Too in Love to Let it Go, Chapter 17 cont'd
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 weightaround 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.
Chapter 18