Chapter Text
Kurt watched the (thankfully) steady rise and fall of Ram’s chest as the other slept. The two of them had been in the hospital for the better part of two weeks now, recovering from the gunshot wounds inflicted by Jason fucking Dean and Veronica Sawyer in the cemetery. Kurt’s injuries were healing quite nicely, according to the nurses, but Ram had been in a medicated coma since they got to the hospital. He hated to see the miles and miles of tubes hooked up to his best friend, but Kurt couldn’t help but just…watch. Keep watch.
It wasn’t like he could sleep, anyway, even if it was nearing three in the morning, even if exhaustion was yanking on his limbs and trying to pull him under. He couldn’t let himself sleep. If he did, he would have nightmares, something bad would happen, J.D. would show up and finish the job, Ram would die, Ram would die, Ram would die—
A choked sob clawed its way out of Kurt’s throat. Clapping a hand over his mouth, Kurt turned his head and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. Eyes burning and breath uneven, Kurt tried to calm himself down by thinking of something, anything other than the possibility of Ram dying.
Kurt couldn’t remember a time when he and Ram weren’t together—they had been next-door-neighbors since they were both born, learning how to walk and talk together as their moms chatted over coffee. They had spent almost every day together as they grew older.
A weak smile found its ways to Kurt’s face as he remembered when his sister was born. He and Ram had been seven, and boy, Kurt was not happy that he wasn’t the favorite (only) child anymore. In fact, he was so mad about it that he tried running away to camp out at the playground. And, of course, Ram joined him in a heartbeat. The two of them had managed to “survive” until past dinnertime. That was when their parents had found them.
That wasn’t the only trouble the boys had gotten into over the years. Sixth grade was the first time they had broken into Ram’s parents’ liquor cabinet. Eighth grade brought about their first shoplifting incident. Then, of course, there were the fights ranging all the way from the start of school to a couple days before they got shot, and, of course, there were a million and one other things that they got themselves into.
God, what he wouldn’t give to go back to simpler days. Days where they weren’t stuck in a damn hospital bed. Inhaling sharply, Kurt bit down onto his hand. Tears slipped down his cheeks as it finally, finally hit him (it had hit him days ago, too, but it hurt more and more each time).
No. Stop. Think of something else. Different.
What else was there even to think about? Nine years old. Learned to swim together. Eleven years old. Kurt fell out of a tree and broke his arm in six places; Ram took over holding people down and Kurt learned to hit with his right hand. Six years old. They learned to ride their bikes. Thirteen. Kurt was diagnosed with clinical depression after his mom passed away the year before. Ram never gave him shit for it. They both felt like there was something more to it, but Kurt had stopped going to the counselor after nine months. Fifteen. They kissed, drunk, at an overnight birthday party—
It had been a mistake, an alcohol-ridden decision, when they snuck off to the bathroom in the middle of the night in a fit of drunken laughter. Ram had pressed Kurt back into the wall before clumsily kissing him, too much pressure, too much teeth, too much in general, but, God, Kurt didn’t mind. At the time he had wanted more.
Even now he wanted more, he realized, hesitantly looking over at Ram again through watery eyes. Nothing had changed from earlier. He didn’t expect it to. Would’ve been nice, though. Would’ve been nice to know that Ram wasn’t going to die any second. Nice to know that maybe, just maybe, the “suicide” note that the police had found at the crime scene held some truth.
Would sure be nice to feel Ram’s lips against his own again.
Kurt groaned quietly. God, he was too exhausted for this. Why couldn’t things just be…easy for once? He had long since accepted that he was gay, but he was nowhere and no way ready to admit it to anyone else. Not while living in Homophobe Central. He sure as hell couldn’t tell Ram. He wasn’t even sure if he would even be given the chance to tell Ram.
The waterworks started up again, but it wasn’t like it had stopped to begin with. Kurt scrubbed at his eyes, trying to keep his sobs quiet. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, Ram was going to die just like his mom, wasn’t he, well, not just like his mom, his mom died because of a drunk driver, a head-on accident, and this wasn’t that, but he was still going to die, and he would never know how much Kurt fucking loved him, in every sense of the damn word, he wouldn’t be able to tell him, show him—
“Ram,” Kurt whimpered. “Ram, wake up, please, I need you to wake up, I just…fuck, I need you, Ram, please. Please…” Pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, Kurt continued to mumble his pleas for the other boy to wake up, his words slurring together as exhaustion and fear clawed away together at his insides. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore. He didn’t know what he would do with Ram. All he knew is that he couldn’t do it, whatever it even was.
Kurt fell asleep like that, arms falling limp against his chest, with Ram’s name dying on his lips. No nightmares invaded his dreams for the first time since they had been admitted, but he couldn’t know that in a few short hours he would be living a nightmare from the bed across the room.