Glee 1. Audition

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

_5: Find somebody to love._

Kurt frowned at the checklist tacked up on his vanity mirror. He'd started his list the day that summer started, going through version after version until he'd perfected the ideal list of summer goals.

_1: Lose the rest of the baby fat_

He'd managed that one, thank goodness, between shooting up four inches and sticking with a routine of yoga and pilates. His clothes had never fit better, and Mercedes had finally stopped smooshing his cheeks together and cooing about his baby face.

_2: Develop your range_

That had taken a lot of time, a lot of singing in the shower, and a lot of battles with his dad over the volume level on his stereo. He'd given up on his voice ever changing like a sensible person's, so he might as well just learn to rock what he had. And rock it he could. His tone had never been richer.

_3: Reorganize wardrobe_

It had taken hours for that, but his wardrobe was properly sorted, altered, stored, and sorted into a series of elaborate spreadsheets on his computer. Sadly, he'd outgrown some of his favorite pieces, but at least the profits on eBay brought in plenty of new, exciting babies for his collection.

_4: Help Dad_

That started one night the previous spring, when he was washing dishes and turned to say something to his dad and had to abruptly close his mouth because, for the first time, he realized his father looked _old._

He'd spent his childhood helping his father in the garage- handing him tools, filling out paperwork, fiddling under hoods- but usually it was under duress, and he complained all the way through it. But this summer, he'd spent a lot of his free time helping out at the old family mechanic shop, and to his surprise, not only did it seem to actually take some of the stress off his dad, but he actually sort of enjoyed it.

And then…there was number five.

_5: Find somebody to love_

Kurt's frown deepened as he stared at the note, scrawled in his untidy cursive. Each line was marked out merrily in teal sharpie. All except the last one.

_Why does this have to be hard? _he thought unhappily.

Of course it was going to be hard. He had expected that. There weren't exactly swarms of handsome young men pouring out of Ohio onto his doorstep.

But did it have to be _this _hard?

Nothing had panned out. Not awkward flirtations at the coffee shop, not scribbled down numbers passed on the fly during shopping trips with Mercedes, not desperate batting of eyelashes at the movie theater. Not even a few ill-advised bashful ventures onto social networking sites.

Kurt looked at his reflection in the mirror- sharply dressed, pale-skinned, curiously cynical gaze. "Sweet sixteen and never been kissed," he said glumly. "Fantastic."

"Kurt? Kiddo? You ready?"

He straightened, blinking, and ripped the taped-up note from his mirror. "Coming, Dad," he called.

"Well, hurry, or you're gonna be late for school."

He hastily crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash can beside his desk, then picked up his bag and headed up the stairs. His dad was waiting by the kitchen table, grinning broadly from ear to ear. "There's my kid," Burt said proudly. "Look at you. God, you're so tall."

Kurt rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. "Dad, you've been saying that since I started kindergarten," he said.

"Yeah, well, it's been true every year," Burt said. He waved Kurt over, the ancient family camera in his hand. "Ready for your picture?" He tilted the camera back and forth. "You know it's tradition."

Kurt sighed, hoisting his messenger bag in his hand. "I know, I know," he said, taking his customary place by the fireplace and plastering a wide smile across his face.

His parents had taken his first day of school picture ever since he started preschool. That first photo still stood somewhere in the cluttered maze of frames on his father's bureau- his mother wrapping her arms around his waist and laughing at the camera as he attempted to hide his face in the crook of her neck while still displaying his new baby blue backpack. And there was a photo for every school year- his cheeks less chubby, his smile a little less wide, a new backpack slung over his shoulder.

Burt snapped the picture, fumbling with the battery flap that never managed to stay closed. "There we go, sophomore year," he said. He glanced at the display at the top. "Great, now we only need to take fourteen more pictures before we can get this roll developed." "You know, Dad, you can just get a digital camera and avoid all this," Kurt pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I'm an old man, I'm set in my ways," Burt grinned.

Kurt paused. "You're not that old, Dad," he said.

Burt shrugged. "I look at you, kid, and you make me feel old," he said. He squeezed Kurt's shoulders. "Come on, get a move on. You'll be late. And I've gotta go pick up Carole for work."

Kurt squeezed in tightly for a brief hug. "Love you, Dad," he said.

"Love you too, kiddo," Burt said. "Drive safe. Study hard. All that stuff." His eyes narrowed. "And if you have any sort of problems, you call me, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt said, dipping his car keys out of the clear glass bowl on the console. "I'll see you after school."

Burt offered a wave, and Kurt headed out the front door, squaring his shoulders as he faced the first day of his sophomore year.

He always began the school year secretly hoping that he would walk in the doors to find everything suddenly better. Cleaner bathrooms. Nicer lockers. Air that didn't smell like a lifetime's worth of meatloaf mixed with a decade of sweat. Fewer jocks crowding the hallways.

Alas, he was always disappointed.

He pushed the doors to the school open wide and strolled inside, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag across his shoulder. His latest text from Mercedes said she'd meet him in the choir room, but he'd only turned the first corner before an obnoxious voice started calling his name.

"Kurt! Kurt Hummel!"

He glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes as Jacob Ben Israel ran after him with a microphone, his pudgy friend trotting at his heels with a video camera in hand. "Hello, Jacob," he tossed back.

"When will you glee clubbers accept the fact that everyone hates you?" Jacob asked, thrusting the microphone in his face.

"I'm busy, Jacob," Kurt retorted, picking up his pace. Jacob and the cameraman followed him, unperturbed. Kurt veered towards the nearest bathroom. "Go away. Shoo."

"They think you're nothing but a glorified karaoke club, designed to make the makers of autotune million of dollars!" Jacob shrieked.

Kurt pushed the door open and stood there for a second, breathing deeply and closing his eyes, then turned and pushed the door back open. Jacob was waiting for him, his eyes looking buggy behind his glasses. "You know what, Jacob?" he said sweetly. "It doesn't take much courage for people to park their cottage cheese behinds in their Barcaloungers and log onto to the internet and start tearing people down, does it? But do you know what does take some courage? Standing up and singing about something."

He turned to face the camera. "So here's a message for everyone who reads your blog," he said. "Next time, instead of posting an anonymous comment online, say what you have to say to my face."

His glorious moment of assertiveness shone for a brief moment before he was abruptly doused with a sudden deluge of bright red slushie. He sucked in his breath as one smacked him against the side of his head and the other slapped him across the face.

"Welcome back, lady," Azimio taunted, and he heard Karofsky snicker.

Kurt brushed the slushie out of his eyes and spit some of it out of his mouth. He squinted through the stinging haze at Jacob, who was still staring at him, and took a deep breath. "I don't suppose there's any way you could cut out that last part?" he asked.

Jacob shook his head, mouth agape. Kurt rubbed at his eyes. Jacob reached out and plucked a chunk of slushie off the collar of his coat, then stuck it in his mouth. Kurt stared at him in disgust, started to say something, decided against it, and stumbled half-blind down the hallway, away from the camera.

"Kurt? Baby, what happened to you?"

He reached out and grabbed at Mercedes with one sticky hand, making her shriek. "Oh, god, Mercedes, this is _not _how I wanted this school year to start," he gasped.

She linked her fingers through his. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up," she sighed. "Too bad. This outfit would have been awesome."

"I know," he sighed. She dragged him into the girl's bathroom, flipped on a faucet, and dampened a paper towel. He dabbed at his stinging eyes gratefully. "This is going to be a terrible year, isn't it?"

She gently scrubbed at his sticky face. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "We haven't even had homeroom yet."

He shrugged carefully out of his jacket. "Yes, but I haven't been on campus for five minutes and I got a double slushie," he said.

Mercedes took a comb out of her purse, ran it under the faucet, and slid it through his hair. "You never know," she said. "Maybe this'll turn out to be the best year yet." She stepped back and eyed him critically. "You know, the slushie didn't do too much damage to your shirt."

"That's why I brought a spare jacket," Kurt said, pulling the folded garment out of his bag and shaking it out. He looked down sadly at his slushied coat. "It's still so sad, though."

The first warning bell rang. "We don't have any classes together, do we?" Mercedes said.

"Not this year," Kurt said, sliding the clean jacket on. "Not since I transferred out of Spanish and back into French." He leaned in close. "Truthfully, I only took Spanish last year so I could be in a class with Finn."

Mercedes smirked. "Oh, yeah, we all knew that," she said.

He paused. "Really?" he said.

"Definitely," she said. "Now hurry up. Go make this the best first day of school ever. Even with a double slush."

Despite Mercedes' optimism, it was not, in fact, the best first day of school ever. In fact, Kurt was fairly certain that it was the worst. And that counted fourth grade.

His home ec class was boring as dirt. He was assigned to sit next to Azimio in French. Somehow he'd been placed in calculus II, even though he hadn't taken calculus I yet. He had third lunch, which meant he had to wait forever to eat. And Finn was in his history class.

It wasn't that he hated Finn or anything. It was just that…things weren't quite…okay yet.

They hadn't talked much since Fag Gate 2010. Kurt had fled to Mercedes' house while Finn and Carole left, and when he came home the next day, his dad didn't bring the subject up. He knew his father and Carole were still dating, but she didn't come over and Burt never mentioned Finn.

It wasn't until the annual Hummel family July 4th cookout that it really came back into play. They'd always hosted a summer barbecue for their neighbors and friends and garage employees; some of Kurt's earliest memories involved eating too many bomb pops and falling asleep in his mother's lap while fireworks cracked overhead. His dad had asked him, gruff and awkward, if it would be okay if Finn and Carole came over. And Kurt had smiled and said it was fine.

Truthfully, it hadn't been that bad. There was enough going on that he and Finn didn't have to spend much time together, other than casual (and awkward) pleasantries. They weren't rude, but they weren't much more than polite and cordial to each other.

And most interesting of all, his crush had vanished.

Kurt had tested it when he saw Finn walking out of his mom's station wagon towards the house. He'd locked his gaze on the lanky football player and waited for the butterflies in his stomach to start flipflopping.

Nothing.

He'd had his suspicions that his crush was gone in the last few weeks of school after the Hudsons had moved back out, but now he knew for sure that his love for Finn- or whatever it had been- was long gone. He didn't feel anything for him anymore.

Which made the elusive fifth point on his summer goals checklist that much harder to achieve.

Kurt spent his passing periods and a good part of lunchtime surveying the crowds of students around him, looking for new faces. Particularly boys. Boys of the cute variety. Cute boys who might possibly be interested in him.

_Either my gaydar is broken, or I'm _still _the only gay person in Ohio, _he thought bitterly.

But he managed to push the thoughts away and focus on his new classes, and at least he finished out the school day without another slushying incident. And when three o'clock hit, he made a beeline for the choir room.

All he had to do was walk in the door and it felt like his world flipped right side up again. Rachel was coaching Finn at the piano, Mike was improvising a new dance routine, Mercedes and Santana were gossiping. He smiled in contentment.

"Hey, guys, welcome back to another year of glee," Mr. Schue said, walking out of his office with a stack of paper in his hand. He didn't seem all that happy, despite his cheerful words.

"What's going your panties in a twist, Mr. Schue?" Santana inquired.

Kurt sat down beside Mercedes, dropping his messenger bag at his feet. "I was hoping we could start the school year with the glee club back on top like it was in my day, but apparently that's not happening," Mr. Schue said. "These are comments from Jacob Ben Israel's latest glee club blog." He sighed. "Glee is a giant ball of suck…"

"We get it, Mr. Schue, everyone still hates us," Kurt said, unwilling to start the best part of his entire school day on a sour note. "So what? So we're plankton on the high school food chain. The only difference is that now none of us really care."

"Kurt's right, we're a family," Mercedes agreed. "They can bring it all they want, none of it is going to break us."

Mr. Schue set the papers down on the piano. "I'm really happy you guys have all bonded. The problem is that all of this negative stuff is keeping other students from auditioning."

"Good," Tina shrugged. "Why do we need new members?"

"Well, since Matt transferred, we only have eleven members," Mr. Schue explained. "And if we want to go to Nationals- if we want to beat Vocal Adrenaline- we have to go from a small rebel force to a giant wall of sound."

Rachel nodded vigorously, her lips set. "Mr. Schuester's right, you guys," she said, jumping up from her seat to stand beside the teacher. "You didn't see Vocal Adrenaline at regionals, they were epic. We're going to need more voices in order to beat them."

"Yeah, I'm with Rachel on this one," Finn said.

Brittany wrinkled her nose as Finn got up from his seat. "Gross," she murmured.

"You're going to have to trust me on this, you guys," Mr. Schue said. He grinned. "Now, here's the plan. Nationals are in New York this year, and we are going."

Kurt squirmed in excitement. Even just the words made a thrilled tingle run up and down his spine. Mercedes laughed and pretended to fan him.

"Now let's go out there and show the school how cool this is going to be, how cool _we _can be," Mr. Schue said. "If they're not going to come to us, let's go to them. They say we only sing showtunes and eighties pop, let's show them how down we are. Let's give them the song of the year…New Directions style."

The class erupted in laughter and applause. Kurt felt another excited thrill shoot up his spine.

_This is going to be my year, _he thought. _This will be the year that everything goes right._

* * *

Mercedes doubled over laughing. He pouted. "This isn't funny, Mercedes," he said.

"Oh, it's not funny, white boy, it's _hilarious,_" she howled, struggling to catch her breath. "You are so not meant to be gangsta."

He scowled at his reflection. "I think I look pretty good," he objected.

"You are as gangsta as a kitten," she said. She swatted playfully at his butt. "Now hurry up. We don't want to miss the flash mob."

She sashayed out of the bathroom. Kurt lingered to peer at himself in the mirror- pale skin with remnants of summer freckles, unusually spiked hair, unfamiliar plain screen-printed tee shirt- and slid on his sunglasses before leaving to join her in the hallway outside the school courtyard.

"All right, all right, places, everyone," Rachel said, clapping her hands.

Mercedes looked her up and down, hands on her hips. "Again, gangsta as a kitten," she sighed. "Maybe we should have picked a different song."

Puck slung an arm around her shoulders. "Aw, come on, it's gonna be awesome," he said.

"Seriously, everyone, places," Rachel said sharply. "Mike, you will carry in the stereo. I'll press play." She pointed at the assembled members of New Directions, glaring at them. "If you are not in your place, that is your own fault."

"All right, big mouth, can we just get on it with?" Santana said irritably. Rachel turned on her toes and marched towards the courtyard, gesturing for them to follow.

Kurt squared his shoulders and sauntered at the end of the pack. _Swagger, _he told himself sternly. _Swagger, Kurt Hummel. You can have swagger._

He sat down on a table, crossing one long leg gracefully over the other. _No! Not graceful. Swagger. You need to have swagger._

Rachel surveyed the busy courtyard like a lion at a watering hole, then jammed down on the play button, turning on the background track. _Swagger swagger swagger, _he thought.

He did his best- shimmying his shoulders, bouncing his hips as he walked, popping his movements when he danced. Everyone seemed to be having a great time performing, even with Finn's terrible attempt at rapping.

They ended the song with a flourish…only to find the rest of the school still completely ignoring them.

"Wait…that's it?" Tina said in disbelief.

"Surely someone had to notice us," Quinn said. "There's a bunch of dancing freaks in the courtyard, didn't they see it?"

Rachel's face fell, but she straightened and plastered a bright smile across her face. "Well, I saw some receptive people in the audience," she said. "Maybe we just have to wait." She sat down on a step and crossed her arms. "And I, for one, am willing to wait as long as we need to."

Finn glanced around and slowly sank to sit next to Rachel, but the bell rang. Kurt peeled his gloves off his hands and sighed. "I suppose we can wait while we're in class," he said.

"That did not go like I thought it would," Artie said, and the rest of the glee club could only nod in disappointment.

* * *

The first full week of school passed in a blur; by the time the next Monday rolled around, Kurt was already bored. He had hoped so fervently that this year would be different, but it wasn't- same shoves into lockers, same slushies in his face, same boring classes. Same old singleness.

He tried not to think about it, but when all of the other members of the glee club paired off at lunchtime to smooch over their Oreos it was a little difficult. Finally he stood up and held his hand out to Mercedes. "Let's leave the lovebirds alone," he said, rolling his eyes pointedly at Mike and Tina. "I feel like borrowing the choir room piano. Want to come with?"

"Oh hell yes," Mercedes said gratefully, grabbing his hand and sliding off the bench. "God, I swear it's like everybody got into some kind of relationship this summer." She sighed deeply. "Except us."

He linked arms with her. "Our time will come," he said, more for his own reassurance than hers. "Eventually."

She sighed, dropping her head against his shoulder. "I'm tired of waiting for eventually," she whined. "Kurt, I am in exactly the same place I was last year. Do you know how frustrating that is?"

"I have some idea, yes," he said. He pushed the door to the choir room open and ushered her inside. "Let's not think about that last night. Let's think about rehearsing." He squeezed her playfully. "I'm sure Rachel will start some new battle over solos soon. We need to be prepared."

The two of them sat down at the piano bench and bantered back and forth as he played through scales and melodies, the two of them coaching and critiquing one another. Kurt smiled as he tripped his fingers down the keys and looked up to see Mercedes frowning at him.

"So…is that a man's sweater?" she inquired.

He glanced down at his light brown sweater, illustrated with a stylized girl's face and bedecked with a bow. "Fashion has no gender," he informed Mercedes.

Their pleasant lunchbreak was suddenly interrupted by Hurricane Berry storming into the choir and dropping the piano lid down with a clang; Kurt barely pulled his fingers away in time. "Ladies, we have a problem," Rachel announced. Kurt and Mercedes exchanged a look. "There's a new student at this school named Sunshine, who is a Filipino and is shorter than me, which I didn't think was possible. It was very unnerving."

"Okay, so I'm going to go now," Mercedes said, sliding off the piano bench.

"And," Rachel said, holding up her hand. Mercedes paused and turned back around. "And she has a remarkable voice." Kurt squinted at her. Rachel took a deep breath. "I'm just…I'm very worried. Not for myself, but for the lesser glee clubbers who don't get as many solos as I do."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "So," Rachel continued. "I paid a hundred dollars for Azimio and Karofsky to brutally slushy us in front of Sunshine's locker, terrifying her and insuring she doesn't sign up."

Kurt and Mercedes stared at her. His lips quirked like he was about to say something, but he couldn't find the words.

"Okay, so this is the part where you're supposed to be hugging me and thanking me-" Rachel started to say.

"That's awful," Mercedes said flatly. "You're awful."

"But solos!" Rachel protested.

"Look, Rachel, Mercedes and I are about as self-involved as they come," Kurt interrupted, getting up from the piano and walking over to join Mercedes. "And more than anything, we want to beat Vocal Adrenaline. And if there's someone in the school who can help us do that, they're in."

Rachel smiled at them, a disturbingly sweet smile. Kurt blinked. "You know what?" she said, still smiling. "You're right." She walked around to slide between them, wrapping her arms around their shoulders. Kurt pulled back a little. "It's just so like me to be just totally blinded by my concern for the two of you. I'll go and talk to Sunshine now, just let her know how welcome she truly is." She flashed one last saccharine smile at them before flouncing away.

Kurt just stared at Mercedes and mouthed a skeptical _what_? She shrugged. The choir room doors clanged shut behind Rachel.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do with that girl, but if we don't get some new people in here soon, she won't have a glee club to harass anymore," Mercedes quipped.

* * *

"All right, you guys, settle down," Mr. Schue called. "We have until five o'clock at the latest to wait for new members. Let's try out some new music in the meantime, okay?"

Despite Mr. Schue's cheery words, no one could concentrate, not even Rachel. Before long, their weak attempts at rehearsing dissolved into anxiously staring at the door in mostly awkward silence. By the time the clock reached five till five, the tension could be cut with a knife. Kurt wrapped his arms around the back of the chair and stared at the clock above the door.

Suddenly Rachel popped up from her seat. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don't think anyone's going to be joining us, so I think we can go ahead and call it a day," she said cheerily.

"We said three to five, it's only 4:58," Mr. Schue objected.

Brittany and Santana slung their backpacks over their shoulders; Tina got up from her chair and stepped down the platforms. Kurt sighed heavily and followed, picking up his messenger bag "Just wait, my buddy Sam's gonna try out, and he totally idolizes me," Finn protested.

"Face it, Finn," Kurt said, brushing past the football player. He turned around to face Finn. "You're no longer the quarterback. You're not the Pied Piper anymore. Nobody's going to follow you around thinking everything you do is cool."

The stunned look of confusion plastered across Finn's face was incredibly gratifying. He sashayed out of the choir room and down the hallway, smirking happily to himself.

"Well, well, well, somebody's over their little crush," Santana said, linking an arm through his.

Kurt blinked. "I don't know what you mean," he said.

Brittany sidled up to his other side and tucked her hand around his. "I missed you this summer," she said. "I could have used your help when I was lost in the sewers. Your sense of direction is better than mine."

Kurt opened his mouth to argue, but Santana cut him off. "This time last year, you would be practically sitting on Hudson's lap, trying to get his attention," she said. "Now you're snarking off and…" She snapped the strap of his shoulder harness. "Dressing in bondage gear."

"All right, first of all, I never had a crush on Finn," Kurt lied.

"Oh, come off it, Hummel, you were totally dying to get your boy-love on with Hudson," Santana said.

"Yeah, you totally wanted his sweet boy kisses," Brittany chimed in.

Kurt flushed red from his neck to his ears. "I am not in love with Finn Hudson," he said. "And I am not wearing bondage gear."

Santana smirked. "Oh, you sweet, sweet child," she said. "You make such perfect jailbait."

"And you, my dear, can now make a perfect flotation device," Kurt countered, glancing pointedly down at her newly expanded chest. Santana scoffed, grabbed Brittany by the hand, and dragged her down the hall. Brittany offered a cheerful wave goodbye.

Kurt sighed. _Am I really completely over Finn? _he thought, digging in his messenger bag for his car keys. _And am I _really _wearing bondage gear?_

He shook his head. _No. There's no way._

* * *

"Kurt! Kurt, wait!"

He glanced over his shoulder to see Rachel jogging down the hall towards him. "Hello, Rachel," he said coolly. "Are you going to send me to a meth lab?"

She paused to catch her breath, lips tugging down in disappointment. "So you heard about-"

"About a sweet, vocally talented Filipina who was scarred for life after getting sent to a crack house? Mm-hm," he said.

"Well, I'm trying to make amends," Rachel said, taking two steps to each of his in order to keep up. "I've invited her to come sing for us in the auditorium after school. Will you come?"

"You're not really giving me a choice," he said. He sighed. "Fine. I'll be there. But for her sake, not yours."

Rachel beamed happily at him. "I'll see you then," she said.

Kurt shouldered his bag and headed back down the hall. Time for chemistry, all the way on the opposite end of the school. He hated that class.

"Hey, fancy boy."

He glanced up, his sharp retort dying on his lips as a huge hand grabbed him by the collar and a slushie splashed down the inside of his shirt. Kurt let out a startled shriek, and Azimio laughed in his face. "Enjoy that?" he jeered, tossing the empty cup at Kurt's feet and strolling back down the hall.

Kurt slumped back against the wall, gasping, his chest stinging from the cold. Slick, sticky slush dripped down to the waistband of his pants. He stumbled back down the hallway towards his locker, digging frantically at the globs of ice plastered to his skin.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit, _he thought frantically, frustrated tears stinging at his eyes. He fumbled at his locker combination, twirling carelessly until the door somehow swung open. Somewhere in the back he had a spare sweater; he dug around until his fingers touched soft fabric.

The late bell rang as he ran into the nearest bathroom. He peeled his damp sticky shirt off his body, dumping it in the sink and turning the cold water on full blast, rinsing away the fake blue raspberry food coloring.

He cleaned up as best he could with damp paper towels, digging his teeth into his lower lip, and finally pulled his striped sweater over his head. The fabric felt soft and soothing against his skin, and he took a deep breath, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. He shouldered his bag and headed back towards his class.

His chemistry teacher was already well into the lecture by the time he made it to his seat. "Mr. Hummel, thanks for joining us," Mr. Bowers said.

"I'm sorry, I was just…" Kurt started to say. He glanced across the room to see Azimio smirking at him, one of his football friends hiding a laugh behind his hand. "I'm sorry."

"That's a demerit, Mr. Hummel," Mr. Bowers said. "I'll see you after class. Now take your seat."

Kurt obeyed hastily, sitting in the desk closest to the teacher. He spent the rest of the class taking notes carefully, trying his best to ignore the stares boring into the back of his neck.

The second the bell rang at three o'clock he bolted from the classroom, speed walking down the hallway to avoid the football goons. He could hear them approaching, and he picked up his pace.

"Hey, Kurt, you headed to the auditorium?"

He jumped, then sagged in relief. "Mr. Schue, yes, yes, I am," he blurted out. "Mind if I walk with you?"

Mr. Schue gave him a strange look. "Sure," he said.

Kurt fell into step beside him. It didn't matter if Mr. Schue gave him weird looks. All that mattered was that the jocks were a lot less likely to come after him if he was right next to a teacher.

He followed Mr. Schue into the auditorium and sat down right beside him. Most likely the football guys wouldn't follow him in there, but still. Rather to be safe than sorry.

He huddled in his seat by himself as the other glee clubbers filed into the auditorium in twos and threes. Sunshine Corazon walked in flanked by Finn on one side and Rachel on the other, like a bizarre security detail. "Go on up and sing," Rachel said, giving the petite girl a push towards the stage.

Sunshine tentatively took the stage and tilted the microphone towards her. "Hi, my name is Sunshine Corazon, and I'll be singing 'Listen' from the movie Dreamgirls," she said shyly.

Rachel twisted around in her seat. "Broadway show first," she reminded them. The other glee clubbers shushed her quickly.

Kurt relaxed as Sunshine started to sing. Her voice really was amazing, and her stage presence was astounding for someone so tiny. _She could really be an asset, _he marveled. _No wonder Rachel wants her gone._

He clapped along with everyone else when she finished singing, still caught in his trance. She was a stunning performer.

"Wow," Mr. Schue said, climbing out of his chair. He stretched his arms out wide. "Welcome to glee club!"

The club members erupted in cheers; Sunshine beamed shyly at them and hopped off the edge of the stage. They pulled Sunshine into the midst of the group, all of them talking at once- even Rachel, who was trying in vain to hide her sulking.

Kurt slipped into the edge of the group, trying to find a way in. But they were all talking about things that he didn't know how to join. He edged closer to Mercedes in attempt to get a word in edgewise. "Oh my god, Mercedes, the jocks have found a new method of slushying," he said.

But Mercedes had her back to him; she threw her head back and laughed at something Puck said to Santana. He took a step back, his stomach tightening in a strange, uncomfortable way.

_All I want is someone to notice me, _he thought. _Why won't they notice me?_

His heart sank.

_This year is going to be terrible, isn't it?_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Hi everybody! If you're reading this and there's a nice little "complete" marker in the summary, then congratulations! Read right on through. I hope you enjoy.

But if you're not, and you're like "oh _hell _no, there were like eighteen chapters and she was partway through the Blame It On the Alcohol episode, what is this nonsense?" then let me explain.

When I first started writing this, I had no idea how bad the gaps would turn out to be. What started out as a cute little "la la la, I want to write more Klaine while I wait for them to get together!" sort of story turned into a massive project. Originally I picked up in the middle of "Never Been Kissed," and the episodes were very hit or miss until I got to Special Education and had to write it in five parts in order to properly fill in the missing details.

I also didn't realize how much I hated writing this story. Seriously. You have no idea. It was so much pressure trying to crank out ten to fifty (yes, fifty!) pages per episode in the span of a week, before the next episode came out.

As a result, not only was I miserable writing it, but it showed. I was _so _dissatisfied with the story it was ridiculous. Stupid grammar and formatting errors, poor characterization, rushed narration. I was really frustrated.

So I made the decision to go back to the beginning and rewrite everything. Everything. Starting with the first episode of season two. It gives me a chance to not only develop this story fully, but also go back and clean up and edit all of the poorly-written earlier chapters.

So yes!

Now we have Kurt in the beginning of the angst. Poor precious boy. And the next chapter is Brittany/Britney, and I already know how I'm going to start pulling in the Karofsky plotline. I'm going to cry.

So I hope you enjoy this, and you keep reading, and reviewing, and stuff! And yeah! Be on the lookout for more!_  
_


	2. Brittany Britney

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

"Dad! Guess what?" Kurt called cheerfully as he headed up the basement stairs. "Dad, I…"

He paused. The kitchen was empty, and the keys to his dad's truck. He sighed heavily. All he wanted to do was share his excitement over his Britney Spears campaign- he'd gone to bed with two supporters and woke up with five- but his father was gone. There wasn't anybody to talk to about it.

Reluctantly he poked out around in the half-empty refrigerator, looking for something that would work for breakfast. "I really need to go grocery shopping," he said aloud, finally picking up a small carton of Greek yogurt.

He sat down at the kitchen table and peeled the foil back, digging thoughtfully into his breakfast. Usually he and his father went grocery shopping together on Sunday nights- the only day of the week the garage wasn't open- but it seemed like his dad was working more and more hours.

_I need to make him take more time off, _he thought as he tossed his empty yogurt in the trash and dropped his spoon in the dishwasher.

He shut off all the lights and locked up the quiet house before driving to school. Of course, school didn't start till eight-thirty, but he'd realized last year that he either needed to get there early, before all the jocks showed up, or slide in right before the bell rang, when the jocks were busy trying to run to class themselves. He pulled into his usual parking spot (right next to the front doors, where there would be plenty of witnesses if something went down) and headed into the choir room.

His friends filtered into the classroom in ones and twos, plunking down in their seats to chat sleepily or finish their homework at the last minute. Mercedes sank into the empty chair beside and dropped her backpack on the floor. "Morning, boo," she yawned.

"Good morning," he said. He scooted closer. "Guess what?"

"It's too early to guess," she said. "Just tell me."

He clasped his hands. "Remember that Facebook page I made the last time you spent the night?" he said. "The Britney Spears one? We're up to five likes."

"Oh my god, that's awesome," Mercedes said. "You totally have to tell Mr. Schue. Maybe we can talk him into it."

The teacher in question breezed into the room with a wide grin plastered across his face. "Hey, hey, good morning, everybody," Mr. Schue said cheerfully. "I've got a fabulous lesson planned for today. Put your homework up, you should've done it last night." Mercedes groaned and stuffed her half-written English notes back in her bag.

Mr. Schue marched over to the whiteboard and wrote "Christopher Cross" in sloppy capital letters. Kurt arched an eyebrow. "All right, who can tell me who Christopher Cross is?" Mr. Schue asked.

"He discovered America," Brittany announced. Finn nodded eagerly.

"Close," Mr. Schue said, gesturing with his whiteboard marker. "He did write an iconic chart-topper, 'Sailing'."

Kurt leaned over to Mercedes. "I have a bad feeling about this lesson," he whispered. She nodded.

"Never heard of him, don't want to hear about him," Tina said flatly.

Mr. Schue picked up a stack of papers from the piano. "Now, some people think of easy listening as a bad thing," he said. "But I'm going to let this music speak for itself. You guys love Lady Gaga and the Rolling Stones, and you guys are really good about putting it all out there." He started handing out the sheet music; Rachel beamed smugly at the page. "But good music can also be controlled and restrained. It doesn't have to attack an audience. You can let them come to you."

Finn squinted at his sheet music. "How can you get caught between the moon and New York City? They're like a hundred miles apart," he said.

Kurt raised his hand. "Mr. Schue, if I may?" he said. Mr. Schue nodded. "I think I speak for all of us when I say that it's not that we don't love the idea of spending a week on this silky smooth adult contemporary, it's just that…as teens, it's not the easiest music for us to relate to."

Mr. Schue frowned and opened his mouth to argue. Kurt scooted a little further forward in his chair. "However, there is a burgeoning Facebook campaign that has swelled to over five members," he said. "They are in demand that this week, at the fall homecoming assembly, the McKinley High School glee club performs a number by- wait for it." He held up one index finger. Mr. Schue raised an eyebrow. "Ms. Britney Spears."

The other glee clubbers broke into excited murmurs. "Yo, Spears is fierce, yo," Artie grinned. Tina clapped her hands.

"Sorry, Kurt, I'm sorry," Mr. Schue said until the clamor died down. "Kurt, no. No." Kurt looked down at the floor. "No, I don't think she's a very good role model."

"But Mr. Schue, we kind of grew up with her," Rachel pointed out.

"She's literally why I wanted to become a performer," Tina argued.

"I don't want to do Britney."

Brittany pouted down at the floor Kurt frowned. "Why no Britney, Brittany?" he inquired.

She raised her head slowly. "Because my name is also Britney Spears," she announced.

Every head swiveled to stare at her. "What?" Mr. Schue stammered.

"What the hell is she talking about?" Mercedes said.

"My middle name is Susan, my last name is Pierce, that makes me Brittany S. Pierce. Britney Spears," Brittany explained. "I've lived my entire life in Britney Spears' shadow. I will never be as talented or as famous. I hope you all respect that I want glee club to remain a place where I, Brittany S. Pierce, can escape the torment of Britney Spears."

The room fell into stunned silence. "Well," Mr. Schue finally said. He held his hands up in surrender. "There you have it, guys. It's been decided. No Britney." He offered Kurt a patronizing smile. "Sorry."

"Thanks, Britt," Kurt retorted, rolling his eyes at the blonde cheerleader. "Thanks a lot."

"Leave Brittany alone," Santana shot back.

Brittany smiled sadly at Santana. "Thank you for understanding," she said as the Latina patted her back. "It's been a hard road."

Rachel raised her hand. "Um, can we move on?" she asked pointedly.

"Yes," Mr. Schue said, turning back to face them. "Let's talk about Michael Bolton."

"How about let's not?" Kurt muttered under his breath.

Thankfully the bell rang before Mr. Schue could wax poetic over more elevator music singers; Kurt snatched up his bag and marched out of the classroom, Mercedes at his heels. "This is ridiculous," he snapped. "It's completely uncalled for."

Mercedes rummaged in her backpack for her unfinished science homework. "Can we bitch over this at lunch, babe? This is due second period," she said.

"Sure," he sighed. "I'll see you later, okay?"

She nodded absently, scrawling an answer across the page as she wandered down the hall. Kurt sighed and headed in the opposite direction, until suddenly he was hurtling face-first into a locker.

"Watch where you're going," a voice jeered.

Kurt peeled himself off the locker, gasping. His cheek stung and his heart beat too fast.

_Oh god, oh god, what just happened? _he thought.

His heart felt like it was slamming out of his chest. He could deal with slushies. He could deal with name calling. He could deal with his yearbook photo getting defaced.

But he had just been shoved into a locker. On purpose. For no good reason.

Kurt ran down the hall to his next class, his stomach churning.

* * *

Kurt jumped as a hand closed over his shoulder. Mercedes laughed. "What's got you wound up so tight?" she said, plopping into a chair behind him.

"Nothing," he mumbled. "Nothing at all."

He knotted his hands together on his lap as his friends chatted around him. No one had shoved him in a locker since yesterday, but that didn't mean he didn't jump at loud noises or duck into empty classrooms when he thought he saw someone in a varsity jacket coming closer.

"So what's with tall, dark, and handsome?" Santana asked, nodding towards the guy leaning against the piano.

Miss Pillsbury smiled nervously. "Well, this is my…my…my gentleman friend, Dr. Carl Howell," she said, gesturing towards him. "Mr. Schuester invited him to come in and speak to you about good dental hygiene."

"That's right, and I want all of you to listen and be respectful," Mr. Schue said, nodding towards them, but darting a glance towards Miss Pillsbury. Kurt smirked. _Someone's trying to be impressive, _he thought.

"All right, all right, so here's the deal," Dr. Howell said. He held up a little wrapped pellet. "You chew this little capsule, and if there's any plaque you missed, the dye'll stick to it and it'll turn blue."

Santana raised a hand. "May I just say that you are the hottest dentist I've ever seen?" she said.

Dr. Howell grinned at her. "Yeah, I get that all the time," he said, crossing over to the other side of the room to hand out the pellets. Miss Pillsbury beamed. Mr. Schue looked somewhat constipated.

"No, like seriously, you can totally drill me whenever-"

"Santana!" Miss Pillsbury interrupted loudly, clapping her hands. Santana leaned back in her seat, smirking. "Okay. Let's stay focused."

"Rock and roll, Ems," Dr. Howell agreed, dropping a capsule into Kurt's hand. "And besides, this guy…" He walked over to the piano and slung an arm around Mr. Schue's shoulders. "Now this guy's pretty easy on the eyes too, am I right?" Mr. Schue grinned, half prideful and half sheepish. "And I bet that if I tried, I couldn't sing and dance like he can."

"Ah, well, probably not," Mr. Schue said, casting another sideways glance at Miss Pillsbury.

"All right, let's take a look at those chompers, all right?" Dr. Howell said.

Kurt thrust his hand in the air. "Before we chew, I would like to alert Mr. Schue that there's been a new addition to the Britney Spears Facebook campaign," he said.

Mr. Schue tore his gaze away from Miss Pillsbury. "Sorry, the answer's still no," he said. He clapped his hands. "Capsules, guys."

"Yes, chew away," Miss Pillsbury said. "Chew, chew."

Kurt rolled his eyes, dug the pellet out of the packaging, and stuck it gingerly on his tongue. It fizzed unpleasantly, filling his mouth with an overpowering peppermint flavor. The glee clubbers took turns flashing their smiles at Dr. Howell, earning nods of approval. Finn suddenly jumped back and gasped.

Kurt turned around and his eyes widened at Rachel's ear-to-ear blue smile. "Oh my god," he said.

Rachel's smile faded. "What?" she said, digging frantically in her purse for a mirror. She squeaked at her reflection and covered her mouth. "I don't understand! I floss between classes!" "Well, sometimes it's genetics," Dr. Howell offered.

"I think I would be better at brushing and flossing if I could see myself in the mirror," Artie said, half apologetically.

"There you go, Bluetooth," Santana said with a grin.

"I don't brush my teeth," Brittany said. "I rinse my mouth out with soda after I eat. I was pretty sure Dr. Pepper was a dentist."

Kurt choked, memories of his brief, ill-fated fling with the blonde flooding back. _Oh god, oh god, I kissed a sewer mouth, _he thought.

"I got this handled," Dr. Howell said confidently, striding towards Brittany. "Deep bleaching, some scaling, you'll be as good as new." He sat down beside her. "Open up." She obeyed. "Okay…close." He paused. "Close again. Okay, you need to make an appointment as soon as possible. What are you doing after school today?"

Brittany blinked. "Glee club," she said.

"She has permission to be excused for this afternoon," Mr. Schue said hastily.

Rachel waved one hand wildly in the air, still covering her mouth with the other. "May I be excused to go brush my teeth, please?" she begged.

Mr. Schue sighed. "You know, I don't think we're going to get much work done today, so how about we just get back to this tomorrow?" he said. "Bright and early, you guys, I want all over you ready to sing."

Kurt snatched up his bag and marched out of the choir room. "Oh my god, I need mouthwash in the worst way," he said.

Mercedes laughed. "Your teeth look fine," she said.

"Yes, but you didn't spend part of last spring dating Brittany," Kurt shuddered. "Oh god. She doesn't brush her teeth, Mercedes. And I _kissed _her."

"It's not that bad," she offered.

"I told her that her lip gloss tasted like root beer!" Kurt wailed. "It wasn't the lip gloss, Mercedes! It was just her natural mouth ick!"

"Well, yeah, I guess that's pretty bad," she relented. She paused. "Wait, you kissed Brittany?"

"Uh-huh, remember?" he said, strolling down the hall towards his locker. "I also wore baseball caps and cargo pants. God, I hope that doesn't come back to haunt me."

Mercedes punched him lightly in the arm. "You never told me the details," she accused playfully. "You got your first kiss! Spill."

He sighed as he twirled his locker combination. "I don't count that kiss, Mercedes," he said.

"Why not?" she asked, perplexed. "You played tonsil hockey with one of the prettiest girls in school, and it doesn't count?"

"She's a girl. It doesn't count," Kurt said. He switched out the textbooks from his last class with the books for his homework. "Look, you probably kissed somebody when you were little, right? Like in kindergarten or something?"

Mercedes smiled dreamily. "Jakey Barlow. Cutest boy in the first grade," she reminisced.

"But that doesn't count as your first kiss, does it?" he said.

She paused. "Well, no, not exactly," she admitted.

Kurt shut his locker door. "Kissing Brittany doesn't count," he said. "I don't…I don't like girls, Mercedes. I like…boys. Making out with her was like…a practice round. It won't count until I kiss a boy." He squared his shoulders. "I have to head home. See you tomorrow?"

"First thing in the morning," she promised. "See you later?"

He nodded, offering one last wave before heading down the hall. The school was silent, thanks mostly to the various sports practices that distracted the jocks. He made his way out to his car without incident and drove home, sometimes half-heartedly singing but mostly running his tongue over his teeth and trying not to think of how Brittany's mouth had been so sticky-sweet.

"I'm home," he called as he let himself in the front door and slid carefully out of his shoes. "Dad?"

"Upstairs, kiddo."

He set his bag by the basement door and trotted up the stairs to the master bedroom. It looked like it always did- shabby comforter pulled untidily over the bed, old furniture pushed against the walls, photographs in mismatched frames cluttering most of the empty space. His dad stood in front of the open closet doors, frowning. "Hi, Dad," Kurt said.

"Hey, Kurt," Burt said. "How was school?"

"Fine, I suppose," he sighed. "We've got plenty of mouthwash, right?"

Burt shot him an odd look. "Unopened bottle under the sink, help yourself," he said. He frowned at his small closet. "You're better at this than me. What shirt should I go with?"

Kurt climbed onto the bed, sinking down on the thick mattress with his arms wrapped around a bedpost. "The periwinkle one," he said at last. "Brings out the color of your eyes."

Burt raised an eyebrow. Kurt sighed. "The light blue one," he explained. Burt nodded and yanked it off the hanger. "Why so dressed up?"

"Carole's coming over for dinner tonight," Burt said. "Nothing too fancy, just ordering some Chinese takeout or something. But I figured I could dress up or something."

Kurt hugged the bedpost harder, like he did when he was a child and would sit on the bed to watch his mother put on her makeup at her vanity. "I didn't remember Carole was coming over," he said.

"C'mon, bud, I told you about that," Burt said.

Kurt rested his chin on his arms. Now that he thought about it, he vaguely remembered his dad mentioning something about it. "So…just Carole?" he ventured.

"No, actually, it'll be Carole and Finn," Burt said. He squeezed Kurt's shoulder. "That okay?"

Kurt smiled. "That's fine," he said.

"I'll go call in our takeout order," Burt said, grinning widely. "You like that lo mein stuff, right?"

"Yes, but isn't that a little unhealthy?" Kurt said, unfolding himself from the bedpost and following his dad down the stairs. "We had pizza two nights ago. We don't need to order out again."

"It's not that bad," Burt said. "Besides, it's not like I can cook anything."

Kurt frowned as he followed his dad into the kitchen. "Dad, I can make something," he offered.

"No, no, it's okay," Burt said, waving him off. "Go pick up the living room before they get here, okay?"

Kurt nodded, giving up on the argument.

* * *

Kurt groaned as he slapped at his chiming alarm clock. _I stayed up too late, _he thought. _Ugh._

The night before had been miserable. Carole and Finn came over around six- Carole happy and bubbly, Finn distracted and absent. They sat around in the living room eating out of white takeout boxes, laughing about how no one but Kurt knew how to use chopsticks, and watching a late season baseball game on TV.

Kurt had purposefully situated himself next to his father, curling up against the arm of the couch with his feet tucked up under him. The game bored him to tears, but he knew better than to try to leave- he knew that it bothered his dad. So he sat there, nibbling at his dinner and pretending to watch the game while his father and Carole laughed and Finn texted Rachel. He didn't get to sleep until past midnight, and he slept restlessly.

Kurt sat up in bed, rubbing his face drowsily. The last thing he wanted was to go to school, but he didn't have a choice. Reluctantly he slid out of bed and padded over to his closet.

He brightened. "Today will be the perfect day for the kilt," he said aloud.

He'd ordered the kilt a while back, after seeing Gerard Butler wear one on the red carpet. For a long time he debated back and forth about actually wearing it or just selling it back, but now it seemed like a new, daring outfit would be just the thing to perk up his mood.

It did not, however, seem like such a good idea when he went upstairs.

Burt set his spoon down in his cereal bowl. "Are you…are you wearing a skirt?" he said incredulously.

"Morning, Dad," Kurt said, breezing past him to the refrigerator. "And no, it's a kilt."

Burt frowned. "Go downstairs and change," he said.

Kurt's jaw dropped. "I'm not going to change," he said, shaking his head. "My outfit is fine."

"Your outfit is fine if you're gonna be in a magazine or something, but you're just a high school kid," Burt said, pointing with his spoon. "You're just asking for people to…to target you if you're wearing that."

Kurt slammed the refrigerator shut without picking out anything to eat. "I thought nobody pushes the Hummels around," he retorted.

"Kurt, you've got to understand, there's a difference between being proud of who you are and putting yourself out there to get hurt," Burt argued. "Look, save your kilt thing for a different day. Maybe when you and that nice Mercedes girl go shopping or something. It's not a good idea to wear it to school."

Kurt bristled. "Dad, I'm sixteen, I think I can handle myself," he snapped. He stormed into the living room and picked up his messenger bag. "I'll see you tonight, okay?"

"Aren't you going to eat breakfast, kiddo?" Burt called.

"I'll be fine," Kurt shouted back, snatching up his car keys.

He drove to school still fuming, slamming his driver's side door when he parked, his kilt swishing around his legs. And that was the moment he realized that maybe his father had been right.

Even just walking through the parking lot people were staring at him. A few people hid snickers behind their hands. He held his chin up high and did his best to ignore them.

He spent all morning waiting for the first comment, but none came. Apparently everyone else was content to mock him behind his back, but no one dared to speak to his face. By the time fourth period rolled around he was on edge, his back tense and his lips thinned, waiting, just waiting for someone to comment. Daring them to comment on it, actually.

It didn't happen until he was headed towards glee. And even though he thought he was ready for it, it still struck him hard.

"Hey, queer. Nice skirt."

Kurt choked, but he pushed past the looming senior leering at him against a locker. _I don't need to sink to his level, _he told himself. _He doesn't matter._

The lanky senior pushed himself off the wall and followed him into the stairwell. "Where'd you get your skirt, the girls' section of American Eagle?" he jeered. Kurt swallowed hard and moved for the stairs. "Hey, where're you going?"

"Class," Kurt said shortly, running down the stairs. "Bell's about to ring."

Heavy footsteps followed him down the stairs; Kurt's heart thunked against his ribs. "You really think it's a good idea to wear chick clothes to school?" the bigger guy called. "You're stupid, fag. Might as well paint a bullseye on your forehead."

Kurt ran faster, his chest tightening, his hand slipping on the railing as he tripped down the stairs. "You're just asking for it, Hummel," the jock called. "You and your little jailbait dress."

Kurt slammed the stairwell door shut and plasted himself against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. _Oh god, _he thought. _Oh god, oh god, oh god…_

Tina, Mike, and Mercedes walked past him, chatting happily. Mercedes glanced at him over her shoulder as they passed by, smiling. "You coming, white boy?" she said.

He pulled his bag tighter over his shoulder. "Yeah," he whispered.

Kurt caught up to them, pressing himself between Mike and Mercedes, tugging uselessly on the hem of his kilt and trying to remember if he had a spare pair of jeans in his locker. Although, at this point, he'd be happy in his gym clothes, if only it meant that his legs were fully covered.

He sank into a seat beside Mercedes while she still bantered back and forth with Tina. His heart still beat too fast, and he felt a little lightheaded.

_What just happened? _he thought.

Mr. Schue walked in with more sheet music in his hands. "All right, you guys, let's get settled," he called. He launched into the adult contemporary lesson again, waving his hands in excitement as he waxed poetic over Christopher Cross. Kurt tuned him out, still trying to process what just happened. Slowly his terror died away.

_Why did he do that? _he fumed, crossing his arms across his chest. _Why did he think that was okay? Why didn't anyone stop it? Why didn't anyone notice?_

"…making Christopher Cross a Golden Globe, Oscar, and five time Grammy award winner," Mr. Schue said. Finn jolted himself awake and Brittany raised her hand. "Brittany?"

The blonde lowered her hand. "I would just like to say that from now, I would like to have every solo in glee club," she announced.

Rachel spun around to stare at Mr. Schue, who blinked in confusion. "What?" he said.

"When I was having my teeth cleaned, I had the most amazing Britney Spears fantasy," Brittany explained. "I sang and danced better than her. Now I realize what a powerful woman I truly am."

"I went with her, and I had a Britney fantasy too," Santana added. She paused. "Although now that I'm thinking about it, I'm not really sure how our fantasies combined. That doesn't make any sense."

"See, Mr. Schue? I told you," Kurt said, sitting up in his chair. "Britney Spears busted our Britt out of her everyday, fragmented haze of confusion and gave her the confidence to step up and perform." Mr. Schue rolled his eyes.

"I'm more talented than all of you," Brittany said. "I see that now." Rachel looked like she was going to give birth to a cow. "It's Brittany…bitch."

"Guys," Mr. Schue interrupted. "We're not doing Britney Spears." He leveled his gaze at Kurt. "And that's that."

He turned back towards the whiteboard. Kurt crossed his arms tighter across his stomach. "Mr. Schue, you are letting your own personal issues get in the way of something we're all telling you we really want to do," he persisted. "I mean, this club regularly pays tribute to pop culture, and Britney Spears _is _pop culture." Mr. Schue rubbed his forehead in aggravation. "To suggest otherwise is-"

"Kurt," Mr. Schue scolded, turning back around. "I'm done talking about this."

Kurt's heart pounded against his chest in frustration. "Geez, let lose a little, will you?" he sneered. "Stop being so frickin' uptight all the time!" He realized the moment he said it that he'd done something stupid. Mr. Schue stared at him like he had three heads. The entire room fell silent as his classmates stared at each other in disbelief. Finn looked up at him like a confused puppy.

"Kurt," Mr. Schue said in a low voice. Kurt froze, gripping the sides of his chair. Mr. Schue pointed towards the door. "I'll see you in the principal's office."

Kurt stood up slowly, slinging his bag across his shoulder, and walked quietly out of the classroom. No one said a word.

Kurt Hummel was not sent to the principal's office. Ever. He had never been sent there before. Trips to the office were for juvenile delinquents like Puck or Karofsky. Not him.

He made his walk of shame alone down the quiet hallway until he found himself in the office. The secretary glanced up at him. He dug his fingers into the strap of his bag. "Mr. Schue sent me to talk to Principal Figgins," he admitted shamefully.

The secretary arced an eyebrow and nodded towards the empty chairs across the way. Kurt set down his bag and knotted his hands in his lap.

Mr. Schue walked in a moment later and went past him into the principal's office. Through the glass doors he could see them talking, could see the principal casting a stern glance his way. Kurt looked down at the bright blue carpet.

The door opened and Mr. Schue beckoned for him. "Kurt, come in here, please," he said. Kurt obeyed, pulling his kilt down as he sat across from the principal's desk.

Principal Figgins leaned towards him. "Mr. Hummel, Mr. Schuester informed me that you had a disrespectful outburst in the middle of his class," he said, frowning. "Is that true?"

Kurt did his best to meet his gaze. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"I do not tolerate disrespect from my students, Mr. Hummel," Principal Figgins said. "Your teachers deserve your respect."

"Yes, sir."

Principal Figgins shuffled through papers in a manila folder. "I don't see any previous incidences of misbehavior," he said. "And Mr. Schue says you are typically an ideal student."

"Yes, sir," Kurt said again, casting a brief sideways glance at Mr. Schue. Mr. Schue just looked straight ahead, impassive.

"I won't give you detention, Mr. Hummel, but you will receive a demerit," Principal Figgins said. He slid the blue slip of paper across the table. "Have your mother or father sign this and return it tomorrow."

Kurt picked up the piece of paper with shaking hands. "Yes, sir," he repeated, his voice quieter still.

Principal Figgins closed Kurt's permanent record. "Well, Mr. Schuester, is this resolved to your satisfaction?" he said.

"Sure, I suppose," Mr. Schue said.

"Then, Mr. Hummel, you're free to go to your next class," Principal Figgins said. "Return that paper, signed, to the school secretary tomorrow morning."

Kurt got up quietly, the paper shaking between his fingertips. Mr. Schue patted him on the shoulder, but Kurt shook his hand away.

He walked back to his locker and got out the spare pair of pants he kept on the top shelf. He changed in the bathroom, folding the kilt into the tiniest square he could manage and tucking it tightly into his bag. And then he spent his lunch period hiding in the handicapped stall, waiting for the bell to ring. He wasn't hungry anyway.

The rest of the day passed by in a haze. He skipped the after school glee rehearsal- it wasn't going to do him any good to go. Besides, it would give him plenty of time to prepare for telling his father about what happened.

He cleaned through the house, picking up his things and running the vacuum around. When the clock above the mantel chimed five, he dug through the refrigerator and scrounged around until he found the ingredients for stir-fry.

Dinner was almost ready when he glanced down at his outfit- his showy kilt and leggings replaced by plain dark wash skinny jeans. He bit his lip, then went back to his school back and quickly changed back into his kilt. It wouldn't do any good to explain why he had to change to his father.

At last he heard his father's pickup truck pull into the driveway. Kurt took a deep breath. "Hi, Dad," he called, a false happy note in his voice, as the front door opened.

"Hey, kiddo," Burt said, clumping into the kitchen in his heavy work shoes. "You made dinner? You didn't have to do that."

His smile widened. "I wanted to do it," he offered. "Sit, sit, it's almost ready."

Kurt forced himself to act as normally as he could while as they ate dinner. Well, his father ate dinner. He moved his food around at his plate and picked at his vegetables, absently smiling and nodding as his father told him about how the garage was doing.

"Are you feeling okay?" Burt asked. "You're not really talking much."

Kurt took a deep breath and reached into his pocket. "Dad, I need you to sign this," he said quietly, sliding the blue piece of paper across the table.

Burt snatched it up and skimmed it quickly. "What the hell, Kurt, you got a demerit?" he demanded. "For being disrespectful? To your glee club teacher?"

Kurt looked down at the table, studying the intricate weave of the placemat. "I said some things I shouldn't have said," he said.

"Yeah, no kidding," Burt said. He held the paper up. "This isn't you, Kurt. What the hell is going on?"

Kurt didn't look up from the table. "I just had a rough day and I made a stupid mistake," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Well, I'm glad you're sorry, but that doesn't change the fact that you got sent home with a demerit slip," Burt said. He set the paper down and sighed. "God, Kurt." He ran his hand over his face, then reached over to tilt Kurt's chin up. "Look at me, kiddo. Is there something going on that you're not telling me?"

Kurt blinked as his father searched his face. "No," he heard himself say quietly, evenly. "I'm fine."

Burt pulled back. "I want you to bring your TV up to my room," he said. "No TV for two weeks. No going out to movies, no sleepovers, no shopping trips."

Kurt straightened. "But Dad-" he protested.

Burt held up a finger in warning. "I mean it," he said. "You've always been a good kid. I've never had to do much to punish you. But you've got to understand that this is unacceptable."

Kurt pressed his lips together. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"I'll sign this. You take care of the dishes and move your television up to my room," Burt said. "You have any homework?"

"No, sir," Kurt said.

Burt squeezed his shoulder. "I love you, kiddo," he said. "But I expect a lot more from you." He lowered his chin. "Your mom would've expected more from you."

Kurt pushed his chair back. "That's a low blow and you know it," he said through his teeth, grabbing up the dinner dishes.

"Kurt, wait, I-"

He tuned his father out and dumped the dishes in the sink. Eventually Burt gave up, and the house fell silent.

* * *

Kurt adjusted his bag on his shoulder and cleared his throat. "I have to turn this in," he said, holding his blue demerit slip out.

The secretary looked earthmover the rims of her glasses. "Was it signed by a parent or legal guardian?" she droned.

Kurt pointed to Burt's messy scrawl on the bottom line. "My father did, right there," he said.

The secretary took it out of his hand. "Thank you," she said. "Now head to class."

He sighed and headed out of the office. Unfortunately, his next class was glee rehearsal- the last place he wanted to be. But he couldn't avoid it forever.

"Welcome back to class, Hummel," Puck said as he walked into the choir room.

"Thank you, Noah," Kurt said, breezing past to his usual seat and pointedly ignoring Mr. Schue, who stood by the piano.

Mercedes patted their chair beside her. "Hey, boy," she said. "I like the suit. You look like PeeWee Herman."

He scowled. "Oh, gee, thanks, Mercedes," he said, plunking down beside her and crossing his legs. "I thought that…oh, god. Okay, nothing can be worse than Rachel's little circa-1998 ensemble."

Mercedes choked on her caramel frappe. "Oh hell. Rachel, what were you thinking?" she demanded.

Rachel smirked as she sashayed into the classroom, dressed in a miniskirt, belly-baring blouse, and schoolgirl braids. "I'm just trying a new look," she said, sitting down easily between Finn and Santana.

Santana turned towards Rachel and smiled. "Well, Rachel, congratulations," she said. "Usually you dress like the fantasy of a perverted Japanese businessman with a very dark, specific fetish, but I actually dig this look." She patted her hands together in a light clap. "Yay."

"Thank you," Rachel beamed, toying with the ends of her braids.

Kurt stood up, smoothing his dress shorts. "I think what Santana's trying to say, Rachel- though I risk expulsion by saying so- is that it seems that Britney Spears has really helped you blossom," he said. He looked pointedly at Mr. Schue, who merely blinked. "That's all."

He sank back into his seat, still keeping Mr. Schue's gaze. Mr. Schue frowned at Rachel. "Wait, Rachel, is that true?" he said. Rachel's proud smile wavered a little. "I mean, you are sort of dressing differently."

Kurt smirked at Mercedes and exchanged a gleeful finger wave. "Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy," Artie said.

Finn scowled. "Hey!" he scolded, shaking his finger at Artie. Artie sank back in his wheelchair, properly chastised.

"All I know is that I had a very vivid Britney Spears fantasy at the dentist, and since then it's made me feel free to get out of my own way," Rachel said. Brittany nodded with a solemn smile. "I guess I've always been afraid to dress like a pretty girl because I never really felt like one before. Now I've realized it's okay to feel that way about yourself every now and then. Maybe it's a good thing."

"It's such a good thing I can't believe it," Brittany said.

Finn dropped his head and worked his jaw back and forth as if deep in thought. Suddenly Sue Sylvester materialized in the doorway, glowering. "William," she said. "A word."

Mr. Schue frowned. "Okay, you guys, just…keep working on your adult contemporary assignments, I'll be right back," he said. "Mike, you're in charge." Mike flashed a thumbs up as Mr. Schue left.

Kurt stood up promptly. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think I'm going to blow this popsicle stand," he said. "Anyone coming with?"

"Ooh, Kurt, you're such a rebel," Mercedes teased. "Mouthing off to Mr. Schue, skipping class…next you'll be smoking cigarettes in the boys' bathroom."

Kurt opened his mouth to offer a scathing reply, but suddenly his father's disappointed face flashed in his mind's eye. He sank back in his seat. "Well, maybe my rebel antics can wait for another day," he said. He leaned forward in his seat, changing the subject. "Seriously, Rachel, where did you get those clothes from? It's not old enough to be vintage or new enough to purchase at a mall."

* * *

Kurt yelped loudly as Mercedes grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the choir room. "Yikes, Mercedes," he complained, pulling his arm out of her grip. "You'll pull my sweater out of shape."

"You are never going to guess what just happened," she said, ignoring his complaints and falling into step beside him.

He sighed. "They found a clause in Alexander McQueen's will and suddenly I inherited everything," he offered.

"McKinley news, Kurt, McKinley," Mercedes chided. "Seriously, guess."

"I don't know, just tell me," he shrugged.

Mercedes' grin widened. "Finn Hudson and Artie Abrams are the newest members of the McKinley Titans football team," she said.

Kurt arched an eyebrow. "Did you hit your head this morning, darling?" he inquired.

"No! I'm serious!" she protested. "Quinn, tell him!"

"That Finn and Artie made the team?" Quinn said, idly filing her fingernails. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Best believe it, yo!" Artie said cheerfully as he wheeled himself into the choir room. Kurt continued to arch his eyebrow skeptically as he sat down in the back of the room. Mercedes frowned at him, then sat down next to Quinn.

"Okay, there is no way that you could possibly be on the football team," Santana said.

"I'm pretty sure Artie's legs don't work," Quinn agreed.

Brittany squinted, twirling her ponytail around her finger. "Did you get a leg transplant?" she inquired quizzically.

"No, my teammates can push my chair like a battering ram," Artie said.

Finn beamed proudly. "There's no rules against it, we checked," he explained.

"And I have Britney Spears to thank for it," Artie added.

Brittany smiled. "You're welcome," she said. Santana frowned.

"Britney plus nitrous oxide gave me an amazing idea," Artie said. "It gave me the nerve to tell Coach Beiste that Finn and I both really want on the team."

Rachel spun around in her seat. "Wait, you're back on the football team?" she demanded.

Finn flashed his lopsided grin. "Yeah," he said.

"Suddenly you're way hotter to me," Santana purred. "Weird."

Rachel looked like she was about to pop. Puck blinked in confusion. "Wait, why's everybody having Britney Spears fantasies?" he asked, perplexed.

"The nitrous oxide the dentist uses is a mild hallucinogen," Artie explained, adjusting his glasses. "Studies have proven that it produces vivid dreams, often the last thing the patient thinks about. The subconscious moves to the forefront of the brain. We've all been thinking about Britney, so it stands to reason."

Mr. Schue walked in and dumped his stuff on the piano. "Okay, guys, listen up," he called, clapping his hands for their attention.

Kurt raised his hand high in the air. "Mr. Schue, if I may," he said.

Mr. Schue cut him off. "Kurt, I overheard what you guys were talking about, and I know what you're going to say," he said. "The answer is no."

Kurt rolled his eyes. _This is ridiculous, _he thought, frustrated.

Mr. Schue grinned. "No, I'm not going to stand in the way anymore," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "You guys want to do Britney Spears for the assembly, I'm fine with it."

"Yes!" Tina shrieked, pumping her fists in the air. The room erupted in cheers; Kurt leaned back and brushed his arms happily against the wall.

"And, and," Mr. Schue called. "And, more than that, I am going to perform with you!"

Mr. Schue beamed happily at them, practically giggling with joy. The whole room fell into stunned silence. "Mr. Schue…are you quite sure that's a good idea?" Rachel ventured.

"Sure, you guys, it'll be awesome!" Mr. Schue enthused. "I thought we could do our own arrangement of 'Toxic.' It's big, it's bold, it's unexpected. And we can really use Brittany's dance skills for this one."

Immediately Brittany got up from her seat. "I would be happy to showcase my talents," she said solemnly.

"Okay, guys, everybody up, we're going to start with choreography," Mr. Schue said. "This is going to be awesome!"

Kurt sighed. "This is like asking for a unicorn for Christmas and getting a half-lame mule instead," he said to Mercedes.

"Sing it, white boy," she groused.

* * *

"This is it," Rachel whispered loudly, peeping through the curtains at the assembled student body. "This is our first big performance of the year. And it's going to be amazing."

"Hopefully Mr. Schue won't ruin it," Kurt said, rolling his eyes as he peered over her head. "Look at him. He's just using us to show off."

Rachel snapped the curtains shut, nearly snapping him in the face. "Well, at least we get to do Britney Spears at all," she said. "Look at the bright side." Kurt sighed.

Principal Figgins walked up to the microphone and tapped it lightly, sending a squeal across the full gym. "Quiet, children," he droned. "Quiet, now…"

Mr. Schue bounded up the back steps onto the stage, his hat in hands. "All right, you guys, are you ready? All warmed up and everything?" he said.

Brittany clasped her hands. "I was born ready, Mr. Schue," she said solemnly.

Mr. Schue gave her an odd look. "Okay…well, places, everybody," he said. "Break a leg."

"…please give it up for the New Directions."

Kurt took his place at stage right, his stomach practically bouncing out of his body with nervousness. _You can do this, _he told himself. _This is going to be amazing._

The first few chords sounded and he fell in step behind Finn. His stomach kept flipflopping, but now it was out of joy. Sometimes it was hard to remember how much he loved performing until he was on a stage again.

He could hear the crowd screaming in excitement. At least, he hoped it was excitement this time. He flashed his sexiest attempt of a smirk at the audience as he rolled his hips.

_This is amazing, _he thought as they finished the number, striking bold poses.

And then the fire alarm went off.

The entire gym erupted in frantic shrieking and a mass exodus towards the door. Kurt blinked, shoulders slumping in disappointment. "Okay, you guys, come on," Mr. Schue said, ushering them forward. "It's a fire drill. Get out to the parking lot, okay? Quinn, you're in charge."

He jumped off the stage and headed towards the bleachers. "Wait, why me?" Quinn called. She huffed in exasperation and propelled both Kurt and Puck forward. "You heard him. Come on."

"Wait, that's it?" Rachel said. "We perform a mind-blowing number and all we get is a riot?"

"Looks like it," Mike shrugged.

"Well, this is unacceptable," Rachel fumed, marching after them.

Kurt tagged along the back of the crowd, his hat in his hand, his mouth tugging down in a disappointed frown. The parking lot was overflowing with McKinley students shrieking at the top of their lungs and running around, much to the consternation of their teachers, and Kurt had to duck around other students to keep up.

Suddenly he skidded to a stop, staring down at a pair of shoes. He looked up, and looked right into David Karofsky's face.

The hockey player had the strangest look on his face- his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide. He swallowed hard and licked his lips. "Hummel," he said, his voice slightly raspy.

Kurt danced anxiously from one foot to the other. "Look, I know you're most likely poised to strike in some form or fashion, but if you could pick a more opportune time, I would…"

His voice trailed off. Karofsky's face hadn't changed. He still looked so strange- sort of sick, and sort of…leering.

"Yo, Dave, man, whatcha doing?"

Karofsky straightened up, the color flooding back into his face. "Just getting the resident queer to give me the blonde's phone number," he said, cuffing Kurt roughly across the shoulder.

Azimio grinned widely. "Aw, yeah, who knew Brittany was that flexible?" he said. "Yeah, dude, gimme her number too."

Kurt rubbed his stinging shoulder. "I don't think either of you would make for a very good date for her," he retorted, and he darted back into the crowd, sandwiching himself between Puck and Mike.

For some reason, his stomach was tied up in knots, and this time he knew it wasn't stage fright or excitement.

He didn't know what it was, actually.

* * *

"Are you feeling all right, white boy?" Mercedes asked, peering into his face. "You've been awful quiet lately."

He blinked. "I'm fine," he said. "Just…a little out of it, I suppose." He sat up, crossing one leg over the other. "So do you think we're going to sing another Britney Spears number?"

Mercedes snorted. "I doubt it," she said. "Not after the failed sex riot."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I blame Jacob Ben Israel for that entirely," he said.

"All right," Mr. Schue said as he walked in from his office. Rachel quickly thrust her hand in the air. "Rachel?"

"I have a song that I've prepared for the class," she announced.

Mr. Schue held out his hand. "I'm sorry, Rachel, no Britney," he said. "I'm really happy that her music has inspired so many of you, even if that inspiration was brought about by a dangerous narcotic. And I think we've all come to appreciate her music and celebrity so much more this week. But honestly…she's just not us."

Kurt folded his arms across his chest. "I'm devastated," he said, shaking his head. "I can't believe we only did one Britney number."

Mr. Schue looked at him, actually looked at him, for what seemed like the first time that week. He sort of nodded, sort of sympathetic.

_Well, I guess that's the best I can expect, _Kurt thought.

"I was actually going to do something from our original assignment last week, adult contemporary," Rachel said meekly. "But this is just a little more…young adult."

Mr. Schue nodded. "Okay, Rachel," he said, vacating the space next to the piano. "Let's hear it."

Rachel took her place quietly. "I'd like to dedicate this song to my boyfriend, Finn," she said. "I was wrong. I shouldn't try to control you. I'm just…I've never been this happy before, and I realized that I was trying to hold to how you were making me feel so much that I was strangling you in my hands like a little bird. I realize now that in order for this relationship to work, I have to open up my hands and let you fly."

Brittany brightened. "Finn can fly?" she said.

Kurt leaned towards her. "Really?" he said.

"Wait, I thought I was the only one getting solos from now on," Brittany said, turning to Mr. Schue. She raised her chin. "Next week I will be performing a musical number by Ke$ha."

"Sh," Mercedes said, tapping her finger to her lips.

The music began and Kurt leaned back in his chair. He'd heard the song on the radio plenty of times; of course Rachel would pick something completely mainstream. But she sang sweetly, almost shyly, her voice growing in strength. Finn beamed at her, mouth pressed in a happy crooked grin.

Kurt smiled absently and glanced over to see Brittany leaning towards him, her expression dreamy. He frowned and scooted away. Rachel reached the chorus of the song and the other glee clubbers joined in, swaying and cooing soft background vocals.

_You are the only exception…you are the only exception…_

Kurt hugged his arms tighter across his chest, a soft, steady ache growing even though he still couldn't put a name to it.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SHORT CHAPTER.

LIES. ALL LIES.

KURT WAS ONLY IN SIX SCENES. WHY WAS THIS FOURTEEN PAGES LONG?

Oh, well.

This is definitely not my favorite episode, but I do admire Heather Morris's abs. I am jealous of them, actually. And I love Kurt being so adorably sexy during "Toxic." But do you know what my favorite thing is?

My favorite thing is Sam flinging himself across the gym floor in front of the stage during the fire drill.

It is hilarious.

(Or, at least, it's a blond dude in a varsity jacket and I can pretend it's Sam.)

But yeah.

Next is Grilled Cheesus.

Dear sweet mother, here come the tears.


	3. Grilled Cheesus Part I

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

Kurt pulled into his usual parking space in front of his garage and grabbed the brown paper sack out of the front seat. He loved his dad, he really did, but sometimes the man drove him a little nuts. At least he'd relented and lifted his demerit-related punishments after only a week and two days.

"Morning, Jake," he said as he climbed out of his car. His dad's assistant manager, who'd been at the garage since before he was born, offered a wave before disappearing beneath a Chevy.

Kurt walked inside the garage like a man on a mission as his father raised a car on the platform. "Hey, Dad," he said.

"Hey, there's my boy," Burt said absently as he rotated a tire.

"I brought you breakfast," Kurt said, thrusting the paper sack in his father's hand. "Suzanne Somers says that skipping breakfast is suicide."

Burt unfolded the top and peered inside. "What is this?" he asked.

"It's an egg white wrap on a sprouted wheat tortilla, half a grapefruit, and a green drink," Kurt said, leaning back against the workbench.

Burt looked up with a frown. "What about my usual breakfast?" he asked.

Kurt arched a skeptical eyebrow. "A Coke and two Slim Jims?" he said.

"Breakfast of champions," Burt shrugged.

"Dad, you are not a kid anymore," Kurt said. "You have to start taking care of yourself."

Burt glanced back in the bag, resigned. "I guess with enough hot sauce this'll be all right," he said, setting it down on the work bench. "Thanks." Kurt rolled his eyes and picked up a stray rearview mirror. "Hey, don't forget, Friday night dinner at six instead of seven this week. Carole and Finn are coming over and she has to work the night shift."

Kurt glanced up from evaluating his teeth in the mirror. "I can't do this Friday," he said, half apologetically. "Sing-a-long Sound of Music at the Old Royal Theater. It's a once a year event."

"And last week you had to camp out early so you could get in line for those Grey's Anatomy DVDs," Burt said.

"Season six, Dad," Kurt reminded him.

Burt leveled his gaze. "Those Friday night dinners are a ritual in our family," he said. "One your mom started."

"I know, but I'm a teenager," Kurt protested. "Friday nights are kind of important to me. And why are you making me feel guilty about this? I of all people know how important the relationship is between you and Carole."

"Those dinners are more than important," Burt said. "Those dinners are sacred. Okay? The whole point having something that's sacred is that it takes precedence over anything else you've got going on."

"The sing-a-long Sound of Music is sacred to me," Kurt countered.

"You think I don't know that?" Burt said, his green eyes earnest. "Wasn't I the one who bought you that Maria bonnet when you were six?" Kurt tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling.

Burt shifted his weight. "Look, the point is, you start giving up stuff like Friday night dinners, then you've got nothing to hold on to," he said. "Okay, let's face it, Kurt. If we don't schedule it, then we don't hang out. And if we don't hang out, then our lives…we just go right by each other. We don't share very much."

Kurt dropped his gaze, took a breath, and faced his father. "I'm sorry, but I'm not missing something I look forward to all year just for another dinner," he said. He pushed himself away from the workbench and walked towards the doors. "Maybe we can have it on…Thursday or something."

"I gotta tell you, Kurt," his father said. He turned around; Burt was studying him closely. "I'm real disappointed in you."

Kurt closed his mouth, pressing his lips together, and offered a tiny shrug before walking back to his car. Of course his dad didn't remember why exactly the sing-a-long was so important.

Of course his dad didn't remember how every year since he was three years old his mother had taken him to see the sing-a-long Sound of Music. When he was little he sat on her lap singing along happily to "My Favorite Things" and fell asleep in her arms as she crooned "Edelweiss" in his ear; when he was older he sat in the theater and sang every lyric, mouthed every line, as every happy memory he'd ever had of his mother came flooding back.

But of course his dad didn't remember that. If a memory didn't involve motor oil or a last-minute touchdown, he could never expect his dad to remember anything. It just figured.

Kurt fumed silently as he drove back to school, and by the time he reached the campus he was in a full-blown snit. He stalked into the choir room just as the first bell sounded, only to find Mr. Schue already discussing the week's lesson. "Morning, Kurt," he said. He pointed to an empty space in the middle of the risers. "Go on, take a seat."

Kurt obeyed reluctantly, dropping his bag by his chair and crossing one leg over the other. Mr. Schue turned back to the whiteboard. "So I was thinking that maybe this week we could-"

Finn raised a hand. "Mr. Schue?" he said. "I have to something to say." He got up and loped to the piano, jiggling one leg anxiously. "Something happened to me, and I can't really get into now, but it's shaken me to my core."

"Oh my god, he's coming out," Puck said.

"Uh, yes," Finn said, swinging his arms a little. "There is a man who's sort of recently come into my life."

Kurt lowered his chin and stared at him. _Oh, of course, he comes out of the closet _after _my crush on him dies a slow, painful death, _he thought.

Finn sort of grinned and looked up. "And that man is Jesus Christ," he said, a little sheepishly.

_Oh. Well then. Never mind, _he thought.

"That's way worse," Puck said.

"And I know there's others in here that dig him too," Finn rattled on. "So I thought that maybe this week we could pay tribute to him…in music. You know…pay tribute to Jesus."

"Sorry, um, but if I wanted to sing about Jesus I'd go to church," Kurt interrupted. "And the reason I don't go to church is that most churches don't think very much of gay people. Or women. Or science."

"I don't see anything wrong with getting a little church up in here," Mercedes shrugged.

"I agree," Quinn added. "I had a really hard year, and I turned a lot to God for help. I, for one, wouldn't mind saying thanks."

"Thanks for what?" Santana snorted. "That it didn't turn out a lizard baby?"

Brittany frowned. "Whenever I pray I fall asleep," she said.

"Guys, maybe our song selections don't need to all be about Jesus," Mr. Schue interjected, trying to pull the derailed class back on track. "We could do songs about…spirituality."

Puck scowled. Finn glared at him. "You got a problem with Jesus?" he asked.

"I got no problem with the guy," Puck shrugged. "I'm a total Jew for Jesus. He's my number one Hebe. What I don't like seeing is people using J-money to cramp everyone else's style. 'Cause it seems to me that true spirituality…or whatever you want to call it…is about enjoying the life that you've been given. I mean, I see God every time I make out with a new chick."

Brittany smirked. Rachel shook her head. "Okay, okay, that doesn't make any sense," she snapped. "In fact, it's stupid."

"Are you calling Mister Billy Joel stupid?" Puck asked. Rachel huffed and crossed her arms. Puck leaned out of his chair and swept up his guitar. "At this time I'd like to continue my streak of performing only songs from Jewish artists." Finn sat down to Rachel's shocked, hurt gaze; Puck slung his guitar strap over his shoulder. "Hit it."

Puck strummed the opening chords of his number and Kurt's spine stiffened. _I hate this song, _he thought, pressing his lips together. _God, I hate this song._

Puck sashayed around the choir room, grinning as he sang. He brushed past Kurt to sing to Quinn; Kurt tilted his head to the side and stared pointedly at the blank whiteboard. The other glee clubbers climbed out of their seats to dance on the floor; Quinn took him by the hand and dragged him along too. Kurt pried his hand out of hers and sat down behind the piano, gripping his phone in his hands.

He hated that song. It only made him remember being small, five or six years old, laughing as his mother grasped his hands and twirled him around the living room as she sang along to the radio.

_This song is so funny, KK. You know Mama was a Catholic girl when she was little, right? I had a white dress and a gold cross, just like in the song. And then I fell in love with your daddy, and you were in my tummy, and that was that. Isn't it funny, KK?_

He jabbed angrily at his iPhone, hitting the Peggle button so he could studiously ignore everything else. Sure, the song was funny. Even funnier to remember that his mother died at twenty-six.

Hilarious.

The bell rang to signal the end of homeroom, and Kurt grabbed his things and fled. "Kurt! Hey, Kurt!" Mercedes called, jogging to catch up to him. "Hey! What's up?"

"Nothing," he said shortly, pausing his Peggle game and stowing his phone away in his pocket. "Why?"

She looked him up and down. "You seem a little tense," she said, raising an eyebrow.

He sighed. "It's just a bad day," he said. He tried to smile. "Fight with my dad this morning, unpleasant memories…" He squared his shoulders. "I just need to get today over with, I suppose."

"Well, get over it fast," she laughed, patting his back. "See you in glee club?"

"I guess," he said, and he headed towards his next class, moving away from her.

The rest of the day passed in an unpleasant haze. He spilled some of his chemicals on his jacket in science class, he ate lunch by himself on a corner step in the courtyard, and someone managed to trip him on the way to his locker. All in all, it was just a fantastic day. And then he had to go home and face his father, who was probably still going to give him a hard time about missing Friday night dinner.

_Maybe I can talk Mercedes into letting me stay the night, _he thought, pulling his French textbook out of his locker and closing the door. _Maybe I can sweet-talk Dad into letting me out of Friday night._

He slipped into his assigned seat just as the bell rang. "Bonjour, classe," his French teacher said.

"Bonjour, Madame," he chorused idly with the rest of the class, opening his spiral notebook to a clean page.

The teacher started the lecture and he copied the notes carefully in his untidy cursive, the ballpoint pen scratching across the page. He probably didn't even need to bother with notes, but still. It was the principle of the thing.

Halfway through the class, the teacher closed her book. "Now, class, I'd like you to practice speaking with your assigned partner," she said. "Don't let me hear any English."

Kurt turned slowly to face his partner. Azimio regarded him coolly. "I ain't speaking no slippery French crap," he informed him.

Kurt sighed. "Fine, I'll talk," he said. He folded his hands and immediately launched into a smooth stream of French, chatting about everything under the sun- his new boots, the latest cake recipe he'd tried, the Sound of Music singalong. Azimio mostly just stared at him, interjecting a confused "oui" very so often when he thought the teacher was looking.

Kurt rested his chin in his hands as he chatted lazily in French, tuning out the sounds of his classmates mumbling and the door swinging open. Azimio just stared at him, bored to death.

"Kurt?" He turned towards the door at the sound of Mr. Schue's voice, but his smug smile instantly faded. Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury stood in the doorway, the former solemn and the latter wide-eyed and pale.

"Kurt, can we talk to you outside?" Mr. Schue asked quietly.

He could feel the color draining from his face as the class fell silent, everyone craning their necks to look at him. _No, _he told himself. _No, that's not it. They've come to say I've won a free ride to Julliard. They've come to say that someone stole my car. They've come to say that there's a problem with my permanent record._

"Kurt, can you get your things, please?" Miss Pillsbury ventured, wringing her hands.

Kurt's heart stopped beating. He knew what this meant. It wasn't the first time he'd heard this.

_Kurt, sweetie, you need to go to the office. Your daddy's waiting for you. No, Kurt, please put your markers away, you need to go to the office. You can color later. Kurt, no, you need to go right now. Your mommy is very sick. You have to go to the hospital to see her._

He stumbled out of his chair, grabbing his bag and tripping over his own shoes as he walked up to the front of the class. Mr. Schue ushered him into the hall. "I hope this isn't too important," Kurt said, his voice coming out strained and breathy even though he meant to sound unconcerned.

"Kurt, we got a phone call from the hospital," Miss Pillsbury said, her wide brown eyes huge and unblinking.

A terrible cold chill trickled down to his stomach. "But…but it's not…" he began, his voice breathier still.

Mr. Schue placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Kurt, your father had a heart attack earlier today," he said quietly.

Kurt choked. His bag hit the floor. His breath wheezed in his throat.

Mr. Schue's hand gripped his shoulder tighter, keeping him from falling back against the wall. "Kurt? Kurt, it's okay. Breathe," he said. "Come on. Just breathe."

Kurt shook his head. "Is he dead?" he whispered. "Is…where's my dad?"

"He's not dead, he's at the hospital," Miss Pillsbury said quickly.

"We'll take you to see him," Mr. Schue said. Kurt nodded helplessly, allowing the teacher to propel him down the hallway.

Everything seemed to pass by him in a daze. He sank into the backseat of Mr. Schue's car, pressing his forehead against the window. His mind couldn't move past _your father had a heart attack, your father had a heart attack, your father had a heart attack._

They pulled up to the hospital and he tripped out of the backseat, stumbling behind Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury into the emergency room. Mr. Schue put his hand on his shoulder again as Miss Pillsbury talked quietly with the nurse at the front desk.

"He's in surgery right now, there's a place for you to wait on the third floor," the nurse said.

Kurt balled his hands tightly. "What am I supposed to do now?" he whispered.

"Now we wait," Mr. Schue said, squeezing his shoulder.

And so they waited.

Sometimes he sat in the uncomfortable vinyl-coated chair, hands pressed together. Sometimes he paced back and forth. Sometimes he stared at the nurse's station across the hall, as if he could make something happen just by wanting it badly enough.

The worst part was that he couldn't think straight. He couldn't. He tried, but he still couldn't hear anything beyond _your father had a heart attack. _He huddled in the uncomfortable vinyl chair, biting down hard on his lip. Eight years ago he told himself he'd never have to do this again, never have to sit around in a hospital waiting to hear some kind of news, any news.

_Kurt, kiddo, sit still, okay? No, you can't see Mommy right now. The doctors have to take care of Mommy before you can see her. Scooter, you gotta stop that. Sit still. We gotta wait._

It seemed like years before a doctor in blue surgical scrubs finally approached them, a clipboard in hand. Kurt stumbled to his feet, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. "Where is he?" he asked, his lips trembling. He swallowed hard. "Is he dead?"

"No, he's alive," the doctor said. "But I'm sorry, I don't have any other good news."

"I want to see him," Kurt insisted, trying to push past him.

The doctor took him gently by the arms and kept him from escaping. "He hasn't regained consciousness," he said gently.

"I thought he had a heart attack," Mr. Schue said, perplexed.

"Brought on by an arrhythmia, which caused a lack of blood to his brain," the doctor explained. "That's what made him lose consciousness and what's keeping him comatose. We have him on lidocaine but there's no guarantee that it's going to work, or what kind of damage was done to his brain by the lack of oxygen."

Kurt shook his head, his eyes burning. "I don't understand what you're saying," he said desperately. "When is he going to wake up?"

The doctor looked him in the eyes. "I don't know," he said quietly.

Once when Kurt was little, he missed the last step as he walked down the stairs. He had never forgotten that sickening feeling of taking a step only to find nothing beneath him, or the sudden startling pain of falling to the floor. But as he stared at the doctor, unable to speak, it was the only thing he could feel.

Mr. Schue gripped Kurt's shaking shoulders gently. "Just…just take us to him now, please," he said.

The doctor nodded. Kurt broke away from Mr. Schue's grasp and followed him down the hall into a small room in the intensive care unit. His steps slowed as he approached, and he pulled back the dividing curtain as he sucked in a small quiet breath.

That couldn't be his dad. It couldn't. It had to be a mistake. His dad didn't belong in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and wires and softly beeping monitors. There was no way this could be happening. It was a dream. A horrible, awful dream. He closed his eyes tightly.

_His mother didn't belong in a hospital bed, her hair tied back tightly and her closed eyes ringed in shadows. Her breathing was shallow and her skin was too white and her cheeks were sunken. That couldn't be his mother._

Kurt opened his eyes and looked down at his father. "I need a minute," he whispered.

"I don't think you should be alone, Kurt," Miss Pillsbury said softly.

"Just give me a moment alone with my father," he begged.

Mr. Schue squeezed his shoulder gently. "We'll be right outside," he said.

Kurt bit his lip and nodded as they shuffled out of the room. The door clicked shut, and he swallowed hard.

"Dad?" he ventured.

No answer but the soft beeping of the heart monitor.

He swallowed again and cautiously reached down to take his father's hand. Burt's big fingers stayed limp and heavy in his gentle touch. "Can you hear me?" he whispered. He curled his fingers tighter around his dad's. "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand." His lips trembled in an effort not to cry. "I'm holding yours right now." He tried to smile, as if he could encourage his father into listening. "Just squeeze back."

No response.

"Come on, Dad," he coaxed. "Just squeeze my hand."

Nothing.

He gripped his father's big hand, trying to imagine that he was squeezing back. But he couldn't fool himself. A huge lump rose in his throat and he swallowed hard.

_Yeah, kiddo, Mom's gonna be fine. She's just sleeping. No, she can't wake up right now. We gotta go home. Give her a kiss goodnight, okay?_

The door tapped back open. "We need to run some more tests," the doctor said quietly. "The nurse at the front desk will give you the schedule for visiting hours, and we'll give you a call if we find out something more conclusive."

Kurt nodded, carefully setting his father's hand back down. "Thank you," he rasped. He left the room quietly, slipping into the hallway and staring down at the floor.

"Kurt, are you all right?" Miss Pillsbury asked anxiously.

"I need to talk to the nurse," he said, walking straight past her with his head held high. He stopped at the station and pressed his hands against the counter. "Excuse me? I need the schedule for visiting hours."

The nurse, a pleasant-faced woman in her late forties, glanced up and smiled. "Sure, honey," she said. She picked up a blue photocopied paper. "Now, there's extended visiting hours for family, but you're under eighteen, so you need a parent or guardian to come with you."

His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "I don't…I don't have another parent," he whispered. "My mother's dead and my dad is…my dad's in the hospital, and I don't…"

He choked on a stifled sob. _Don't cry, don't cry, do _not _cry…_

The nurse frowned sympathetically and looked at her patient roster. "What's your father's name?" she asked.

"Burt Hummel," he said, striving valiantly to keep the tears from escaping.

She paused. "And you said your mother passed away?" she said. He nodded. She put the roster down. "Was your mama Mollie Hummel, by any chance?"

Kurt started. "Yes," he stammered.

"Then you're little Kurt," the nurse said. She smiled and reached over to pat his hand. "Honey, I'm Nancy. I used to take care of your mama when she was here in the hospital." She looked him and down. "You were such a little thing back then. I remember when your daddy used to bring you in to visit."

He tried to smile. "That was a long time ago," he whispered.

Nancy handed him the blue page. "Honey, don't you even worry about bringing somebody with you to visit your dad," she said. "Just come in during visiting hours whenever you can, all right? And you come get me if you need anything."

He forced himself to smile. "Thank you," he said, picking up the blue piece of paper. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"I'll see you then," Nancy said.

He made his way back to Mr. Schue and Miss Pillbsury, who were watching him closely. "What am I supposed to do now?" he asked helplessly.

Miss Pillsbury clasped her slender little hands. "Well, they still need to run their tests, right?" she said. "And by the time they're done, I'm sure visiting hours will be almost over."

"You're had a really rough day," Mr. Schue said gently. "How about we go get you something to eat?"

Kurt shook his head. "Thank you, but I'm not very hungry," he said. "I think…I think I'd rather just go home."

Mr. Schue folded his arms. "Is there anyone you can stay with?" he said. "I don't know if you should-"

"Please, Mr. Schue, I just want to go home," Kurt snapped.

Miss Pillsbury patted his arm hastily. "We'll take you home," she promised. "It's okay."

Kurt stayed silent as they left the hospital and drove back to the deserted school. He thanked them tersely as he climbed out of Mr. Schuester's car, saying nothing to their sympathetic requests to "let us know if you need anything."

He got into his own car and drove home in silence. The house was empty and dark. It made his stomach hut.

He went through the motions- finishing his homework, tidying the living room, changing into his pajamas. It wasn't until he finally picked up on the buzzing of his phone in the depths of his messenger bag that he finally dragged it out and looked at the screen.

He scrolled through text after text- Mercedes asking him where he disappeared to and why he didn't meet her at the library after school, Tina inquiring about if it was true that he was pulled out of class, Rachel demanding to know why glee was canceled for the afternoon.

He bit his lip. _I should probably talk to people, _he thought.

He tapped out one text to Mercedes: _My dad had a heart attack. You can tell the others._

Then he scrolled through his contacts until he reached the name Andy Hummel. His father's family was all in Iowa, and he hadn't seen them in a few years. He curled up on his bed, wrapping his free hand around his ankle, listening to his uncle's gravelly voice ask him to leave a message. "Hi, Uncle Andy, it's Kurt, Burt's son," he said quietly. "Um, if you could call me back, that would be great. It's…it's about Dad. Thanks."

He ended the call and set his phone on the bed, wrapping his arms around his bent legs and resting his chin on his knees, his eyes watering. His uncle's voice sounded way too much like his dad's for comfort. For the first time he could remember, he actually wished that his family lived closer. Sure, he had too many noisy cousins and his aunt liked to coo over him too much and he was never really close to his uncle, but they were Hummels. And it would really sort of be nice to have his family around right now. Or any kind of family, actually.

He glanced down at his phone again. "Oh," he said softly. He picked up the phone and picked out the name, then waited for it to ring.

"Hello, Carole speaking."

He swallowed hard. "Carole?" he said. "Hi, it's, um…it's Kurt."

"Hi, Kurt," she said. "Is something wrong? It's pretty late."

He picked at a loose thread on his pajama pants. "It's my dad," he said softly. "He…he had a heart attack today. He's in the hospital and he's…he's in a coma."

He heard Carole suck in her breath. "Oh my god," she whispered. "Oh my god, is he going to be all right?"

"I don't know," he said. "Nobody knows, I think…"

"Oh my god," Carole repeated, dazed. "Honey, where are you right now? Are you at the hospital?"

He shook his head. "They sent me home," he said. "Visiting hours were over, so…I went home."

"Sweetie, do you want to come stay here?" Carole asked. "Finn's at an away game tonight. You can sleep in his room."

He shook his head again. "No, no, I'm fine," he said. "I don't need anything. I just thought you should know."

"Thank you for letting me know," Carole said gently. "But honey…are you-"

"I'll be fine," he said. "I'll let you know if anything change. He's at Good Samaritan, in the intensive care wing."

"Thank you, Kurt," she said. "But if you-"

"I'll talk to you soon," he whispered. "Goodnight."

He set the phone on his nightstand, right in easy reach in case the hospital called in the middle of the night, and laid down, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders and staring up at the ceiling and trying to convince himself that his dad just had to deliver a car he fixed to Dayton or something like that. He'd be back in the morning, ruffling his hair despite his protests and offering to take him out to breakfast or drive him to school, to make up for leaving him alone overnight.

But he still couldn't completely lie to himself.

So Kurt never fell asleep that night.

His phone buzzed occasionally, but it was only Mercedes haranguing him for more information. He chose not to answer her. He stayed as still as possible, eyes closed, but he only dozed on occasion, little fits of unconsciousness rather than actual sleep.

When the sun began to peek through his curtains he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom to take a shower. He dressed carelessly in loose plaid pants and a cardigan over his black tee shirt- today wasn't a day for fancy clothing. He just didn't feel like it.

He half-heartedly opened the refrigerator in search of something to eat, but he just wasn't hungry. Instead, he dialed the number on the blue flyer and tucked his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he pulled on his shoes.

"Good Samaritan Hospital, Intensive Care."

"Um, yes, good morning," he said. "I was wondering about Burt Hummel, in room 214? Is…is there any change in his condition?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, are you related to the patient in question?"

He rolled his eyes. "Sir, actually, and yes," he said. "He's my father."

Papers rustled in the background. "Oh, yes, I have his information right here. It looks like there hasn't been any change. We're still keeping him on the lidocaine for now."

"Oh," he said, his heart sinking down to his shoes. "Oh. Well. Thank you. Will you keep me updated?"

"We'll let you know if anything changes."

He thanked the nurse and hung up the phone, sliding it into his back pocket before picking up his car keys. School didn't start for another hour, but he didn't want to sit around in his empty house anymore.

The parking lot was deserted save the teachers' cars; he parked in his usual spot and slipped in through the front doors. The halls were chilly and eerily silent, and he made his way to the choir room, flipping on the lights and taking a seat in the front row.

Before long he heard footsteps, light voices as students walked into the school in twos and threes. Gradually his friends filtered into the choir room, unusually silent. He stared at the floor, his hands pressing into his knees, until he saw a pair of shiny black Fluevogs appear in his line of vision. Slowly he looked up to see Tina, sweet and sympathetic. She held out her arms and he stood up, allowing her to hug him gently. Mike patted him on the shoulder, and Quinn rubbed his arm before sitting down beside him.

_So they know, _he thought, trying to smile for them.

Santana and Brittany paused in front of him, the usually confident brunette biting her lip awkwardly. "Hey, Kurt," she said. "I'm really sorry about your dad's heart attack."

"Thanks, Santana," he said quietly.

"I did a book report about heart attacks, if you want to give it to the doctor," Brittany said, pulling a glitter-bedecked booklet out of her trapper keeper. He looked down at the cheerful heart and bumblebees decorating the front. "It got knocked down a whole letter grade because I wrote the whole thing in crayon." Kurt looked down thoughtfully at Brittany's round letters on the front, his shoulders rising and falling as the girls took their seats.

"What the hell happened?"

Kurt started and looked up at Finn as he stormed into the choir room. "My dad's in the hospital," he said in a small voice.

"Yeah, I know, my mom just called me," Finn said, scowling. "I feel like I'm the last one to know."

Kurt blinked. "Well, I'm sorry, Finn, it didn't occur to me to call you because he's not your father."

"Yeah, well, he's the closest I'm ever gonna get," Finn shot back. "And I know that it might not look like what everybody else has, but I thought we were…" His voice trailed off, his anger fading. "…sort of a family."

Kurt shook his head and sat down, staring at the tiled floor. The rest of the room stayed silent. Finn shifted his weight anxiously. "I guess I just didn't…I didn't like overhearing other people talking about you, I guess," he mumbled.

Kurt glanced up slowly, then moved his bag from the seat to his right and tapped it lightly. Finn sat down hastily as Kurt crossed his legs and dropped his clasped hands to his knee. The lanky football player reached over to pat his shoulder, but Kurt raised his finger in warning. Finn dropped his hand quickly.

Mr. Schue walked in with his hands in his pockets. "Hey, guys," he said quietly. "Our thoughts are all with Kurt. And I know it's sort of hard to really focus on anything else-"

"Mr. Schue?"

Kurt glanced back to see Mercedes sitting in the back of the room, twisting her rings around her fingers nervously. He hadn't even seen her walk in. "I've been struggling, trying to think of what to say to Kurt all day," she said. Kurt looked down at his knees; Finn looked back at Mercedes with a frown. "And I realized I didn't want to say it, I want to sing it."

Mr. Schue beckoned to her and she crossed to the piano. "This song is about being in a very dark place and turning to God," Mercedes explained, handing the sheet music to Brad, who took it silently. Kurt pressed his lips together. "It's a spiritual song, Mr. Schue, is that okay?"

"That's fine," Mr. Schue nodded.

"Tina, Quinn, can you help me out on this?" Mercedes asked. The two girls got up quietly and stood beside the piano.

Kurt shifted a little in his chair as she sang, looking directly at him. He hadn't heard the song before, but it was obviously heavy-handed in its religious beliefs.

_How am I supposed to tell my best friend that that is the opposite of helpful? _he thought as he listened to her sing so earnestly and beautifully. His eyes began to prickle and he forced the feeling away.

He took a deep breath. "Thank you, Mercedes," he said softly. "Your voice is stunning, but…I don't believe in God."

Tina frowned. "Wait…what?" she said.

He blinked and glanced around the room to see several confused, hurt expressions. "You all professed your beliefs, I'm just stating mine," he said. He shrugged. "I think God is kind of like Santa Claus for adults. Otherwise…God's kind of a jerk, isn't he? I mean, he makes me gay and then sends his followers around telling me it's something that I chose. As if someone would choose to be mocked every single day of their life." He twisted his fingers together. "And right now I don't want a heavenly father. I want my real one back."

"But Kurt, how can you know for sure?" Mercedes pressed. "You can't prove there's no God."

"You can't prove there isn't a magic teapot floating around the dark side of the moon with a dwarf inside of it who reads romance novels and shoots lightning out of its boobs, but it seems pretty unlikely, doesn't it?" Kurt snapped.

Brittany frowned. "Is God an evil dwarf?" she asked Santana.

"We shouldn't be talking like this," Quinn said firmly. "It isn't right."

Kurt gritted his teeth and picked up his bag. "I'm sorry," he said. "You can believe whatever you want to, but I can't believe something I don't." He slung his bag over his shoulder. "I appreciate your thoughts…but I don't want your prayers."

He walked out into the hall. No one followed. He didn't expect them to.

He couldn't explain it to them. They wouldn't understand, especially after Mercedes' moving performance. They didn't understand what it was like. They'd never had to hide in the corner of their own house while strangers dressed in black walked in and out, patting his cheek and clucking sympathetically.

_Poor motherless lamb. It's all right, honey, don't cry. Your mama's in a better place. She's with Jesus now. Jesus needed her in heaven with him. She's an angel now, safe in the arms of Jesus._

He remembered trying to dodge the strangers who smoothed his hair and straightened his tie and tried to strike up conversations with him until finally he could take it no longer and he fled, sobbing, into his father's arms. Burt had held him tight on his lap for the rest of his mother's wake, letting him hide his face in the crook of his neck.

Kurt dashed at his eyes. They would never understand.

He spent the rest of the morning in a haze, sitting in class without exactly realizing what was going on. His teachers left him alone, and for that he was grateful.

He was wandering down the hall when Brittany caught him by the hand. "Kurt, hi," she said, squeezing her soft fingers around his. "Coach Sylvester wants to see you in her office. I don't think you're in trouble, though. I think she just wants to talk to you."

"Oh," he said stupidly.

Brittany tugged him down the hall. "Did you read my book report yet?" she asked. "I hope there's something good in it so it can help your father."

"You and me both, Britty," he said.

Brittany dragged him to the door and knocked lightly. "I brought him," she called.

"Well, my blonde muppet, stop babbling and let him in."

Brittany turned to him. "I think I'm the muppet," she said.

"I think you're right," he said.

She opened the door and ushered him inside. Sue pointed to a metal folding chair. He sat quickly.

"How's your father?" Sue asked without preamble.

Kurt shifted his weight in the uncomfortable metal chair. "They say his condition is critical, but stable," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. Sue folded her arms and frowned at him; he raised and lowered one shoulder. "Could be worse, I guess."

"I'm sorry for what you're going through, lady," Sue said, still frowning. "I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. I guess I don't have to; I think Mary Lou Retton is like an orphan or something." Kurt squinted up at her and she shrugged. "I don't like what Schuester is doing in that classroom even more than usual. But I can't go to the school board without an official complaint from a student."

Kurt angled himself away. "So you want me to be your scapegoat," he guessed.

Sue crossed over to him and sat down in the empty chair, shaking her head a little. "You don't understand," she said. "I know at times I mess around with you guys for fun. I admit it. It aids digestion. But I'm not joking here. I want to be your champion."

Kurt took a deep breath. "May I be honest?" he inquired.

"I encourage honesty," Sue said. "Usually the truth hurts, and I admit it, I enjoy a hint of masochism."

"I don't care about a religious debate right now," Kurt said. "All I want is to…" He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. "My dad is sick. He needs me. That's all I care about right now."

"Completely understandable," Sue nodded. "The last thing you need right now is Schuester and his collection of marionettes to chase you down with religious tracts until you experience a conversion experience worthy of a Touched by an Angel rerun." She got up and crossed to her desk, pulling out a notepad and scribbling something down. "You let me handle Schuester."

She ripped the top page off the notepad and handed it to him. "What's this?" he asked.

"You're excused from classes for the rest of the day," she said. "I'll have Boobs McGee bring you your homework assignments later. You go to the hospital and spend some time with your dad. In case he decides today would be a good time to wake up."

His fingers closed over the paper, trembling slightly. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't mention it," Sue said. "No, really, don't mention it. To anyone." She folded her arms. "Now get out of my office. Go see your dad."

Kurt stood up, still gripping the note and fled. _Please let him wake up today, _he thought. _I can't take much more of this._

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Angst. Angst. Angst.

SO MUCH ANGST.

Poor precious boy. He's so sad. And notice he hasn't actually cried yet. THIS IS IMPORTANT. TAKE NOTES.

Originally Grilled Cheesus was going to be three parts. LOL NOPE. It's going to be four. Otherwise this chapter would have been about 25-30 pages, and you would've had to wait like a decade before I updated next.

My headcanon is showing. Like...probably way too much. But come on. Haven't you ever wondered why Kurt was so angry and sulking during "Only the Good Die Young"? It just matched up perfectly with my backstory for his mother. And you've got to wonder if having his father in the hospital brought back memories of his mother's death.

Poor Kurt. Someone please send me a Kurt to snuggle. I need one badly.

Oh! And if you'd like to leave me a review (which I would really, _really_ appreciate!) but it won't let you because it says you've already submitted a review for this chapter, feel free to pop by my tumblr! My name is redbullandcupcakebatter, and I have both my submit and ask boxes open.

Here's hoping I finish part II in record time! It's going to be a doozy. Especially since I'm going to go after some of the religious angles of the show...or, at least, I think I am..._  
_


	4. Grilled Cheesus Part II

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

Kurt bolted upright in the big leather armchair as his phone chimed cheerfully. For a second he stared blankly across the room, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing and why on earth was he sleeping in an armchair?

And then he blinked, and it all crashed back to him. He scrambled for the phone, accidentally knocking a sheaf of unfinished homework onto the floor. "Hello?" he said, his voice breathless and scratchy. "Has there been any change?"

The person on the other end cleared their throat. "No, uh, it's Jake."

Kurt sank limply back, rubbing his forehead. "Oh," he said. "Hi, Jake." He glanced down; he was still wearing the clothes he'd worn the day before. "What's up?"

Jake sighed heavily, the sound crackling over the line. "I know this is, uh, a rough time and all, kid, but…your dad, he always does payroll," he said. "Paychecks gotta go out this week, and I can't make head nor tails out of your dad's notes, and his passwords, that stuff."

Kurt rubbed the bridge of his nose. The unspoken question was clear. "I can stop by after school," he said softly.

"Listen, bud, I know this is real rough on you right now. We all miss your dad round here. How's he doing?"

"No change," Kurt said. He squinted sleepily at the clock above the mantel- almost eight. "Sorry, Jake, I have to go. I'll stop by when school's over."

"Sure thing, kid."

He hung up the phone and set it down, then crawled out of the armchair. His back prickled uncomfortably; he didn't remember falling asleep the night before. No wonder he was late for school.

He stumbled down the stairs to shower and dress hastily. The early-morning glee meeting would be starting soon, but it didn't matter if he missed it. He didn't feel much like singing. Or dealing with people.

He pulled into the McKinley parking lot just as first period started. His teacher only nodded casually as he slipped into his desk six minutes after the bell rang. He kept his head down and pulled out his notebook.

He almost dreaded going to glee during his free period. Classes were boring, but the monotony meant that he could go through the motions mechanically, without thinking. Glee meant thinking, and doing, and people trying to talk to him.

He didn't want people to talk to him.

Quietly he walked into the choir room and took a seat on the far side of the room. Judging by the looks that other people were shooting him, they were just fine with that. "Hey, Kurt, come on in," Mr. Schue said. He sighed deeply. "We were just talking about this week's lesson. We're trying to pick a new theme."

"Really," he said, trying to sound like he cared. "Oh."

"Yeah, because Coach Sylvester starting threatening us with lawsuits. Separation of church and state, all that crap," Tina said, rolling her eyes. "Last week we were too sexy, this week we're too religious. We can't win."

"Now I know what Miley feels like," Brittany mused.

"The real tragedy here is that I found the most perfect spiritual song to sing to sing this week, and now it's been torn away from me like Sophie's daughter," Rachel accused, gesturing broadly in her frustration. Kurt rubbed his temples. The last thing he needed was Rachel shrieking.

"Guys, you can still sing whatever songs you like that sum up your feelings about God, about spirit," Mr. Schue said, sliding his hands in his back pockets and leaning against the piano. "You just can't do it on school time."

"I hope you're happy, Kurt," Santana said, sharp but lazy as she tugged on her earlobe.

Kurt closed his eyes. "I'm having the week of my life, actually," he quipped back bitterly, raising his shoulder in an attempt _je ne sais quois _sort of shrug. He failed miserably, and he knew it.

"Guys," Mr. Schue said. "Back off Kurt, okay? He had every right to speak his mind."

Kurt glanced at his friends out of the corner of his eyes, every one of them staring at him, and looked away, fixing his gaze determinedly at the back wall.

"Look, Kurt, we're sympathetic to what you're going through, but siding with Coach Sylvester isn't going to do anyone any good," Mercedes said gently.

He straightened, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. "It's doing me some good," he shot back, so quiet that the rest of the room fell silent to listen. "Now I don't have to sit around listening to all you mental patients talk about how there's a God when…I know there isn't one."

He kept staring across the room. The silence was thick.

Finally, Mr. Schue cleared his throat. "Okay, you guys, I guess we can-"

Suddenly bile rose in Kurt's throat. He could still feel everyone staring at him, confused and hurt and angry. "I'm sorry, Mr. Schue, I don't feel well," he said, standing up and gathering his things. "I think I should go."

"Do you want someone to go with you to the nurse's office?" Mr. Schue asked.

"I can handle it," Kurt snapped, and he marched out of the room. He only glanced back once. Rachel's mouth hung open, Mercedes looked like she was going to cry, Finn looked confused. Quinn studied him carefully, her lips thin and her eyes sharp. He turned around and ignored them.

Instead of turning towards the nurse, he headed for Coach Sylvester's office and pushed the door open without knocking. She glanced up from her paperwork. "Looking for something, lady?" she inquired.

"I'd like to call in a favor," he said. He dug his fingernails into his palm. "I need to go visit my dad."

She regarded him coolly over the rims over her glasses. "Well, ordinarily I would reply with a swift rabbit punch to the forehead, but seeing as how you enabled me to pull one over on one William Schuester and get this religious nonsense shut up in a hurry, I'll allow it," she said. She pulled out a pink slip pad and wrote out an excuse note. "I hope your father's doing better."

He took the note with shaking fingers and fled without thanking her.

The thing was, he didn't go to the hospital. And he didn't go home.

Fifteen minutes later he pulled into his usual parking space at his father's garage. "Hey, Jake," he called as he jogged into the warehouse.

"Hey, kiddo," Jake said gruffly. Tall, wiry, and of completely indeterminate age, Kurt had grown up toddling around the garage under the foreman's watchful eye. "You're not skipping school, are you?"

"Half day," he lied, rolling up his sleeves. "I guess the payroll stuff's in my dad's office?"

Jake nodded. "You sure you can figure it out?" he asked warily.

Kurt forced himself to smile. "I'm in pre-calculus, this should be easy," he said.

It wasn't easy.

He spent several hours with the payroll paperwork scattered all over the surface of his father's desk, trying not to look at the framed photograph of the three of them, taken at least ten years ago, smiling at him from next to the ancient desktop computer. After a while he turned to Google in desperation, searching for clues about how to possibly organize this properly and end up with a balanced budget.

Slowly that turned into searches for "lidocaine," "arrhythmia," "comatose state."

He shouldn't have done that.

Frantically he started looking for hope on the internet- survival stories, new medications, any kind of relief. All sorts of things popped up, some of them obvious scams and some of them sounding plausible enough that he paused to think them through. He had just sent an email making an appointment with a Sikh who said her acupuncture techniques had fantastic results with comatose patients when Jake ambled into the doorway and cleared his throat. Kurt hastily clicked send and closed the window.

"Hi, I'm almost done," Kurt said. "I think I figured it out."

"Oh, that's good, that's good," Jake said. "Hey, listen, we got a rush all of a sudden. Three oil changes. And I'm trying to finish this repair. Think you can manage?"

"Sure, yes, of course," Kurt said, sliding out of the chair and stripping out of his tie and vest.

Three oil changes and a tire rotation later he slumped at the desk as Jake flipped the "welcome, we're open" sign to "sorry, we're closed." "You did good, kid," Jake said. "Real good. Your dad'll be real proud."

Kurt rubbed his forehead and frowned in dismay at the gritty black residue on his fingertips. "Oh, god, Dad," he said, sitting up. "I have an appointment at seven. Jake, can I-"

Jake waved him off. "You did more than you ought've done," he said. His gaze was so uncomfortably pitying that it made Kurt's stomach hurt. "Kid your age shouldn't have to worry about things like this."

"I'm fine," Kurt said as he picked up his school bag and discarded clothing, not bothering to pull his jacket on over his stained shirt and pants. "I think the payroll's done okay. Checks should go out like usual on Thursday, but you can call me if something's wrong, I guess."

"Sure thing, kid," Jake said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the door. "You let me know how your dad's doing, okay?"

"I will," Kurt said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'll call as soon as there's some kind of change, I promise."

Jake nodded. Kurt jogged out of the garage and flung himself into his car. Visiting hours had already started, and as much as he wanted to get over there as soon as he could, his skin was stained with motor oil and grime was caked into his clothes. There was no way he could go to the hospital like that.

He showered and changed as fast as he could and drove towards the hospital. The ICU was quiet as he approached the front desk. Nancy looked up and smiled at him as she slid the sign in clipboard towards him. "Hi, honey," she said. "Your dad's holding steady. No change."

He took a deep breath. "Well, no change is better than a change for the worse, I guess," he said, hastily scribbling his name and the time before handing it back. "I'm expecting someone to come in a little bit, but she might not know where to go. Can you send her to my dad's room when she gets here?"

"Sure thing, honey," Nancy said. "Your daddy's already got some visitors right now. A lot people are hoping for him to get better fast."

Kurt paused. "Visitors? Really?" he said.

"A whole bunch of them," Nancy said. The phone rang, lighting up with flashing red lights, and she reached to pick it up. "Good Samaritan Intensive Care."

Kurt headed down the hall towards his father's room, his shoes clicking on the tile floor. He could hear Rachel singing long before he got there, lyrical but indistinct. The words slid into focus as he stopped outside the door, his fingers resting on the handle.

The room was filled with people. Mercedes, Quinn, Rachel. Even Carole and Finn. Rachel sat close to his father's side, still singing, and her voice faded into focus.

"I remember everything you taught me, every book I've ever read. Will all the words in all the books help me to face what lies ahead?"

He pressed his lips together tightly as he stared through the window. No one noticed him, still hidden in the hall, and he listened.

Rachel sang beautifully, of course. He expected nothing less. But the words bit into him, in a way that he knew that Rachel didn't understand.

He had only been to one funeral before in his life. His mother's. He remembered hiding away in his room while his father made all the arrangements, burrowing in the depths of the quilt his mother made for him and trying his hardest not to cry. He remembered getting dressed for the funeral and sitting there quietly in the uncomfortable chair during the service, the tips of his toes not quite touching the floor. He remembered the wake, the house bustling with strangers dressed in black as they milled around, chatting in fakely bright tones about meaningless things, absolutely meaningless, because they put his mother in the ground an hour ago and she was never coming home again.

He couldn't do that again. Especially not alone.

Kurt stood outside the door, Rachel's voice pouring in one ear and out the other, and his eyes burned as she sang, with such emotion, words that she didn't song ended and his reverie broke. Bile rose in his throat and he pushed the door open. "What's going on here?" he said, halfway relishing their surprised, guilty expressions.

"We were just…just praying for your dad," Rachel said, rising slowly to her feet.

"Rachel, Quinn, and I are taking turns," Mercedes explained. "We're from different denominations and religions, so we figured one of us is bound to be right."

He stiffened. "I didn't ask you to do this," he said in a low, terrible voice.

"Honey, I know you're upset about what's happening," Carole said softly. "I get it. But friends help out even if you don't ask."

He bit his lip as she looked him right in the eyes. There was an awful pain in the pit of his stomach, and for a second he wished fervently that he could just hide and sleep forever until this was all fixed and gone away and forgotten.

"Mr. Kurt Hummel?" a soft, faintly accented voice inquired, and he blinked, tightening his jaw and raising his chin.

"Dude, why didn't you just tell us you wanted to pray in Muslim?" Finn said, offering a hesitant smile.

"I'm not Muslim, I'm a Sikh," the woman said.

"She's going to see if acupuncture can improve the circulation in my dad's brain," he said shortly. He took a deep breath. "Amazingly, needles pierce the skin better than psalms." The woman unrolled her case of needles; his friends remained silent. "Can you all please leave now?'

They all got up slowly, shuffling towards the door. "We all wanted to do something," Rachel offered helplessly. He ignored her.

They walked past him quietly. He caught their expressions- Mercedes hurt, Finn confused, Quinn sharp-eyed and thoughtful- and ushered them out. None of them saw the tears well up briefly in his eyes as he closed the door behind them. He couldn't even explain why he felt like he was going to cry, so he pushed the feeling aside and blew out the candle on the table with a quick shuddering breath.

The Sikh didn't notice anything beyond the preparations of her needles. "Do you have any questions about the procedure?" she inquired.

"No," he said. "I think I understand the process."

Truthfully, he did have questions, but he didn't have the strength to ask. Instead, he sank into the chair Mercedes had vacated, resting his chin in his hand and watching the woman work with practiced hands. He sat in silence for the entire procedure, watching the gleam of the needles. The only sound was the soft beep-beep-beep of the machines. He avoided looking at his father's face, slack in sleep, and stared at his big work-worn hands instead.

The next thing he knew he was starting awake, his hand dropping to his knee, and he squinted in the bright lights of the room. The woman was rolling up her packet of needles. "What is it? Where are you going?" he said.

"I've completed the procedure," she said serenely.

He sat up, gripping the arms of the chair. "And?" he said. "Is he awake? Will he wake up soon?"

"There is no telling," she said. "You must give it time." She handed him a small white card printed in red. "You can make another appointment with me, if you'd like, in a week's time if there is still no change."

She left, and he stared at the floor with his head in his hands. Another week. He couldn't take another week of this. He couldn't take another day of this.

He rubbed the sides of his nose, biting fiercely into his lip. All of a sudden all he wanted to was grab his dad by the shoulders and shake him till he woke up, like some sick and twisted version of an excited child on Christmas morning. His throat seized up.

The door swung open and he sat up, rubbing at his face. Nancy stood in the hall, smiling apologetically. "Visiting hours are over," she said. "You need head home, sweet pea."

He stood up hastily, tugging on the hem of his vest. "You'll call me if there's any change, though, right?" he said.

She smiled as she held the door open and ushered him into the hallway. "Any change at all," she promised. "We're taking good care of your daddy, I promise. Now you go home and take care of yourself. You look a little peaked."

He smiled. "Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine," he said. He slipped past the nurse's station, half-heartedly returning her wave goodbye, and headed towards the elevator.

The doors opened in the lobby to reveal Quinn standing in front of him, a coffee in each hand. "God, I'm glad it's you," she said. "I've scared a lot of old people tonight."

"What are you doing, Quinn?" he asked, shifting his weight.

"I want to talk," she said. She held out a green and white Starbucks cup. "Coffee?"

He took it warily, curling his fingers around the warm cardboard grip, and followed her outside. The night was cool and slightly windy, and he could feel the cold metal of the bench bite into his skin as he sat down. Quinn sat across from him, ankles gracefully crossed. "I don't really have time to talk," he said.

"I figured," she said. "This won't take long." He took a sip of his coffee and waited patiently. She knotted her fingers around her cup. "Kurt, I'm sorry for what we did tonight. You asked us not to pray, and we did anyway."

He swallowed his coffee quickly. "Oh," he said, his throat burning just a little. "Well, I-"

"I'm not finished," Quinn said quietly. "I'm sorry we went against your wishes, but I have to be honest with you. You're not really giving us a chance to help you."

His spine stiffened. "I don't really like asking for charity," he said, setting his coffee on his knee.

"Let me finish," she said again, gentler still. She flexed her fingers before gripping the cup again. "It was Mercedes' idea. She got me and Rachel to come. Finn found out about it through Rachel, so he and his mom came too. Kurt, Mercedes is just trying to help."

"I don't need her help," Kurt said. "I don't want her help."

Quinn shifted her weight on the bench, tucking one leg underneath her. "All right, I'm going to be honest with you," she said. "Mercedes wants to help you. You're her best friend, and she cares about you."

"Well, she's not really acting like it, now, is she?" Kurt shot back. "A best friend doesn't do the exact opposite of what you want and harangue you about your religious beliefs in front of everybody."

Quinn suddenly turned around and chucked her half-empty coffee into the nearby trashcan. Kurt jumped. "God, Kurt, will you just let me _talk_?" she said, exasperated. He averted his eyes and took another sip of his coffee. "Look, Kurt, Mercedes is one of the sweetest, most giving people I've ever met. The thing is, she doesn't know _how _to help." She sighed. "Her family took me in last spring when I was pregnant and my parents kicked me out, and I'm still grateful for her for that. But the whole time I lived with her, there were these times when I would just…vent. Angry, hormonal venting, and she would just sit there and nod and say 'oh, I understand, I know how you feel, there was this one time when I-'"

Her voice trailed off. Kurt took another sip of coffee and waited for her to finish. Quinn sighed. "The thing is, she didn't understand," she said. "Her parents are together. Her dad's a dentist, for God's sake, she's never had to worry about money or anything. The most traumatic thing she dealt with before she joined glee was her older brother picking on her. And so…every time she told me that she knew just how I felt, I wanted to shake her, because…she _didn't _know how I felt. She doesn't know what it's like to have your baby kick inside of you and know you can't keep her, she doesn't know how terrifying it is to get doctor's bills for several hundred dollars when you've only got your lunch money, she doesn't know what it's like when your dad sets the timer on the microwave and tells you that you've got till the last beep to get the hell out of his house."

She tilted her chin up, looking up at the clouded-over stars with her mouth set in a tight line. Kurt reached over and touched her knee hesitantly, and she shook her head, ponytail swinging. "This isn't about me," she said firmly. "It isn't. I just…I wanted you to know that…I understand, Kurt. I know what's like to go through something that's so terrible that it just eats away at you and you can't talk about and you think no one will have the faintest clue how bad it hurts."

She tangled her fingers in the hem of her cheerleading skirt, folding the hem neatly into a thick roll and smoothing it out flat. "We've gone through different things, and I don't want to tell you that oh, I know exactly how you feel, but…I at least have some kind of idea. Better than a lot of the other people in glee, at least."

He took a deep breath. "Thank you for your support," he said. "I appreciate it."

She sat up straighter, balancing her hands on her ankle. "I want to say something else," she said. "And you probably won't like it, but…you've got to understand that if we can't pray for you, there's nothing else we can do."

He faltered, his coffee cup hovering close to his lips. "I never asked for any help," he said.

"But you need help," Quinn said. "You need something. Someone. But you're just pushing all of us away, shutting us out. You don't tell anybody how you're feeling, you don't tell anybody where you're going or how your dad's doing. All you ever do is argue with us about religion. You can't keep redirecting us forever, Kurt. You're going to have face this."

"Face what?" he whispered.

"This," she said, waving her hand. "Everything. You can't keep bottling everything up. You're just going to fall apart. You have to let someone in. You have to talk, you can't keep pretending you're fine and you're holding everything together, because you're not, you're not fine."

He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, the cool night wind cutting through the thin fabric of his shirt. Quinn watched him expectantly, like she was waiting for some kind of sign. He licked his lips uncertainly. "I'll try to remember that," he said stiffly. Her eyes narrowed, just a little bit, as if she was skeptical. "Is there anything else?"

She sighed. "One last thing," she said. "Look, I'm not going to pray for you behind your back anymore. You don't want it, and I respect that. But I was wondering…if it's okay if I prayed just once…in front of your back."

He raised an eyebrow. "You want to pray for me," he said.

"With you, actually."

"You do realize this is about the equivalent of asking a vegetarian if you can eat a Big Mac in front of them," he said.

"Just hear me out," she said. "I can't say what everyone else has been thinking, but I know that when I've been praying for you and your dad, it's because that's all I can do. And I do it because I'm worried about your dad. He's a really good man, and I know you love him. I just really want to pray for you both, one last time, with your permission." She looked him in the eyes. "You can tell me no. I just wanted to ask."

He met her gaze, and his sharp retort softened on his lips. She was expecting him to say no, he realized. And he didn't like backing down from a challenge.

"As long as you don't start speaking in tongues or anything creepy like that," he relented.

She smiled a little at him. "Thank you, Kurt," she said. "I appreciate it."

He glanced around the vacated hospital parking lot from their vantage point by the doors. "I don't have to kneel, do I?" he said warily.

"No," she said, and she reached over to take his hands.

She cupped his bigger hands in her small ones, supporting their linked hands on her knees Startled, he locked his grip in hers as she bent her head, hair shining silver in the fluorescent light overhead.

"Lord, I come before you now with my friend Kurt," she began, her voice hushed. "He's been going through so much this week, and he's doing so much on his own. Please don't let him go through this alone anymore. Lord, please protect him. Give him peace. Let him be able to sleep without dreams, let him be able to rest. Send someone that he can trust and rely on, someone he can talk to so that he doesn't have to carry this burden by himself."

He bowed his head too, instinctively, until his forehead touched Quinn's. She squeezed his hands lightly, and he found himself gripping back.

"Lord, be with his father. Heal his body and bring him back. But no matter what happens, Lord, please let Kurt be protected. Keep your angels around him, keep him safe."

Kurt's knuckles whitened as Quinn continued to pray, soft and reverent. Neither of his parents had ever been particularly religious; church had been an Easter-Christmas-every once in a while occasion and prayers were a mumbled courtesy grace before dinner, more habit than personal conviction. But he'd heard those words before.

_It was just a bad dream, baby, don't cry. Mommy's here. And the angels are here. The angels will keep you safe from the dark. Mommy will pray. Don't cry, KK, I'll snuggle with you till you fall asleep._

Suddenly he wished that he could be a child again, thoughtlessly believing in angels that could save you from nightmares.

He pressed his hands into Quinn's and was reward by her grip tightening on his fingers. "Lord, please, just give him peace," Quinn prayed. "You promised that you will let us look life in the eyes, that no enemy can get the best of us. Please don't let this destroy Kurt. Give him hope."

He hadn't realized he was suspecting the traditional "amen" until Quinn released his hands and sat up. Abruptly he straightened, half in a daze and lost in his thoughts. "Thanks for letting me do that," she said. "I promise, though, I'm done."

He was too distracted to offer a casual reply. "It was…nice of you," he offered lamely. "Were…were you quoting something? At the end?"

She tucked a loose strand of hair into her ponytail. "Psalm 13," she said. "I read it a lot when I was…you know. Beth."

"Oh," he said. He looked down at his shoes as she stood up and zipped her jacket. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Don't mention it," she said. She slid her hands in her pockets. "Kurt…you'll talk to someone if you need to, right? Because you can't…you can't keep holding everything in, pretending everything's okay. Because it's not, no matter how much you want to wake up and find out everything's perfect."

"I know," he whispered to his shoes.

She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then closed it, offered him a weak smile, and headed back towards her car. After what felt like a century, Kurt pushed himself to his feet, knees wobbling even though he didn't know why, and wandered back towards his Navigator in a fog.

He climbed into the driver's seat and clicked the seatbelt, his thoughts spinning around in his head. For the past few days- weeks? Months? He couldn't tell anymore- he'd been trying so hard not to think that everything seemed towards to crash on him at once.

_You can't wake up and find out everything's perfect._

He pulled out of the parking lot, the headlights pouring over the empty road. Why couldn't things be perfect? Why couldn't he wake up the next morning to find that his dad was awake and healthy?

Why couldn't he wake up to his mother walking in the front door? _No, no, stop it, _he told himself sternly.

He'd thought that as a child, that maybe his mother had made a mistake, that she'd stepped out to buy a gallon of milk and got distracted. She'd walk back in and swoop him onto her lap for a hug and say _sorry, I'm so sorry, baby, I didn't mean it._

But she did mean it. She died.

Kurt dashed at his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. _No, stop it, don't think about it, _he thought fiercely.

When his mother got sick, he prayed. He prayed into his pillow every night until he cried himself to sleep, as if he could heal his mother if he only prayed hard enough. But she died anyway, from a chronic condition that only struck point-one-percent of the population, that was only supposed to affect quality of life and not kill a twenty-six-year-old woman who never got to go to Paris or play piano in a concert hall or even see her child reach the third grade.

He didn't understand why she had to die. He didn't then, and he didn't now.

Kurt didn't realize he was crying until a tear dripped into his mouth. He smashed it away angrily.

He never told his father about it. There was enough going on. But Burt still figured it out. Burt used to come into his room late at night, when he was exhausted but still awake, still staring at the ceiling, and pick up him, cradling him against his chest and carrying him down to the master bedroom and letting him sleep on the side of the bed where his mother used to sleep.

His dad did a lot, actually.

His dad threatened to take a flamethrower to a school that didn't offer him a fair chance.

His dad sat through movie musicals, post-shopping-trip fashion shows, and crappy community theater talent shows for him.

His dad struggled through week after week of Friday night dinners, even though he couldn't cook much at all.

His dad didn't really offer compliments or "I love you"s on a regular basis, but his dad was the one who didn't let him out of his sight on the day of his mother's funeral, keeping him tight against his side and holding him on his hip like a much smaller child when he was too worn out to stand anymore.

And suddenly, all Kurt wanted was his father to hold onto him.

He pulled his car crookedly into his driveway and jumped out, slamming the door behind him with as much force as he could muster. His shoe caught on a crack in the sidewalk and he wrenched himself free with a strangled guttural whine, like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

The house was dark, way too dark. He tossed his keys on the floor and stumbled up the stairs, flipping on every lightswitch haphazardly until the house blazed, and he didn't stop until he had reached the closed door to his parents' bedroom and slammed it open with so much force that the light fixture overhead jangled merrily.

His father hadn't changed anything since his mother died. Her vanity still stood beside the window, and he moved towards it like a sleepwalker, his fingers closing mechanically around the knobs until every drawer stood open and his mother's complicated scent of patchouli and strawberries and caramel popcorn struck him in a wave.

But something else blended with it, and he turned around to find his father's bed still sloppily sort-of made, the quilt askew and the pillows rumpled. He could smell motor oil and aftershave and it made his stomach hurt so badly he felt like he was going to throw up.

His mouth trembled. "I want my dad," he whispered. "I want my dad."

Nobody answered him.

His shoulders shook as his lips fell slack. "I want my dad," he repeated, louder, more forceful. Recklessly he swept the messy collection of framed photographs off his dad's dresser, the glass clinking as they thudded to the floor. "I want my dad!"

He clenched his fists, his breath coming hard and fast as his chest shuddered. "I want my dad!" he screamed, and he burst into tears.

He hadn't cried so hard since…well, he didn't remember. Or he didn't want to remember. But he stood there in the middle of his parents' silent, empty bedroom, shoulders slumped like a defeated child, howling like he'd gone feral.

His throat went hoarse as his lungs gave out. His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in the depths of his father's pillow. He cried and cried and cried until he didn't have the strength to cry anymore, and he sank into sleep, his father's pillow wet under his cheek and the lights still blazing around him.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

The first thing I want to do is thank Ellie and Jinx, two friends of mine on Tumblr who are atheists and very kindly agreed to read over this to make sure I was handling the Quinn scene respectfully. Thank you, ladies!

I know I'm going to get some angry letters about this- I already started a shitstorm on Tumblr over my opinions on the Kurtcedes friendship in this episode, and writing about religious issues is just another shitstorm waiting to happen. Just know that I tried to write the scene as respectfully as possible, that I believe the conversation with Quinn is important to the development of the story, and that no, Kurt's not going to have a dramatic conversion scene or go back on his beliefs.

Okay, that being said:

THIS IS A NEW LEVEL OF ANGST. DEFCON 8 ANGST, MOST LIKELY. ANGST ANGST ANGST.

ALSDKFJLK. WHY CAN'T BLAINE JUST SHOW UP NOW?

SOMEONE NEEDS TO GO LOVE ON KURT. LIKE NOW.

But that's what the next chapter is for, right?

Right.

Hopefully the next chapter will offset the overwhelming Power of the Angst.

Also, I answered this on Tumblr, but not here. I've gotten some questions from people wondering about Kurt's age and grade in the story. The answer is: I started writing this towards the beginning of season 2, when we were originally told that Blaine was a year or two older than Kurt, so I wrote Kurt as a sophomore and Blaine as a junior. Then we were told they were the same age. And now...Kurt is a senior and older?

I don't know. All I know is that I'm going to stick with how I originally wrote it. So Kurt is a sophomore and Blaine is a junior. Yay!


	5. Grilled Cheesus Part III

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

Kurt woke up to find his mother smiling at him.

She smoothed a strand of hair back from his forehead. "Good morning," she said.

He frowned. "Hi," he said, confused. He blinked up at her. "What's…"

"You had a bad dream last night," she said, still tangling her fingertips in his hair. "What's wrong, KK? You want to tell me about it?"

He nestled a little closer. "I'm just stressed, I think," he said. "And…I'm lonely. Is that weird? I mean…I have friends, but…I just…" He sighed. "I don't know."

She smiled, tugging the blankets up around his shoulders. "I know," she said softly. "You're growing up, finding your place. It'll get better, sweetheart. And your dad and I will be right here for you, whenever you need us."

He sat up. "Mom? Is Dad okay?" he asked.

"Of course he is," she said, scrunching up her nose. "How stressed are you, my love?"

Kurt woke up to find himself alone.

He stared up at the ceiling and the bright lights still blaring in his face. Slowly he turned to glance at the clock on the nightstand; it read 2:19 in steady blue numbers. His mouth felt thick, like he'd swallowed cotton balls, and his eyes felt crusted over.

With some effort he dragged himself out of bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling off some of his layers of clothes. He set the alarm, turned off the light, and crawled under the covers, pulling the worn sheets and blankets over his head.

When the alarm went off, he pulled himself out of his nest and sat up. He stared down at the quilt, fingertips tracing the pattern of stitching. The strangest thing was…he actually did sort of feel a little better. Even the dream about his mother seemed more soothing than unsettling.

Actually, it sort of reminded him of having bad dreams when he was little, really little, before his mother died. He would lie there in bed, too scared to move but too scared to be alone, calling for her in a pitiful little warble. She would soothe his tears and tuck him in and sing him back to sleep. Usually a Beatles song. She loved the Beatles, so he loved the Beatles.

Kurt studied the ceiling thoughtfully. He hadn't thought about that in a long time.

Eventually he pulled himself out of bed and padded down the stairs to his basement to take a shower. _Please let today go better, _he thought. _Just let it be better than yesterday._

He called the hospital one more time on the way to school- still no change. The first homeroom bell rang as he walked in the front doors, but he bypassed the choir room and headed straight towards his first class. He didn't know what he was supposed to say after the night before. How was he supposed to explain what he was thinking?

He passed some of his glee club friends in the hallway. They offered awkward smiles, but kept a wide berth. _What am I supposed to do? _he thought, frustrated.

It didn't hit him until he was reluctantly on his way to glee. _Oh, _he thought. _Of course. Why didn't I think about this in the first place?_

He took his seat quietly in the far back corner. The others wandered in, chatting quietly amongst each other, none of them acknowledging him past a weak smile or a glance in his direction.

Quinn looked up at him as she walked in. _Hi, _he mouthed.

_Hi, _she mouthed back. _You okay?_

He raised and lowered one shoulder. She smiled crookedly and took the seat directly in front of him, next to Mercedes who was still looking down at her shoes.

"Okay, guys, let's get started," Mr. Schue said.

_Should I do it now? _Kurt thought. _Should I raise my hand and ask? Should I just…get up?_

"I know things have been pretty morose around here this past week," Mr. Schue said. "But I want to celebrate some good news for our little family."

Kurt kept looking down at the floor, running through options in his head, his stomach beginning to tighten in anxiety. "Let's hear it for Finn, for getting back his quarterback job and leading the Titans to a win in their second game in the season."

The glee clubbers clapped politely and Puck leaned over to congratulate Finn. Finn didn't look very excited; he seemed more nauseated, and he half-smiled lamely.

And suddenly Kurt was standing up and walking over to the piano. Mr. Schue looked at him, concerned, and a hush fell over the glee club. "Mr. Schue?" he said, clasping his hands behind his back. Mr. Schue nodded and took a step back. "Um, I wanted to thank everyone for your kind emails and queries about my dad, but…for your information, his condition remains the same."

He had never seen the glee club this quiet before.

"I need to express myself," he said softly, and he saw the flicker of a smile on Quinn's face. "So with your permission, Mr. Schue, I've prepared a number for the occasion."

"Sure, Kurt," Mr. Schue said, taking Kurt's vacated seat.

Of course, his preparation had been mostly just a jumble of thoughts and memories as he walked in, but he took a deep breath and it all fell into place.

"On the day of my mom's funeral, when they were lowering her body into the ground, I was crying," he said, tangling his fingers together. "I mean…that was it. That was the last time I was ever going to see her. And I remember…I looked up at my dad, and I just wanted him to say something. Just…something to make me feel like my whole world wasn't over."

He could hear a pin drop. He swallowed hard, his eyes watering. "And he just…took my hand and squeezed it," he said. "Just the knowledge that those hands were there to take care of me…that was enough."

Suddenly he could see it clearly- him small for his age and dressed up a little bit more than the occasion required, his nose pink and his eyes red; his father silent and looking older than he did a week before, their hands clasped tightly as they stood beside the shiny new headstone.

"This is for my dad."

He had heard his mother sing this song when he was little, when she was tucking him into bed at night or driving down the road to go teach a piano lesson or washing dishes after dinner. It had been a part of life that he never noticed until it was gone.

He didn't want that to happen again. He didn't want to forget.

He remembered his father patiently teaching him to ride the bike he got for his seventh birthday, even though he couldn't keep his balance long enough to get all the way down their street.

He remembered his father having a tea party with him in the backyard, because his mother had promised but she had to go to a school conference at the last minute, and they spent the afternoon pretending to eat play-doh cakes and sipping water out of plastic teacups.

He remembered trailing behind his father after his mother's graveside service, not wanting to stay in the cemetery but reluctant to leave her behind. His father had stopped and held out his hand, and he had caught up to slip his tiny fingers into Burt's.

It was definitely easier to sing what he was feeling than possibly attempt to explain. He just…couldn't put it into words.

His friends stared at him as he finished singing, as if they hadn't realized how deep his feelings ran. Puck gaped at him open-mouthed; Rachel looked like she was about to cry. He ended his song and tried to square his shoulders and meet them head on, but he couldn't. His attempt at a deep breath came as a shuddering, messy choked sob, and he wiped frantically at his nose and eyes, trying to keep from crying in front of everyone.

Mr. Schue squeezed his shoulder. "That was amazing, Kurt," he said softly. "Your dad would be really proud of you."

Kurt just nodded, hiding his face behind his hands. Mr. Schue squeezed his shoulder again. "Is there anything else you need to say? Anything you need to do?" Kurt shook his head, still anxiously swiping at his face. "Okay, Kurt, why don't you go ahead and sit down?"

Kurt nodded, still shielding his face from everyone else as he tripped blindly to his seat. A hand tucked around his wrist and suddenly he was sitting next to Quinn. "Are you okay?" she whispered as Mr. Schue started his next lecture. He rubbed frantically at his watering eyes, his breath catching somewhere around his sinuses.

Quinn slipped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in a little closer. "It's okay," she whispered in his ear. "It's okay. Just take a deep breath and calm down."

He hid his face in the crook of her neck, still swiping furiously at his nose, his shoulders trembling. Quinn rubbed his back, up and down, in firm steady strokes. He felt Mercedes squeeze his knee tentatively. He sat there for a while, trying to slow down his breathing, trying to relax as Mr. Schue talked to a class still sitting in silence.

After a while he sat up as straight as possible, his eyes still red-rimmed but finally dry. Mercedes withdrew her hand from his knee, but Quinn kept her hand against his shoulder. When the bell rang, he paused long enough to whisper a thank you in her ear before grabbing his bag and darting out of the room. The last thing he wanted was for the glee club to descend upon him, but they gave him space.

He headed towards his locket, intent on exchanging his books for his next class and just moving on- three more periods till school was over. And hopefully the glee clubbers would continue to give him space. He was starting to regret his public sobfest.

"Hey, Kurt? Can I talk to you?"

He glanced over to see Mercedes at her locker, biting her lip anxiously. She closed the door and walked over to him, fingers tangled in the strap of her messenger bag. He raised his chin. "I know you're going through a really scary time right now," she said softly. "But I feel like I don't know how to be around you anymore. And I know you're not really spiritual or whatever, but I feel like you're closing yourself off to a world of experiences that just might surprise you."

Kurt's gut reaction was not a very nice one.

His first reaction was to grab her by the shoulders and give her a nice firm shake till the sense settled back in her head. _I just bawled in front of all of our friends because all I want is to hold my dad's hand, _he wanted to stay. _And you're concerned about how _you _can't talk to me? And you want me to be more spiritual?_

He closed his locker door, swallowing hard. He tried to remember what Quinn had told him.

_Look, Kurt, Mercedes is one of the sweetest, most giving people I've ever met. The thing is, she doesn't know how to help._

His best friend looked at him earnestly. He took a deep breath. "You're right," he said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be pushing my friends away." Her relieved, happy smile alleviated some of tension in his chest. He leaned a little closer. "Especially friends as fabulous as you."

"Do me a favor," she said. "One thing? Come to church with me this Sunday?" He opened his mouth to say something back, but she kept going. "My church does this thing where we dedicate the service to someone, and I got them to dedicate this Sunday to your dad."

_How am I supposed to tell her no? _he thought.

"I don't know," he hedged.

"You get to wear a fabulous hat," she offered.

He looked down at the floor. The last thing he wanted to do was sit in church on Sunday morning, listening to things he didn't believe while he was surrounded by strangers, but he couldn't say no to the pure hope in Mercedes's face.

He looked up at her and smiled. "Mercedes, you had me at fabulous hat," he said.

Mercedes' face split into a wide grin. "Let's go to class," she said, draping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing playfully. "What are you doing after school? Do you want to go do something?"

"Oh, thanks, but…I'm probably just going to the hospital," he said. "You know. See how my dad's doing."

"Oh, yeah, of course," Mercedes said, giving him another little squeeze. "Want me to come with you?"

Her hand on his shoulder suddenly became less comforting. He had the sudden image of the various members of New Directions descending upon him en masse, filling up the waiting room at the hospital while they waited for him to have another nervous breakdown. "No, no, I'll be fine," he said, hastily slipping into his classroom. "I'll see you later?"

"Uh-huh," she said cheerfully. "Text me later, okay?"

"Sure," he said.

He didn't text Mercedes later.

He skipped the after school glee rehearsal again and drove straight to the hospital. His phone buzzed a couple of times, but he shoved it deeper in his pocket and sat by his dad instead. The doctors came by a few times for cursory examinations, and at one point he took a trip to the hospital cafeteria for a Styrofoam cup of thick, bitter coffee. But the rest of the time he just sat there, studying his father's face for any signs of change.

The next thing he knew, there was a warm soft hand on his shoulder and pale sunlight filtering through the windows. "Hon, you should probably scoot on home," Nancy said gently. "Don't want the higher-ups to catch you here."

He sat up sharply, his neck stinging as he uncoiled his twisted vertebrae. "Where'm I?" he mumbled.

"I came by last night to tell you that visiting hours were over, but you were sleeping so hard that I just didn't have the heart to wake you," she said, looking over his father's vitals and checking the fluid level in his IV. "You should probably go, though. Don't you have school?"

Kurt licked his dry lips. His mouth felt like he'd swallowed cotton. "Um…yeah," he said. "Thank you…thanks for letting me stay here."

She patted his shoulder. "You're welcome, honey," she said. She smiled fondly. "I remember when your mama was here for that whole month. You and your daddy came to see her every single day."

"Yeah, I remember," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll be back right after school."

"I'll take care of your daddy till you get back," Nancy promised.

He limped through the hospital lobby and back out to his car, planning to drive home and at least change before school- he probably didn't have time to shower. His stomach ached, still empty after his dinner of black coffee the night before.

_I can't do this, _he thought. _I can't do this again. Not another day of this._

It was beginning to wear on him, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not. He couldn't take it anymore. Get up, drive to school, sit through classes, avoid glee, sit at the hospital, go home and avoid sleeping. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But he didn't have a choice.

So he went home. He changed clothes. He drove to school. He sat through classes.

But he still…he just couldn't do it anymore.

His history class had been assigned to work on essays about key battles of the Civil War; he asked for permission to go to the library and find books about Antietam.

He found a book and sat down to read over it, but his vision kept blurring. Words swam across the page and he read the sentence four times over without understanding it. Eventually he just gave up and leaned his cheek against his hand, staring blindly at the book as his eyes glazed over.

He was just _so damn tired._

He didn't want to do it anymore. He didn't want to drag himself through school, avoiding his friends. He didn't want to have to worry about his dad's garage or the medical bills that we're beginning to pile up.

_I just can't do this anymore._

The bell rang, signaling the end of the period, and he stood up, surreptitiously wiping at the stray tear dripping down his cheek. Time for rehearsal.

He had only taken a step or two into the hallway before someone caught him by the elbow; he jerked away on reflex. "Whoa, whoa, sorry, I'm sorry," Finn stammered. "Geez, are you okay?"

"Fine," Kurt said sharply.

Finn dogged his steps. "Seriously, Kurt, are you okay?" he asked. He squeezed Kurt's bony elbow lightly. "You…you want to talk about it?"

Kurt glanced at him over his shoulder. "No," he said incredulously, and he brushed past Finn into the choir room to take an empty seat between Puck and Mike. Mike smiled at him, and Puck nodded.

"Hey, guys, come on in and-" Mr. Schue started to say.

"Mr. Schue?" Finn interrupted. "I've got something I want to say. I mean, sing."

Mr. Schue blinked. "Yeah, sure, Finn," he said. "Go for it."

Clearly anxious, Finn shrugged his shoulders as Brad started the intro to his song. "Losing My Religion" by R.E.M. was an unusual choice, but at least it was a better choice than if he had attempted another show tune or something.

There was something different about the way Finn was singing, though. He seemed so…earnest. Almost desperate. It was strange.

Tina wrinkled her nose as the song ended. "I thought we couldn't sing songs about religion," she objected.

"Evidently we can't sing about having faith, but we can sing about losing faith," Mercedes said sharply.

"That's sort of what I wanted to talk about today," Mr. Schue said, standing up from his front row seat. "Earlier in the week, Finn, it seemed like you felt differently."

"I used think God was up there looking over me," Finn said glumly. "Now I'm not so sure."

Kurt glanced up at him, frowning a little. Finn met his gaze, as if there was something he was trying to convey but he didn't know how to say it.

Mr. Schue clapped Finn on the shoulder. "Go ahead and sit down, Finn," he said. "Okay, so I was thinking that today we could try…"

Kurt tuned Mr. Schue out. He sang along mechanically when called upon, but he just really wasn't thinking about it. Finn sat in front of him with his shoulders slumped, one foot tapping anxiously on the floor. He didn't even bother to sing.

"Okay, you guys, that was a good run through," Mr. Schue said as the bell rang overhead. "Let's try it again after school."

Kurt picked up his bag and started for the door, but Finn took him gently by the arm, his big fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. "Would it be okay if I talked to you?" Finn asked hesitantly.

Kurt paused and turned towards him. "I have to get to my next class," he said.

"Look, I just really want to…Kurt, I'm sorry," Finn said.

Kurt blinked. "What are you sorry for?" he asked.

"I'm selfish," Finn said bluntly. "I've been really, really stupid this week. And I'm sorry." He squeezed Kurt's arm gently. "I prayed for all the wrong things."

Kurt arched an eyebrow. "I still don't know exactly where that's coming from, but…I accept your apology," he said.

Finn shifted his weight. "Listen, is…is there anything that you want me to…you know, do? Or something?" he said. "I feel like I have to make this up to you."

Kurt's frown deepened. "Again, Finn Hudson, I'm still confused as to why you feel you have to make something up to me," he said. "And I'm fine. I don't need anything."

He slipped away from Finn's grip, leaving him behind in the hall outside the choir room. But suddenly the rest of the day loomed in front of him, hours of sitting through class and sitting in the hospital and sitting in his empty house. He paused and turned around, tangling his fingers in the hook of his messenger bag. Finn straightened like a hopeful puppy waiting for a pat on the head.

"But if you and your mother wanted to stop by the hospital tonight during visitor hours…I think my dad would like that," he said.

"Sure!" Finn said eagerly. "Sure, yeah, I'll tell her. She's been really worried about Burt and everything, so…yeah. Yeah, thanks, Kurt."

Kurt smiled faintly and headed towards his next class, steeling himself for the rest of his long day.

He didn't really expect to actually look forward to seeing Carole and Finn, but when the sky grew dark through the windows of his father's hospital room, he started shifting his weight in his chair and glancing between the clock and the door. The idea of company was suddenly overwhelming.

It was a little after six when Carole peeked into the hospital room. He straightened up, balancing his coffee in his hand. "Carole, hi," he said.

"Hi, Kurt," she said. "I just got off work. How's Burt doing?"

Kurt glanced over at his father's prone, limp form. "No real change," he said. "But his vitals are all strong, and they told me they don't think he's in any pain right now or anything."

"That's good," Carole said, her eyes still fixed on Burt as she stood in the doorway. "That's good."

Kurt looked up at her. "Do you want to come sit?" he asked.

"Oh, sure, thanks," she said. She sat down in the chair close to the door and set her bag down. They sat in silence for a moment. "Thank you so much for letting Finn and I know that it was okay to come over."

"Well, I know that you and my dad are really close," Kurt said quietly. "I know that if the roles were reversed, he'd be trying to spend as much time as he could with you."

Carole gazed down at Burt. "I really do care about him," she said. Her eyes welled up a little and she pressed her lips together like she was going to cry. "He's one of the best things that's happened for me and Finn in a long, long time." Kurt just glanced down at the toes of his shoes.

They sat there in quiet for most of the evening, listening to the beeps of the machines and the faint steady rumble of Burt's breathing. Nurses walked in and out on their routine checks. Occasionally he would mention something to Carole, or she would offer a comment. Mostly they just sat in silence, but Kurt found himself grateful for her company, at least.

At nine o'clock a nurse poked her head in to remind them that visiting hours were over. Carole stood up and picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "It was good to see you, Kurt," she said warmly.

Kurt stood up reluctantly. "It was good to see you too," he offered. He hung back a little as Carole leaned over to whisper a good night to his father, struggling to bite back the childish instinct to beg Carole not to go.

She patted his shoulder as she turned towards the door. "Take care of yourself, sweetie," she said. He only nodded. Her hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment, as if she wanted to pull him into a hug, but she just stepped back and smiled at him. "Goodnight, Kurt."

"Goodnight, Carole," he said in a small voice.

She headed down the hall, the sound of her shoes fading away. Kurt bit his lip and bent over his father. "Goodnight, Dad," he whispered in his dad's ear. "I hope you'll be awake in the morning."

He straightened and left his father's hospital room, trying not look back. All he could think about now was heading home to his empty, quiet house for another night of restless, lonely sleep. It made his stomach ache.

When he rounded the corner out of the ICU, Carole was still waiting by the elevator doors. She looked up and smiled at him as he approached. "These things always take forever," she said. He sort of smiled.

The doors opened and they stepped inside. Carole pressed the bottom floor bottom. "So, are you going home to Finn?" he ventured.

"Oh, no, no, not tonight," she said. "He got called into an emergency football practice, since he's the quarterback now. It's running late, so he's staying the night with Puck."

"Oh," Kurt said.

The doors opened onto the quiet, shadowed bottom floor. "I can walk you to your car," Kurt offered.

"Thank you, Kurt," Carole said.

They walked together through the lobby. "Did you already have dinner tonight?" Kurt asked.

"No, but I'll probably have some leftovers when I get home," Carole said.

"Well, that sounds nice," Kurt said.

Carole's car was parked under a streetlamp. Kurt dragged his feet a little. "So, are you-"

Carole turned around. "Kurt, do you not want me to leave?" she asked.

Kurt took a step back. "Well, I, um…"

She folded her arms and tilted her head to survey him. "Kurt," she said gently. "What did you have for dinner tonight?" she asked.

He faltered. "I, um…well, just coffee, but-"

"Kurt. What did you have for dinner last night?"

He bit his lip and stared carefully past her shoulder. "I've been drinking a lot of coffee," he said.

"Have you been getting any sleep?" she pressed.

"I did last night," he said, half-defensive. "Nancy let me stay at the hospital."

"Kurt," Carole said, her voice gentling. "Honey, who's been taking care of you?"

"I don't, I don't need anyone to take care of me," he said, shaking his head. "I'm fine. I don't…need…"

"Kurt," Carole said. "You are a _child_."

His chin trembled. "I'm doing fine," he pleaded, his voice spiraling up. "I'm fine, Carole, I'm f-"

He thought about drinking bitter black coffee for three nights in a row, about trying to balance the payroll for the garage, about bawling himself to sleep in his parents' abandoned bed. His shoulders shook.

"Oh, honey," Carole said. "Honey, are you okay?"

He shook his head. "I'm tired," he said, his voice shaking. "Carole, I'm so tired. I can't sleep and my head hurts and…and I…I can't do it anymore. I just can't. I can't!"

He tried to explain beyond that, but he couldn't voice anything cohesive anymore. All that came out was a high-pitched, helpless stream of words. He started to cry despite himself.

"Oh, no, sweetheart, no, no, no," Carole said. She cupped his cheeks in her hands. "Don't cry, honey. Don't cry. You're going to be fine. Your dad's going to be fine."

That only made him cry harder. Carole pulled him in tightly for a hug. "It's okay, Kurt, it's okay," she murmured. "Oh, honey, it's okay."

He hunched over and sobbed into her shoulder as she rocked him gently. She wasn't his mother- she wasn't small and slight and she didn't smell like strawberries and caramel popcorn and she didn't hum sweet little bits of melodies in his ear- but she was warm and solid and comforting and she smelled homey, like dryer sheets and soap. She hugged him tightly in the middle of the hospital parking lot, murmuring soft comforting nonsense in his ear.

He finally untangled himself, sniffling desperately and digging at his eyes in a futile attempt to stop crying and calm down. Carole dried his tears gently. "Sweetheart, you listen to me," she said. "I want you to get in your car, drive home, and take a nice long bath. I'm going to stop by Kroger and then make you something for dinner."

"No, no, you don't have to-" he started to say

"You're not going to argue with me, young man," she said, firm but gentle. "Get into your car and drive home, right this instant. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly.

Carole smiled, smoothing her hand against his cheek. "I'll see you in a little bit."

He nodded and headed for his car, properly chastised. His head ached and his nose dripped and his stomach was so empty it hurt, but somehow he felt…relieved. Suddenly it seemed like the whole world wasn't resting solely on his shoulders anymore.

He drove home with the radio crackling in the background and pulled into his driveway. The house was silent, but he flipped on all the lights as he headed downstairs to the basement. He stripped off his clothes, draping them over his chair, and turned the water on full blast.

His shower felt so good that it was probably illegal. Hot water pounded his back and eased some of the painful kinks left in his spine from sleeping in the chair the night before. His hair plastered to his forehead and he closed his eyes.

The water was already beginning to cool by the time he reached for his bottle of shampoo, and was positively tepid when the last soap bubbles rinsed clear of his skin. Reluctantly he switched the water off and grabbed the closest towel.

He spent some time smoothing lotion over his arms and legs and pulled on a thick pair of plaid flannel pajamas. They were decidedly unattractive, but they were soft and warm, and that was what he wanted more than anything else.

He emerged from the bathroom to find Carole busily changing the sheets on his bed. "Hi, honey," she said. "Do you feel a little better?"

"Much, thank you," he said. "You didn't have to do this."

She pulled the comforter back. "Get into bed," she said. "I'll bring your dinner down in a second."

"Oh…okay," he said, attempting to put together an argument and failing miserably. He obediently slid between the sheets and allowed Carole to tuck him into bed like a child before she headed back up to get his dinner.

It was sort of nice, now that he thought about it. It was nice to have someone else make dinner for him for once, and tuck him into bed, and, well…have someone be like a_ mom_.

Carole walked back down the stairs with a tray in her hands. "It's not very fancy, but it's quick and it'll fill you up," she said, setting the tray carefully down on his nightstand. "I always make potato soup when Finn isn't feeling well."

"Thank you," he said, picking up the bowl and taking a small, hesitant bite. It was delicious, even if his empty stomach yowled in protest.

She smoothed out his blankets. "I brought you a Tylenol PM and some water," she said. "It'll help you sleep, and help your headache."

"Thank you," he said again, taking several quick bites of his soup.

"Tomorrow I want you to stay home and rest," she said. "This has been a hard week, and you've been pushing yourself too much. You're going to sleep as long as you need tomorrow morning."

He set his spoon down. "But Dad-"

"I'll stay with your dad tomorrow," Carole promised. "I'll stay all day and call you with updates. But I want you to get some sleep, and get some food back in your system. Plus, I'm sure you have homework to do."

"Okay," he said meekly.

Carole smoothed his hair back from his forehead, then wiped a drop of soup away from the corner of his mouth. "Get some sleep, blue eyes," she said softly, before taking the empty bowl from his hands.

Kurt stared down at his knees, his stomach feeling unexpectedly warm. "Blue eyes?" he ventured.

Carole paused. "I used to call Finn my little baby brown eyes when he was small," she said. "Now I just call him brown eyes, and it just…it just seemed like you needed something like that. It sort of slipped out."

He smiled down at his comforter. "I like it," he confessed.

She kissed the top of his head. "Take your medicine and go to sleep," she said.

He obeyed, chasing the Tylenol with a sip of water, and laid down obediently. Carole pulled the blankets up to his shoulders, and he was fast asleep before she could turn off the light.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This chapter in summary: ANGST ANGST AND CAROLE.

Yeah.

I think the thing that frustrates me the most in this episode is that this sixteen year old child (yes, 16 is a child, I am 24 and can say these things) is left on his own. We don't see anyone feed him, or make sure he's sleeping, or help him figure out all the hospital paperwork. So...now we have Carole taking care of him. And honestly, out of everyone, it should be Carole. She'll be his stepmother in five more episodes, anyways.

But yeah.

Also, thank you so much for having such kind feedback over how I handled the religious issues in the first chapter! I really did try to be respectful to both sides of the issue, and I'm so glad it came across well. (For the record, and for those who were curious, I'm a Christian and grew up in the church.)

So...yeah.

It is midnight my time and I'm quite tired and I have a dreadful sinus infection and I stayed up too late, so I should go. But let me know what you think of this chapter!


End file.

Glee, Drama, Romance