Sometimes Kurt felt like a ghost.
Not because he didn't attract the amount of attention he was used to at McKinley High at Dalton Academy.
No, it wasn't that, even though he couldn't help feeling like he was slightly invisible –to everyone except the Warblers— but because his head was completely fogged and he felt like a total wreck; weak and see-through.
Just like a ghost.
And not just any kind of ghost, like a pale, just-murdered, awful-looking ghoul. He probably had red-shot eyes, too.
Wonderful.
The newest member of the Warblers let out a long-stretched half-sigh, half-moan, as he dropped his bag next to the couch and dropped down next to Blaine, whose body bounced slightly with Kurt's on the luxurious couch.
"You look like you just crawled out of a grave," David commented dryly, raising an eyebrow at Kurt from his place at the window, his hands neatly folded behind his back.
"I think he's aware of that, David," Blaine reprimanded him, before turning to Kurt, who was pathetically hanging upside-down beside him, arm swung dramatically over his head, "so what's up with you?"
Kurt cracked one eye open to stare at Blaine for a few seconds.
"I'm fairly tired," he weakly answered, eventually.
Now that, was a bit of an understatement. Kurt felt more then just 'tired'. He felt pretty darn exhausted, dead beat, near-fainting-tired. Fairly.
His eyes were drooping already, comfortably spread out next to Blaine and Wes, the latter only silently laughing at David's playful eye-roll.
"You're always tired," he said, "lots of nightly activities, I assume?"
Wes wiggled his eyebrows as Kurt scowled at him, exhaled a tired; "Shut up, Wes," and threw a pillow square in his face.
Wes's face looked like he'd just walked into a wall. A very soft, feathery wall.
"And still," he growled, ignoring the howls of laughter from the others, "your aim is impeccable."
Kurt shot him a half-hearted, crooked-grin and sighed again, with such a suffering undertone that Blaine looked honestly worried.
"Maybe you should go home," he suggested, placing a hand on Kurt's forehead and frowning, "you indeed look a little sick and you're feeling hot."
Kurt pushed his hand away, groaning as he sat up.
"I can't go home every time I feel a little tired," he countered, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose, briefly brushing his hair back in place.
"If only you had a dorm, you could catch up on sleep a little in between hours, you know?" Wes hinted, the pillow already forgotten and concerned about his friend.
"I'm fine, guys, I just have one period left, I'll survive," said Kurt, standing up and stretching. He picked up his bag again and threw it over his shoulder, swinging a bit on his feet as he did so, not completely honest to his friends; he wasn't sure if he could take another hour.
He held on to the strap of his shoulder-bag and stared at his now silent friends for a second, feeling a little guilty for leaving them in the dark about what was really bothering him, but he refused to be seen as a pathetic cry-baby, scared of a few bad-dreams.
Nobody really understood the first time he told them, they always thought he was over-exaggerating again. Being a drama-queen and the diva they all knew, or thought they knew him, to be.
But it just wasn't like that, he didn't want attention –or at least, not for that— he just wanted the horrific images to stop. Maybe just for people to understand.
But they didn't, he thought remorsefully, on the way to his next class, the most part of his brain concentrating on just getting one designer-shoe-clad foot in front of the other.
Finn hadn't truly believed him when they informed his new step-brother about the nightmares, not until he found Kurt, asleep on the couch and screaming his throat hoarse in the middle of the night, after a too-long marathon of Grey's Anatomy.
Only then did he believe, slapped in the face with the harsh truth; that something was wrong with him.
But even now Finn, and Carole for that matter, didn't truly get what was going on with the singer. They didn't know the dreams that haunted him, or why Kurt would refuse to sleep when things got bad. Nobody really got it, so even in that, he stood alone.
He was just grateful he had his dad.
He pondered on the subject during his next, awfully long period, his head resting on his hand, not really paying attention to what the teacher was saying.
He wanted to tell Blaine and Wes and David. He really did! But somehow, he couldn't make himself do it. He was afraid to do so.
Afraid of rejection or empathy, he didn't know, but the fact was that he just didn't, even though his new friends must suspect something was wrong with him, other then the whole bullying ordeal, which still was the main excuse whenever they would start digging.
At moments like that, he really missed Mercedes, who had never continued questioning him when he said he didn't want to.
He should give her a call tonight, he decided, but immediately felt guilty, because that would mean using her as a distraction.
As tired as he felt, there was no way he was going to sleep tonight, not after last time. Not after the shadows of his mind that had torn him apart just days ago. He was death-scared they would come to him again.
The dreams had gotten so much worse; ever since he joined Dalton Academy and it made Kurt feel even more depressed about the whole thing, because for a spare few months he'd believed the dreams were finally starting to ease. He had gained the hope they would finally go away, when he realised the nightmares had lost their edge.
All hope had been crushed when they came back full force and worse then ever before.
He wasn't sleeping, no way.
He'd do homework, or re-organise his wardrobe again. He'd design a few things on his computer or maybe even play that video-game Finn gave him, trying to be helpful and explaining to Kurt— would always… up in the late hours of the night… Maybe he should…
His head dropped off his hand and he vigorously blinked, shaking his head instinctively; pulling himself back to consciousness.
He couldn't fall asleep, not now, not here, not anytime soon! Not until the images of his last nightmare had evaporated from his mind.
It was just really bad right now, he tried to convince himself as he packed his bag quickly, eager to get home and give his body some awake-rest by just lying on the couch or something.
The idea of the couch sounded heavily, though he knew he couldn't let himself drowse off.
Carole was home.
He sped through the hallway of Dalton Academy, here and there knocking into some people he didn't bother looking at. He just wanted to get out of here and to a soft surface he could crash his exhausted body on.
He hated moments like this, where he almost became desperate for a little untroubled sleep, but sleep was never untroubled for him. Never untroubled for anyone around him.
Not that his father didn't deserve his happiness with Carole Hudson, now Carole Hummel, but it did bring a few complications. He wasn't just troubling Burt now, but Carole too and he hated that.
His step-mother was ever so concerned about him, trying to take care of him, but usually failing adorably. He appreciated the effort, though it never worked, and he adored the extra-strong cappuccinos she would make for him.
Burt sucked at making cappuccinos; Kurt thought fondly, his vision hazy for a second as he walked down the lawn and towards his car.
He really shouldn't be driving in a state like this, his limbs feeling like lead and his head swimming with the need for sleep, but he rather take the chance then walk or bike the distance to his house every-day.
He climbed into the car, starting it and carefully driving out of the parking-lot.
To his relief, he made his way to the main street without hitting anyone. Even managing to switch from second into third gear without messing up.
Maybe he should ask Finn to pick drop him off at school tomorrow, which was luckily a Friday.
He mused about the idea, doubting Finn would like getting up that early. McKinley was a lot closer to their house then Dalton.
Asking wouldn't hurt him, he decided. Finn was a good guy and still owned him after the help with this math.
He was almost glad the crush on him had evaporated, though it'd been more then satisfyingly distracting for a while, things with Finn were so more relaxed now.
Relaxed. Such a nice word…
Kurt's hands clenched around the steering wheel.
"Damn-it, Kurt, don't get yourself killed," he hissed, towards nothing in particular, except maybe his phone, which was lying on the passenger's seat, along with his bag.
He looked outside, suddenly noticing he was passing McKinley.
School was long over here too, of course, but there were a few late students and people with detention that lingered, but it was mostly just nice seeing the familiar shape of the school again.
With sadness coursing through him, Kurt pushed the pedal down, really wanting to go home now and curl up into a tiny ball. Foetus position, most rather.
"Don't think about it," he told his phone, "just keep on driving."
Tears already prickled in his eyes and he furiously blinked them away, refusing to cry over the memory of his old school; that was past him, something to forget.
Even though he missed the New Directions like crazy… he still couldn't quite believe they were going to do separate regionals…
Singing without him…
CRASH!
Kurt's body lunged forward, luckily held back by the seatbelt, squeezing him painfully around his stomach and chest.
His head pounded because of the impact of the crash and for a few moments he could only dazedly stare at the dashboard, before his mind let reality catch up with him.
He just crashed into something, something solid and it hurt.
"Shit," he muttered, very uncharistically and shakily released himself from the seatbelt, stepping out of his car on legs that felt like Jelly, seeing that he'd crashed all right.
The left side-front of his car hat hit the other car, which had been standing still, apparently. It wasn't even head-on, but his bumper was totally wrecked and he moaned in irritation when he saw the front-light pathetically dangling out of its holder.
A brief look told him the other person's car was relatively fine. It was a big, hummer-resembling thing and Kurt suspected there wouldn't be a dent to be found.
Nonetheless, the owner of the other car had also hurried towards the front of his car, immediately checking through the front window of Kurt's–maybe to see if anyone was hurt?— and then letting his eyes trail to the young man himself, who had completely forgotten about the accident the moment he saw the face of the other driver.
Kurt had staggered back several steps, back onto the side walk, where he stared, wide-eyes, at the familiar frame that had terrified him so much; the very reason why he'd left McKinley High.
"Ku— Hummel?" said Dave Karofsky.
"Karofsky," was the only thing Kurt could manage.
His tired body seemed to tenfold any fear he felt and the adrenaline from the car-crash was finally leaving his system, leaving him even more exhausted then before, his whole body shaking with the effort to stay upright and black dots appeared into his vision.
"What are you doing here?" Karofsky asked, no trace of the usual, ignorant hate in his voice. He sounded astonished, if anything, but Kurt still felt the need to bitch.
"Last time I checked, this was still a public road, I'm allowed to pass by, dimwit," he slurred, crossing his arms at a slow pace.
"No need to throw a fit, fancy," Karofsky replied, still staring at Kurt like he was an actual ghost appearing right in front of his eyes, completely ignoring Kurt's glare.
"It was an accident!" the soprano told him, as if Karofsky hadn't guessed as much already, missing his hip, where he wanted to plant his hand and staggering forwards a few steps.
God he was tired, so, so tired…
"It's fine. You're fine," he mumbled, trying to find something to hold onto, unsure if he was still the one in control of his body, "I'm fine… I'm– fine…"
Karofsky's face was looking concerned now, walking towards him like he wanted to help, though Kurt couldn't fathom why Karofsky would ever feel worried about something, let alone him.
He breathed out a surprised 'Oh…' when he finally toppled over, the hands that had hurt him so many times reaching for him, his face positively horrified as he watched Kurt drop to the surface of the ground.
It was the last thought he had, before his head hit the pavement and his vision blacked out.
It's the first time I've seen him when he's not scowling. How curious.
Dave's heart felt like it plummeted right into the stratosphere when he watched Kurt Hummel drop to the ground in a dead faint. It seemed to go in slow-motion; the small body loosing all control and crashing down like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
And even that he seemed to do graceful, how in hell?
"Jesus, shit!" He cursed, staring at the boy for a few seconds before swearing again and hurrying over.
He dropped down on his knees next to not caring that the ground was really gross, though he suspected Fancy would love to throw a fit about it, if he wasn't knocked out, of course.
He would admit it; he was worried; Kurt had always looked fragile to him. Not quite capable of taking a hit, though he'd proven quite strong when Dave… had done that.
He shook his head, clearing his mind; he had to make sure the chestnut-haired singer was okay. First things first.
He quickly went over all the possibilities in his head, something instinctual kicking in, making him carefully turn Kurt around, supporting his head by spreading his fingers just below his skull. He examined the pale face, which was completely void of any emotion, and carefully searched for any sign of serious damage.
The first thing he noticed were the bags underneath Kurt's closed eyes; shadows of black bruises standing out to the sickly-white colour of his skin.
Also, Kurt was breathing, that was always a bonus.
But Dave didn't see immediate cause for a drop down like this, other then the fact that Kurt looked like he hadn't slept in days.
Only partially relieved, he slid his phone from the pocket of his jeans and pressed speed-dial.
He stared at the cars for a moment, before deciding they were of secondary importance, as he impatiently waited for the bleeps that would indicate his call had gotten through.
You never knew, after all.
"Good afternoon, Lima-memorial hospital, what can I do for you?" A bored, monotone voice mumbled at him.
He swallowed, hoisting Kurt up a bit more so he could support his torso –which was way too light, even for a small person like him— and answered softly; "Hi, can you put me on with Dr. Karofsky? It's an emergency."
"Of course, you're lucky; she's on her break," he knew that, "one moment, please."
He stared at Kurt's face impatiently, scared by Kurt's unchanging silence more and more as the seconds ticked by and almost willing the damn receptionist to go faster.
Then, the awaited bleep blared in his ear.
"Hello?"
"Hi, mom…"
"For the last time, no, I had nothing to do with this, dad." – "Yes, yes, I know, I'm sorry." – "Thanks, you're the best." – "Yeah, I'll try to remember that… Bye."
He tiredly hung up the phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose and leaning against the white-plastered wall of the hospital.
This place, normally so relaxing to all his senses, seemed hostile and empty now. He didn't know how to deal with it.
He angrily kicked at the wall; he didn't know how to deal with all of this shit!
He sighed, absently staring towards the end of the IC hallway. He was just grateful his dad was willing to deal with all the other shit, like the cars and the police, so Dave could stay in the hospital.
Somehow, his father had caught on to this desire, though he wasn't sure if it was because he wanted to make sure Kurt was okay –because, why the hell would he want that, after all?— or because he wanted to avoid Burt Hummel at the car shop.
He just was sure the man wasn't going to like his son lying in the sterile-white, hospital bed, attached to several devices and IV's with dubious liquids Dave hadn't been able to identify before he was pushed outside by an annoyed nurse.
Not when Dave himself despised it so much. It was like the whole body of the glee-club singer was being swallowed by the bed, only his hair and lips standing out against the white, the rest of him as white as the sheets.
Dave shuddered; it wasn't a very pretty image. So very different from the cared-of appearance Kurt Hummel normally sported. Bare of any kind of distraction, Kurt had looked bare.
His head shot op when the door opened and his mother walked out, softly closing the door behind her.
She smiled at his immediate worried stare, grasping her clipboard a bit more firmly before speaking two relieving words; "He's fine."
Kurt's former torturer slumped against the wall in relief, his heart feeling like it only now slowed down, after the accident.
"His body is exhausted though," his mother continued, "and we have reason to believe he went without sleep for nearly four or five days."
Dave only briefly looked up at this, he'd expected the exhausted-part, but four to five days was pretty over-the-top, even for Kurt.
The only words he heard clearly though were 'he's fine', 'he's fine'.
But why would Kurt go without sleep for so long? Was that new preppy school so hard on him?
"Do you know of any psychological problems he might be suffering off? You know him, don't you? And the sooner we know the better; it might be too late when his father arrives."
Dave shook his head, he'd never heard of Kurt having any kind of problem, except for Dave himself.
"Fine then," his mother sighed, "go in then, I think the kid could use a little company."
"Thanks mom," Dave breathed, briefly touching her shoulder before brushing past her and into the room.
He was relieved when he saw most monitors had been removed and Kurt was only attached to one IV and a little tube in his nose for oxygen. Relieved at the colour on Kurt's face, reminding him more of the boy he used to push into the lockers then the pale-white sheet of unconsciousness.
He really felt guilty for that now.
Without warning, Kurt's heart monitor suddenly started beeping loudly and fast-paced and Kurt's body started trembling on the bed.
Panic flooded back into Dave's system, as he hurried towards the bed, watching in horror as Kurt's face contorted and he released a scream of absolute pain.
Dave had never heard a cry so agonised, but Kurt's eyes remained firmly closed. A nightmare?
Not knowing what to do, Dave pressed the red, emergency-button that would call the nurse and stared at the boy in horror. His hands moving around wildly, as if trying to scratch at unseen faces, trying to get away from them.
Another desperate moan rose from what seemed the depths of his chest and Dave once more felt the nudge of instinct in the back of his mind and he grasped Kurt's hand, placing the other at his shoulder.
He smiled when the beeping stopped and Kurt's breathing slowed down, his body only faintly trembling in after-shocks.
He didn't let go of Kurt's hand once as he sat down beside the bed. The small, warm hand fitted perfectly in his.
Who else loved the super-bowl episode and fell in love with Karofsky?
