting for a response.

I flew around my room, collecting the essentials and throwing them haphazardly into my pockets and rammed my shoes onto my feet. I flung the door closed behind me, all but running for the staircase before I heard voices calling after me.

"Whoa, Blaine, what's the deal?"

"No time!" I called over my shoulder, exiting the building and heading across the parking lot for my car.

"Blaine!" Jeff called again. Him, Nick, Wes and David were all running after me. I sighed, knowing I would have to talk to them, but didn't slow my stride.

"No time!" I said again. I felt someone grab onto my forearm, dragging me to a halt. I yanked my arm roughly out of their grip, and a fire suddenly burned in my gut. "No!" I yelled, spinning to face them. "I have to go, and I have to go now!" I don't know how I so suddenly lost any semblance of control, but all at once I was shaking and had tears pooling in my eyes.

"What the hell, Blaine? What's wrong?" Nick said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"It's Kurt." I whispered desperately. "It's Kurt, and he's in the hospital, asking for me and I'm not there!" My voice rose in desperation as I kept talking.

They stood there, stunned for a few seconds, and I was about to turn around and leave because there was no time when Wes finally spoke up. "Wait, the new kid? What's wrong?"

"I don't know!" I groaned, grabbing my head in my hands. "But he's hurt and alone because I'm not there!" I gave up on talking to them, on wasting time, and clambered swiftly into my car. I slammed the door shut, and heard two more doors close in quick procession.

I looked behind me to see Nick and Jeff sitting in my back seat. Before I could even ask, Jeff said, "We're coming with you. Drive!"

I flung the door open and only skidded to a stop when I had made it to the front desk. I didn't let the pretty young receptionist even get a word in. "Kurt Hummel." I demanded wildly. "Kurt Hummel, where is he?"

It was obvious in the way she handled the situation that she had encountered people like me before—frantic, panicky, maybe even slightly crazed. My breathing was harsh and my knuckles were white from the strength of my grip on the counter in front of me, most likely the only thing that was holding me up.

"Kurt Hummel… he's actually getting some tests done right now, and I'm not sure if he's even regained consciousness yet, either way."

All the breath left my body and tears sprung to my eyes. My panic levels rose, if that was even possible. "W-What?" was all I could manage.

She nodded and gave me a soft, comforting smile, though it did little to calm my buzzing nerves. "He came in here looking a bit… roughed up. Then he… well, he passed out, I guess. Right after he gave his name." She gave a little shrug.

I felt more than heard Nick and Jeff come up behind me. I ran a hand quickly through my ungelled curls, trying to calm myself to no avail. "What's wrong with him?" I all but cried.

She opened her mouth to speak, but paused. Something flashed behind her eyes, fleetingly, but it was gone before I could interpret what it meant. "He… there was so much blood." She whispered, meeting my eyes for only a second. "He looked completely wrecked, and I don't mean physically. There was something in his eyes…" She shook her head and surreptitiously swiped away a tear. "I don't think I've ever seen that much pure fear in a person's eyes before." She admitted breathlessly.

I couldn't get enough air to my lungs. My mind was in a frenzy; I couldn't even begin to tell you what I was thinking. My legs all but gave out on me, and I felt myself being pulled aside and gently shoved into a chair. "Breathe." Jeff instructed.

I did, and I felt control seep back into my body, ounce by ounce. The panic still stayed, lingering in my veins like ice, but I felt more grounded, solid, but no less worried.

The receptionist stood uncertainly in front of me. She stepped forward hesitantly, the muted tap of her shoes echoing in the nearly deserted lobby. She knelt down in front of me. "He's going to be fine." She told me with a passion in her voice. "It's not going to be easy and he is going to struggle, but he will be fine. Especially if he has someone like you to help him through.

"While everything I said was true, anyone can see that that boy is a fighter." My eyes prickled with tears as she continued. "With support from someone who cares, someone like you, he can make it through. The only question is can you be there for him? Stand by him through the hard times? We here can help heal the physical. But you need to be the one to aid with the mental."

I drew in a deep, shaky breath and met her eyes. "I'd never leave him, not in a time like this." I paused, then whispered almost to myself, "I don't think I can leave him."

Her smile softened and she placed her tiny, delicate hand on top of mine. "Then don't."

The receptionist seemed to form a little attachment with us and our tiny group of weirdness and pent up anticipation. Her name was Larissa; her pretty name seemed to fit perfectly with her tiny, delicate frame and light, wispy golden hair. She talked to a colleague and got them to take over her shift just so she could take us to Kurt's room-to-be and wait with us.

I decided I liked her.

I was starting to feel a bit better, maybe a bit more optimistic and hopeful, but those feelings drained away when we stepped into the pristine white of the hospital room. Empty, dull. It seemed to suck the hope out of me; the various, high-tech machines, the immaculate bedding, the spotless floors, the scary stashes of medical equipment.

Everything just got real.

"Hey, hey, hey," Larissa sat next to me, placing a light hand on my shoulder. "Breathe. I know everything just kind of hit you at once, but once you get it through your mind that it's all here to help, you'll be fine. Breathe." She reiterated.

I did as she instructed, breathing evenly and directing my thoughts down a calmer, more logical path. It worked like a charm.

Not one minute passed when the door was opened and a tall man entered. "Hello, I'm Dr. Loury," He started, looking up at us. "Oh. Hello, Larissa." He added with a slight quirk of his head. She smiled.

"Anyways, I take it you three are here for Mr. Hummel?" We nodded. "They're bringing him down right now. We ran some tests, and while we can't know for sure until he regains consciousness, everything seems to be stable."

"He's not conscious yet?" I asked, my voice sounding smaller than I had expected.

The doctor shook his head sadly. "He should soon enough. His injuries were extensive, but not too serious. I predict a full recovery, should there be no complications."

Larissa smiled encouragingly at me, nodding her head and smiling. I smiled weakly back.

The door opened, and through it came a bed. I shot up from my chair, trying to see Kurt, to solidify that he was alright, that he was breathing, alive…

But before I could, the small team of doctors and nurses had swarmed the bed, hooking him up to various machines, monitors, and drips, recording his vitals on charts, and mumbling amongst themselves.

They all left, one by one, until only the doctor remained. I still hadn't moved forward; my eyes were widened in fear and anxiety, my limbs frozen to the spot. I couldn't look, I just couldn't… I couldn't bear to see him broken.

"As I said, extensive but not serious…" Dr. Loury read off a chart in his hands. Left ankle broken, several cracked ribs, fractured collarbone, various and multiple bruising and lacerations, possibly a concussion. The words floated through my head, increasing my panic yet thawing my limbs.

I took one slow, measured step towards the bed, my breath hitching unevenly. Another step. Another. Then the fear and longing took over and I was at his bedside, wanting to do nothing more than gather him into my arms, hug him, kiss him, hold him until it was all better.

But all I could do was stare, openmouthed. His frail frame looked even tinier, covered in bruises, bandages, and plaster. His skin, the skin that wasn't marred, was pale, creamy white. He had always been pale, but the stark white of the hospital sheets only washed him out further.

Tears filed my eyes as I saw his chest rise with his soft breaths. He just looked so small, so sad, even in sleep. His face was open, vulnerable. A tear made its way down my cheek as he snuffled slightly in sleep and let out a small sigh.

I reached a trembling hand out slowly, trailing careful fingers along his jaw, down his neck, his arm, lightly caressing his cold hand in my larger, warm one.

I gasped as I took in his face, not even peaceful in sleep, yet so beautiful. So tragically beautiful. I couldn't help but think that, even in his state, he was as breathtaking as an angel. I let out a shuddering breath. "Kurt."

He twitched a bit in his sleep, mumbling something I almost didn't catch. He turned his head towards me, his hand clenching mine with just the barest amount of pressure. He breathed out one word before falling into silent rest once more.

"Blaine."

(A/N): This is one of those chapters that I may be awkwardly okay with. :/

One part even got deleted (Blaine's entire part at the hospital) and I had to rewrite it—that's happened before and rewritten pieces always feel off, but… this one didn't. It actually came out better, almost.

Also, whenever I typed "the doctor", I immediately pictured Matt Smith with his cute bow ties, suspenders (and maybe even the fez!), holding his sonic screwdriver and smiling at Klaine. XD Nerd worlds collide!

Anyways, reviews are like when you find the cookies and have the sneaky pleasure of eating the last one! :D

~DFTBA and Best Wishes!