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...