Chapter 17

Wednesday, July 26th, 2023

"Rachel? What are you doing here?" Kurt asked, looking up from his design table at his best friend, who was holding a bright pink tote bag at arm's length.

"I'm stealing you!" she exclaimed. "It's the prettiest day outside, Kurt – I thought we could have a picnic!"

He stared at her. It was finally official – Rachel Berry had lost her mind. "Rach, you can't just come into someone's workplace and expect them to –"

"I saw Marc on my way in," she interrupted smugly. "He gave me his full support of your kidnapping."

"You – wait." Kurt cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. "Marc – as in, Marc Jacobs, my boss? You asked him if you could kidnap me for lunch?"

"Well of course I did. I wouldn't want to kidnap you without permission! He's very friendly, actually – we're on a first name basis now, of course. Oh, and Kurt – he's seen the show! You didn't even tell me!"

"Pardon me," Kurt said drily. "I should start keeping better track of his comings and goings, because that's completely normal ..."

"Oh, stop it," Rachel said with a wave of her hand. "I just thought he might've mentioned something to you, since we're best friends ..." she trailed off. "Wait. You have mentioned me here, haven't you? I mean – people know who I am, and know we're friends, right?"

Kurt chuckled. "Oh, people definitely know who you are. You've made for many an entertaining tale on late nights when we're all too exhausted to see straight."

"Oh. Well, good!" Rachel said brightly, her concerned frown disappearing as fast as it came. "You know I love to entertain. Now come on – put those scissors down, and come get some sun and eat lunch with me."

Kurt sighed in frustration, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marc mouthing "Go!" at him, and making shooing motions with his hands.

"Fine," he groaned, "but this can't turn into a 2-hour-long cocktail party. I have work to do."

"As you wish," Rachel said with a smug grin, hooking her arm through Kurt's and tugging him through the building, out into the bright sunlight. She pulled him down a block and a half to a tiny park with a few benches.

"Here – this is perfect!" She sat, smoothing her skirt. "Now, lunch – everything is healthy and low-fat, so it's perfectly safe for you to eat without fear of everything going to your hips – not that anything ever does, of course," she chattered, unpacking the pink tote bag to reveal a container of greens, a bottle of homemade vinaigrette, and another container of some sort of pasta salad.

"You know that's not my problem, right?"

Rachel looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

"Without fear of everything going to your hips," Kurt parroted, "You know that's not why I can't eat, right, Rachel?"

She huffed. "I don't really see why it matters why you're not eating –"

"It matters a hell of a lot why I'm not eating!" Kurt exclaimed. "Don't you think I feel like shit? Don't you think I know I look like shit?"

"Well – your skin is getting a little sallow," Rachel said, looking down at her feet.

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder," Kurt said wryly. "I can't eat because – I can't, Rach. I'm nauseated if I don't eat, but I puke if I try. You know how my stomach gets when I'm this upset all the time."

Rachel sighed. "Look, as your best friend, it's my job to take care of you, especially when Blaine can't," she said. "I'm sorry that you feel bad, but you need to eat, or you're really going to get sick."

"I'm doing the best I can," Kurt grumbled at her. "And I am eating, I just have to be particular about what I eat."

"Well, what can you eat, then?" she asked, gesturing to the food set out on the bench beside her. "Anything in here?"

"I've been mainly living on saltines and pretzels," he said, "and the occasional tub of yogurt. But ..." He picked up the container of pasta salad. "I might be able to try this."

"It's homemade," Rachel told him, as if it would help.

He stabbed two pasta shells with his fork and popped them in his mouth, chewing slowly.

"It tastes good," he told her, glad with the knowledge that it wasn't a lie, and she clapped her hands and spooned some out onto a plate for him.

"Listen," he continued, eating another shell, "if you really want to worry about someone, you should worry about Blaine. He sits at home and does nothing all day, and he's started going out with Alex at night, which is the worst possible decision he might've ever made. He's come home drunk – like, the vomitus maximus, killer hangover kind of drunk – two nights this week already."

"Oh, Kurt." Rachel placed a tender hand on his shoulder, and he knew she'd taken the bait. He didn't feel bad, taking the attention away from himself. His stomach would come around eventually, but Blaine was really starting to worry him, and as much as he hated to admit it, Rachel probably had more patience than he did for his husband.

"Yeah. Maybe you guys can go to brunch or something soon. I don't think it's good for him, sitting alone in our condo all the time."

"Well of course it isn't!" Rachel exclaimed. "Don't worry, Kurt, I'm your woman – you can count on me to keep him company!"

Kurt listened to her jabber on, making plans to rescue Blaine from his self-imposed isolation, and tried to eat. But about halfway through the little pile of pasta salad on his plate, the food stopped tasting good, and his stomach started feeling sour.

Rachel stopped in the middle of her sentence, looking down at his plate. "Are you full already?"

"I'm sorry, Rach. I get to a certain point, and I just feel sick – I can't eat anymore."

She regarded him sadly, then started packing her Tupperware containers back into her bag, turning her back to him. "Well, thanks for coming and picnicking with me anyway," she said, her voice cold. "I hope it was at least a nice break for you –"

"Rachel, don't."

"Don't what?" she asked innocently.

"Take this," he gestured to his body, "as a personal affront to your cooking, or our friendship, or whatever the hell you're thinking right now. I would've expected that from you ten years ago, but right now I just really, really need you to step out of your own head and your happy little Broadway world and be my friend, okay?"

"I –" she started, clearly offended, but then shrank back against the bench. "I'm sorry. Oh, god, I'm awful, aren't I?"

"No. You're not," he said, patting her hand. "This is just not the you I need right now. I don't need Rachel Berry, Broadway star, who can waltz in and name drop and ask Marc Jacobs give me a lunch break. I know that works sometimes, but it's not going to work for this."

"Which Rachel do you need, then?" She paused. "Oh, god, you're making me sound like Sybil ..."

Kurt sighed. "I'm not saying you have multiple personality disorder or whatever they're calling it now, I just –"

"I'm sorry," she said, clapping a hand over her mouth. "I did it again. This is about you, not me ... Okay." She sat up straight, put her hands primly in her lap. "Let's try again. Which me do you need right now, Kurt?"

He smiled softly. "The one who broke into the Gershwin Theater with me when we were in high school. The one who came to me, sobbing, when you and Finn ended things for good and let me pet your hair for an hour. The one who'd stuff a ballot box for me, even if it ended in my disqualification and your suspension. The one who did yoga with me at two in the morning because both of us were too tired to sleep." He paused. "The one who helped me pick out Blaine's engagement ring."

Kurt looked up to see tears rolling down Rachel's face as she nodded. "Okay," she said, squeezing his hand. "Okay, I can be that for you." He pulled her into a hug and she sniffled next to his ear. "I'll take Blaine out soon, I promise. Anything you need, Kurt – just tell me, alright?"

He kissed her cheek in reply.

* * *

Blaine's head jerked up from where he'd fallen asleep on the couch, knocking his book to the floor. He looked up to see Kurt unzipping his boots, stacking them carefully on their shoe rack.

"Hey," Blaine said, stretching his arms over his head.

"Oh, hey," Kurt said, and Blaine was struck by how tired he sounded. "Did I wake you?"

"Yeah. It's okay though," Blaine said trying to wake up. "Is my hair flat?" He patted the side of his head, trying to gauge its appearance with his fingers. "I bet my hair's all flat."

Kurt gave him a small smile and walked over, covering Blaine's hand with his own. "Not flat. Just a little frizzy."

"What's wrong? You seem really tired."

"I am tired, Blaine. In the last twenty-four hours, I've gotten three hours of sleep, I've had two different people try to force-feed me, I've dealt with a pretty belligerent, very drunk husband, and I've had to clean up more puke than I'd really like to think about. After all that, how can I not be tired?"

Blaine hung his head. He didn't remember much of the night before. He knew there was more karaoke, but after the first two songs he sang, things were pretty fuzzy. He did remember staring into the bowl of their toilet for a long time, and he'd woken up with a god-awful hangover and a mouth that tasted like something had crawled inside it and died.

After the hangover had finally worn off – with the help of half a bottle of Pepto-Bismol – the guilt had really begun to set in. All he wanted to do was escape from the hell he was living in, but he realized that while he was escaping, Kurt was having to do double the work while trying to grieve himself.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," Blaine said, unable to look him in the eye. "I – I really am. I know I was awful."

"Blaine, honey, you weren't awful, you were just plastered. Really, I was more irritated at Alex for letting you get that bad off than I was at you. I didn't mean to snap. I'm just – really tired."

"Maybe you could take a nap?"

Kurt gave him a look that read something along the lines of, Are you fucking kidding me?

"Okay, okay, no nap. So who was making you eat this time?" Blaine asked, changing the subject.

"Rachel, mainly," Kurt answered. "And you know how she is when she thinks she's on a mission."

"Rachel?" Blaine asked. "You saw her today?"

"She brought me lunch and conspired with my boss to lure me out into the sun with the guise of a picnic just so she could stuff food down my throat. Apparently they're on a first-name basis now."

Blaine raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, fine," Kurt admitted, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, "it wasn't that dramatic – although, apparently she and Marc actually did hit it off. I'm just tired of people trying to coddle me to death." He whistled, and Romeo, who was taking a nap in his dog bed, shook himself off and trotted over, jumping up in Kurt's lap.

"Including me?" Blaine asked, chancing a wary look out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes, including you."

"I'm sorry – I don't want to be a nag." Blaine gave him a sheepish look. "I just hate seeing you like –"

"And I hate seeing you like this, too, Blaine," he snapped. "But there's not a lot we can do, is there? It is what it is."

"I guess," Blaine said sadly. He rested his hand on Kurt's thigh and Romeo began to lick his arm. "So did you bring work home with you tonight, or can we watch something on TV?"

Kurt stretched out under Blaine's touch, resting his head on the back of the couch. "I probably should work, but I'm so tired – let's just turn something on. Want to marathon old episodes of Real Housewives?"

"Sure – you think it'll make us feel better about ourselves?"

"I guess it's worth a shot," Kurt said, handing Romeo to Blaine and getting up to sift through their DVD collection. "What do you think," he asked, crouched in front of the cabinet under their built-in bookcase, "Miami, Beverly Hills, or New Jersey?"

"Mmm," Blaine mused, "let's go with Beverly Hills. Season three?"

Kurt popped the DVD in the player and came back to the couch, this time laying his head in Blaine's lap and pulling the puppy onto his chest. "Do you think things will ever feel normal again?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," Blaine said, running his fingers through Kurt's hair, rubbing his scalp. "I think I've forgotten what normal feels like. I miss you, Kurt."

"I miss you too," Kurt said. "I miss her, Blaine, sometimes so much I could –"

It was like a lead weight had been dropped onto his chest. "Don't," Blaine said, shaking his head. "Kurt, I don't want to talk about her."

"Why not?"

"Because when I do, I cry, and I'm tired of crying. I – it's like a hole in my heart, and it's swallowing me alive, and – can we just watch Real Housewives and forget we have problems, please? Just for tonight?"

Kurt reached up to cup Blaine's cheek in the palm of his hand. "Okay. But if we don't talk about her, we'll forget her, and I don't want to."

Blaine breathed slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. He could never forget her – her face was painted on the backs of his eyelids; her cries haunted his dreams. He didn't need to talk about her. He carried her with him every moment of every day. "I'm gonna get a beer – do you want one?"

Kurt raised his eyebrows. "I'm barely able to keep down pretzels, and you want to know if I want a beer? No thanks, honey."

Blaine shrugged. "Just didn't want you to feel left out or something." He lifted Kurt's head up enough to slide out from under him, and he could feel Kurt's eyes trained on his back the whole way to the kitchen.

"Does it make you feel better?" Kurt asked once they were settled again, his voice full of concern.

"What?"

"Drinking. Does it make you feel better?"

Blaine blinked at him. "Kind of. For a little while. Why?"

"I was just wondering why you do it, if it makes you so sick," Kurt said softly. "It'd have to be really worth it for me to do something that made me feel that bad."

"I – I don't know, Kurt," he said. "I – let's just watch the show, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt said casually and scooted down, turning toward the T.V., but his words rang in Blaine's ears for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Later that night, Kurt was going through his moisturizing routine while Blaine read in bed. In the mirror, Kurt spotted the scale – the scale he hadn't stood on since Violet was taken so abruptly from their lives.

Kurt fought an internal battle while he dabbed his face with astringent – on one hand, he knew he'd lost weight, and wanted to know how bad the damage was, but on the other, ignorance was bliss. He couldn't stay ignorant for much longer, though – his clothes, so carefully tailored to perfectly fit his 150 lb. frame, were starting to hang loose on him. His energy level, once envied by his co-workers, was dwindling fast.

With the last dab of his cotton ball, he rose from the stool he kept solely for this purpose – their bedroom was too small to house a large vanity like he'd grown up with – and walked over to the scale. He closed his eyes and stepped up.

He counted to five, took a deep breath, then looked down.

139.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit..."

"Kurt, are you okay?" Blaine called from their bed.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yeah," he called back, silently willing his voice not to shake. "I just dropped my tub of cold cream on my toe."

"Ouch," Blaine said. "Want me to kiss it better?"

"My toe, Blaine?" Kurt said as he stared down at the number. How had he lost that much weight? It had been a month – that was almost three pounds a week. More than was recommended when you were trying to lose weight, and he wasn't. No wonder his pants weren't fitting right anymore.

He took a deep breath and slipped his robe off his shoulders, then craned his neck and looked backwards, trying to see his ass in the mirror. His neck couldn't crane quite far enough to see, so he stepped off the scale, hung his robe on the towel hook, and looked again.

His briefs, the black Calvin Kleins that hugged his ass so perfectly that on one very memorable night they made Blaine literally drool on his pillow, were bunchy and sagging in the back. Kurt wanted to cry.

* * *

Saturday, July 29th, 2023

It was Saturday night, and Kurt was watching the clock as he swept the floor. Eleven o'clock.

He moved to the bathroom – eleven-thirty – then tidied the bedroom – twelve – then moved to the kitchen. He pulled every item out of their cabinets, looked for expiration dates, reorganized their non-perishables until everything was spic-and-span. One A.M. Still no Blaine.

He gave up and went to bed.

His phone read 2:28 when he finally roused to the sound of a key in the lock. Kurt sighed as he padded toward the door in his bare feet, his pajama pants swishing around his ankles.

"Alex, it's two-thirty in the morning. You guys have got to quit doing this," he said, as Alex helped Blaine through the door. Blaine was grinning, leaning heavily on Alex's arm.

"Kurt. Kurt-Kurt, I missed you – you never want to have fun with me," Blaine whined, pitching forward into Kurt's arms. "I sang, baby – I wish you'd been there to see me sing. I was singing to you."

"Is he sick tonight?" The question was directed at Alex.

"Nah, just happy."

Kurt stared at him. "You know, to be such a great agent, you're really dense sometimes. This? Is not happy."

"'Course I'm happy, Kurt!" Blaine said, nuzzling his face into Kurt's neck. "I'm home with you now. I love you."

"Yeah, I love you too, honey. Can you walk to the bed?" he asked tiredly.

Blaine nodded dutifully, holding onto the wall and stumbling back to their bedroom. Once the door shut behind him, Kurt sighed.

"Come in, Alex. I want to talk to you for a few minutes."

He curled up in the recliner with a soft chenille blanket, giving Alex the couch.

"This can't keep happening," Kurt said after a long pause. "I know you think that you're helping, but getting Blaine wasted isn't going to do anything but impede his grieving process."

"He's worried about you," Alex said quietly.

"I know he is. I'm worried about me," Kurt admitted, his fingers idly tracing the bones in his ankles. "I'm worried about him, I'm worried about us –"

"You're both worrying yourselves into the ground," Alex said. "I'm just trying to help Blaine find a little bit of happiness in all this mess."

"But it's no good when the happiness is contrived."

"Yeah, but you don't see him up there," Alex said with a sigh. "He sings, Kurt – I didn't know he sang before he started coming out with me. He's got such a great voice, and he works the crowd like he's a rockstar or something. Everybody loves him, for a couple of hours at night. I just feel like I'm giving him something, you know?"

"I know exactly how good he is," Kurt said, smiling a little sadly at the memories of Blaine jumping around their first apartment together. "And before all this happened, he sang at home all the time. We sang together. But – Alex, what you don't see is the aftermath. He comes home, he gets sick, I clean it up. He moans about his head, and he doesn't get out of bed for hours in the morning. He might feel awesome at the bar with you, but he feels like shit the rest of the time."

"Well, I'm trying to get him to drink less –"

Kurt shook his head. He was done with the polite chatting – it was getting him nowhere. He wanted to make sure that Alex heard him loud and clear. "How about trying to get him to write? Or walk the dog? Or clean the kitchen once in a while? Or do something productive besides going to bars and pouring drugs in his mouth?"

Alex's eyes widened a bit. "Whoa, man –"

"Seriously, Alex. If you thought a joint would make him feel better, would you give him that, too? What about cocaine? Or you guys could shoot some heroin. Anything to make him happy ..."

"Kurt." Alex's tone was firm. "You're comparing apples and oranges, here. Those are all illegal drugs, and no, I'd never give one of my best authors anything like that. I don't want to fry his brain."

"Well you're doing a damn fine job of frying his liver."

Alex just looked at him, and Kurt sighed. "I'm sorry. That was out of line. I'm just tired, and things are so hard, and –"

"No, man, you don't have to apologize. It's just – if Blaine calls me and asks me if I want to go out, I'm not gonna say no. I think being isolated would be worse for him than drinking right now. And – no offense, but it's not like you're around all that much. He's told me about the hours you're working."

"Let's not bring my work hours into this," Kurt said, casting his gaze toward the wall. "But you're right – Blaine doesn't need to be alone."

"Well, if you don't want him to go out with me, and you don't want him to be by himself, and you want to keep working the way you do ..." Alex trailed off. "I wish I knew what to tell you, Kurt."

A little ball of resentment formed in Kurt's stomach. "Well I guess we'll have to find Blaine some different friends, won't we?" he snapped.

"Yeah, I guess so," Alex said, pushing up on his knees and rising from the couch. "Look, it's late, and I should go. I'm sorry if I upset you."

Kurt shrugged. "Whatever. I guess I'm just being a controlling prick. Blaine's a grown man. He can do what he wants to."

Alex grunted at this, and let himself out. "Have a good night," he said right before the door clicked shut behind him.

"Yeah, right," Kurt muttered, closing his eyes and counting a full minute before getting up from his place in the recliner.

He took a deep breath before opening their bedroom door. "Blaine? Are you still awake?"

* * *

Sunday, July 30th, 2023

Blaine stumbled from warm, snug-as-a-bug blankets in bed to the too-bright kitchen where Kurt was making a racket so loud he felt like a jackhammer was being held to his head.

"What is that?" he asked, his hands covering his ears.

"Our coffee grinder. Which you use nearly every morning," Kurt shouted above the noise.

"Do you have to grind your coffee this morning, Kurt? We've got two bags of pre-ground stuff in the freezer already. My head is killing me."

"Well pardon me for wanting a fresh cup," Kurt snapped.

"You're doing it out of spite, because you're mad at me," Blaine muttered, sinking into a kitchen chair.

"I'm doing it because I wanted a Sumatra roast this morning and the only bag of that we have is whole beans." The loud noise finally stopped, and Kurt shook the coffee grounds into a filter. "I'm going into the studio today, by the way."

Blaine looked up at him. "Again?"

"What do you mean, again? I'm working the same hours I've kept for the past four years."

"You –" Blaine cut himself off, too tired and headachy for the yelling match that was sure to ensue if he'd continued. What he wanted to say was that Kurt wasn't keeping the same hours he used to work, that Kurt was working himself to the bone. He wanted to tell Kurt that his feelings were hurt because it felt like Kurt was avoiding him, like Kurt wanted to leave him at home by himself. That for the past four years, when Kurt was home, he'd made a point to spend time with Blaine, and that wasn't happening this time.

Instead, he asked if he could have some coffee.

Kurt sighed. "I only made enough for my thermos."

"I guess I'll just go back to bed, then," Blaine said, his brow furrowing. He paused. "Kurt, don't you think it might be good for you to have a day off? Maybe we could go out for a late lunch once my hangover gets better –"

"Oh, ho ho ho, I don't think so Blaine – I'm not falling for that," Kurt said defensively. "I am so sick of everybody trying to get me to eat – I'm eating, okay? See?" He opened their breadbox, held up a loaf of multigrain bread. "Toast. Coffee. I'll put cream in it, to add calories. I'll eat butter on the toast. Will that make you happy?"

Blaine was genuinely hurt. If the only reason Kurt thought he wanted to go to lunch with him was to nag him ... "Kurt, I'm not trying to coerce you into anything," Blaine said tiredly. "It's just that we haven't spent any time with each other the last week, and what little time we have seen each other, we've been fighting. I hate that."

"You could've spent time with me last night," Kurt snapped, and Blaine's chest ached. This was what it felt like, he realized with sickening clarity, to watch your relationship slowly crumble to pieces. But Kurt looked like he regretted the words, casting his gaze to the floor and running his hand distractedly across the counter. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "That was uncalled for. I've been – I think it's been a hard week for both of us. But I need this collection to be perfect. You understand, right? There's so much pressure on me –"

"I think," Blaine said sadly, "that the only pressure on you right now is coming from yourself, especially considering that you're supposed to still be on paternity leave right now. They were planning for you to be gone."

The choking sob that shook Kurt's body took Blaine by surprise. "Well I'm not, am I?" he said, his voice shaking. "I'm not on paternity leave. I'm not gone, Blaine. And I've got to do something – I feel like I'm going crazy when I'm not designing –"

Blaine raised his eyebrows. "So you feel like you're going crazy when you're with me, then?" he asked slowly, knowing in the back of his mind that it was an unfair leap, even if it felt true.

"No, that's not –" Kurt sputtered, his hands flying up in frustration. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Well what did you mean, Kurt? You get pissed at me when I go out with Alex, you get pissed at me if I get drunk, you get pissed at me if I make a 'mess' – which, by the way, does not mean a speck of toothpaste on the bathroom counter, I'm just saying. You're pretty much pissed at me all the time. So then you leave because you can't handle being around me –"

"That's not true." Blaine watched Kurt's hands shake and wondered if it was because he was so upset or because he was lying. "That's not true, Blaine. I'm hurting and you're hurting and we're trying to figure out what life is supposed to look like now, but that doesn't mean I don't want to be with you."

"You sure act like you don't," Blaine said wearily. "Look – I'd like to go back to bed, okay? Maybe we should talk about this another time, when I'm not hungover and you aren't running out the door."

"Blaine – look, if you want to talk, I might could go in later today –"

Too little, too late, Blaine thought. "No. I really don't, actually. Just – go make yourself feel better and get out of here. I'm just gonna sleep this off."

Kurt looked at him with sad eyes. "I can set the coffee timer for a couple hours later, if you want me to make you a pot."

"Sure, whatever, if you want. Have a good day," he said, turning and walking back toward the bedroom.

"I hope your head feels better," Kurt called just before he shut the door.

Damn him for making me feel so guilty, Blaine thought to himself, flopping face-first onto the bed.

* * *

Tuesday, August 1st, 2023

"Blaine?" Kurt said, easing the door open, trying to be quiet in case he was asleep. It was late – nearly ten o'clock, and after a long day at the studio, all Kurt wanted to do was curl up in a ball and not move. His fingers ached and his head hurt and he was, for the first time in days, hungry.

"Huh?" Blaine mumbled, jumping a little as he startled from sleep.

"Sorry, honey, I didn't mean to wake you," Kurt said.

"Are you just now getting home?" Blaine asked.

"Yeah, I'm sorry I'm so late. What'd you do today?" Nothing, Kurt answered for him silently as he surveyed the room.

There were cups strewn about the living room and on the table, a cereal bowl sat, half-full of milk, on the coffee table, an empty bowl of Rachel's curry sat on the end table next to the couch and the sink was piled high with dishes that had yet to be washed.

"I read some," Blaine said. "Watched a couple movies. What about you? How was your day?"

"Long," Kurt sighed as he began collecting the mess. Soon he had a neat tower of dishes resting in his hands, waiting to be carried to the kitchen. Blaine hadn't budged from the couch. "You know, you really could stand to shave. You're starting to look like Alan Ginsberg."

Blaine actually grinned at him. "That's what Alex told me the other day – he said I looked like a cross between a beat poet and a hipster. It just seems like such a chore, you know? I mean, why shave every day when you don't have to?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "It's not very nice to kiss," he said, and walked into the kitchen. He cleared out the sink, rinsed it, and soon hot, bubbly water was pooling in the bottom. He got out his rubber gloves and closed his eyes – it would make him feel better, having the kitchen clean, even if his fingers were already killing him from sewing all day.

Blaine eventually meandered into the kitchen, standing and watching him scrub the dishes.

"You could offer to help me dry, you know."

"Oh!" Blaine said, as if the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "Oh, sure, uh – let me get a towel –"

"They're in the third drawer from the bottom beside the stove, if you've forgotten," Kurt said drily.

"I know where they are."

Then why don't you ever use them? Kurt thought viciously, but handed over a glass to Blaine without saying a word.

* * *

Thursday, August 3rd, 2023

"Hello?" Blaine said into his cell phone, fumbling with the TV remote. He pressed pause, and Colin Firth froze on the screen, his mouth open in mid-word.

"Blaine? Hey, man, it's Nick."

"Oh, hey!" Blaine's face lit up at the sound of his old Dalton friend's voice. "How are you?"

"I'm ... okay. Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Sure thing."

"So, I'm moving to New York, and I was wondering if you and Kurt might be able to help me apartment-hunt."

"What?" Blaine exclaimed, a little thrown by the rush of excitement he hadn't felt in ages. It felt strange in his body, buzzy and fizzy like champagne. "Of course we can! When are you moving? Did you get transferred or something? Or did Caroline get a job in the city?"

"Caroline's not coming," Nick said tiredly.

Blaine paused. "...Oh. I'm sorry, man; what happened?"

"I came home for lunch one day and found her in our bed with another guy. We've been distant for a while now, but that finished us off. It's been a month."

Nick's words took all the wind out of Blaine's sails, the champagne feeling turning to soured milk. He was grateful for a moment that in spite of all of their problems, at least Kurt wasn't sleeping with someone else. "I'm so sorry, Nick."

"It's for the best, I guess," Nick said. "I don't really want to be with someone like that, you know?"

"What, a monumental bitch?"

"Yes," Nick laughed into the phone, "a monumental bitch." He laughed a little harder. "Thanks, man. I – god, she really is. God, I've needed to say that for a week."

"Well good," Blaine grinned. "I'm glad I could facilitate the removal of your filter, or whatever that was. So, do you have a job up here yet?"

"I do, actually – I'll be a graphic designer for Sawyer & Young, which is this design firm in –"

"I know Sawyer & Young," Blaine said slowly. "They designed my last book cover."

"No way!"

"I know! Small world, right? They're a great company, really easy to work with – and they're like –" Blaine paused for a moment, counting in his head. "Five blocks from where we live."

Nick laughed again. "That's the best news I've heard in weeks."

"You're not the only one."

All the mirth left Nick's voice. "God, I'm such a prick. I haven't even asked – how are you and Kurt doing? I haven't talked to you since – well, I guess you know Rachel sent out that email. I'm so sorry I didn't call ..."

"No, it's fine. It's nice to talk about something other than that for a change, you know?" Blaine took a deep breath as the now familiar lump reformed in his throat. "We're fine. Kurt's working his ass off in the studio and I'm – I'm taking a break from work."

"Do your parents know?"

It felt like Nick had just hit him with a brick. "No. They – no, Nick. Suffice it to say that nothing's changed. We haven't spoken in almost four years, now, not since that awful Thanksgiving ..." Blaine trailed off.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up."

"It's okay."

"So, have you –"

"I miss her so much, Nick," Blaine blurted out, a choked-off sob following his words. "I just – I can't –" His face twisted as tears began to burn his eyes.

"Blaine, I'm so sorry," Nick said softly.

"She's just gone," he said, sniffling loudly. "She was here, and it was like –" He held the phone away, his hand over the speakers as a sob ripped through him, his chest feeling like it would crack open, like he was in the middle of open heart surgery ...

He took a deep breath, brokenly told his friend, "It was the happiest I've ever been. Ever. And now she's just gone."

"Blaine, man –"

Something in Nick's voice brought him back to himself, made him realize where he was and who he was on the phone with. Fantastic, now he was having nervous breakdowns on people who never asked for that sort of baggage with absolutely no warning. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," he said, scrubbing at his face with his free hand. "I'm sorry, Nick, I didn't mean to lose it like that –"

"Hey, no, it's cool. I keep randomly yelling things into my bedroom like Caroline's still there. A couple weeks ago I literally burned the sheets that were on the bed when I found her. Went to visit Mom, used the fire pit in her backyard – you should've seen the smoke. And Caroline was just my girlfriend. I can't even imagine what you and Kurt must be going through."

"Still though – I'm sorry," Blaine said. "I know you didn't call to have me blubbering uncontrollably in your ear. Can we just – apartments. Can we talk about apartments?"

"Sure," Nick said kindly. "So you think you guys might be able to help me find a one-bedroom?"

"Yeah, of course. When will you be here?"

"Next Friday."

"Awesome – I'll shoot you an email in a little while with some good places to start looking," Blaine said, still internally berating himself for falling apart then, why couldn't you have waited till you hung up you asshole? "You want to grab dinner and drinks or something that night?"

"I wish I could, but my schedule's jam-packed while I'm in the city. I'll look for a place to live that morning, I've got meetings all afternoon, and the new boss is taking me out to dinner that night – it's supposed to be a team bonding/meet the new guy thing, or something."

"Mmm, fun," Blaine said, his voice still falling a little flat. "Well just let us know when, and we'll help you move."

"Thanks," Nick told him gratefully. "It'll be nice, already having some friends up there. I'm having a harder time than I'd like to admit, leaving Jeff in Chicago ..."

"God, I didn't think about that – you guys haven't lived in different cities since you met, have you?"

"Not for long enough that it counted, no. He's acting weird lately, though – I think he might be mad that I'm moving away. Or maybe just mad that he doesn't get to come live in the big city too, I don't know."

"Yeah, well, it is pretty awesome ..." Blaine said. "Maybe he's just still processing. Give him some time – I'm sure he'll come around. And tell him that he can always come visit. I'd love to see him – it's been a while."

"It has. Not since Vi–" Nick cut himself off in mid-word.

"Violet's shower," Blaine said, barely above a whisper.

"I'm so sorry. Blaine, I –"

Blaine felt numb all over. "No. No, it's fine. I can't just pretend that it never –" He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek hard.

"Blaine?" Nick asked carefully after a long pause.

"Yeah, still here," he said, trying not to let his voice sound too thick.

"Look, I'll let you go before I put my foot in my mouth again. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine."

"Yeah. Listen – take care of yourself. And Kurt, too."

"Will do. I'll send you that email later today, that alright?"

"Definitely. Thanks, Blaine, seriously – you're kind of a lifesaver here."

Blaine took a deep, shaky breath. "Don't count yourself out of that equation, either. It'll be nice to have you here."

* * *

Just fifteen more minutes. Then you can take a break, Kurt promised himself, taking a shaky breath as he carefully cut the fabric on the table, following his perfectly straight chalk line.

He closed his eyes slowly and opened them again, trying to rid himself of the bright bursts of color that distorted his vision. Fifteen more minutes. His hand shook as he made another cut, and he tried to hold the fabric steady, but his arm suddenly gave way.

"Shit!" Kurt swore, dropping his shears as blood pooled on his hand and dripped onto the floor. At least it's not on the fabric, he thought as what seemed like a mob of people came rushing over to him.

Marc reached him first. "Patrick, go get the first aid kit and meet us in the men's room.

What happened?" he demanded, grabbing Kurt's wrist.

"I cut my hand," Kurt replied dumbly.

"I can see that," Marc said, dragging him down the hall. "How did you cut your hand?"

"I don't know – my shears slipped –"

Into the bathroom, through the door, to the sink, he might as well have been a ragdoll the way Marc was hauling him around ...

"Have you eaten?"

"I – yes. I had some pretzels this morning, and some yogurt at ten –"

"And it's three in the afternoon." Marc sounded angry as he thrust Kurt's hand under a stream of cold water, the cut burning as he pumped soap onto it. "It's a good thing we keep Steri-strips around here," he muttered.

"I –"

"As soon as you're bandaged up," Marc said, "I want you to go home and I don't want you to come back until you've had a solid meal. You've been working your ass off up here and you need rest, Kurt." He grabbed a handful of paper towels and pressed against the cut.

"But I –" Kurt stammered.

"I'm not asking you. I'm telling you." Marc's voice softened as he looked into Kurt's eyes. "I'm worried about you. Go home, spend some time with Blaine. I'm sure he's worried, too."

Kurt's eyes dropped to the tiled floor in the bathroom as Patrick ran in with the first aid kit. He replaced the paper towels Marc was holding with a stack of gauze, holding firm pressure against Kurt's hand while Marc dug out a pack of Steri-strips.

"How's the bleeding?" Marc asked.

Patrick gingerly lifted the gauze. "Almost stopped. It's not as bad as I thought it was."

"Good."

Kurt was silent while they carefully bandaged his hand, his heart hammering erratically in his chest. He'd never been asked to leave work before.

But maybe Marc was right, he reasoned with himself as he sank into the backseat of a cab, too unsteady on his legs to make the walk home. Maybe this was getting dangerous, out of hand – he nearly bled all over what would become a chambray button-down, and he had a gash in his hand to prove it. One more slip-up and it could be his job.

He stumbled up the few steps to their building, leaned hard against the walls of the elevator while it brought him to his floor as the tiny car spun and tilted. When he finally got home, tripping through the door, he was surprised to see all the lights out in the condo. He looked around, his pupils dilating in reaction to the dim room, and found Blaine sleeping on the couch, an empty beer bottle on the coffee table.

He sighed, shaking his head, and threw it in the recycle bin on his way to the kitchen. Was that number one, or three, or five? Would Blaine stay wasted and passed out all evening while Kurt, by himself, dealt with the wailing demons in his head?

For the moment, he pushed that thought to the back of his mind and made his way to the fridge. With trembling hands, he warmed up a plate of grilled chicken and roasted potatoes. Rachel had taken to making slightly blander food for him, in hopes that he'd be able to tolerate it better. He hadn't even tried to eat it until that evening.

Bringing his plate into the living room, he perched on the arm of the recliner so he could look out their large window at the city while he ate, but he kept getting distracted from the food by Blaine, who was making soft puffing sounds each time he exhaled. The afternoon sun cast light and shadows on the planes of Blaine's face, and something in Kurt's heart pulled at the sight of his husband looking relaxed and peaceful for the first time in days.

They were breaking, just the beginnings of it, and he could feel it spreading inside him like a toxin, like a virus.

"We're falling apart, Blaine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked down at his bandaged hand, at the plate of food in his lap. "Do you know what we're doing anymore? Because I don't."

Blaine made a soft snuffling noise and shifted on the couch, tugging the pillow he was holding closer to his chest.

"I miss you." Tears sprang to Kurt's eyes as he brought a bite of chicken to his lips. "I'm sorry this is so hard," he said softly as he tried to chew. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess right now." He sniffled, the tears rolling down his cheeks and into the edge of his mouth. They were salty on his tongue, mixing with the flavor of the chicken.

He took a deep breath. "It's just food," he whispered to himself. "Just eat it."

He was chewing a piece of potato, relieved that he'd found something that didn't make him nauseated, when Blaine's eyelids fluttered. "Kurt?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"Shh," Kurt whispered, almost desperate to keep the childlike innocence and openness that Blaine's face held in slumber. "I'm right here. Go back to sleep."

"'Kay. Love you," Blaine mumbled, shifting to his back. His eyes slid shut again and he was breathing deep within seconds.

"I love you, too," Kurt whispered.

In the end, Kurt managed to choke down three-quarters of the plate, still perched on the chair as the afternoon shadows grew deeper and deeper. Beside him, Blaine slept.

Feeling uncomfortably full after the largest meal he'd had in a very long time, Kurt set his plate in the sink and wandered into their bedroom. He shut and locked the door and stripped his shirt off, curious. He'd been avoiding mirrors lately, but maybe it was time to reassess the damage – he'd had to cinch his belt one notch tighter that morning.

Right after he did it, he wished he hadn't. His image in the mirror disgusted him. He was beginning to look like one of those children on the commercials that wanted money for war-ravaged areas of the world. The outline of his ribcage was beginning to show. At the bottom of his stomach was a little round bulge – the chicken and potatoes he'd just eaten, what Blaine would've called a food baby back before the word 'baby' was considered an expletive in their home – but his hipbones stuck out sharply. He turned around, trying to see his back, and when he bent, his spinal column was visible.

Man cannot live on pretzels alone.

The door handle jiggled. The noise startled him so badly that he fell back against the bed behind him.

"Kurt?" Blaine's sleepy voice called out. "Why's the door locked?"

"Uh – I didn't mean to!" he called, frantic, tugging his shirt back on while his heart thudded in his chest. "I'm sorry," he told Blaine as he opened the door.

"'S okay – I just have to pee," Blaine said, scrubbing his hand over his eyes.

"By all means." Kurt gestured him in, feeling stupid as it was Blaine's room just as much as his. He stepped aside to let Blaine pass.

"I was just going to change clothes," he said as Blaine used the bathroom. "Into something more comfortable. I thought we could maybe watch a movie?"

"I might sleep through it," Blaine warned, yawning.

"That's okay." Kurt paused. "Blaine, are you – drunk? Still?"

Blaine smiled. "One beer does not a drunk husband make, baby. Not drunk, just sleepy."

Kurt sighed, tugging off his white jeans – thank god the blood dripped on the floor and not on his pants earlier because that would be a bitch to get out – and replacing them with a pair of loose-fitting yoga pants. "Drinking with Alex is one thing," he said, "but it worries me that you're drinking by yourself in the middle of the afternoon. One beer or no."

"I don't usually," Blaine said, exiting their bathroom after he washed his hands. "It's just that I had an ... interesting phone call with Nick this afternoon."

"Nick as in Nick Pritchard? Warbler Nick?" Kurt asked.

"Yeah."

"Why did a phone call with him make you want to drink a beer?"

Blaine sighed. "I don't really want to talk about it right now, if you don't mind."

"Okay." Kurt backed off, not wanting to push Blaine into a fight. "What movie do you want to watch?"

"I think it's only fair that you pick, since I'll probably end up sleeping through most of it."

"The Sound of Music?"

Blaine froze with his fingers pushed into his curls, his brow furrowed. "Did you have a bad day at work? Wait – what time is it?" He looked out the window. "It's still light outside – why are you home early?"

Kurt held up his bandaged hand. "My shears slipped. Marc sent me home to 'rest,' as if I don't have five hundred things to do at the studio ..."

Blaine walked toward Kurt, his head tipping to the side as he sighed. "Oh, Kurt – are you okay?"

Kurt nodded, but something in his chest pulled, and his face twisted as he tried not to cry. "I am, really," he tried to explain through the tears that rebelliously rolled from his eyes, "I don't know why I'm crying –"

"Shhh," Blaine soothed him, gathering him into a hug. He brought Kurt's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the wound. "See? All better now."

A shaky breath rushed from Kurt's chest as he buried his face in Blaine's shoulder. "I've never been sent home from work before," he said, his voice quavering.

"You're not in trouble, baby – Marc's just worried. So am I," Blaine said softly. "I'm glad it wasn't any worse than this."

Kurt nodded again, pulling back and swiping the tears off his face with his forefingers. "Yeah, me too. They just slipped – I don't know what happened."

Blaine looked at him sadly, took his hand and squeezed it. "Come on – The Sound of Music awaits us."

"Blaine?" Kurt asked, feeling small as Blaine led him from the room. "Will you sing Edelweiss with the Captain for me?"

"I always do."

* * *

Saturday, August 5th, 2023

It was bright and early – well, bright and early for Blaine, at least – at ten o'clock that Saturday morning, and he was on the subway on his way to Chelsea, dressed in coral-colored chinos and a navy polo adorned with a bow tie. Bright and early as it may have been, though, he was late. Kurt had so thoroughly approved of the improvements in his attire and hygiene that he'd had Blaine up against the wall of their bedroom, ignoring the weak protests that soon turned into weak whimpers.

They'd reached a mostly-peaceful truce over the past several days, and things seemed close to normal, in spite of the fact that Kurt still wasn't eating much and Blaine was drinking enough for the both of them. But Blaine thought he could deal with close to normal as long as it meant they weren't at each other's throats.

He stood as the train neared his stop, smoothing the wrinkles from the front of his pants, and texted Rachel. She'd called him on Thursday after his phone call with Nick while he was in the middle of his second beer and asked him to join her for brunch. Blaine was hesitant, but he had a hard enough time saying no to normal people, let alone Rachel Berry.

They met on the corner of 9th and 13th, and Blaine took a deep breath as she nearly bowled him over with the hug she had a running start on.

"I'm so sorry you had to come all the way to Chelsea, but you'll see – this really is the best brunch place in all of the city, Blaine!" she exclaimed, grabbing his hand and pulling him down the street.

"Well we can't have anything but the best for our rising star, now can we?" he teased.

"Rising?" Rachel gasped, clutching her chest in offense. "What do you mean, rising? I'm Fanny, Blaine. I'm reprising Barbara Striesand's role."

He laughed. "Pardon me. I guess at this point it's safe to say you've risen."

Rachel grinned. "Now you're making me sound like Jesus," she scolded. "We wouldn't want someone to overhear and accuse the beautiful Jewish ingénue of blasphemy ..."

"Well, shit," Blaine said, laughing harder. "I just can't win for losing this morning, can I?"

"Oh, you know I'm just teasing," Rachel said as they walked up to the restaurant. "You know, Kurt was so worried about you when we talked last, but you seem good this morning. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm doing okay," Blaine said, straightening his bowtie and smoothing his shirt as the hostess walked them back to their table. "It's hard, of course. But I'm really a lot more concerned about Kurt."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as the waiter placed a menu in front of her. "That's exactly what Kurt said."

Blaine shrugged. "We're married. We worry about each other. That's – kind of what we do."

"Well," she scoffed, "I obviously wouldn't know anything about that, now would I?"

"Hey," he said, reaching his hand out for hers. "That's not what I meant." She averted her eyes, her chin held high as she looked away. "Rach – come on, don't be like that. You know I didn't mean anything. We've been married for six years; it's not like it's a new thing."

"Rub it in, why don't you," she grumbled.

"Why don't I also rub it in that we're miserable because we just lost our baby? But I'm sure you could find a way to be jealous of that, too ..." Blaine mumbled, rolling his eyes. "Look, can we just drop it?" he asked, his voice stronger. "What's good to eat here? What should I get?"

She sighed dramatically. "Well," she said, "everyone says the smoked salmon on sourdough is the best, but personally?" She lowered her voice. "I'm kind of partial to the baked brioche French toast. It has butterscotch sauce."

* * *

"...And I looked into the mirror and said to myself, 'Rachel Berry, it's about time someone recognized your star quality. All that work has finally paid off.' My first headlining Broadway role, and I'm filling the shoes of Barbara Streisand, Blaine. It's so wonderful – I've gotten standing ovations every night for the last week! Like I've always told everyone, I was born to sing those songs on a Broadway stage."

Blaine smiled at her, sipping his blood orange mimosa, as he heard the story of how she'd landed the lead in Funny Girl for the twentieth time. He didn't know why he'd been so hesitant to come to brunch with her. It was the perfect escape – if he could get her in the right mood (and she was, today), she'd spend all morning talking about how wonderful it was to be onstage and how many autographs she'd signed the night before, and he could drink mimosas and never even have to mention Violet. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it earlier.

"I'm sure you earned every one of those ovations, too," he told her.

"Oh, I did!" she assured him. "I'm just glad that Timothy – he plays my husband Nick, you know – didn't ruin it for me two nights ago. He flubbed one of his lines, and if it weren't for my impressive prowess at improvisation – if I do say so myself – the show would've just been wrecked."

Blaine made sympathetic noise.

"But – why are we talking about me? We need to be talking about you, Blaine!" Rachel exclaimed.

He took a large gulp of his mimosa.

"When Kurt and I talked, he acted like you were slumming around the house, wallowing in misery. I was honestly expecting you to come here looking like a caveman. I made a special appointment for you with my salon, just in case you needed a haircut."

"Ahhh," Blaine started, a nervous edge in his voice. He thanked his lucky stars that he had, indeed, shaved his caveman beard off. "I think I can manage my hair on my own just fine, but thanks. And I'm not sure if you could call it wallowing ..."

"Well, that's very good to hear. Have you cleared out Violet's nursery yet?"

Blaine bristled at the baby's name. "Rachel, I really don't –"

"Now Blaine, you know that's an important part of the healing process. I really think –"

"Can I get you anything else?" their waiter interrupted, and Blaine breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yes, actually," he said, "another one of these." He held up his empty glass.

"Yes, sir. And you, ma'am?"

"Bring her one, too, but put it on my check," Blaine instructed, hoping that a little alcohol would serve to distract Rachel from all topics related to Violet.

"Oh, thank you, Blaine!" Rachel exclaimed.

Blaine plastered a smile onto his face. "It's the least I can do – you've kept us fed for the last month."

"Well, I can't have my two favorite boys starving to death, can I?"

An uncomfortable shiver coursed through Blaine's body, but he pushed it down and kept smiling. "We really appreciate it. But that's enough depressing talk for today. We're here to catch up and distract me from being sad, right?"

"Of course we are!"

He smiled, satisfied, this time a real one. "Okay, then. I want to hear some gossip from your show. Favorite and least favorite cast members, go."

* * *

Blaine came home that afternoon to find Kurt lounging in the recliner, reading a book.

"Wow, you're home early. I wasn't expecting you until at least five or so tonight," Blaine said as he toed off his shoes.

"Marc's cutting my hours. He says I need 'time at home to heal,'" Kurt said drily, making air quotes with his fingers.

"Maybe he's right."

"How was brunch?" Kurt asked. The pointed tone and the arch of his eyebrows, not to mention the very obvious change of subject, confirmed Blaine's suspicion that it had been the wrong thing to say. Would he ever be able to do anything right again?

He wanted Kurt from this morning back, the one who'd pushed him up against the wall and licked his neck.

"Oh, brunch was fine," he said, flopping down on the couch. "Typical Rachel – I got to hear all the drama in the cast. And there's a lot of drama."

"Mmm, well ..." Kurt shrugged as if to say, Did you expect anything else? He closed his book. "I was just about to head out to the market and get something to make us for dinner. Any requests?"

Blaine's head snapped up from where it rested on the back of the couch. "You're eating dinner?"

Kurt frowned. "I always eat dinner, Blaine."

Such a short sentence shouldn't have incited the amount of anger that Blaine felt, but it was like Kurt's words lit a gasoline-soaked fuse inside him. "You do not!" he exclaimed. "You haven't eaten dinner in the last three weeks, maybe longer!"

"I have –"

"A handful of cereal or a banana or a few bites of mashed potatoes?" Blaine snapped. "That doesn't count as dinner, Kurt."

"Just because you haven't seen me eat doesn't mean that I'm not eating," Kurt said indignantly, getting up from the couch.

Now he was just fanning the flame. "Oh, great, lie to me. Because that'll make everything better." Blaine crossed his arms over his chest.

"I'm not lying!" Kurt cried, stomping into the kitchen, and Blaine got up and stomped right after him. "I ate Rachel's chicken and roasted potatoes two nights ago – but you wouldn't have known that, of course, since you were sleeping in the middle of the afternoon." He pulled several clean glasses from the top drawer of the dishwasher and put them in the cabinets, making as much noise as he could.

"Since when is taking a nap a punishable offense?"

Kurt glared, and yeah, maybe Blaine's voice had risen just a little louder than he'd meant for it to that time. He leaned against the wall, fingers pressed to his temples, and took a few deep breaths to try and calm down. Before Violet, they hardly ever fought like this – of course they'd had squabbles, but it never included the blatant finger pointing and bitterness like their fights had lately. He wondered, not for the first time, if wanting a baby in the first place had been a mistake.

"Kurt," Blaine tried again in a measured voice, "I'm sick of fighting with you all the time about this. I wish you'd just tell me the truth, admit that you have a problem or something, instead of –"

"Oh, really?" Kurt interrupted angrily. "Me admit that I have a problem? I'm not the one who's binge drinking!"

"You act like I'm an alcoholic or something!" he thundered. So much for calming down. "It just takes the edge off. And it's not like I drink all the time."

"Oh yeah? How many drinks did you have this morning?"

"Two," Blaine scowled. "And so did Rachel. At brunch. Everybody drinks at brunch, Kurt. You drink at brunch." He sighed, letting his arms flop to the sides. "I just don't see what the big deal is. It helps, sometimes. It makes me feel happy."

"Oh, yeah, you've been a fucking ray of sunshine lately," Kurt grumbled, clattering plates together as he stacked them on top of each other.

"Like you've been any better," Blaine snapped back, his hands on his hips. "I'm sure not eating anything all day is making you feel awesome –"

"Did you ever think that my bad mood might not have anything to do with eating, but moreso the fact that I have had it up to here with being only one pulling his weight around here!"

Blaine recoiled, physically and emotionally. He was, for the most part, immune to Kurt's jabbing retorts, but when they did come, they were swift and pointed and could hurt Blaine like barbs in his skin.

"Look ..." Kurt said, resting his forehead on the tips of his fingers, clearly aware of exactly how his words had affected his husband. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Are you sure about that?" Blaine asked, his voice cold.

"Blaine –"

But Blaine was really angry now, because Kurt didn't say things like that if he didn't mean them somewhere deep down. "No, I want to know," he said, his blood boiling. "Tell me how you really feel about it, Kurt. Tell me how lazy you think I am, tell me how you hate that I don't keep the house as neat as you want it, how I always mess up whatever you've just cleaned, how I don't take out the trash as often as you like. Tell me I'm not making any money. Tell me I'm not as strong as you are." If Kurt could push his buttons, well, he could push right back.

When Kurt finally looked up at him, his eyes were hard. "I think you've just about covered it, Blaine. I don't think I have to tell you anything."

Blaine was a little surprised at how much that stung, coming out of Kurt's mouth.

"Fine, then," he snapped, throwing his words like knives. He grabbed Romeo's leash. "Screw my nap. Come on, Romeo – let's see if taking you for a walk will make Papa happy with me, or if he'll just be glad that I'm not here to mess up his pretty house and distract him from his pretty clothes."

He stormed out of the door, practically dragging Romeo behind him. Kurt didn't say a word.