Laughing With, a glee fanfic

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me. "Laughing With" belongs to Regina Spektor.

He walked without knowing where he was going, wandering aimlessly, meandering without purpose. He knew what he wanted to do. He just didn't think he could.

He hated the hospital at nighttime. It was bad enough during the daytime, with shoes squeaking on the linoleum and nurses chattering and tinny pages over the loudspeaker. At night it was quiet, too quiet. And quiet meant he could hear his thoughts.

He nearly tripped over his own shoes as he stumbled down the hall. His head ached with the lack of sleep and too much coffee and not enough food. He couldn't, though. He tried to sleep, but that meant he had to go home. And home meant silence, unbearable silence, and the homey smell of motor oil and laundry detergent, and he just couldn't sleep like that.

He had resorted to sleeping when he could, crumpled over his desk at school or hunched over in a waiting room chair. His back was stiff and his neck hurt, but those small spurts of breathless, dreamless sleep were better than curling up in his own cold bed, knowing he was alone, and knowing that he was probably going to stay alone.

He realized he was circling the halls like a vulture. He had passed the door several times now. Should he go in? Or should he continue his restless path, unable to muster the courage?

Before he could talk himself out of it again, he shoved the door open and marched inside. His breathing was tight, but he couldn't calm down. Nothing could calm him down at this point.

It was nothing like he imagined. He imagined something cold and cavernous, filled with unimpassioned religious icons and impersonal false sincerity.

Instead, it was peaceful. The walls were painted a soft, warm sage green; his shoes sank into the plush beige carpet. The room was long and rectangular, with a pretty stained glass window casting faint splotches of color onto the floor. The pews were pinewood, warm in color. A small golden upright piano- the cover drawn tightly over the keys- stood to the side of the altar, and small white votive candles sent warm dancing light across the front of the room.

He stood in the doorway, his chest heaving. He took a step further into the room, then another.

He hadn't set foot in a church since he was ten years old. His father had attended church half-heartedly after his mother died, dragging him along. But he kept feigning sick, kept coming up with excuses, until finally his father stopped going too.

"God?" he said.

His voice sounded unearthly loud in the silence of the chapel. The name felt unfamiliar on his lips.

"God, why are you doing this?" he whispered.

The stained-glass figure of Jesus continued to stare down at the floor, firm yet baleful. His blood boiled.

"You made me like this," he breathed. "You made me gay. You made me untouchable."

He clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms so hard that he was sure that blood was welling up in the little half-circle cuts. "And you took my mother away," he said, his voice rising. "I needed her. I still need her. Everybody said she had to die, that she was sick. But I needed her!"

He took several steps forward, lurching on his feet. "And now you're going to take my father away," he said.

Saying the words gave them power. The sentence sank in, the finality making his heart stop beating.

"You're going to take my father away!" he screamed. He grabbed onto the pews, bracing himself as if he was going to lunge and take a running leap through that stupid stained glass window. "You're going to take him from me, and then I won't have anything!"

He caught sight of his own reflection in the broadest pane of the window, his face slightly distorted and reflecting navy blue. His eyes were wild and his mouth was pressed into a thin angry line.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he demanded. "What did I do to deserve this?"

He opened his mouth to shout another question, but all that came out was a scream. It ripped from his throat, burning his vocal cords, making his ears hurt. He fell to the floor in the aisle on his hands and knees, screaming with all the power in his body.

But somehow his screams turned to tears.

He collapsed, sobbing. His lungs constricted tightly and he couldn't breathe. And this wasn't some delicate sort of weeping. He cried, his face twisting and turning beet red with lack of air. Snot dribbled down his face; he wiped it away uselessly with his sleeve. He cried and cried and cried, until he had no tears left.

He curled up on the floor, brushing his damp cheek against the thick, plush, slightly scratchy carpet. Part of him knew he ought to feel ashamed for having such a temper tantrum. Part of him was secretly relieved.

He might have laid there for seconds, or minutes, or hours, but after what felt like an eternity he heard something strange. Someone was playing the piano. They struck just a few soft, gentle chords, and then began to sing.

"No one laughs at God in a hospital…no one laughs at God in a war. No one's laughing when they're starving or freezing or so very poor."

The voice was light and clear, a woman's soprano. She sounded young, and definitely untrained, but it was pretty.

"No one laughs at God when the doctor calls after some routine tests…no one laughs at God when it's gotten real late and their kid's not back from that party yet."

A stray sob broke from his throat, tearless but painful. He was embarrassed. Someone had managed to slip into the chapel while he was in the midst of his existential crisis. Fabulous.

"No one laughs at God when their airplane starts to uncontrollably shake…no one's laughing at God when they see the one they love hand-in-hand with someone else, and they hope that they're mistaken."

He pushed himself into a sitting position, the room revolving slowly around him. He dragged his hand over his wet face and his swollen eyes, taking in a slow breath of cool air. The voice was sweet and soothing, like some sort of lullaby.

"No one laughs at God when the cops knock on their door and they say 'we've got some bad news, sir'…no one's laughing at God when there's a famine, fire, or flood."

He sat on the floor, leaning heavily against a pew. He drew his knees towards his chest and folded his arms across his chest, trying desperately to get a grip on himself so he could slip out of the room without being noticed.

"But God can be funny at a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke, or when the crazies say that he hates us and they get so red you think they're 'bout to choke."

Her voice lilted over the cruel words of the song. He listened to it dully, unable to tune it out. There was something compelling about it, about her. He didn't want to listen, but he couldn't leave.

"God can be funny, when told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way, or when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini and grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus…God can be so hilarious."

Her voice sounded more and more familiar the longer he heard it. Her vocal control was amazing; he could hear her voice gaining strength as she sang. He still wanted to get out of there, but now he felt he couldn't leave without seeing her.

"No one laughs at God in a hospital…no one laughs at God in a war. No one's laughing at God when they've lost all they got, but they don't know what for."

He gripped the side of the pew and dragged himself to his feet. His knees shook badly, almost too much to bear his weight. He leaned heavily on the back of the pew while he tried to convince the room to stop spinning around him.

"No one laughs at God on the day they realize that the last sight they'll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes…no one's laughing at God when they say their goodbyes."

He lifted his head and looked towards the piano. He could only see part of his performer. She was bent over the keys, her long soft hair falling over her face, her pale slender fingers touching the old black-and-white keys lovingly, almost reverently. Her blue dress spread gracefully over the piano bench.

"But God can be funny at a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke, or when the crazies say that he hates us and they get so red you think they're 'bout to choke."

It wasn't Mercedes. It wasn't Rachel. It wasn't Santana or Brittany or Quinn. It wasn't Tina. It wasn't even Miss Pillsbury. His heart beat faster, speeding up until his blood was racing in his ears.

He knew her. He had known for as long as he could remember.

That voice used to sing him back to sleep after bad dreams. Those hands used to smooth his hair and tuck him into bed at night. And he couldn't see her eyes, but he knew that her eyes were the same as his.

"No one laughs at God in a hospital…no one laughs at God in a war. No one's laughing at God when they're starving or freezing or so very poor."

He tried to call out to her, but he couldn't muster up the strength. His attempts at sound rasped on his vocal chords. He dug his hands onto the top of the pew, opening his mouth, trying to say the name he had avoided for the past eight years.

"No one's laughing at God…we're all laughing with God."

He swallowed hard. "Mom," he whispered.

She looked up from the piano, her shining hair swinging away from her face. Her large blue-green eyes lit up. And she smiled, that same sweet, bright smile that he used to see every day.

"Mom," he called, his voice gaining strength. He couldn't move, but his voice was working again. "Mom!"

She got up from the piano bench and walked towards him. Her footsteps didn't make any sound on the carpet. Every breath sounded like gunfire in his ears.

"Mom!" he screamed, gripping the pew for balance with one hand and stretching the other one desperately towards her.

She closed the distance between them in a few quick steps and pulled him tightly into her arms. He collapsed against her, burying his face into her neck. He thought he had cried out all of his tears- apparently not. He sobbed into her shoulder, soaking her dress.

"Mom," he whimpered.

She sank to the floor, holding him tightly, pressing her lips to his forehead and cheeks and neck. "It's okay, baby," she murmured. "It's okay. I'm here. You're okay. You're okay."

He huddled in the warmth of his mother's arms. Her hair brushed against him, and he breathed in the familiar scent of her perfume. He had spent years consoling himself with the faint remnants of her left in her broken dresser, but now he could smell the comforting, living warmth of soap and honey and strawberries and caramel popcorn on her soft skin.

She held him on her lap as if he was still the little boy she had left behind, smoothing her fingers through his hair and brushing away the tears from his cheeks. "You're going to be fine, baby," she said. She kissed him gently. "I promise. You're okay."

"I love you," he sobbed.

She tightened her grip on him. "I know," she whispered. "I love you too." She kept pressing soft, light kisses against his cheeks. "I'm so proud of you. So proud."

His sobs began to quiet and she stroked her finger through his hair. Slowly she lowered him to the floor; he curled up with his forehead resting against her knees. "Mom, I'm tired," he sighed.

"I know," she said again, rubbing her thumb against his cheek. "Everything will be fine. I promise."

His head felt thick from sleep- or maybe lack of sleep. His eyes felt so heavy. "Don't go," he begged.

She bent over him, tucking her long hair behind her ear, and kissed him on the forehead. She didn't answer him.

"Kurt?"

He opened his eyes. He was still lying on the floor of the chapel, his body stiff, his cheeks damp. "Mom?" he mumbled.

Gentle fingers smoothed his hair, but it wasn't his mother. "Look at me, honey," Quinn said. She rubbed her thumb against his wet, sticky cheek, taking in his tear-stained face, then lifted his chin so he was looking up at her. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. Quinn and Mercedes were kneeling beside him. "You scared us," Mercedes said, smiling in relief. "We were running out of places to look."

He stared up at the ceiling, his chest still aching. "I thought…I think that…" he stammered. But his voice was hoarse, and he couldn't get himself to talk.

"Try to sit up," Quinn coaxed. She put her arms around him and Mercedes took him by the hands; he obeyed and swayed into a sitting position. He leaned heavily against Quinn.

"What were you doing in here, boo?" Mercedes asked gently.

He coughed. "I just…I don't know," he said, his shoulders heaving.

Quinn rubbed his back. "It's okay," she said. "Finn's mom is here. It's late, and she said she can take you home. Can you stand up?"

He nodded. The two girls helped him to his feet, but he was weak and shaky after his crying jag and his inadvertent nap. Quinn slipped an arm around his slender waist, and Mercedes took him by the hand.

"I'm really thirsty," he rasped.

"We'll get you something to drink," Mercedes promised.

They walked him out of the chapel, back into the quiet normalcy of the hospital hallways. But, despite himself, he glanced back and looked at the piano.

The cover had been lifted away from the keys.

Author's Notes:

Mm, good old-fashioned angst! And a hint of spookiness.

Regina Spektor is one of my favorite singers, and her song "Laughing With" is simply beautiful. Some of the lines really stood out to me in the context of the "Grilled Cheesus" episode, and I really wanted to write something related to it. I didn't figure it out until now...and while this is so angsty it burns, I'm pretty happy with it.

This is like my third "Grilled Cheesus"-themed story. Sheesh. "Never Been Kissed" better give me some more awesome Kurt material to work with...maybe I'll even write a speculation oneshot!

I hope you like it! And if you've never checked out any of Regina Spektor's music, I highly encourage it. She's amazing.