Brad was already there when Kurt arrived a little early for Glee with a box of music from their attic room. He smiled over the piano. "Hey," Brad said. "How's Puck doing?"
"He's better," Kurt nodded. "Sarah's been staying at my house."
"How's that going?" Brad idly played the first few bars of Joplin's Maple Leaf Rag.
Kurt set the box of music down just inside the door to the choir office, then returned to lean on the piano, his head resting on his folded arms. "They're working things out with social services. Their mom is a little crazy, but luckily Puck's brother's around to watch after her, for now, anyway. We don't know what's up, but we're trying to give Puck and Sarah as much support as we can, my dad and me."
"Your dad – he knows about you two?" Brad raised an eyebrow, still playing, at Kurt's nod. "You three?"
"All our parents know," Kurt said. "Puck's mom is - not so supportive. But my dad is great, and Finn's mom, she's fantastic." He grinned. "She's kind of dating my dad."
Brad started to laugh. "You're kidding. Well, that puts an unusual spin on things."
"Tell me about it," Kurt said, making a face. He watched Brad's hands dance through the familiar ragtime piece.
Brad stopped and pulled out a book of Diabelli duets. "You play piano, right?"
"I used to," Kurt said, shrugging.
"Aw, come on. You wrote those parts for the Hair song. I heard you play. You do just fine." He set the music up on the piano and slid down the bench, to sit in front of the lower half of the keyboard. "C'mon. Take a look at this scherzo."
Kurt sat gingerly on the bench, glancing at the duet. "All right," he said, giving Brad a tentative smile. Brad counted out a tempo and they began approximately together. It was a stumbling start, but the piece was simple and Kurt quickly gained confidence. The second time through, they went faster, and he was able to impart a sense of dynamic and movement in the piece. He ended triumphantly in sync with Brad, laughing. "That was fun!" he said, a little breathless.
"You know what you need?" Brad said. "Lessons with a teacher who can help you with your technique. You've got excellent musical instincts, Kurt, and I know you have a good sense of music theory. You just need a little practice and refinement." He tapped the music before them. "Take this home; they're simple enough. Play through the first four or five pieces. Then come to my studio, and we'll take them apart."
Kurt paged through the Diabelli book and looked sideways at Brad. "Really?"
"Absolutely," he said. He scribbled a phone number on the cover. "Just give me a call when you're ready. No pressure. I know how much work it takes to juggle two relationships. In the meantime, work on some scales to get your chops back."
"Thanks," Kurt said, smiling. "It's nice of you to offer."
"Well, this is what I do the other half of the day, when I'm not at McKinley. And to be honest, Andi and Laurie have been wanting to meet the kids who are brave enough to attempt a triad in high school." He grinned and disappeared into the choir room, leaving Kurt to his scales.
Kurt was still practicing when Rachel interrupted with a request to create a "gaylesball," which sounded like some kind of scary dance party. All he could do was peel away from her in confusion and disdain. Some days Rachel can be almost nice, he thought, shaking his head, and then she comes up with a weird idea like this.
But the request stuck with him the rest of Glee. A Gay/Lesbian Alliance? If we throw an "allies" in there, we might actually get a few people attending. Gaga knows McKinley could use a club like that. He considered that Finn and Puck could even attend, without coming out, if they wanted to. They would be showing support for Kurt - their friend.
Mr. Schue took them through True Colors again, but he seemed distracted, and after class he hurried to pick up his jacket and bag. Kurt saw Brad lean in and murmur, "Say hi to Toby for me."
"I'll do that," replied Mr. Schue, smiling. Kurt thought he saw something in his eyes he hadn't seen there for weeks – excitement; anticipation – that went beyond Glee club getting a picture in this year's Thunderclap. He watched Mr. Schue hurry out the door with barely disguised curiosity.
Finn put away his drums as slowly as he could, while Puck and Santana flirted in the back of the room. Kurt didn't pay them any attention, the memory of his morning with Puck secure in his mind, absolutely certain anything going between him and Santana, or anyone else, was dwarfed by what he and Finn and Puck had, together. It made him courageous, and he seated himself at the piano next to Brad.
"Who's Toby?" he asked casually, flipping through the Diabelli exercise book and propping it on the piano.
Brad gave him a keen glance. "Toby's our best friend from college," he said. He opened the book again and creased it more deeply. "He teaches dance at the Denver School for the Arts."
"Mr. Schue's going to visit him this weekend." Brad nodded, and Kurt gazed across the piano levelly at Finn, who was tucking the snare drum into the supply closet.
"He seemed pretty excited to be going out there," Kurt murmured.
Brad nodded again. "I think he's going to tell Toby about Terri being pregnant."
"Hmmm. Sound ominous. How's that going to go over, do you think?" Kurt raised an eyebrow at Brad, who grinned.
"Fine, since I already told Toby about the baby weeks ago. We've been friends for almost twenty years. I should know by now how things have got to work." Brad stared, unseeing, at the music, then shook his head. "Toby loves kids, and he knows how much Will and Terri have wanted this. He'll be happy for him."
"I'm sure," said Kurt, and Brad gave him another piercing look before counting out the tempo and launching into the alla turca.
After that, they wound up playing the rondo allegro at a ridiculous tempo that had Kurt tripping over his fingers and laughing hysterically. By then, Puck had bid Santana adieu, and the three boys and Brad were the only ones left in the choir room.
Finn didn't bother to conceal the grin on his face as he approached Brad and Kurt at the piano. "So, is this, like, a piano player's jam session, or what?"
"We're just sight reading these duets," Kurt said, feeling the usual thrill he got when Finn's crooked smile was aimed at him. "My fingering is incredibly rusty."
"For Pete's sake, Hummel – can you feed me any better straight lines than that?" Puck said from across the room, and Kurt found himself sputtering out a completely useless retort as Finn cracked up. Brad looked like he was suppressing a smirk.
"Well, it sounded good from here," Finn offered. Kurt smiled gratefully while simultaneously glaring at Puck, but he felt a warm glow in the pit of his stomach. Brad put a name to it.
"It's nice to see you guys being yourselves around each other for a change," he said quietly, closing the music and handing it to Kurt. "Give me a call when you're ready for that lesson, okay, Kurt?"
Puck wandered over as Brad packed up his bag and headed out with a wave. "I need to stop at the store for some cream for the alfredo," said Puck. "Does Mercedes drink? I could pick up a bottle of something to go with it, if Carole and Burt aren't joining us."
"She said they might be going out," Finn said. "What was that stuff about a lesson, Kurt?"
"Brad offered me piano lessons," Kurt said absently. "Did you guys know Mr. Schue is going to Denver to see his best friend this weekend?"
"I thought Brad was his best friend?" Finn said, holding the door for Kurt and Puck. Kurt's hard-soled shoes made echoes off the empty hallway walls. "So are you going to do it?"
"Huh?" Kurt said. "Oh – the lessons. Maybe. Sure."
"Well, you sure looked happy when you were playing," Finn said. "I think you need to do more things like that. I liked that look."
Kurt glanced around them nervously, but nearly everyone had gone home, and the school was silent. "I bet I could think of a few things that would make you happy," he said quietly, resting a hand just for a moment on Finn's chest. Finn kept his smile brief, but it lit his eyes.
"Did you guys have a nice morning?" he said, glancing at Puck, who chuckled.
"You could say that." Puck's eyes roved over Kurt, just once, but it was enough. I might be offended, Kurt thought, blushing, if he wasn't so incredibly, ridiculously hot. And mine. "I'll get the wine, and the cream. Anything else you're wanting with dinner?"
"Do you need to ask?" Kurt said, tipping his head, and Puck laughed. He hadn't laughed much lately; Kurt hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.
"Okay, mushrooms. Anything else?"
"Those funny green flower things, that you peel apart and eat the leaves with butter?"suggested Finn.
"Artichokes?" Puck shrugged. "They're past their fall season, but I can probably find some. And, dude, they're way better with aioli."
"I have no idea what that is, but I'll look forward to trying it." He hesitated. "I wanted to tell you… I have an appointment at 4:30 with that guy, the one that Sam and Dean put us in touch with. Remember?"
"The pro Dom?" Puck said, his eyebrows going up. "I ran into him in the hallway at my lawyer's office – I guess they share office space. I can't remember what he does, though. He's not a lawyer."
Finn's brow wrinkled. "What are you doing talking to a lawyer?"
"Oh – it was for me and Sarah. To get help, to make sure we had some backup in case things went, you know, bad. With Ma." Puck looked uncomfortable, but Finn didn't press him. "Anyway, he seemed nice enough. Will you let us know… what you learn?"
"Yeah," said Finn. "If he seems like a reasonable guy, I figured we'd all meet with him. But I wanted to make sure he wasn't creepy or a psycho first. Not that Dean would steer us wrong, but…" Finn touched Puck's sleeve. "I hope he can help us figure things out."
"I don't know; I think we're doing pretty well on our own," Kurt said, smiling. "But it doesn't hurt to have somebody to talk to. Assuming he's not going to get us in trouble with any authorities."
Finn's voice grew quiet. "You think we're doing something wrong?"
"No," said Kurt, just as quiet, "but I think grownups are pretty good at telling kids they shouldn't do… stuff like we do."
They parted without ceremony, but Kurt felt the closeness of that conversation even after they'd left him at his locker. He decided later that it was that dreamy state of connection, coupled with speculation about Mr. Schue's trip to Denver. that had distracted him. Whatever it was, he didn't even notice Azimio and Karofsky until they were suddenly right there next to him, their leering faces filling up the space in the air like parade floats.
"Getting a little cozy with the football players, hey, Hummel?" Karofsky said, leaning in. He'd grown a lot this year, both up and out, and Kurt was acutely aware of how small his size eight shoes and slim arms were by comparison.
"Is it any of your business, Karofsky?" he said icily.
"Yeah," said Azimio, giving him a nudge on his shoulder, pushing him into the locker. "It sure is our business. I'll be dealing with your buddies later. Right now, it's your turn."
"Really brave of you," Kurt shot back, trying not to think about the empty hallways around them, "two on one, with no witnesses." He wondered desperately if there was a way he could get to his cell phone and press redial, to get a call through to Finn, but the phone was in his messenger bag. Stupid – jeans too tight to fit a phone in the pocket.
"I don't know," Karofsky said, his voice dangerously soft now. "Two on one sounds like just about your speed."
Kurt's heart stopped for a beat, two, but he forced himself to sneer back, "In your wet dreams, hamhock."
Kurt would never have expected the next look on Karofsky's face. It was positively furious. "You have no fucking idea who you're messing with, Hummel," he spat.
"Who I'm messing with?" Kurt protested, but Karofsky and Azimio were already manhandling him, forcing him flat against the lockers, shaking him until he dropped his bag – my phone! he screamed in his head, along with the words Finn and Noah –and wresting his body shoulder-first into his locker. His left ear banged hard against the hook in the back, making him see stars, but he managed not to cry out. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. They slammed the door, and it was abruptly dark.
The locker was cramped and small and smelled like his gym bag when he forgot it at school for two days. In the corner of his mind that wasn't panicking, he resolved to bring an air freshener to affix to the back, tomorrow. "I hope you're proud of yourselves," he shouted, his voice absurdly loud in the enclosed space. He heard a snide laugh from Azimio.
"I think I'll go home and put a gold star on my Kick-A-Faggot chart," he said, his voice growing fainter as they made their way toward the exit.
Kurt could turn his head to the right, but not the left; he could move his hands a little, but he couldn't bend his elbows. If he leaned against the back of the locker and squatted down, he could make enough room to let him move his head more freely, but then he almost got stuck and couldn't straighten up.
For the next five minutes he tried yelling for help as loud as he could, but pretty soon he realized it was just hurting his voice, and he wasn't getting anywhere. He couldn't even tell if anyone could hear him. Then he tried kicking with the toe of his suede Manolo Blahnik shoes, but every impact was an imagined scuff and a slam to his wallet – that's $400, down the drain. He couldn't get enough leverage, anyway, to make a good kick. He tried his fists, with the same effect, in addition to bruising the side of his hand.
Kurt tried to calm his breathing, making it slow and shallow, tried to slow the flutter-scatter of his pulse, but his brain just kept returning to the panic of I can't spend the whole night here, I can't, I have to get out, I can't, I can't. He gave in for a few minutes and sobbed, screaming, knowing it was useless, but hoping that it might make him feel a little better.
It didn't.
Afterwards he was able to get one hand up to his face and wipe the snot and tears from his eyes and nose, cleared his vision well enough to be able to see the light filtering in through the air vent was still strong. He wasn't sure how many minutes had already passed. It felt like hours, but his rational mind was still kicking, and supplied the idea that it had probably only been about ten.
"Finn," he whispered, "and Noah. Finn and Noah. They're waiting for me at home. They'll come back and find me. Finn, and Noah." But the truth was more ominous, that Puck was at the store, and would be thoroughly distracted by planning and cooking for at least an hour, and Finn was meeting with the pro Dom, and he might be even longer. No one would miss him until the building had already been locked. He needed to find another way out… or get comfortable for the long wait until morning.
Kurt tried not to think about his bladder, not yet particularly full, but knowing it would be in a few hours, nor the feeling of stuffy oppressiveness that was already settling in as he was using up his oxygen. He kept his ears open for sounds in the distance as he felt in his pockets for anything that could be used as a tool. A handkerchief… his house key… a couple coins. Nothing that was a clear winner.
Then he wondered, Would locker-makers count on kids being stupid enough to lock each other inside? Maybe there's an escape latch. He wrestled his hands around so they were in the front, which involved some complicated bending of his neck, but eventually he was able to feel the inside of the door, where the lock was affixed to the steel structure. His breath was hot and he could feel the sweat collecting at the base of his spine, making a wet spot on his shirt. Come on, he pleaded with the locker-makers. Kids are awful. If you make lockers big enough for the smallest of us to fit in, be smart enough to have thought of this.
But his fingers couldn't make sense of the pieces of metal extending from the lock, though he could feel the ridges of the back of the mechanism, and a sharp – ouch! He couldn't even put his lacerated fingers into his mouth. It was the most frustrating insult to injury, and he shouted, "Fuck!" as loud as he could. That felt good enough that he did it a few more times.
The school was quiet after that, for a while, and he made himself as comfortable as he could, wedging himself down against the cold metal wall of his prison, and waited. A while later he let his mind find a mindless tune, and began to hum along.
After an interminable amount of time had passed, Kurt found his eyelids growing heavy. Whether it was the torpor that came with being in a low-oxygen environment or the exhaustion from standing up to Azimio and Karofsky, he didn't know, but he passed out for a while.
When he woke, it was dark. He heard footsteps, coming down the hall, and at first he didn't realize what they were. Then he opened his mouth and shouted, "Help!" except it came out like a croaking whisper. He swallowed on a dry mouth and tried again. "Hey – I'm in this locker!"
The footsteps stopped, then resumed, more slowly. He heard a low chuckle, but he couldn't tell if it was friendly or not. "Hey!" he said a third time. "Number 734. Can you get a custodian?"
"Ladyface? Is that you?"
Kurt would have said, until he heard that voice, that he'd never been so happy to hear footsteps in his life. Now that he knew who they belonged to, he was considering going mute again until she gave up and went home. Then he thought about spending the night in the locker – and the fact that he really needed to pee now – and sucked up his pride. "I'd prefer Kurt, if you don't mind, Coach Sylvester."
"And what brings you here on this quiet Friday evening, might I ask?" she said in her slow, sardonic drawl. "Don't tell me you're attempting to crawl back into the closet and lost your way? I hear there's a janitor's office down the hall; that might suit you better. Were you trying to follow the white rabbit into Narnia?"
"What kind of a mixed metaphor is that?" he muttered, then said a little louder, "Can you just let me out of here?" He was a little ashamed at how plaintive his voice sounded, but the panic was returning, and he didn't want to scream like a little girl in front of Sue Sylvester. She already had enough things to torment him about.
"That would require a knowledge of your locker combination, gelfling," she said, tapping on the steel door. "You sure you want to give that up? It might result in some surprising… presents to be left at an unspecified future date."
"I don't think I have much of a choice, do I?"
"Not unless you want to ruin those suede shoes of yours, kiddo. I bet you're getting a little desperate. How long have you been in there, anyway?"
"I have no idea." He sighed in exasperation. "What time is it?"
"After seven."
"God," he moaned. "I'm going to be in so much trouble." He paused. "Wait – why are you here on a Friday night?"
"I don't think you're in any position to ask that question." He heard a rattling noise, and the door to the locker shook, then swung open. He fell forward into open air and would have dropped to the floor if Sue hadn't been there to catch him. It might have been preferable, he thought dizzily, as she lowered him to the linoleum.
"How -?"
Sue held up a large ring and jingled it with a smug expression. "It's a sad state of things when the first lady of Glee Club has been reduced to a sniveling, snot-covered wreck," she murmured, helping him stretch out his cramped legs. "You're lucky it was me who found you and not some more of those puckheads."
"Who do you think put me in there in the first place?" he snapped, wiping his face with one angry hand. "You didn't see a messenger bag anywhere, did you?"
As he peered up and down the dim hallway, he spotted an envelope in Sue's manicured hand. The name on the return address caught his attention: Toby Grey, in Denver, Colorado. "Where did you get that?" he said, and the letter vanished into the pocket of her velour track suit.
"Shouldn't you be following Mr. Tumnus back through the wardrobe?" she said testily.
"I need to find my bag." He got shakily to his knees, then to his feet, bracing himself against the bank of lockers. "Thank you," he added in belated appreciation. "I… didn't relish the thought of spending the night in there."
"It would have been the weekend," she pointed out, and he realized with an icy shock that she was right. Sue Sylvester, my savior – how awful.
The messenger bag was found stuck in the boys' bathroom down the hall, protruding from one of the urinals like a tongue hanging out of a gaping mouth. Kurt extracted the soggy mass from its bacteria-infested prison and quickly found his defunct phone in the front pocket. Next he removed his sodden biology textbook and half-completed paper for American history, now completely unreadable. "There goes my weekend," he groaned.
"You have a way to get home, Ladyface?" Sue said from the door of the bathroom.
He gingerly picked up the disgusting bag and its soaking wet contents and regarded her with distrust. "That letter," he said. "You took that from Mr. Schuester's office."
"You have no proof of that," she said smoothly.
"I think I don't need any," he retorted, "if I call Principal Figgins and tell him you were breaking into other teachers' private stuff, I think that would be enough."
"I don't think it can be called breaking in when one has a key." But she pulled the letter out of her pocket. "All right, White Queen. You take this letter and head back to your palace, and we never speak of this again. Got that?"
He snatched the letter from her hand before she could change her mind. "Deal."
"Try not to fall into a rabbit hole," she shot back as she stalked away.
