Disclaimer: I do not own Ryan Murphy's Glee, Christina Rossetti's Dream Landor OneRepublic's Won't Stop and Say (All I Need).

For Catarina! Merry Christmas beautiful :)

On Thursday morning, Kurt gets out of bed.

Today, he doesn't need to hide his lingering glance at a sleeping Blaine, who wakes five minutes after the alarm, like clockwork. Today, there is no Blaine.

The lead Warbler's bed is empty, the covers left where they'd been thrown back on Monday morning, when he got the call. Kurt hasn't had the heart to touch them. If he straightens the lines, fluffs up the pillow, it's too much like erasing Blaine's existence; too much like admitting he won't come home.

At least he tidied the wardrobe, Kurt thinks, as he crosses to his own. It would have been a waste to let all the boy's well-ironed shirts become crumpled, his neatly folded sweaters sit in disarray. Blaine wouldn't have wanted that.

Hanging inside the door of his own dresser is the Dalton blazer. Kurt stares at it uncomfortably. The navy is ok, he acknowledges, but the red piping seems… inappropriate under the circumstances. If he puts the jacket on, does that mean he's denying what happened? Would that be giving in to society's awful urge to ignore death, to pretend it's something that happens to other people? Kurt knows the lie in its entirety, has been faced with it for nine long years. But he's never felt comfortable deluding himself.

Still, today is Thursday. Were it an ordinary day, Blaine would be stumbling out of his bed right now, donning his own uniform right in the centre of the room, with a lack of self-consciousness that amazes Kurt. They would walk to classes together, laughing at Wes's confusion and panic when they hid his beloved gavel last week, gasping for breath and leaning on each other for support. Their eyes would catch as they walked past Shortcut Corridor, and Blaine would give him that special smile that was only for them, and Kurt would blush and smile back prettily. Were it an ordinary day, Kurt would wear his uniform.

All the other boys will be wearing them. Classes have been cancelled, out of respect, and an acknowledgement that some things are more important than cell division and the fall of the Roman Empire. With no class, they don't need to don the blazers and red-striped tie, but they will. It had been Kurt's idea actually, a show of solidarity and community, a reminder that they were stronger together.

He pulls himself from his thoughts with a sigh, seeking out the many parts of the whole. When he is dressed in pants and shirt, tie impeccably tied, he stares once more at the blazer. It hangs there, lifeless but full of memories: that first day on the staircase, when he grabbed the attention of a cute guy to ask where everyone was going; afternoons spent getting coffee, telling stories about the daily dramas of New Directions; Blaine's excited smile reflected in this very mirror the first morning Kurt stood before it, admiring the cut of his new school uniform…

Today, it will see death.

With a sigh, Kurt edges it off its hanger, pushing one arm through each sleeve, staring down to smooth away any crinkles and adjust the hang of the fabric. When he is assembled, he turns to the mirror to address his hair – and stops.

He looks good. Of course he does, he's Kurt Hummel and he always looks good. But today he surpasses all previous standards.

He has barely slept for a week: last Thursday night, he was working on a major assignment into the wee hours of the morning; Friday night he watched Blaine smash Wes and David in some cult computer game; Saturday, his best friend decided they needed Them Time in the form of a Disney marathon; Monday he was woken at an ungodly hour to the shrill ringing of a phone… Emotion has kept him from sleeping a wink since. His complexion is wan and tired, contrasting with the navy of the jacket; there are dark shadows beneath his eyes, also brought to the attention by the shading, but instead of being horrified, he just seems fragile and otherworldly.

In the cold of the morning, there is a high pink to his cheeks, and with no Blaine around to demand he not take his troubles out on them, his lips are red from constant biting. All this is balanced with the red piping, which somehow manages to look respectfully morbid, considering the occasion.

Kurt sighs, removes the blazer, and dresses in black.

Several minutes later, as he is smoothing the final hair into place, Kurt feels his eyes drawn once more to cold, rumpled sheets… Suddenly he can't bear it anymore. The way things stand now isn't right, and he will do whatever he can to change that, even if it means making a pointless gesture which will do nothing to change the circumstances.

Abandoning his coiffure, he marches over to the bed, stripping off the blankets and top sheet before he can stop himself. There - it's disturbed now, and he has no choice but to keep going.

Kurt pulls the top sheet into place, precision straight, with the same meticulousness as Blaine himself. Next is the blanket, and he makes sure each side hangs at the same length, double- and triple-checking his work. It has to be right. Fold the top sheet back, then fluff the pillow – here he strays from the path a little, using more violence than the poor thing is probably accustomed to.

He is making sure the fold of the top sheet is straight, smoothing away any perceivable wrinkle, when he senses eyes on him.

Wes is standing in the doorway watching, David peering over his shoulder. Kurt flushes and turns away as they observe his handiwork, faces more serious and drawn than he has ever seen them.

He walks to his bedside table, picking up his phone – sitting beside it is a photo of himself and Blaine, taken by the boys during the hectic mid-term rush of packing for home. He's leaning on the lead Warbler's shoulder, laughing at some ridiculous story he's just been told. Blaine is glancing at the camera, hands steadying him, eyes filled with a strange light Wes and David claimed to have never seen before. He's smiling, and it breaks Kurt's heart a little; how long must he wait before he'll see that smile again?

That was the day he met her, Kurt remembers - Blaine's mother. She was beautiful, no doubt about that, with her son's joyful brown eyes, and dark curls – though hers were silky, and tame by comparison. She had his smile, too, though it didn't melt Kurt's heart in quite the same way. In their rushed, five-minute acquaintanceship he got the impression that she was always ready to smile, at least when Blaine was around. Kurt knew the feeling.

Already, the woman is little more to him than a vague memory. His heart aches in entirely new ways as he realises she'll never be more substantial; her funeral and Blaine's grief will occupy more space in his memory someday. In a way, they already do.

A hand on his arm pulls Kurt out of his thoughts, and he turns to see David. He glances down at the black for a moment, the colour of his own blazer contrasting harshly, at least to their eyes; but he makes no comment.

"Come on," David says with a small smile. "We're leaving."

Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

Take a moment now to picture this scene from above: a cemetery; rows of mourners dressed in black, interspersed between the headstones; one hunched, stiff figure, standing by the open grave - much like the other chief mourners, except that he is a few paces away from everyone else, an island in this sea of grief. Or perhaps a deep lake in a flooded plain, as his heartache seems to swallow him whole.

As you watch, a large group of boys dressed in blue and red uniforms thread their way between the mourners to take their places on the grass. They go in single file, the slow speed matching the solemnity of the occasion.

A few of the boys keep their eyes on – or away from – the casket, haunted by their own memories. Some keep their heads down, respectfully turning their gaze away from the lead Warbler in all his pain. Others glance at him, or stare openly as they walk past, wishing to comfort and console, hating the unwritten rules of society that make it impossible to do so.

Only one acts.

He already stood out from the rest, being the only Dalton student dressed in elegant black. As the boys approached the coffin and its mourners, he had been one of the few with eyes glued to the dark wooden box; his cheeks were already wet with tears.

After a moment or so, the boy glanced up at his best friend – and paused in the line. Thad, standing directly behind him, stopped also, but he waved his friend on, scrutinizing the situation with narrowed eyes.

Blaine – the boy who had never put a filter on any emotion in all the time Kurt had known him – was standing apart from his father, arms wrapped around his midsection as if to hold himself together; Kurt could see his knuckles were white with the force of the grip. But it was the boy's face that truly broke his heart: it was a tortured mess of emotions, part of him obviously wanting nothing more than to break down in tears, while another part of him warred to remain stoic and strong.

Kurt knew what this was – the two had shared the expected amount of deep conversations in the darkness of their dorm room; Blaine's father believed that 'gay' was synonymous with 'weak', as was the showing of emotion. By attempting to control his expressions of pain, Blaine was trying to become the 'man' his father wanted him to be - trying to live up to the expectations of his only living parent.

Even as Kurt is realising all this, something about Blaine's expression changes. It takes him a moment to put his finger on… oh fuck, he's biting his cheek. Under no circumstances could that be anything but painful, and judging by the state he's in now—

Kurt rushes forwards, cursing societal norms, his own oversight, and Mr Fucking Anderson – the man who can stand idly by and watch his son destroy himself.

He doesn't hold out his hand, like Blaine did at Pavarotti's funeral, he just wraps his arms around the smaller boy, pulling him in close.

Blaine clearly did not expect this intrusion, but after a moment of frozen shock he is struggling, arms coming up to push his friend away, wanting nothing to mar his performance as The Perfect Son. But Kurt has always been the kind to give a person what they need, rather than what they want; as well as that, his arms are surprisingly strong – Blaine's not going anywhere.

It's unclear whether he realises this, or if he just doesn't have the strength to stand alone anymore. Either way, he soon gives in, collapsing into Kurt's embrace, arms going around him and tightening almost painfully, wetting his shirt with noisy tears.

Kurt just pulls him closer, sparing a withering glare for the look of uncomfortable distaste on Mr Anderson's face, before turning all his attention to comforting the boy in his arms. He ignores the pitying stares of the other mourners, ignores the words of the pastor, and begins to hum, rocking Blaine slowly back and forth as tears run down both their cheeks, their shoulders wracked with sobs.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Something about Blaine's behaviour at the funeral shakes Mr Anderson's resolve. As Blaine suspected, he doesn't want a son who is weak enough to cry, or make a scene. And as all those enamoured women pointed out, it was just lovely that he had such support from his friends at school; of course his father would want him home, but his peers were obviously willing to look out for him…

Blaine moves back homethat weekend; 'home' being his dorm room, right by Kurt's side.

Over the weeks, however, it becomes clear that despite his relief at remaining at Dalton, Blaine doesn't spend a whole lot of time in his room - at least not at night.

At first, he would stay out in the commons, 'studying', and tell his friend that he must have slept through both his coming and going. When Kurt finally confronts him, saying he knows Blaine hasn't been sleeping in his own bed – "and it's none of my business where you are, or who- who you're staying with, but… Please Blaine, I worry." – he pulls out some excuse about falling asleep over his books, and not wanting to concern him…

After that, Blaine is careful to always be tucked up in his own bed when Kurt goes to sleep – yet the blankets are always pulled tight when he wakes, the boy who always slept 'five minutes more' out and facing the world.

All too soon, worry is keeping Kurt up again. He lies awake, listening to Blaine's unsteady breath, manipulating his own to be soft and heavy. A safe hour in, the smaller boy pushes the blankets back quietly, his movements barely audible as he goes through the usual morning routine of making his bed. Then, bringing nothing with him – no book, no guitar, no music or movie to occupy him were he alone – Blaine slips out the door, and into the night.

Kurt follows him, at a distance. He just wants to make sure the other boy is safe for the night, he tells himself. He's not going to care which door Blaine slips behind, seeking comfort he obviously feels Kurt cannot give him. He's certainly not going to memorize the room number, or glare at the culprit over breakfast; that would be childish. No, he is going to accept Blaine's decision, and continue to support him as best as his friend will allow.

But Blaine doesn't seek solace behind a closed door; instead, he leaves the dorm altogether, sneaking down to the senior commons, where a fire still burns low in the grate.

Kurt pauses outside the door, his mind – in denial – telling him perhaps Blaine simply left something behind, perhaps he'll return to bed soon. But as he listens to the other boy's movements, hearing the unmistakable sounds of flames being stoked, it becomes clear this is not what's going to happen.

Kurt crouches in the hall, feeling ridiculous in his Alexander McQueen PJ's, and peeks through the keyhole. Blaine is settling onto the couch opposite the door, a throw pillow hugged tightly to his chest. As Kurt watches, the boy's face crumples in pain – the only time he has seen him let go the tight control since the day of the funeral.

The countertenor straightens up, a filthy-guilty feeling in his stomach from corrupting the privacy of the lead Warbler's breakdown. He'll just stand guard outside the door, he decides, let Blaine have his moment. He'll pop in in an hour or so, and coax him to bed – just let him have this time, to grieve…

He is pacing the hall for warmth, wishing he'd thought to grab his dressing gown or a sweater or something, when he hears it: quiet, hiccupping sobs, accompanied by deep, shaky breaths. Blaine is crying.

Without pausing for thought, Kurt throws himself through the door and hurries to Blaine's side – the boy is shaking uncontrollably, Kurt's appearance having shocked him into openly weeping, and he seems to be having trouble breathing.

Now that he's here, Kurt isn't entirely sure what to do. He joins Blaine on the couch, arm going hesitantly around the shaking shoulders – only to sit back in alarm as the smaller boy literally crawls into his lap, curling up as tight as he can, pressing his face against Kurt's chest. He lets his arms settle around the trembling form.

But then the pressing becomes a hard, painful digging, and it feels almost as if Blaine is trying to bury himself under Kurt's collar-bone; he winces, but does not pull away – merely wraps his arms round tighter, and drops a kiss to the unruly curls.

When Blaine emits the tiniest, most heart-wrenching wail, Kurt feels the tears filling his own eyes flood over onto his cheeks. He feels so much love for this boy in his arms that every second of pain is killing him, every moment of torment as bitter as when he lost his own mother. He knows he has to be strong for Blaine, but truthfully he wants nothing more than to curl up on his dad's lap, too, and have a good cry – just like old times.

Old times… Kurt feels an idea tickle the edge of his consciousness. Old times… what did his dad do, to make him feel better? How did he stop him crying? Ok, so the methods you'd employ to stop an 8 year-old probably don't really apply to a boy twice that age – especially when he's your first love, not your son – but there is something there, something begging for his attention.

Something steady, something calming – something to focus his mind upon, other than those twisting, tormenting thoughts and memories… A heartbeat.

That was it – the steady thump of his father's heart, soothing the loss, and reminding him of what he still possessed.

For Kurt, that was his dad – for Blaine... Well, his father isn't an option. But Kurt can be there for him – Kurt will be there. Because whether he knows it or not, Blaine has Kurt – mind, soul and… heart.

The countertenor licks his parched lips, swallows back his tears, and beings to sing.

"And I swear it's you…"

At the first notes, Blaine stills, restless desperate movement slowing as he listens.

"I swear it's you…"

After the second line, he seems to recognise the song, and freezes completely – holding his breath, waiting for the line he knows is coming, needing to hear the words.

"I swear it's you that my heart beats for, and it ain't gonna stop…"

Blaine whines, clawing at Kurt's chest, grabbing a fist full of the material as he holds on for dear life, for all he has left, for his sanity. The boy just holds him, rocking him back and forth.

"No it just won't stop."

They sit like that for hours; Kurt humming snatches of tunes while Blaine's crying slows, as exhaustion overwhelms him. Eventually the hiccupping sobs subside into raggedy breaths, and then into deep, slow inhales and exhales; Blaine's body becomes heavy in his arms.

Kurt keeps his vigil throughout the long night, soothing the boy when he shifts, becoming restless once more as his dreams take him. He just sits, holding his love – his best friend – close, feeling their hearts beat in their chests. It never felt like this with his father, Kurt thinks – as if they were one.

The fire eventually dies down, as such things do, but their shared body heat prolongs the inevitable for some time longer. However, as the darkness outside slowly fades into grey, Kurt knows they'll need some extra warmth if they're to make it 'til morning. He looks down at Blaine.

The smaller boy's fingers have lost little of their grip on Kurt's pyjama shirt, despite the near-comatose state he has been in for several hours. Dear god, it's going to be ruined – but little matter, for at least Blaine isn't suffering alone.

He certainly looks like he's suffering, though, brows drawn together in a frown... Kurt brings one hand up to smooth the tension away, letting his fingers slip lower to brush at the tear-stained cheeks. Even like this, Blaine is beautiful.

Resigning himself to moving, Kurt gently grips the sleeping boy's arms, ready to shift him to the side – and eyelashes flutter.

Blaine lifts his head, not needing to speak as their gazes lock. It's clear that he knows – knows that Kurt will always be there for him, always give him everything he has. Even when Blaine has nothing to give, and even when he doesn't want what's on offer, Kurt will do anything for him. Because he loves him.

Blaine leans in, placing a soft kiss to his lips, letting their foreheads fall together. Breaking the stare for a moment, his eyes slip shut as he breathes deep… He can smell Kurt – smell the soft cologne he bought him for Christmas, the sweet tang of his many moisturising creams, the natural earthy scent that follows him everywhere…

Eyes still pressed tightly shut, Blaine sings.

"Well, all I need is the air I breathe, and a place to rest my head…"

Kurt returns the kiss with a smile before shifting his boyfriend, and going to bank up the fire. When he returns, Blaine settles into his arms, and the pair share kisses 'til dawn.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over bough and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest, at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.

AN: This isn't great, I know - too much 'the other boy' and such, and it's a bit wordy, but still, I kind of like it. Also, Dream Land is the most perfect poem ever written, and OneRepublic are just brilliant. There, I've said my piece.