"Hold on, one more time with feeling
Try it again, breathing's just a rhythm
Say it in your mind until you know that the words are right
This is why we fight"

"One More Time With Feeling" by Regina Spektor

By the time Quinn got back to school, she was not only less pregnant-looking (and slightly more solid, if it wasn't just that she'd figured out how to hide that she was split into pieces), but the entire school knew she'd had the baby and was intent on reacting in their own way. The Cheerios sneered less. Boys actually had the nerve to flirt with her now that the baby bump was less noticeable. The Glee Club tried to throw a baby shower, but luckily Kurt was one of the first to hear of the idea and shut it down. If there was anything she didn't need, it was another reminder of the baby. Though Schu refused to let her do more than sing until she had a doctor's note saying that she was healthy enough.

In private, she seemed a bit quieter than she used to be, but Kurt figured that it was a phase that would pass once the shock of giving up her baby for adoption wore off and she'd healed at least somewhat. She—perhaps in an effort to forget all about the baby—didn't like to talk to him much and Mercedes spent most of her time giving him weird looks, so that was probably why Kurt allowed Puck to talk to him on occasion. True to his word, he'd stopped getting thrown into the dumpster before school. Though, of course, he'd also found a new route into the building that didn't take him past the usual spot.

A week and a half after Quinn returned to school, he was running a little late because of a moisturizer-spill, so he went the old way. Karofsky and the usual gang of stupid homophobes from his after school "get-togethers" were standing a little bit in front of his usual dumpster, looking decidedly suspicious. He tried to edge around them without being seen, but before he even got within fifteen feet of the dumpster, meaty hands dug into his forearms. Foiled again, he cursed in his mind. With his luck, he'd probably land in chili or something equally unpleasant.

Accepting his fate, he bit out, "One day, you will all have gay sons and no grandchildren." As he braced himself for the drop, he spotted (way over on the other side of the parking lot) a decidedly atrocious mohawk. The mohawk began growing a little larger, quite quickly, but the disgustingly large football players tossed him over the unforgiving metal side to a chorus of deep, acidic laughter before he could actually make out Puck's features. As usual, his landing was somewhat soft, which never failed to disturb him. Something wet seeped through his pant leg, but he refused to let himself gag. He found his hat, but stopped when he heard something peculiar a couple feet from the waste-filled hell.

"Really, Karofsky, did you have nothing better to do? He's one little kid. I'm surprised it took five of you get him in. Though, I suppose, you are a bunch of pussies." There was the soft sound of flesh colliding and a low grunt. A second later, faster than he could react to, a very heavy person landed on top of him. Kurt pushed Puck's bulky body off of his already-mussed outfit and let out a sigh. The other boy seemed to have been punched in the stomach from the gasping, retching noises he was making. That always hurt like a bitch.

"Have fun in the dumpster with your boyfriend, Puckerman!" a deep and remarkably stupid voice jeered. Their laughter died away as the group of jocks walked towards the main building. The cheery rectangle of blue sky looming above seemed to be mocking them.

"Well, that was stupid," Kurt commented blankly.

Puck coughed. "This sucks. I can see why you always made such a fuss about it." He removed the remains of a breakfast taco from his trademark mohawk. "Ugh. Beans. In. My. Hair. I think I'm gonna puke. Then take a really long shower."

"Good luck with that. School starts in five minutes. We've got to get out of here." Kurt sat up, inspecting the damage to his pants and jacket. He'd definitely seen worse. It was better than morning all the eggs from the cafeteria's breakfast arrived rotten and had to be thrown away before school. He'd had to hold a wake for his favorite Fedora that morning and the smell didn't wear off until the third wash. Shuddering at the memory, he tried to stand.

Puck raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Uh, my first period class. Where else?" Kurt moved a half-full carton of orange juice away from its dangerous position near his leg.

"You're seriously considering going to school like this? We reek."

"You never seemed to care about that when you were the one throwing me in. Besides, we got lucky. They emptied all the dumpsters yesterday. And there's no pudding or cake. Those are two of the hardest things to get out of your clothes, second to the mystery meat goulash."

"It is so fucked up that you're acting like this is normal."

"Says the one who made it so. Now get up. You'll be late."

"Hell no. I'm not going to class until I've had a shower and a change of clothes." Kurt stood and stepped over Puck, finding his usual foothold and hoisting himself up so that he was sitting on the edge. He sat and finger-combed bits of paper out of his hair, looking down at his dumpster partner, who was staring at him as if he was crazy. Puck also seemed to have his elbow in a bowl of day-old macaroni.

"Don't be such a lightweight. Get up and go to class. Worse things have happened. It's not the damn pee balloons, so quit whining. You don't get to skip unless your hair is soaked in urine."

Puck seemed to zone out. "You know, Karofsky was actually against filling them with pee. He had other, more revolting ideas. Similar ideas, if you catch my drift. He thought it was fitting. He's sort of a bitch, actually." Kurt didn't think he'd ever been so insulted or revolted at the same time before in his entire life. There were institutions for people like that.

"That's the most dis-" Something hit him in the side of his face and splattered him with something gooey. Several more small, brightly colored projectiles whizzed at him, so he jumped/fell back into the dumpster just in time to see one explode against Puck's chest. Bile rose in his throat when he saw the wet patch. Puck stared down at his chest. Speak of the devil…

"I know what that looks like, but it can't be. They do have limits. There's no way they could have filled that many balloons in that amount of time." He slowly lowered a finger to the mess on his shirt, then breathed a sigh of relief. "Mayonnaise. Watered-down mayonnaise. I'm pretty sure. It smells like mayonnaise. And it's a little clumpy, anyway, and not quite the right color."

"Really? When confronted with the idea that a bunch of your friends just threw water balloons filled with their semen at us, your immediate thought is 'they couldn't have filled that many balloons so quickly'? Not 'as human beings, they would have drawn the line there'? You're such a freak."

"I'm not the one with watery mayonnaise all over my face."

Kurt gave him a sharp glare. "Fuck you. This is abominable. Sickening. Now give me your shirt."

Puck smirked. "Wow. I didn't think that dumpster dives turned you on after all this time. But is this really the place for that? It's hard to get in the mood when you're sitting in yesterday's enchiladas." Kurt rolled his eyes.

"For my face, you perv. It's not like you're going to be able to clean that out, so I might as well make use of it." He did not mention that Puck had just made his first gay innuendo. He had a feeling that it was accidental and if he said anything about it, the former bully would go psycho-homophobe on him. Though, despite it being completely unwanted and immature, he felt that it showed that he was making progress and becoming a little nicer. Nice enough to earn him a first name, at least. Maybe not just then, but he would, at some time in the near future, call Noah Puckerman by his first name because that's what you did with friends, and when someone got themselves thrown in a dumpster for you, there wasn't anything else to call it. And when said friend pulled his shirt over his head, he didn't stare at him because that wasn't something friends did. He did, however, use the shirt to wipe the more-than-vaguely nauseating goo from his face. Which was when the first bell rang, mocking and loud.

The mohawked boy shrugged, offering, "What do you say? Mayo-balloons enough to make you skip?" Kurt frowned.

"Is there any in my hair?" He turned his head so Noah could see.

"Yep. It's greasy and sticky. You'll probably have to wash your hair so you don't get split ends or something like that. So you should wash it right away. At home. And not here."

"Nice try. Mayonnaise is actually great for adding shine and moisture and definitely doesn't give one split ends, but I should probably shampoo it anyway." He considered his options (the school showers or his own shower) and decided quickly. "I'll skip with you. But only until lunch, at the latest."

"Sweet. Now gimme my shirt back. This is going to look sketchy enough without me shirtless. I'm not gonna have rumors spreading that you and I are fooling around in dumpsters. That's just plain weird." Kurt shook his head and handed him the shirt. They climbed out—though Noah's inexperience showed in his somewhat clumsy half-fall from the top—and headed to their respective cars and homes.

An hour later, Kurt was clean, dressed in a change of clothes, and had blow-dried his hair so that it looked precisely as it had before the whole dumpster business. He pulled out his phone, texting Noah to see if he was cleaned up and going back yet. A second later, he heard a faint buzzing from his bathroom. For a brief moment, he thought he was being stalked and about to be killed, but an inspection of his bathroom revealed Noah's phone, which he must have left when he was there nearly two weeks before. It was sort of sad that he hadn't found it yet, but perhaps he used his phone less than Kurt did.

Sighing, he turned it on and saw a little message about the text he'd just sent. The curious thing, however, was that Noah had changed his contact name. Not to his actual name, as he'd expected, but to the rather peculiar "Queen Mab", accompanied by a picture of him. Asleep. Meaning that it had been awkwardly taken when he'd spent the night. Quite strange indeed. Though, considering that the picture he had chosen for the other boy was the somewhat cute (in a child-like way, of course) one of him in his glasses, he couldn't blame the boy for finding a somewhat-embarrassing picture of him. Still, a tiny part of him was still a little creeped out that Noah had taken a picture of him sleeping. They would have to have a little discussion about that. As soon as he tracked him down.

It was actually both easier and harder than he'd imagined to find his address. He'd expected to spend hours with a phonebook, but, instead, he'd gotten the rather brilliant idea to find his address with facebook, though he felt a little stupid for not thinking of it earlier. Fifteen minutes later, he was parked outside Noah's house and humming contentedly. It was a little smaller than he'd imagined and not on the wealthiest side of town, but it looked thoroughly middle-class. The only car in the driveway was the football player's, so he walked up and knocked without any hesitation. When Noah answered, he looked a bit surprised.

"Hey, Noah. I tried to text you, but I found your phone in my bathroom." He handed it to him, making sure to look a little annoyed and prissy so that he wouldn't notice that he'd just used his first name.

"Oh. Thanks. I've been looking for that. Do you wanna come in?"

"Sure." He went inside, noticing the small, familial living room. "So, Queen Mab, huh? Going to explain that one?"

"We were reading Romeo and Juliet in English when you texted me. I guess I was trying to be clever; I thought the fairy midwife was a little more fitting, what with Quinn and all."

"...And my masculinity takes another blow. But that's fine. I thought we were going to have an awkward situation."

"Why?"

"Well, I thought it might be a reference to the whole Mercutio-being-in-love-with-Romeo thing, since that whole scene was rather flirtatious. I thought you might think, like most homophobes, that since I like boys, I would have to like every boy I saw, including you. Well, specifically you. Which would be stupid, in case you were wondering."

Noah stared at him for a second. "Don't you like Finn?" Kurt froze. Finn. He hadn't thought about Finn more than in passing in what felt like ages. Obviously, the whole thing with Quinn having her baby had distracted him, since he was very much entirely in love with him. Finn was as much a part of him as his impeccable taste. He was impossible to forget, or should be.

"Yeah. That's right. I do. A lot."

"Then obviously I wouldn't think you had the hots for me. I'm not that stupid." There was a long awkward silence.

"Right. So, I think I left my backpack at my house. I just realized that. I'm going to go get it." He hoped that his excuse to leave didn't sound as awkward as he felt.

"Whatever. After that, you wanna come back here and play video games for a little while?"

"Yeah. Sounds great." It wasn't until Kurt had gotten to his car that he realized that he didn't play video games at all. And that his backpack was on the passenger seat. He went home anyway; he needed to talk to his mom.

In his dad's room, he felt a strange sort of pity. It really was a little sad that after ten years, his mother's dresser was still standing against one wall, exactly as she'd left it, and all of her clothes were still in the closet as if she'd just gone to the store. However, he was glad that those things, those solid memories, at least allowed him to imagine her when he needed to. He sat in front of her dresser the way he used to when he was a child and pulled open a drawer. Face pressed to her blouses, he let the image of his mother fill his closed eyes.

She was always young when he imagined her, and sort of glowing. He supposed it was because she was always more of a feeling than anything else. To him, she was pure love, complete unconditional acceptance in anything he did. She was who he went to in sixth grade when he realized that it wasn't normal that to him, girls still had cooties—but boys sure didn't—and in seventh grade when he had his first real crush, a genuinely nice boy who moved away that year, and he thought his life had ended. She was the one he went to when he realized that people sort of hated him, and the first time Noah Puckerman (or anyone for that matter) actually did something about it. He went to her when he first met Finn and found someone who would defend him, then when he found out Quinn was pregnant with Finn's baby, before he knew it was a lie. Every time he went to her, his mother offered not necessarily advice, but real love. A guarantee that whatever he did, he was worth something.

But now, he was confused. It'd been a while since he'd talked to her, and a lot had happened since then. Finn wasn't a father, Finn was dating Rachel, Quinn sort of moved in, and then there was the curious case of Noah Puckerman. The first time he'd ever told her about him, he'd been in tears, astounded that someone could hate him so much for something he had no control over, something that seemed totally natural to him. Now, he just didn't know what to think. If there was one thing he didn't know how to handle, it was Noah being nice to him. At first, the idea was nothing more than a shadow of a thought, but the whole incident with the dumpster solidified it. A person doesn't get himself thrown into a dumpster for someone they hate. That just didn't make sense. The problem was, he didn't know how to deal with the idea of a friendship with the first person who ever pushed him around or made fun of him for being gay. The whole scenario was simply uncomfortable.

His mother, wispy brown hair floating around her face and somehow glowing from the inside, smiled at him. "Give the boy a chance," she said, her voice resonating in his mind. "Maybe he changed his mind."

"Why should I trust him? Why should I let him be my friend?" She gave him a warm smile for an answer. "Do I still love Finn?"

There was no answer, just warmth. He laid on the carpet, pondering. Did he love him? He didn't think about him like he used to, or stare at him anymore, though that could just be simple distraction. But he still wanted him. He wanted that sort of benevolent presence in his life, someone to stand up for him even if he didn't have to. Perhaps, maybe, someone not quite so tall. He felt short enough already (though 5' 8" was a perfectly average height for a teenage boy, he kept telling himself), but he didn't need a six-and-a-half foot tall boyfriend to make him look like a twelve-year-old girl in comparison. And maybe someone with more IQ points than their (failing) grade in math would be nice. And, well, an attraction to boys wouldn't be so bad either. Which basically meant that he would die single if he never left Lima.

He closed the drawers, erasing any indication that he'd been there. He would let his father believe that he was the only one who still talked to her because that was how it always was. His house felt oppressively empty now that she was gone again. It was enough to push him back out of the door and to the waiting house of the Puckermans. Noah answered the door looking like he wasn't angry, which, for some reason, made him seem uncomfortable. It was a sad statement on their relationship thus far that a not-angry Noah was something to be concerned about.

"Hey. Come on upstairs," he said simply, and Kurt followed. In a couple minutes, he was sitting against Puck's bed with a game controller in his hands and suddenly, all pressure for actual social interaction was erased. They played some horrific game that involved walking around as a pimp, stealing cars, beating up random people on the street, and slapping hoes. It wasn't the sort of thing Kurt enjoyed, but he had fun dressing his pimp in the most outrageously flamboyant outfit he could. It definitely explained a lot about Noah's attitude towards just about everything though. He would have to agree with anyone who said that violence in video games led to violent behavior later on.

After about an hour, Kurt felt like it was safe to ask something that had been bothering him. "So, you remember back in junior high when you told everyone you saw me checking out other boys in the locker rooms? How did you see that?"

"What the hell? That's got to be the most random thing anyone's ever asked me in my life." Kurt held his questioning look steady. "Let me answer that with another question: have you ever worn something remotely heterosexual in your life?" Kurt was shocked.

"Ouch. I'm not even sure why I'm offended by that. But it's not like I purposely find the 'gayest' clothes I own to wear each day." His character in the game started beating up a gangbanger with a broken stop sign.

"But considering that I've seen you wear a skirt to school, I think we can agree that anyone would know that you're gay. So there."

"Touché." There was a long, papery silence. He could hear the edges crinkling around them, fragile and somehow new.

"So, it's not like I'm getting into your whole queer-musical thing, but I found this musical online when I was looking at something for Spring Awakening. It's called Bare: A Pop Opera. Have you heard of it?"

Kurt laughed. "Yeah, nice try with the 'not-gay' thing. Bare wins first place at the gay pageant. Or at least wins second-runner-up, just behind Rent and Zanna, Don't!. Why? You think you're the next Jason?" Considering the whole accidental-impregnation thing and the boy's egotistical fascination with himself as the leading man in everything, it was possible.

"No! I'm not gay. I just like some of the music. And it has a rave. That's pretty sweet. If I had to be in a musical, it would have to have a rave."

"I really have nothing to say to that."

"It's because I'm too studly." He beat up a slightly anorexic-looking crack whore. "Do you watch any movies?"

"Movies? Not really. Not anything recent, unless you count High School Musical, and that was only because I was young and impressionable and thought they based the character of Sharpay's brother off me."

"I don't know what that means. But my mom's getting into one of her weird moods where all she wants to do is bitch at me about not having a girlfriend, more specifically, a Jewish girl who'll have a bunch of Jew babies, and lay on the couch watching The Boy In the Striped Pajamas and Schindler's List. I think it's one of those faith-crisis things, but it's sorta freaking me out. The other day, she told my sister that she was going to set her up with a rabbi. I think she was drunk, but still. My sister's twelve. But anyway, she's sorta thrown every movie that doesn't have a Jewish theme into the garbage disposal and I need movies. All I've got is porn, and that gets old after a while. I just need to watch a real movie. At someone else's house, so my mom doesn't burn it 'like our brethren in Auschwitz'."

"Fine. But I'm picking the movie." He could see from Noah's expression that he was regretting it already. Distraction was needed. "Let's get some lunch."

"What? You eat? I thought you were manorexic." Kurt was genuinely pissed off by that assumption.

"What are you talking about? Just because I like men and dress well doesn't mean I don't eat. I have a healthy body weight and I'm not some insecure little girl. Sure, I like that I'm willowy, but that doesn't mean I have an eating disorder."

"Oh. I just thought you were really skinny and didn't eat. I don't think I've ever seen you eat more than a couple of bites of Chinese."

"I know you're just jealous of my girlish figure."

"Yeah. Right. Like someone with these guns would want to a have your little ballerina body." He rolled his eyes. "I'm a sexy badass; you're the one who should be jealous." Kurt raised an eyebrow, but took a quick second to look at the "guns". Yeah, he was a little jealous; he'd never have muscle definition like that. And, well, they were nice. Which, really, he couldn't help. He could, however, ignore it. Because the best way to screw up a possible friendship with a straight guy was to become attracted to him. That just never ended well, from what he'd read and the whole thing with Finn. So he wasn't even going to consider the possibility, which was easier than it sounded, since, well, it was Noah, who was also Puck, who was a jackass and a homophobe.

"I would never give up my ability to fit into a size four dress. Not that I actually wear dresses. But it's useful, if one's in the theater business. I'll be able to play women and young boys for as long as I stay skinny. Since that's basically all I can sing, it works out pretty well."

"Wait, are you planning on going Broadway after high school?" Noah's voice was strangely quiet.

"Well, yeah," he said, annoyed because it was the most obvious thing in the world. "What else would I do? I mean, there is fashion design, but that business is full of bitchy people, and I'm more than enough diva for myself to handle."

"Oh. Right. So. Lunch."

"Yes. I was thinking we could go grab burgers or something. We have enough time to be back at school by the end of lunch." Noah agreed, and they met at a burger joint near the school. Kurt felt a strange mixture of amusement and anger when the jock made fun of him for eating with his pinkies extended and eating a ridiculously manly burger (which was really just a way to spite him). When they got back to school and went their separate ways, Kurt felt somewhat normal for reasons he couldn't explain.

After school, however, several problems arose. Specifically, there were five of them and they were about two hundred pounds each. Kurt knew them as the fuckers who liked to beat him up after practice. Noah knew them as the idiots he thought he was friends with. They definitely weren't being friendly then, however.

"So, fags. We were thinking about giving you a little 'coming-out' present. Because we're just so happy for you."

"No!" Noah defended. "Hummel and I are not dating. Or anything." A little piece of Kurt shriveled up and ran away when he heard that. Obviously, he had no illusions about their friendship being anything more (he really wasn't stupid or interested), but he thought he could at least simply call them friends after that morning, at least. And deserved to be called by his first name. Apparently not.

"Aw. You're going to make your little boyfriend think you don't love him. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Karofsky sneered. That was when Noah did a stupid thing. A very stupid thing.

He fought back.

His first punch landed on the bigger jock's jaw squarely, but it sent the other four leaping at him. Kurt watched, shell-shocked, as Noah disappeared in a mass of flying fists and gay slurs. The sickening sound of each blow landing, amplified by his fear, echoed in his ears. His mind kept repeating one sentence: it's all my fault. Ignoring his cardinal rule when it came to dealing with the jocks, he pushed himself into the foray, punching and kicking blindly until he felt blows meeting him. It wasn't long before he simply gave up and allowed the assault to rain down on him. His eyes were squeezed shut in an effort to distance himself from what was going on around him, but he sill felt every punch, kick, elbow, and knee sharply. He sensed Noah go down near him which only made it worse; it would take a lot to make him go down. There was no chance that they'd escape intact. It was all his fault. He'd dragged Noah into realizing that he was an asshole and reforming, to an extent. Now Noah was getting beat up and it was his fault. He might as well have been the one throwing the punches.

"Hey! What's going on over there!" An adult male voice startled their attackers, who immediately ceased their assault. Kurt heard curses as they scattered. A minute later, a gentle hand was on his back. "Kurt? Puck? Are you guys okay? Do you know who attacked you?" asked the soft voice of Mr. Schu.

"No," he whimpered, ashamed of how small he felt.

"Come on. Let me take you two to the hospital."

"No, we're fine-" He stopped short when he looked up and saw Noah's face. And promptly passed out.

When he came to, he wasn't in the mood to move. Or even open his eyes. He let the smooth, melodic tones of Noah's voice wash over him, then cursed in his head when a high, nasal voice stopped the musical flow of sound. A second or two later, he started to actually comprehend what was being said.

"...You shouldn't be going home yet. You've got two fractured ribs, thirteen stitches and a concussion, not to mention possible bruised bones in your jaw, forearms, knuckles, and collarbone, and your friend hasn't even woken up yet. I'm not signing you out to leave yet. Not without a guardian's signature."

"Come on. Mr. Schuester can sign for us. He checked us in. I don't think he's left yet. And he's our teacher. He sees us more than our parents do." A long pause.

"Fine. But you still can't leave until the kid wakes up. We need to do a few tests on him when he comes to. I'll have a nurse bring you some aspirin. And keep your ribs wrapped up for at least two weeks."

"Thanks, doc." The doctor muttered something about a lack of respect, and Kurt heard his footsteps recede. "This is all my fault," Noah whispered. Kurt felt a hand smooth his hair gently and thought it was time to "wake up" before anything got weird. He made a little groan and moved a tiny bit.

He breathed, "Meh. Where are we?" He cracked his eyes open one at a time. Noah's face looked a lot better than it had when he was last conscious; the blood had been washed away so he could actually discern his features.

"The hospital, you booger."

"Booger? I don't think I've been called a booger since I was in the first grade."

"Yeah, well. That's what you get." Noah didn't meet his eyes.

"So, are we going home soon? Wait, how did we get here?"

"Schu drove us in his car. And he better give us a ride back to the school when they let us go free. Which should be in about ten or fifteen minutes. I think they wanna check if you have a concussion or something. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I feel fine. A few bruises and scrapes, not much worse than anything before. You, however, look like a baby put through a blender. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Nothing hurts or anything, so it just looks worse than it is, and the doctor said there wasn't anything wrong with me. I am a little creeped out that you just compared me to a dead baby, but whatever." From what he heard earlier, Kurt knew he was lying. The question was why? A second later, a nurse came in with a small plastic cup of pills and a glass of water for Noah, who swallowed them quickly.

"Well, then," she said. "I'll just be telling the doctor you're awake." She left and Noah fidgeted on the exam table, crinkling the paper loudly.

"I assumed you didn't want anyone to know about this, so I told Schu I called your dad, but I didn't. I still think you should tell him or the principal about this, though. It's not right for them to be beating you up like that."

"Beating me up? You're the one they turned on! You really look terrible." Kurt surveyed the stitched, split eyebrow, black eye, remnants of a drop of blood at the base of his nostril, busted lip, and various bruises on his face, including a particularly nasty looking one on his jaw. The sight filled him with a nearly-suffocating wave of guilt. That was what happened when he tried to be friends with people. Pain and suffering and lies. He was like a magnet for suffering.

"Really, I'm fine. Do you think I could come over to your house, though? You've probably got some sort of makeup or something; my mom will freak if she thinks I've been getting into fights again." He considered it. Sure, prolonged exposure to the virtual black hole of his presence would only be worse for Noah in the long run, but he felt like he at least needed to do that for him.

"Yeah. It's cool. My dad likes you." He pushed his hair back off his forehead. "If you want, you can make brownies with me."

Noah's eyes lit up. "Pot brownies?" He rolled his eyes.

"No. Normal chocolate brownies. It's sort of a ritual I guess. If I have a bad day at school, I like to make brownies."

"You make chocolate desserts when people beat you up?" Kurt was a little amused that he could be that transparent.

"You could say that. I just like something warm and chocolaty to cheer me up."

"Not afraid it'll go to your hips?"

"Oh, please. My metabolism's fast enough for me to eat nothing but greasy burritos and pizza without gaining an ounce. And even if I would become obese from just one brownie, I'd eat a whole pan. So there."

"Fat ass," he snorted, but wore a little grin.

"Jerk." The doctor came in then, and shone a light in Kurt's eyes, made him follow his finger and squeeze his hands. Schu came into the little exam room in the middle of the ordeal and leaned against the wall, watching carefully. When the doctor decided that he was alive and healthy, despite a few bruises and cuts and what proved to be a barely-sprained wrist, Schu took Kurt and Noah back to his car. Kurt was a little pissed that he had to climb in the back, but it beat walking. Once they were about halfway back to the school, Schu began talking.

"I need you guys to tell me who did this. I don't care about any code of silence or whatever it is you want to call it. I was a kid once too, and we did the same thing. But this isn't a slushie to the face; this is violence. I'm not going to allow you to let them get away with it. Tell me who did this. I won't say that it was you who told me; I'll tell Principal Figgins that I saw them myself."

"And get attacked by twice as many of them tomorrow? I don't think so," Kurt said, shaking his head. "I know you're just trying to help, but it's really not necessary. We're fine. As long as we don't provoke them, we'll be fine."

"Oh, and what did you do to provoke them today, huh, Kurt?" he spat. "People like this, people who hurt others just because they can and they want to, don't deserve your fear or your mercy."

"I know. But… I don't want my dad to be worried. It's not so bad and he's got enough to worry about. He shouldn't have to suffer because of what I am." Kurt stared out of the window. He saw Noah staring at him in the rearview mirror and averted his eyes.

"What you are? What you are is a teenage boy, a talented singer, and the only person I know of who's brave enough to make the football team dance on the field to a Beyoncé song. You're perfectly normal, at worst, and at best, a miracle worker. It's not your fault that some people are assholes, if you'll excuse my language."

Noah snorted. "Schu, I know you're trying to help, but we're fine. He knows he's amazing. Let him be the better man and not tell on anyone. He's fine. No one really got hurt, so it doesn't matter," he said quietly. "It'll be better for everyone in the long run."

"Really, Puck? Do you really believe that? We're a team. You could at least try to do what's right for your fellow Glee Club member. This can't be the first time it's happened. You must have known about it. I know you care at least a little bit. Do what's right and think about someone other than yourself for once."

"Oh, look, we're here," Kurt said cheerily to change the subject. "Thanks for the ride, Mr. Schu. Good talk!" He burst out of the car as quickly as could be considered casual, throwing a wave over his shoulder. He didn't look back until he was in his car, beating his head against the steering wheel. It was all his fault. He was a walking plague. All he did was get people hurt and, best case scenario, get them bitched at. It wasn't like Noah was a target before he came along. It was getting dangerous, and that wasn't okay. He could tell that Noah wanted nothing more than to get away from him, and he probably should. He'd drawn enough of the people he cared about into his whirlpool to drown, and Noah wasn't going to be another. Tonight, he'd tell him to go. For good.

A little dark, I know, but the next chapter's got some fluff...