AN: I feel like I should say something here, but what is there to say?
Warning: Some swearing, drinking . . . these are young adults dealing with a tough and devastating situation, and how they deal, well, it isn't always healthy or pretty. Also some homophobia, because I just can't resist beating Kurt down.
Chapter 2
The police come by the next morning; they want to talk to Kurt, who was in communication with Finn just before he had . . . died.
"You were the last person who he talked to" Officer Bergen says as they sit down at the kitchen table. Carole and Burt both leave, reluctantly, their thoughts on the floral arrangements, and Kurt is itching to get back in there and make sure they don't do something tasteless in their grief and shock.
Kurt resists the urge to correct the man's grammar. He had seen the look of distaste on the Officer's face as soon as he'd realised this was indeed the same Hummel family, with the gay kid, who was always making these nonsense complaints about 'alleged harassment' and such. He winces at the newfound knowledge and clenches his hands into fists again. He has permanent half-moons imprinted on his palms, from the force with which his nails have been digging in.
"You two were arguing?" There is accusation in his voice.
"And you think that somehow, several hundred miles away, I managed to orchestrate his untimely demise?" Kurt sneers, flinching at the thought. He metaphorically flexes his perfectly-sharpened claws.
"No, Kurt, that's not what we're saying" Officer Stiles reassures him with a look at his partner, "not at all."
Kurt's steely gaze remains fixed on Bergen; the man is taking on a master, and he will go down if he continues this line of questioning.
It's a universal construct; the stupid always continue. "You were pissed at him, your text messages were very clearly threatening his well-being. You seem like a resourceful kind of guy. How do we know you didn't call up a friend over here, have them do your dirty work?" he sneers.
"Well for starters" Kurt begins, wondering how long he can hold his temper before letting it all come gushing out, "you could check my phone records, and even my phone itself, although if your accusation is based on none other than your out-dated and obvious homophobia and prejudice, then no judge is ever going to grant you a warrant-"
"You're the last person he talked to before he died" Bergen interrupts. "You really think I can't get a warrant? People like you?" he sneers again, his disdain obvious, "you think you're so entitled, 'cause you're different? You think you're so damn special? You're nothing but a frigging fairy. I know how you lot work. You got connexions. You crook your little finger" he makes a derogatory gesture with his hand, "and think you're above the rules, and you wouldn't think nothing of orchestrating something like this, and for what? 'Cause your brother was out having a good time? Maybe you were jealous, eh, wanted him all for yourself?"
The hatred spews, and normally Kurt would be able to rebut in fine form, leaving this ignorant son-of-a-bitch sliced cleanly in two, but today, mere hours after learning of his brother's untimely demise, he can't. The hatred and bigotry cuts him to the core, just one more reminder of why he had never gotten anywhere in this Godforsaken cow-town, and why he had never wanted to return.
And why isn't his Dad marching in here and kicking the bastard out?
"Hey, Allan, easy now" Stiles warns his partner.
Kurt stands, eyes flashing. "My brother just died, and the last words I ever exchanged with him were in anger, not to mention the call I didn't pick up. This is now my reality. So the next time you want to talk to me, let me know in advance so I can have my lawyer present. Have I mentioned he works with the ACLU? Or that my Father is a United States Congressman? What do you think would happen to your career if those bigoted, insulting accusations you just hurled my way went public, hmm?"
He's gathering steam, and the imbecile is too astonished to stop him.
"You'd be ruined, that's what. You're still in the exact same position as you were ten years ago, when you first answered call-outs to the Hummel house, and never did a damn thing about it, despite overwhelming evidence? Why do you think you've spent your entire, mind-numbing career doing the same, mindless thing, never once advancing, never getting any promotions beyond mandatory ones? You're an uneducated, ignorant boor who's never bothered with anything beyond the reach of your substantial beer belly" Kurt sneers, sending a scathing glare at the offending body part in question. "You're nothing but a worn-down, washed-out nobody who's spent the last thirty years attempting to live off the glory of your high school football career, which all went down in some two-bit town nobody's ever heard of, a career that faded away the instant you graduated and went on to nowhere with your life, and you're jealous of me, because I escaped and got out of here, and everything you and all your narrow-minded, Neanderthal colleagues thought about me? Well, that's everything I'm on the cusp of getting."
Kurt rises. "You aren't welcome here again. Next time your department wants to try and determine what actually happened to my brother, as opposed to chasing a hick-town's worn-out prejudices, tell them to send someone with enough neurons left that actually still remember how to fire."
He stalks from the room, but pauses at the door. "And those pants? Make you look a good ten kilos heavier than you actually are. Which, considering your weight, isn't actually that substantial. I trust you to see yourselves out."
His nose is in the air, chin up as he sweeps majestically from the room, pleased with his diatribe, heart cracking at the wounds the reason for its necessity has re-opened. He flees to his room and throws himself on the bed, finally unable to hold it all in any longer.
Why did his Dad not appear?
Carole's parents arrive the next day. Kurt has met them a few times, but both Ellen and Harold are religious and old-fashioned, which means they're not inclined to be open and accepting of their daughter's new step-son. As soon as Carole had realised this, visits had become few and far between, as she had staunchly supported Kurt and had warned her parents to learn to do the same.
Kurt is nervous, because both of Finn's biological families are not particularly open-minded, but he knows he can suck it up and keep his mouth shut for a few days, until they are all gone again. He busies himself doing what he does best, cooking and organising and planning. He had pulled an entire, fabulous wedding together in barely two weeks after all, and funerals are always whirlwinds anyway, so he's not worried.
No, he's stressed and every breath sort of feels like it hurts, and his heart doesn't seem to be able to beat quite properly, and everywhere he looks is a reminder of what happened, and what no longer is, of what's been tragically taken from them, a life that's been cut far too short, and there is this constant, roiling, burning feeling in his stomach. He's gone through three bottles of Tums in the three days since he's been home.
The New Directions, old and new, meet up at Artie's again the next night. Within the few days since hearing the news, Mercedes and Quinn have returned, and Mike is on his way as soon as he can sort a few things out with school. Kurt goes this time, trying not to squeeze Blaine's hand too tightly as he enters the familiar house. Because it's wheelchair-accessible, there have been a lot of New Directions parties and get-togethers here over the years.
Artie's Mom hugs him tightly; she's such a sweetheart. Artie's Dad hesitates, then hugs him too, and it's awfully comforting, so Kurt pulls away quickly before he loses it. The man likes the same ugly, puffy vests as Finn. He's hard-pressed to determine which vested monstrosity is worse; the tucked-in sweater-vests Artie favours, or the puffy, formless ones worn by Mr. Abrams. Both parents murmur kind words, and Kurt woodenly offers the correct response before Blaine rescues him and pulls him into the large den where they always have their gatherings.
And then he's being passed around, hugged too tightly (and wetly) by every girl. Quinn is understandably taking it rather hard, and for some reason Kurt doesn't quite understand, Marley seems to be as well; he remembers Finn saying something about looking out for her a bit the way Mr. Schue had with Rachel, but he's not sure. Santana is there, her normal bitchiness toned down almost to tears. Brittany seems confused, going around and hugging everyone who's crying in a sweet but futile effort to cheer things up. Rachel is markedly absent; she's been in seclusion with her Dads almost since getting back here, although she's certainly been a presence at the Hudmel household, trying to push everyone to do things her way.
Sometimes, she finds it too easy to forget that she isn't the only one who loves Finn.
A drink is pressed into his hand, and since he's not driving, Kurt doesn't much care. It's strong, and just maybe, it'll help him sleep tonight, in the room across from Finn's, the lack of explosions, something he's always longed for (and yelled for) suddenly rendering him unable to doze off.
He downs it quickly, and his glass is hurriedly refilled. People come and talk to him, but he doesn't register much. He is lost in memories, his gaze scanning the room that is so full of reminders of his brother. He has hardly ever been here without Finn; not really 'one of the guys', he had never been included in their video game marathons. Nor had he been particularly close to Artie, because those suspenders that go overtop those hideous sweaters that are tucked into slacks have always been just too much for him to take. No one could have been expected to bear that in silence.
And so, to him, this room belongs to all of them, and the absence, just as it is at home, is marked. His eyes fall on the dent on the wall, low and close to the door where Finn had kicked a baseball, sprained his big toe (and consequently hopped around yelling in pain), and instead of it getting to Puck, it had sailed past and whacked into the wall, luckily missing the many large, bay windows that form half the walls of the room.
And no, he's not going to remember just why Finn had thought it was a good idea to kick a baseball inside the house.
He will remember Rachel's startled, ear-piercing shriek, and how Santana had immediately redirected her rage to the smaller girl, claiming she was going to break all the windows anyway.
Maybe he just needs to re-work all his memories, so that he forgets about the Finn of them all.
Puck comes over after a while, red solo cup in his hand, and he's obviously had a lot to drink already. He stands beside Kurt, who suddenly feels bigger than the other boy, and that's surprising. No words are exchanged; they merely stand there, shoulder-to-shoulder (yet another first in this weird, parallel universe), and Kurt's not sure what they are trying to accomplish, because they certainly aren't seeking comfort. There's none of that to be had.
Perhaps it's just the shared pain that neither are yet able to verbalise. Maybe it's knowing that they'd both seen (or heard from, as the case may be) Finn in his final hours. It's a twisted camaraderie they share, both of them blaming themselves, wracking their brains for something they can no longer change.
"This is fucking depressing." Puck speaks after a good twenty minutes, eyes distant, glazed.
Kurt doesn't answer; what can he say to that? He had hoped that this would help somehow, although he's not sure how. Perhaps all of them sitting together and sharing memories, or singing songs? Pain makes him sharp and turns his sarcasm almost cruel when he's not careful. Because sitting in a damn circle and singing 'Kumbaya' isn't going to do anything, not when he's this caustic, trying his utmost not to lash out at anything and everything, so as only to feel some release.
"You wanna blow this joint, get wasted?" Puck asks after another few minutes, his red solo cup now crushed in his hand.
Huh. Kurt has never been one for drinking his emotions away, not since that fiasco back in sophomore year with April Rhodes. It had scared him to realise just how easily he could come to depend on something to help boost his always-precarious courage, and he'd sworn off anything back then.
On the other hand, why the hell not? If ever there is a time that has called for getting blind drunk, this is most definitely it. "Oh, yeah." He doesn't know that he's ever wanted anything more, certainly something that is attainable. The intensity of his roiling emotions and grief is scary, worse than when his Mother had died, and he's willing to do anything to get rid of it, even for a little while.
They've both been drinking, and Artie's Dad won't return Puck's keys, so they call a cab, and end up in Puck's studio he's renting, near the community college. There's already quite the stash of alcohol, both beer and much harder liquors, and Kurt briefly wonders if this is always present, or if it's more recent, as in, the last few days.
Doesn't matter, really. The endgame is oblivion, and how they get there doesn't matter.
They plunk themselves down on the floor, and Kurt needs to turn some music on, because the silence is driving him crazy. He finally tunes it to a station playing hits from the twenties and thirties, because at least there are no memories in those tunes. Puck has already cracked open a beer, but when he offers Kurt a can, the teenager shakes his head.
"I need more kick." He reaches instead for the half-full bottle of clear fire-water, and it is testament to just how distraught he is, that he forgoes a glass and gulps straight from the bottle, not even caring about the plethora of bacteria and germs festering. It's strong enough to kill anything anyhow.
"Didn't think you had it in you, Princess" Puck nods admiringly. He guzzles the rest of the beer down, and swings out a hand, fingers making grabby motions almost whacking Kurt in the arm.
Kurt downs another swig before passing it over, proud of how he doesn't gasp and choke over the strong whisky. He stares at his surroundings, thinking how glad he is he doesn't room with a guy like Puck. Every single frat-boy, college stereotype is crammed into this room, from the alcohol, the funnel, the posters, the mess. If this had been any other time, he wouldn't have allowed his clothes to touch anything in here, never mind the floor (because Gaga knows Puck's never washed it), but he's quickly remembering the awesome power of grief to make everything else irrelevant.
And if he can still think this clearly and this eloquently, then he hasn't had nearly enough to drink. He snatches the bottle and quickly downs far more than even the most hardened alcoholic ever should in one go. If he's lucky, he can drink himself into oblivion tonight; he knows it's the only way he'll ever be able to get anything resembling sleep.
"Wanna kill some bad guys?" Puck nods at his gaming station.
That sounds like just what he needs. "I'm feeling very violent" Kurt nods emphatically, taking another swig before passing it back to Puck.
"Here." Puck doesn't ask if Kurt knows how to play. The countertenor may not enjoy video games, but he . . . had . . . a brother and a boyfriend that did, and on the odd occasion they'd roped him into playing (read: bribed), he'd surprised them all with his prowess.
Kurt takes the console as Puck queues up the game. He chooses the most lethal-looking character he can find, and proceeds to annihilate anything and everything he can. He's pleased Puck seems to be on the same wavelength, because when they go online to play against some other opponents, it doesn't take them long to destroy everything there is.
They destroy it all, just like life has suddenly destroyed them, and there's nothing they can do about any of it, so they sit their and kill and maim as though their lives depend on it, because maybe they do.
The next day, of course, is not so pleasant. Kurt has a hangover the size of Rachel's ego, and even several hours later, freshly showered, a litre of water already ingested, and four Advil in his still-churning stomach, he still feels like Hell.
Neither his Father nor Carole had said much when he'd finally surfaced mid-morning, and it makes Kurt suddenly wonder, again, if just maybe, they wouldn't rather that Finn was the surviving son. It's ridiculous, he knows, they've both made sure he's never doubted their love, but this has changed . . . everything.
"Let them sing" Burt is saying to his wife as Kurt enters to pour himself a coffee. "Finn loved music, loved singing and Glee and the freedom it gave him to express themselves. Hell, they sang at our wedding" he reminds her.
Kurt's hand spasms around the mug and he nearly drops it, remembering the song Finn had sung to him, the affirmation that who he is was not only okay, but better than okay. Wonderful, even.
"I know" Carole sniffs. Her eyes have been red-rimmed, her face puffy for days. "And that's exactly why. It's always been such happiness for him, I don't think I can bear it."
Kurt moves to sit at the table, realising what they're planning. "He didn't just sing when he was happy" he says quietly, his voice hoarse, and he wants nothing more than to spike this coffee and continue on yesterday's forgetting streak. "It's an outlet for all emotion." And more than that, he thinks that they all need to be able to serenade Finn, they need to be able to express themselves through that which had brought them all together in the first place.
Carole draws in a shaky breath. "I know" she replies, reaching out to wrap her hand around Kurt's trembling ones, and the look in her grief-stricken eyes makes him realise that she knows exactly what he did last night, and is giving him the space he needs until he comes to terms with himself. "But it's going to make everyone lose it."
"Maybe that's good" Burt speaks up, reaching one hand out to his son, and the other to his wife, completing the circle. "We can grieve together, and afterwards the Berrys have offered to host a get-together at their place, so we can celebrate his life there." Burt knows that's what this funeral needs to be, because the passing is already so tragic, there needs to be some light in there somewhere. And after Elizabeth had died, he'd found solace in remembering the good, only it had taken him a long time to get there. He's hoping that this time, it'll be easier, because they've all had a bit of practice at this grief thing.
"I know you're right" Carole admits, squeezing both her men's hands. "I'm just being selfish."
"No, Carole, you have every right to be as selfish as you want right now" Kurt quickly hastens to reassure her. She's the one that has lost her son, after all. "You do whatever you need to do to be okay again." Because one day she will be, they all will be, because even the deepest wounds eventually scar over.
Carole squeezes Kurt's hand again. "You are a Godsend, Kurt. When did you get to be so wise?"
Since I lost my Mom, almost lost my Dad twice, and I'm terrified I've lost Blaine too. "I've always been this wise." The light-hearted quip hurts, it's so forced, but he knows it's needed.
His Dad squeezes his hand too, and no words are needed.
"So we'll tell the Berrys they can host something after the funeral" Burt says, eyes on his wife.
She nods wordlessly, lower lip trembling briefly. Kurt has to look away, because her grief is too palpable, and the effort of holding everything in is only increasing the pounding in his head. He's had a headache for days now.
"Have you given any thought to the eulogy?" Burt asks gently, and Kurt knows Carole's been stuck on this particular part of the planning.
She looks so broken as she answers. "I can't, I know I can't do it, I'm too close."
"No one expects you to" Kurt tells her softly, shifting his hand so he can now squeeze hers.
"I just don't know who to ask" she admits. "Maybe I'll ask you guys to sing it" she ponders. "I mean, no one's been closer to him than everyone in Glee club, but I don't know if I can ask that of you." She breaks the circle to grab for more Kleenex.
The day he'd come home, Kurt had gone on a Kleenex-shopping spree, buying several dozen boxes and placing them on every flat surface in the house, along with little plastic stick-on baggies for disposal. He's amazed at how fast they're going.
"You can" he says earnestly. "You can, because that's how we've always dealt with everything. We sing our emotions, and it helps, because music touches people on a level that words can't." He blinks glassy eyes.
"I think it might be good for them" Burt adds, "if that's what you want."
"Rachel definitely already has a eulogy written" Kurt adds wryly, because he knows his friend, and he can truly understand how badly she's hurting right now. Perhaps they need to have a wine and musical-themed evening tonight, or tomorrow.
Carole emits a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, shaking her head at Rachel's . . . well, Rachelness. "I want it to be about Finn, not Finchel" she says, struggling to get the words out. She hesitates, then, "I know I don't have the right to ask this of you, Kurt" she begins.
"You do" he encourages her.
"I think maybe you're the one who's spent the most time with him, who knows him best, all his sides, and who could deliver something worthy of him. Would you be willing to give the eulogy?" she asks tentatively.
Kurt gasps, shocked.
"And don't you feel like you have to, Kiddo" Burt speaks up, glancing at his wife.
"No, no, absolutely not" Carole agrees quickly. "This is only if you want, if you think you can. If you accept, I'd be honoured, and if you decline, then I'll ask the Glee club to do it."
Kurt blinks, a little taken aback at the request. He supposes it makes a lot of sense, the brother being asked to do this. "Neither of your families are going to agree." There's a lot of homophobia in there, as well as the feeling that Kurt is 'only' the step-brother, not blood-related and therefore not of any real importance.
"I don't care about that" Carole says fiercely. "You're my son, you're Finn's brother, and if they don't like it, they're no longer welcome." She had gotten sick of everyone hovering, and kicked them all out of the house earlier today. He'd never been more grateful to wake to an empty house.
Kurt doesn't know if some will be returning to sleep or what, and he also doesn't care. His eyes water again at her words, and he wonders when it will ever stop. "I'm so, so honoured, Carole" he begins slowly, gaze focussed on his coffee mug, knowing he needs to escape and sleep for a while. His stomach is feeling distinctly unsettled at the moment. "Can – can I think about it for a bit?"
She nods emphatically. "Of course, Sweetheart. And I won't be insulted or upset if you say no, honestly." She flips their grip again so her hand is around his. "Like you just told me, you do whatever you need to, to be okay again."
Okay, he can't do this any more. Kurt Hummel is made of steel, he knows that, but even the strongest of metals has its breaking point, and he's far-too rapidly reaching his. "I have to go."
He flees, making a pit stop in his bathroom to empty his stomach, again, before collapsing on his bed.
He wonders why the universe seems to have it in for him.
He's at his laptop, writing furiously, when the knock on the door disturbs him. "Why are the cops here, wanting to offer you a formal apology?" Burt asks worriedly.
Kurt had almost forgotten about that entire incident, and he winces, glancing at his screen once more before turning to face his Father, swiping his hand across his damp eyes as he does so. He knows he's not fooling anyone, but he still has the need to maintain the façade. "It's nothing, Dad. I'll just go see what they want."
"They want to apologise to you, and it seems like they're pretty desperate for you not to make a formal complaint" Burt says, stepping further into the room. He turns down the music playing softly from the speakers, because it just sounds too tragic for him to deal with right now.
"That was Patty Lupone, Dad" Kurt complains. One does not simply turn off Les Mis.
"She'll keep." Burt sits on the bed, making it clear that he won't. Kurt needs to be reminded who the Father and who the son is in this relationship. His boy has always been far too mature and independent for his age; losing his Mom at the tender age of eight did that to him. He quirks an eyebrow in encouragement.
Kurt sighs, deflating, mind whirling as he tries to figure out how to best tell his Dad without telling him everything.
"Kurt." Something had obviously happened the first time they'd talked to Kurt, and Burt is kicking himself for not staying, like he should have. But at nineteen, the officers had had every right to speak to Kurt alone, even to order Burt away. He shouldn't have let them, he realises now, too late.
"It's nothing. One of the officers allowed his small-minded brain to run away with him and he threw out some outlandish theories, and I called him on it." Kurt is still proud of his tongue-lashing. It had felt so good to spew back some of the hatred and intolerance he'd been on the receiving end of for so long.
Burt narrows his eyes. "He was a homophobic asshole" he translates astutely, feeling his ire grow within.
"No, Dad, it was just a misunderstanding" Kurt tries to soothe him, eyes suddenly wide. His Dad can't get upset.
"Don't lie to me, Kurt. It was much more than a 'misunderstanding' if they're here to apologise. You think I haven't been dealing with this town's homophobia right along with you? Hell, I was dealing with it before you even realised what 'gay' meant." Burt shakes his head in dismay. "Did they accuse you of something 'cause you were gay?" he asks.
"No, Dad, please, don't get upset, it's nothing" Kurt repeats desperately. "You need to stay calm. I'll take care of it, don't worry."
Burt frowns, confused. He doesn't understand where his kid is coming from. "It's not nothing, and you've gotta stop downplaying this sort of crap. You don't need to protect me, Kiddo, we're in this together."
Any other time, Kurt would make another High School Musical reference, but he can't right now. "Yes, I do! That's how we work, Dad, I take care of you, and you eat healthy and exercise and take your meds and follow your doctor's instructions to the letter!" His voice is far higher and shakier than he would like by the end.
Oh. And just like that, Burt gets it. He pushes himself to his feet, and in two strides has Kurt held tightly in his arms, not missing the way the teenager ducks his head to rest it overtop his heart and listen to its steady beat. "I will always be here for you, Kurt. I'm never going to leave you, just like your Mom never truly left you, and just like Finn hasn't truly left us."
He cannot promise what he wants, because he knows chances are, he will die before Kurt. He knows, chances are, that his heart or the cancer will get him before his time, but he has good years left, lots if he's lucky, and burying one's parent is a sad fact of life. Unfortunately, doing so at eight years old, and then nearly having to do so, twice, again as a teenager, can leave scars.
Kurt shudders and gulps back hard on the tears. "I can't lose you too, Dad, I can't" he admits desperately, because it's been the only constant in his difficult life, the only thing that's always been there for him, keeping him going.
"One day you will, Kiddo, that's just the way it is" Burt says matter-of-factly, "but if I have anything to say about it, and believe me I do, it's not going to be for a very long time yet. I've got too much still to do, still to see. My heart is pretty strong, it's still beating, isn't it?"
Kurt nods against the soft, horrid flannel of his Dad's shirt.
"So, we're gonna talk about this more later, but right now we've got some police officers waiting to talk to you" Burt says, emphasising the 'we' of it all, because he won't be kicked out this time, not when it concerns his sons. "Okay?"
Kurt pulls in a shaky breath, but nods again.
"You're not alone Kiddo, but you've gotta let others help you." Burt squeezes the slender form one last time, and they descend the stairs together.
The meeting is good. Burt does a lot of glaring, and the two officers (neither the one who actually did the deed) do a lot of grovelling, and then he supervises closely as they question Kurt about the last few hours of Finn's life, because he had been in contact with Kurt, so naturally they want to know as much as they can.
They're still waiting for the coroner's report, but apparently the autopsy (and here both Hummel men shudder again) was scheduled for today, so preliminary results should be coming in soon. They don't suspect foul play, but they're not sure what it was. Or if they are, they're not telling yet. But most importantly, they treat Kurt with the respect he deserves, and the news that Officer Bergen has been suspended pending an inquiry is certainly welcome.
"Thank you, Kurt" Officer Stiles says, closing his notebook. Some things will never change, Burt thinks wryly.
Kurt has remained stoic throughout the questioning, although he suspects his Dad knows just how hard he has fought to do so. He doesn't reply, because he's still deeply hurt by the entire incident, by years of harassment and abuse that had gone unanswered for the simple reason that he is gay, the same reason the department tried to pin his brother's untimely demise on his shoulders. No, forgiveness isn't that quick in coming. "I hope this helped" he says honestly.
"Every little bit helps" Officer Stiles assures him. "We'll be in touch. And once again, I'm so sorry about the last time."
It's hollow coming from the guy who mostly stood by and allowed it to happen, but it's something.
Kurt lifts his chin. "Actions speak louder than words" he reminds the man. "Education is power, and it's long past time that this town realised it's no longer the 1800s, and witch-burning is no longer sanctioned."
The second man, Officer O'Malley, twitches, his mouth threatening to break into a smile, as it has numerous times to one of Kurt's smart remarks. "Noted" he says, poker face back in place.
"If homophobia is taken seriously by the officials who keep the law, then the people have to take it seriously as well" Kurt says, "because, just like in the rest of the civilised world, they are punished for their crimes. They need to learn, and someone needs to grow a pair and lay down the law, as it were." He's very impressed at the polite tone in which he manages to convey his thoughts, because he's been wanting to get this off his chest for years, and the rants in his head had never been so polite. They had been much more interesting, though, and had always involved much grovelling, à la Joseph. Somehow, the soundtrack to this has always featured 'grovel grovel, grovel grovel, grovel grovel, grovel grovel' in the background on repeat.
He's been shoving this in their faces since the start of this meeting, and he's impressed with how well they've been taking it. He'd watched both their faces carefully throughout, searching for the telltale signs of latent disgust he knows so well, but had really seen none. He knows they're good actors, but he also knows that the majority of lawmen in small towns don't bother hiding their true feelings, because they have so much power they don't have to.
That's not the case here, and that's the only reason he hasn't torn them a new one.
They shake hands and leave, and Burt eyes his son as he closes the door behind them, lifting a brow. "Finally got that off your chest, huh?" he says knowingly. He'd wanted to add his two cents' worth as well, but had refrained, knowing this was Kurt's turn. Finally. As a Congressman, he's going to have his own say, of course, and it'll be something along the lines of requiring all police departments to include training seminars on the issues faced by the LGBT community. It's something Kurt's said before, in passing, and now Burt finally has the power to make it happen, and make things better for all the Kurts out there.
"Yeah" Kurt breathes out, eyes distant for a moment too long. He pulls himself back though.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there last time they came, Kiddo" Burt apologises. He hates that his grief for one son got in the way of being a good Dad to the other. No matter what they do now, Finn's gone and he's not coming back. But Kurt, Kurt's still here, and he thinks maybe he and Carole need to pay a little more attention to what they still have.
"It's fine. I'm an adult, Dad, I can take care of myself" Kurt replies.
Burt shakes his head. "You're always going to be my kid" he responds, stepping forward to pull Kurt in for a hug, needing the comfort of his child, alive, in his arms. He cannot imagine how Carole is holding up as well as she is, knowing she'll never have this again. Scratch that, he can imagine it all too well. It's something he's feared for years, ever since he and Elizabeth had realised just how different Kurt was, and just how badly Lima, Ohio was going to take it. Sometimes, the Father still cannot believe how lucky he is that he still has Kurt.
The teenager's hands clench around the fabric of Burt's shirt as he buries his head there for a moment. Kurt doesn't remain there long, however, because he knows he will lose it if he does, and that's the last thing his Dad and Carole need.
