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From beneath heavy eyelids, Blaine watches the sleet fall outside his window, the splat-pat of the cold drops against the panes a quiet backbeat to his thick breathing. The slice of sky he can see above the neighboring building is a muted, steely grey, low with clouds. He can almost feel them pressing on him as he lies on his side in bed, pushing on his chest and keeping it from expanding fully.
If the sun were shining and the clouds were light and fluffy he’d be feeling better. He knows he would. He’d be able to get up. He’d be able to walk across the tiny apartment to make some lunch, and he’d want to eat it once he did. He’d be able to do more with his spring break than lie in his bed, alone and miserable.
But it’s a dreary late winter day, and so he is sick. His nose is so stuffed up that he can only breathe through his mouth, and when he coughs it’s not just his sore chest that protests from feeling like it’s being stabbed with a knife. The muscles in his stomach ache from the effort, like he’s been working out for days and days.
He wonders vaguely if he’ll end up with better abs from this illness. If he ever recovers. It feels like he’s been sick forever, even though it’s been a week. An endless, horrible, cough-filled, bedridden week. It started when that cute but obnoxious Ginny Matherson-Jameson sneezed right in his face during her piano lesson last Thursday afternoon. He didn’t know it, of course, but that’s when it started, and now it’s going to last forever.
If somehow it doesn’t, though, he’s totally going to start her on some Bartok next as retribution.
The apartment is quiet, the neighbors all at work and even sounds of the traffic on the street muted by the relentless sleet, and Blaine squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face mournfully into the pillow.
He’s alone. He always knew he’d end up alone, fending for himself. If he wants tea, he’ll have to get it himself. If he runs out of tissues, he’ll have to fetch more from the linen closet. If he needs another dose of cold medicine, he’ll have to lumber to the bathroom to find it. If he wants orange juice, he’ll have to go out and get it, because he drank the last of it this morning.
He doesn’t know how he’ll do any of that, though. He can’t. It takes all of his energy just to turn over onto his other side, his abs burning with the motion, and the pressure in his sinuses wavers and resettles in an unpleasant way as gravity shifts everything in his head. He coughs again, a hint of tears springing into his eyes at the dagger-sharp pain in his lungs that accompanies it, and tries to find a cool spot on his pillowcase.
There isn’t one. No matter where he rests his cheek, it’s warm. He slides to the edge of the pillow, he turns over again, he even flips the pillowcase, and everywhere he moves is hot and sticky against him. All he wants is something cold to lie on. All he wants is to feel better.
He fists his hands under his pillow and watches the sleet fall in ice-cold sheets against the panes of glass. He wishes he had the energy to drag himself over to the window; that, at least, would be cool against his skin.
But he doesn’t, and there’s nothing he can do but lie there, because he’s alone and too weak the move. There’s no one to help him. There’s just Blaine, his hot pillow, and the heavy winter clouds pressing down on his chest.
“Really?” Kurt says from the doorway. “I’ve been gone forty minutes, and you’re already reduced to moaning into your pillow?”
Blaine blinks open his eyes. “It’s hot,” he rasps out and swallows to try to soothe his aching throat. It doesn’t help.
Kurt walks over and sits gently on the bed beside him. Drops of water are shining in his upswept hair, and his cheeks are pink from being outside. “You’re hot,” he says gently and lays a cool hand on Blaine’s forehead.
“I’m a mess,” Blaine says with a sniffle. He closes his eyes as his whole body relaxes under Kurt’s soothing touch, and he already feels better when he opens them again. He looks up at his boyfriend, at his beautiful, worried eyes, perfect skin, and elegant sweater that shows off his lovely broad shoulders, and wonders not for the first time how he’s been so lucky to get Kurt to accept his love not once but twice. “But thank you. You’re hot, too. I like that sweater.”
Kurt just laughs and slides his hand down to cup Blaine’s cheek for a moment. “I didn’t mean it in a sexy way, Blaine. I mean you have a fever.”
Blaine’s heart falls. “You don’t think I’m sexy?”
“Blaine.” Kurt pulls his hand back to rest on the blankets covering Blaine’s hip and levels him a look. “Your eyes are hazy like you’ve been drinking, your nose is bright red despite the best tissues money can buy, and your hair is a rat’s nest.”
Blaine breathes out mournfully and nods against the pillow. The hot, hot, sticky pillow.
“Fine,” Kurt tells him. “You’re always sexy.” His voice lowers, and he rolls his eyes as he mutters, “It’s even true.”
“I love you,” Blaine manages to disentangle a hand from under the covers and reaches out to touch Kurt’s knee in gratitude.
Kurt’s smile turns softer, and it does lovely things to the planes of his face. “I love you, too,” he says. It sounds like a promise. “Now, I’m going to run you a bath with one of my aromatherapy bath bombs. I think one of the menthol and eucalyptus ones to help clear your head, and while you soak in there I’m going to put clean sheets on the bed.”
Blaine doesn’t know how he can possibly make it to the bathroom, nevertheless keep himself from drowning in the tub, but if there’s one thing he’s learned over the years it’s that Kurt has better instincts than he does and that he should always listen to him. “Cold ones?”
“Yes, cold ones. Do you want me to put your pillowcase in the refrigerator?”
“Oh, my god,” Blaine says in complete and total awe at the idea.
Kurt laughs again and pulls back the covers. His hands are gentle but steady as he helps Blaine sit up, and he holds him there on the edge of the bed for a minute, just waiting, while Blaine coughs and moans and coughs some more until his body adjusts to the change in position.
“Kurt,” Blaine whimpers, resting his forehead against Kurt’s strong shoulder when the fit passes. He dabs at his nose with the tissue Kurt hands him.
“I know,” Kurt tells him and rubs his back in slow circles. “The bath will help. Are you okay to sit here while I run it?”
Blaine nods, but he squeezes his eyes shut and leans against him for another minute, getting to be weak and yet drawing strength from having him near. “Okay.” He turns a little and slumps mostly upright against the pillows propped against the headboard. He knows sitting up now through the coughing will help his lungs clear out before getting in the bath, but it takes all of his willpower not to curl up flat on his side again.
Kurt pats his calf and leaves him there. Through the muffled thickness in his ears that makes the world sound like it’s happening on the other side of earmuffs or somewhere underwater, Blaine hears Kurt humming to himself as the pipes creak and water begins to run in the bathroom.
Their apartment is tiny and unpleasantly drafty on the coldest winter days, but Blaine had fallen in love with it for the big, east-facing windows in the living room, and Kurt had fallen in love with it for the extra linen closet and the old, claw-foot tub in the bathroom. The tub, too, can be quite cold in the winter, the cast iron taking forever to heat up where the water doesn’t touch it, but with a bath pillow it’s more than bearable.
Blaine just has to get there. Now that he’s not under the blankets, he’s starting to get cold, and the thought of warm, foamy water all around him sounds blissful. It’s a measure of how ill he is that he can’t really think about how nice it would be if Kurt joined him in there. It’s a tight fit, but they can manage it, Blaine resting against Kurt’s chest in the deep water. It would be nice even today, but not because Kurt would be slippery and naked; it would just be wonderful to be held and taken care of.
Sniffling miserably, Blaine sighs and curls deeper into the pillows. It’s spring break. They don’t have classes or too much homework. They don’t have plans to do anything with anyone. They were supposed to be spending the week together going out and staying in, because life is busy and time is usually so short. They’d both taken the week off from work, and they should have been in that bath doing amazing and exhilarating things. Or in the bed. Or in the kitchen. Or on the couch. Or maybe the piano bench, because Kurt always melts like butter when Blaine sits at the upright and doesn’t look away from his gorgeous eyes as he plays him love song after love song until his hands are better put to use in Kurt’s hair, on his face, at the fastenings of his complicated clothes, all over his beautiful body -
“Blaine?” Kurt asks, pulling him out of his doze with a hand on his shoulder.
“Is it time for me to play for you?” Blaine asks muzzily. He thinks he can manage something simple, maybe. He wonders if Kurt would accept ‘Heart and Soul.’ Or ‘Chopsticks.’ That’s romantic, right?
“It’s time to get you in the bath,” Kurt reminds him.
Right. Bath. It’s time for a bath, and not a sexy one, because instead of getting to spend the week with Kurt walking hand-in-hand around New York and making good use of the privacy of their apartment he’s messed up everything by getting sick giving a piano lesson that was supposed to make him extra money so he could take Kurt out to dinner this week somewhere special.
“I hate Ginny Matherson-Jameson,” Blaine tells Kurt. The world spins around him when he gets upright, but he doesn’t topple over. Kurt doesn’t let him.
“No, you don’t. You should, but you don’t. She’s spoiled and selfish and doesn’t respect you. She also hates the piano. You love her mother, you love her sister, and you try so hard to love Ginny, too.”
“I know.” Blaine leans in and shares his evil plan to get back at her. “I’m going to make her play Bartok.”
Kurt huffs out a laugh, his arm steady around Blaine’s waist as he walks him toward the bathroom. “That’ll show her.”
“I’m going to let Hannah pick whatever piece she wants to learn next, but Ginny’s going to learn some Bartok.”
“That seems like a perfectly reasonable reaction to getting bronchitis,” Kurt says dryly.
Blaine nods. “Thank you.”
The bathroom is steamy and smells wonderful, the tub filled with water and bubbles. The bath pillow is in place, and a thick towel is draped over the bath stool, already ready for him.
Blaine lets Kurt lean him against the door and tries to help with the removal of his t-shirt and sweatpants, although given the way he gets lost somewhere in his shirt he’s not sure he’s doing anything more than getting in Kurt’s way. His pulse speeds up just a touch at the sight of Kurt on his knees in front of him, helping him step out of his pants, but it’s all he can muster.
“I really hate Ginny,” he says mournfully.
“I know,” Kurt replies. He stands up with such perfect grace and guides him into the bath. The sides of the tub are as tall as Mount Everest, but Kurt keeps him from falling.
The water is soft and comforting against his skin, and Blaine lets out a sigh of relief once he’s sitting in it. He doesn’t know how water can be soft. He doesn’t know how he can be desperate for a cold pillow and yet feel warm for the first time in years as he slips down into the bath up to his chin. He doesn’t know how he can feel dirty from doing nothing but lying down all day.
“Good?” Kurt asks.
Blaine sighs out his smile, and he nods.
“Good. I’m going to wash your hair, then I’m going to change the bed,” Kurt tells him, kneeling down next to the tub.
“You don’t have to.” Blaine struggles to open his eyes. “I can wash my hair. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Well, right now you’ll probably drown if you try.” Kurt carefully pours some water over Blaine’s head, his eyes focused on his task, and Blaine watches the tenderness in his face for a moment before he has to shut his own eyes again, overwhelmed by how he looks, how his touch feels. Kurt massages shampoo into his hair, his fingers so perfectly gentle, and Blaine feels the caress all the way down into his toes. It’s wonderful. It makes his sluggish body wake, and yet it soothes him at the same time, those circling fingertips against the crown of his head, behind his ears, gently cupping the back of his skull as he moves Blaine here and there where he wants him.
“That feels so good,” Blaine whispers, and he’s aware that usually he says those words in a similar tone to Kurt in far different circumstances. But this is equally wonderful.
“I’m glad,” Kurt says. Blaine can hear the smile in his voice. “I remember my mother doing this for me when I had the flu when I was little. She said there’s nothing like a good bath to make you feel more like yourself when you’re sick.”
“Mmm. She was right. I wish I’d been able to know her.”
Kurt’s fingers still. Then they trail tenderly along Blaine’s jaw before going back to their work. “I do, too,” he says softly.
Blaine loves Kurt’s family. He loves Burt. He loves Carole. He loves Finn. He loves the way they all laugh around the table and include him in their jokes. He loves how he almost feels like a part of their family, too.
It just makes him sad that he will never meet one of the people who made Kurt the wonderful person that he is. It makes him sad that Kurt doesn’t have her.
“Thank you for sharing her with me,” Blaine tells him.
Kurt rubs circles at Blaine’s temple. “Thank you for wanting me to.”
Blaine’s whole body is tingling from Kurt’s touch, his skin growing warm and alive, his lungs soothed by the hot bath and aromatic steam. His toes wiggle in the bubbles where they float at the surface, but the rest of him is still, sated, and happy. He feels cared for. He feels loved.
“Okay.” Kurt carefully urges Blaine’s head forward as he pours water to rinse out the shampoo. Then he guides him back to rest against the pillow. Blaine blinks open his eyes in gratitude. “If I leave you here, do you promise not to slide under the water and get lost?”
Blaine smiles up at him. “I promise.”
The corner of Kurt’s mouth quirks upwards. “Good,” he says, and he drops a kiss on Blaine’s forehead before getting up. There’s water soaked into the knees of his jeans and peppering the front of his sweater, and that he’d sacrifice his clothing for Blaine’s comfort only makes Blaine feel that much more loved.
He drifts in the tub, stirring the bubbles with his toes now and then but mostly just listening to Kurt bustle around the apartment. The linen closet opens and closes. The bed springs squeak. The washer whirs into life. It’s a comforting set of sounds, not because of what Kurt’s doing - though obviously he is grateful - but because Kurt’s there at all, because Kurt loves him.
Blaine might have ruined all of their wonderful plans for their break, but Kurt loves him.
It’s the most amazing thought ever. Love is amazing. Kurt is amazing.
This bath is amazing. He can actually breathe through his nose, and he’s not coughing. It’s a miracle.
He wonders if he ought to call the Catholic church to let them know. They care about miracles, right? Don’t they have a whole department for it? They probably would want to know.
He should google their number when he gets up.
Blaine is nearly asleep again when Kurt comes to get him, and he almost goes under when he’s startled awake by Kurt murmuring his name. Water sloshes dangerously around him, but he grabs hold of the side and somehow stays upright.
“Sorry,” Kurt says, his voice calm but his eyes wide with alarm. “I didn’t think you’d fall asleep in there.”
“Right now, I think I could fall asleep in the middle of the street,” Blaine says miserably, swaying back and forth with the waves in the tub.
“Yet another reason why I’m the one who went out today. Come on, out you go.”
The air of the room is a shock to Blaine’s system compared to the water, but after a few seconds he finds he doesn’t mind it. Once he’s wrapped up in his plush bathrobe - a Christmas present from Kurt - it’s actually nice to have a break from the heat that the bath had offered. His skin feels tight now that he’s upright, his body heavy, his head as fuzzy as the robe around him.
“I can make you tea if you want to sit on the couch,” Kurt says. “Or I can just put you back to bed.”
The idea of tea sounds wonderful. So does sitting up and getting to talk to Kurt. Even having a different view out the window would be incredible.
But as he stands there wobbling on his feet from Kurt simply drying his hair with a towel, Blaine knows he just doesn’t have the energy for it. He wants to, but he doesn’t.
“I think it has to be bed,” he says with a weak little cough.
“Taking a bath is exhausting,” Kurt agrees, and Blaine isn’t sure if he’s laughing at him or not.
Blaine drops his head as Kurt rubs at the back of it. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. And you shouldn’t be.”
“I ruined our week.”
“Ginny Whatshername-whatshername ruined our week,” Kurt tells him firmly.
“But I - “
“It’s bronchitis, Blaine.” Kurt removes the towel and replaces it on the rack, folded perfectly, while not looking away from Blaine’s face. “It’s not a moral failing. You didn’t get it on purpose.”
Blaine nods, because that’s true. That’s so true. Not only does he not want to be sick, but he had plans for this week. Big, wonderful, fun plans. He doesn’t remember what they were right now beyond maybe something at the Costume Institute, but he knows he had them. “I’m going to make her play Bartok,” he promises.
Kurt smiles at him and cups his cheek for a moment. “I know. Now let’s get you back to bed, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Don’t kiss me awake. I don’t want you to get it.” The hardwood floors are cool against Blaine’s bare feet as they walk together down the hallway, and he reaches the rug in the bedroom with relief. He digs his toes into the fibers. The bed has been remade and pulled back, a new set of pajamas ready for him, including a pair of Kurt’s favorite fuzzy winter lounge socks.
“Those are your socks,” Blaine says.
“Yes. I’m letting you borrow them.”
“You love those socks,” Blaine says, confused. They’re Kurt’s favorite socks to wear around the apartment.
“Yes, I do.” Kurt removes Blaine’s bathrobe and helps him into the clean clothes. “Your feet were like icicles before your bath. I don’t want them to get cold again.”
“But I was hot.” Blaine lifts his arms when Kurt holds out the soft t-shirt. He distinctly remembers being hot, so he doesn’t know how his feet could be cold.
“You have a fever.” When Blaine’s safely in the shirt, Kurt kisses him on top of his head and offers him a sly smile. “And you’re always hot, remember?”
The conversation seems familiar, and Blaine worries at it as he sits and he pulls on the socks. They are deliciously cozy. He wiggles his toes in them, too; they’re almost as soft as the bubbles. “Didn’t we already talk about this?”
“Mmm,” Kurt agrees. “Here we go.” He guides Blaine to lie down on the mattress, and it feels so good to let go that Blaine wants to cry. Instead he coughs, too long and more painfully than is fair, sharp, stabbing pains in his lungs even as he struggles to draw in enough air to cough again, and by the time he’s done Kurt has gotten the covers settled over him.
The sheets are cool and crisp, not yet tangled around him from his restless sleep. The duvet is fluffed and smooth. The pillow has been re-plumped, and the pillowcase itself is beautifully cold. It’s extremely cold. “Oh, god,” Blaine says and rolls his cheek against it. “Kurt.”
Kurt’s response is to sift his fingers gently through his hair, stroking in slow motions.
“You make everything better,” Blaine tells him almost desperately, because he feels awful, but he’s so happy. It makes his chest hurt in a way that has nothing to do with the bronchitis. He doesn’t know how he’s so lucky. He must have done something amazingly right somewhere, because he knows all too well he did so much wrong.
“I love you,” Kurt replies, still petting him.
Blaine thinks of his mother singing him lullabies when he was little, of Rachel and Finn showing up with soup when his eye was hurt, of Tina bringing him a cold buster kit his senior year. He thinks of Kurt sitting at his bedside reading him magazines after the slushie, of Kurt going out now to get him matzoh ball soup from the diner, of Rachel singing to him over the phone this morning to encourage him to get better, of Kurt keeping track of his cough medicine and antibiotics on his phone so that he doesn’t miss a dose, because he knows Blaine needs his prescriptions even if they make him totally woozy and tired and weird.
Blaine doesn’t know how he’s so lucky.
“Because you’re you,” Kurt says softly. “And you’re not weird, although I’ll agree with woozy and tired. Now stop mumbling into your pillow and get some sleep. I’m making eggs and toast for dinner if you think you can keep them down. A man cannot live on soup alone.”
“‘M not alone,” Blaine says, because he’s not. Somehow he’s not alone. He’s never alone. He has people who care about him. He has people who love him, even when he messes up.
And he’s always going to mess up, like forgetting to drop off the rent check when he’s running late or letting Ginny sneeze on him when he knew she had a cold, but he’ll keep trying not to. He’ll keep trying, because it matters so much.
“I know,” Kurt murmurs, still stroking his hair. “And that’s why I love you.”
Blaine blinks up at him. “Because I’m not alone?”
“Because you’re trying,” Kurt tells him, soft but serious. “Now get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Blaine looks at Kurt’s perfect face, at the love in his eyes, at the way his hair is drooping a little from the sleet and the bath, and knows all the way through him that he’s the luckiest person in the world. He should do more, do better, to make Kurt feel happy, too. He can never do enough. He should do so much more.
But it will have wait until he can keep his eyes open. Then he can make plans.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the perfectly cool pillowcase, and he’s already almost asleep by the time Kurt bends down to kiss him on the forehead.
Blaine dreams of fuzzy socks, of blue-green eyes, and of sure, soft hands. He dreams of voices raised in song, of scarves and hats, and of coffee shops and park benches. He dreams of getting down on one knee in a field of flowers, holding up something small and round that sparkles in the sunlight.
He also dreams of Santana chasing him through the university library wearing huge green fuzzy monster hands and screaming about Bartok and the medieval practice of subinfeudation.
But mostly he dreams wonderful, dizzying, more than slightly confusing and yet comforting fever dreams of Kurt.