Hello, everyone! This is one of my first Glee FanFictions. It's a very late Kadam anniversary contribution—I'm sorry it's so late. ;_;

Given the dark subject matter of Bash (and the author's solipsistic writing style/horror over Season 6) the story is a little rocky. But feedback is certainly welcome!

In this AU Adam and Kurt became an item shortly after Blaine's (botched) proposal. Blaine wound up staying in Lima after graduating to mentor the Warblers (and date Kurofsky). He doesn't appear in the story, though.

The title is a stanza in the poem The Garden of Prosperine. I hope you enjoy!

~o*oOo*o~

The evening had been utterly unremarkable before the call.

An old grey tabby padded quietly from the bedroom, paused to look appraisingly at the counter. A tall, thin young man with dark yellow hair squashed down by a beanie was working over two mugs. Well-pleased with this development, Eloise stiffly leapt onto a chair, to a tabletop covered with sheet music. Adam watched her out the corner of his eye, smiling faintly as her rusty purring filled the room.

Two mugs meant company, which usually meant Kurt, which usually meant the boyfriend would spend at least an hour loving on Adam's cat. The creature was a better lover-magnet than a Ferrari, though the still-hot sacks of Thai takeout on the counter probably wouldn't hurt things.

A chipped kettle shrilled and Adam poured the water. The comforting scents of apples and allspice wafted promisingly with jasmine rice, fried tofu, coconut milk and cashew.

Though instant noodles constituted a third of Adam's measly food pyramid, he made it a point to keep a box of Kurt's favorite comfort teas in the cupboard. He scratched Eloise between the ears, humming.

Tea was still something of a joke between them. Kurt was a hardcore coffee junkie, claiming that coffee was a magical elixir for digestion, the soul, and longevity (though Adam had read a few articles claiming otherwise; a consensus was lacking). Adam tolerated coffee well enough but preferred tea in any circumstance; maybe it was a patriotic thing, baying in their respective American and English cultures.

He snorted fondly. Following their first date, Kurt had a bizarre predilection of popping up when he was least expected, often when Adam was treading school, work, and showchoir managing. Kurt usually came with a sympathetic smile (on soft pink lips Adam trained himself not to stare at, occasionally) and two cups of coffee. Never the same kind, mind you; there was amaretto and vanilla and pumpkin and cinnamon roll (and more than once, dark hot chocolate, which was mutual territory). And with the coffee normally came flaky warm bread, or a pastry.

(It would've been criminal not to reciprocate, not least partially because Kurt was a genuine countertenor over the age of eight who could service a car. And his dry and sometimes biting wit would've made Wilde proud. And he quoted French existential poetry while watching Project Runway, argued back to televised political speakers and sometimes threw popcorn at the screen. Kurt's outfits-equestrian meets street punk meets Elizabeth Taylor-had seasoned New Yorkers glancing back over their shoulders, and Adam was cautiously, tentatively, stupidly in love with him.)

So Adam habitually visited Kurt in his Bushwick apartment with cups of tea (or hot chocolate, which again was Every Man's Land), or surprised him in the small restaurant where Kurt worked. The two could scarcely schedule dates together; Kurt had his own overbooked schedule to worry about. So the moments they could steal in-between hours were precious.

Waiting for the tea to cool, Adam sank into his chair, poring over the sheet music Kurt had lent him before class. A shame the mid-Spring critiques were solos, and not duets. He would've liked very much to have sung a duet with Kurt, as daunting the idea was. Kurt's voice rang out cool and clear and lovely, water and silk streaming into notes, or bloomed and glowed softly; warm watercolors. Oftentimes it did both at once. Blushing, Adam pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, saw his mother's smug expression, as if she'd introduced the two personally.

Good God, he was so whipped.

He wondered vaguely if he ought to have gotten something stronger than tea tonight. Kurt had texted him a little over an hour ago, just a few minutes into his after-class dinner date with Rachel. A new record:

Hey sweetheart. The antichrist and I had a huge fight before we picked up our menus. I can't even.

Adam had been working on next week's set list, but he put it aside. Antichrist. Colorful even for Kurt, though admittedly not a horrible moniker for Rachel Berry.

He'd hurriedly texted back, pressing a hand against a guilty smile. Love, are you alright?

There was a long pause. As the silence continued, Adam's brow furrowed. He'd been about to text again when his phone buzzed at last.

I'm okay. Rachel said some things tonight. Knowing her, she'll come back in a hour, wringing her hands, saying how sorry she is. And I'll forgive her, the way I've forgiven her the past six or seven times, because I should be so pleased and proud that she's learning. After all, she is talented, and we need to make exceptions for talented people, whom clearly have earned a 'Get Out of Being Human' card.

Another pause. Then-

I wouldn't mind so much if she needn't relearn the same damn lesson every other week. I'll feel like a terrible friend if I don't forgive her, but I literally cannot see straight tonight. My hands won't stop shaking.

Adam had stared. You likely weren't making a very good impression on your boyfriend if you wished their friends ill, but…

Did you kill her, sweetheart? He typed back. I'd offer you a shovel if I had any space for one here. Although good luck finding a good bit of earth in the city.

The response came back more quickly this time.

No, honey, I don't condone violence. This particular conversation would haunt Adam much later. I make it a point to not kill people, even those who deserve it. Especially not those who deserve it.

Hahahaha. Where are you and Rachel now?

Talking a walk right now to clear my head. Almost took it out on a trash can, and my boots.

Adam pursed his lip. Rachel Berry was Kurt's friend, for reasons yet beyond Adam's understanding. He was civil to her, certainly-Kurt loved her-but it was a truth nearly universally acknowledged among the Adam's Apples that Rachel Berry was insufferable. Adam had overheard her choice comments for his show choir, and hadn't been amused.

And the way she treated Kurt and Adam like fashionable accessories! At least Santana openly embraced her inner bitch.

Are you going home? Don't catch your death. It's supposed to be a very cold night.

A pause.

I'll be okay-wearing your scarf. ;) But I'm not sure if I want to go home just yet. I know it's my place as well as hers, but.

Another pause. A coward who's too terrified to take risks wouldn't dare impose on the diva's space.

Adam quietly swore, though he seldom ever. This had been bad, possibly Kurt's last fight with Rachel. He wondered if he were a bad person by hoping that it was.

Come to my place, darling. He'd typed, then backspaced three words to write home. And then darling again. You know your drawer and space are always here. I'll have dinner and a movie ready when you come.

Kurt's response came in a flash.

Are you sure? I know you're working, honey.

Kurt. I do adore you. You'd be doing Eloise and I a favor. =^..^=

Haha, so long as I would be doing Eloise a favor! ;) :But I love you, Adam Crawford.

Little crinkles appeared around Adam's blue eyes. He traced a fingertip around the words. I love you too, Kurt Hummel. Now come here and let me love on you.

That a threat, or a promise?

:D

That ambiguous smile has me worried. Can't tell if that's my genuinely cute and adorable boyfriend, or the smile of a lunatic lying under my bed, listening to me breathe.

Well, I'll be double-checking the locks tonight. Speaking of which, do get here safely. Adam steadied his hand before he continued. Just two days ago, there had been a candlelit vigil for one of Kurt's neighbors. A young gay man had been beaten into a coma. Would you like me to come meet you?

No, stay warm. I'll be okay—I'll stay in well-lit areas; it's a good idea in NYC in any case. And I'm not giving those creeps any reason to approach me; I put those people in the 'converting puppies into handbags' category of Awfulness.

And the idea of anything happening to you falls into the 'orphans' category on that great scale of Bad Things. Not just orphans, but musically-inclined, homeless orphans. And that's not just awful. That's Terrible.

The worse category there is. But I'll be okay. :)

See you soon?

Of course. :D

~o*oOo*o~

Their favorite love story—Ernest & Celestine, of all things—was waiting next to the afghan Adam's gran gave Kurt for Christmas last year. Adam smiled at the memory, expression warm as he lit a candle.

Perhaps tonight was as good a time as any to ask Kurt to live with him. Adam knew his studio apartment was much too small for them both long-term, but…

Spooning with Kurt in the mornings, spending rainy afternoons reading aloud and drinking tea. More nights of bake-offs and lovemaking after long days.

That would be nice.

Adam sat down at the table, pulling his cooling mug into his hands. Kurt hadn't texted him again, though the food beat him here. Maybe the subway had been late.

Just as he was about to send another message, the phone rang-not Kurt's ringtone. He picked up the device, an unfamiliar number flashing on screen. Bemused, he answered:

"Hullo?"

"Is this Adam Crawford?"

The woman was abrupt, unfamiliar. He blinked.

"….yes?"

"Mr. Crawford, you're listed as Mr. Hummel's first emergency contact in his school portfolio. We found Mr. Hummel's college ID on his person after he was brought in.

Adam could not speak. The operator could:

"I'm calling regarding an incident tonight."

Adam's cab driver had a picture of Ganesh attached to his rearview mirror. Perhaps he believed in reincarnation, which would be well for him, considering he treated driving as an extreme sport. Adam did not complain.

Rocking and rattling with the car, Adam did not complain, glassy eyes turned inward. There he looked into a quiet void that looked back. It did it better.

Only halfway to the hospital did he think of contacting Kurt's friends. He called Mercedes. Later, Adam wasn't quite sure what he'd said, but Mercedes immediately started firing questions. and Adam couldn't answer them—

"We can't update anyone but family on his current condition sir, but he's been admitted to New York Presbyterian's Emergency Room-"

"I'm his partner." He'd heard himself say. Adam would die from sheer mortification from his presumptuousness were he not completely plunged under.

"Immediate family—"

Mercedes was asking him more questions, judging by the sound of her tone. Something gentle, a tremulous "Are you okay" and what did that mean what did that mean Kurt was possibly lying somewhere with stab wounds and they stopped at another fucking bloody stoplight and Adam was ready to bolt out and run-

In his wordless thoughts, occasional words slipped in a staccato rhythm: I'm not okay, Kurt's not-

White noise. He might be having an out-of-body experience if the door handle he gripped weren't so slippery and solid and real, anchoring Adam to a nightmare.

Kurt—

"I'm heading there right now," he said thickly, as at last the light turned green and the driver floored the gas pedal. "I'll let you know how he is when I see him."

"I'll call everyone and get the word out." Mercedes sounded young, and very faint, and very small. Adam had to ask her to repeat herself over the cacophony of car horns, and the blood pounding in his ears. "Let me take care of it—I've got everyone's numbers. I'll call his Dad. We'll be there soon. You…you let us know when you get there if there's…any change?"

Mercedes's normally-gregarious voice sounds forced. Adam agreed, or probably did, and hung up.

Egg-yellow beams raced over him as they zoomed through the city. He was profoundly relieved the cabbie was not the kind to chat intermittently; the well-flowing well of words Adam had at his disposal was quite dried up. He buried his face in his hands, staring at the world through his fingertips and seeing nothing.

"I'm not legally allowed to disclose too much regarding Mr. Hummel's immediate condition, but what I can tell you is that a young man filed a police report tonight regarding an aggravated assault. Mr. Hummel stepped in to intervene during the attack-the authorities have reason to believe it was a hate crime-and the victim fled once the perpetrators turned on Mr. Hummel."

Adam had listened quite stupidly, not breathing, the bottom of his stomach dropping out. Put in these stark, detached terms, the violence sounded so clinical.

"The first victim contacted the police, whom returned to the vicinity of the crime and found Mr. Hummel left in an alley, alone, unconscious after sustaining multiple injuries. The attackers fled the scene, and weren't identified….I cannot confirm Mr. Hummel's exact state, but regarding the circumstances, it's best if you come at once….

Adam's feet had lurched to obey, tripping over themselves as they lurched out the door. His mind tore with dark, hot fear, rapidly pulsating into terror.

Left in an alley, alone

He let out a dry sob, and prayed, though he didn't know to whom and it was tangled, incoherent in his head but for one thing:

Left in an alley, alone

They pulled into the parking lot and Adam opened the door just before they came to a stop, tossing money at the driver. The man might've squawked something, but he was flying up the concrete like a devil, past the automatic doors, to the well-lit lobby-

Left in an alley, alone

The lobby was cold and quiet. Plenty of pictures of water, cool pastels, dark and shiny plastic plants. Adam had to look at them for an indecipherable amount of time-sort of like looking back at an uneventful year, and being unable to tell if it were very long nor very short. Nurses pointed him to the sofas and straight-backed chairs but Adam remained rooted to the hospital floor, swaying vaguely under anemic lighting, silently waiting in front of the admission's desk and making both passerby and staff uncomfortable. They told him to wait, because Kurt was in surgery and that information alone could make Adam sink to the floor if he needn't be ready. For what, Adam wasn't sure, but he stayed where he was, just in case.

When at last a dark-haired man came bustling out of swinging doors, Adam was given a number. Up the stairs he went, because the elevator doors wouldn't open at once. Ain't nobody got time for that, Kurt would've teasingly said.

The hospital smelled of shit and antiseptic. Adam couldn't quite feel his legs as he strode down a hall, bumping off the walls once or twice. The world pulsed through his eyes.

1701-17.1701-17.

When at last Adam saw the number, and Kurt's name on a laminated card on the door (A name, a name means he'll stay here, hairline fracture, his ribs) he came to a halt, breathing harshly. He thought of knocking, then he remembered (Sleeping off the morphine) and so with no small amount of dread Adam slowly turned the door handle, and stepped in. His eyes moved from the dingy white floors to the bed in the back of the room.

It's a strange moment. Adam is by reputation a very placid person, vaguely annoyed where friends are seething, swearing and (particularly in Santana's case) ready to cut a bitch. He and Kurt affectionately bantered rather than argued, and he refrained from confrontation in virtually all circumstances.

But now, there he was, a familiar figure made unfamiliar in an instant; Kurt, laughing and warm, now pale and motionless, silent as a-Adam couldn't think it-one eye brilliant and black. Slash marks on his nose, a hospital gown in lieu of his lovingly self-tailored clothes.

Kurt lay silently in an ill-lit room, small and colorless as a corpse, tangled in IV wires. The stark, metallic beep of the IV was the only evidence of a pulse.

Left in an alley, alone

From somewhere nearby Adam heard a strange noise, didn't care; he seized and was seized by rage, the kind of fury that is neither raving nor ballistic, but still, electric-white and pulsing. Being lightning-struck not with a blinding red that drove him bull-mad, but calm, lucid.

He blinked away spots. The charge would power him, motor him back to the elevator, out the hospital, to where they'd left Kurt for dead.

Left in an alley, alone

His palms were two stinging stars of pain. And somehow Adam would find them and would know, just know, and he'd walk forward, collected as anything. The shadows would look up, and they took on the smirks and sneers of the bullies (and there were so, so many of them) he'd known throughout his life, and they would laugh when they saw him coming, white as death. But the laughing would stop, stop and turn to screams when Adam was cutting into their heads, feeding them broken glass smoothies, hanging them by their intestines.

And maybe, just maybe, Adam would give into their pleas and eventually let them die.

Kurt made a noise, his head falling to the side, and in a moment, Adam resurfaced.

His feet moved him closer, and he was standing over Kurt, staring, helpless and stupid, tears streaming down his face.

Touching him is impossible, because of the sickening brutality ("His head was struck by a blunt object, maybe a brick") Kurt already endured. It wasn't right to touch, he's despicable, but Adam knelt, tremulously planting a kiss on Kurt's unbandaged hand, stomach lurching at seeing magenta-angry, swelling scratches blooming like so many awful flowers.

My love.

Tentative as a child approaching some strange and exotic animal, Adam touched Kurt's hair. He screwed his eyes shut, plasters his lips together to avoid making a sound.

Nothing to say. Nothing to say. Words were cheap, scrabbling, pathetically incapable of registering the horror inside him. Nor of the lump moving steadily up his chest to his throat.

"I'll be your candle on the water,"

The lump in his throat burst and tears came rolling down his face.

The fuck was that. Kurt was the lit candle, a lantern, a hundred brilliant stars floating in the water. He was also unbearably human, so fragile, and so brave and sure and kind. The tears fell thick and fast, and Adam cradled Kurt's hand against his cheek.

"My love for you will always burn."

Where is Kurt? Can he hear him? A morphine-induced slumber. Adam remembers his two surgeries, recalls dazedly rolling from the anesthetic, but precious little of the time under. It was unlike his normal sleep, the medication sending him under, dark and deep under. A night without stars.

"I know you're lost. You'll make it."

It felt wrong, and selfish, the bed was so small but he has to hold Kurt, and he does, curling his body around Kurt's. Insulating snake. Adam found Kurt's chest, pressed his face against the slow, warm beat.

"Here's my hand, so take it."

"Don't give up, you have somewhere to turn."

Come home to me. Please.

"I'll be your candle on the water…."

When he began surfacing, his eyes were still closed. One of his eyes was stinging, becoming distressingly more painful the closer he drifted, and the sting improved to something near-searing. Little hurts-and his

head,

his head, throbbing dully-were springing up over his body, becoming more persistent by the moment.

There's a reactionary flinch, which was a mistake; head swimming, pain sharpening at the base of his skull as if a very persistent worksman were pounding away at it-Kurt's good eye rolled open, and a bedsheet-colored blur improved to an unfamiliar tiled ceiling. From somewhere close there's an annoying rhythmic, metallic beep.

The smells were wrong, and the shadow patterns falling over his face were unfamiliar. Bemused, he tried lifting his head, which felt much, much heavier than normal. He fumbled, cringing at the reactionary spike of hurt that flared through it; oh, oh, oh.

Someone arrested his hand in their own, warm hands curling over his wrist.

"Kurt,"

Someone breathes, an exhale as well as a word and it sounds like Kuht and only one person in the world calls him that. Head spinning, every inch of him burning, and there's the faintest, warmest brush against his palm. "Kurt, dahling. Don't touch…."

And with those words Kurt heaved himself to near-consciousness, squinting with one good eye at the face of his person. Adam's eyes were full of tears, but his face was positively bloodless.

Feeling himself sinking again, his bandaged hand clawed vaguely at the air, found purchase in Adam's shirt. It tangled, and like Adam it's warm and soft and smells like apples and allspice.

He could cry with pain or relief; it's a toss-up between both.

"Honey?" He rasps, throat parched. Eye flickering again, he gestures vaguely at his throat, managing an unsteady nod as Adam uncertainly gestures to the pitcher at his bed stand table. In another moment Adam's cradling his head, his hold tentative, and Kurt doesn't give a damn about pain because there are Adam's hands holding him to reality, a painful one that he'll take nonetheless.

The glass rim on dry, cracked lips, and then icy, heavy water streaming down his parched throat. He leaned back briefly, breathing painfully-his chest-before steadily draining the glass. But his relief was short-lived.

"That boy," Kurt rasped, a heavy note of dread clanging dissonant in his head. "That guy, they…they were hitting him." He said stupidly, and Adam just looked at him. His voice grew high with distress. "They held him down and-" "Love. He's safe." Adam pressed his lips against Kurt's cheek, and Kurt's head lolled back as spots loomed in and out of his vision. "He's safe.

You're safe.

"Do you need more morphine?" Kurt's hands closed over his arm. "Shall I call a nurse? What do you need, sweetheart? Please. Please, lovely, tell me what you want."

Adam sounded like he were pleading and again Kurt could laugh or cry or both.

"Sing. Sing again, please."

Adam looked stunned. Then, with a small, tremulous smile, he obliged, as he always had and always would:

"Hear your heart beat….beat a frantic pace….

And it's not even seven a.m….."

And Adam sang, Kurt lying against him, his head tucked beneath Adam's chin. Adam sang, brushing fingers through his hair, which shook with relief.

When Kurt woke again, the same aches and pains were there, but significantly muffled. He must be on the good stuff.

It only took him a moment to recognize where he was, though his surroundings again were different: His bed was surrounded with flowers, cards, ribbon-wrapped boxes with cards perched atop them, mini balloons clutched by teddy bears. What's nicest though is that Adam's afghan was wrapped around him. It smelled like black tea, allspice, warm human skin and Adam and home. He wished sorely Eloise was curled up atop him, warm and purring. He wished harder to be home, and absently tapped his feet together.

Adam was sitting in a chair next to a tray with an uneaten spread, reading. His kind face looked haggard,and Kurt knew he hadn't slept.

"This," Kurt croaked, gesturing about himself; the painkillers still left him groggy. "This is nice." "The Apples are dying to see you," said Adam with a small smile, putting his book aside and stretching. "I told them to wait a day or so, but I doubt they'll be deterred for long." He smiled and shook his head. "

You've got a queue of visitors waiting for you. But the doctor thinks you'll be able to head home tomorrow." Home.

"Are you hungry? We never did have dinner last night."

"'M sor-"

"Hush," Adam said fondly, reaching over to ruffle Kurt's hair. The latter swiped at him, and Adam chuckled as he drew back. "Don't you dare, lovely. Are you hungry?"

"I don't think I can keep much down. Tea, though, would be nice."

Adam had that too-Kurt teased him about stealing Mary Poppins's bag-and as the confused nurses handed over the cups of hot water, Adam smiled as he dunked the teabag. "In just a moment I'll call everyone and let them know you're up-your Dad's on his way. For the time being though, I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

Kurt could not thing of a person he'd less want to be rid of.