Title: It's An Art (And We're Artists)
Warning: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

Things you need to know:
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.


The dumpster was only half-full that morning when Kurt was tossed in, so he landed a little harder than he had the day before. He winced as he hauled himself out, horrified when his jeans caught on the edge enough to rip a coin-sized hole in the thigh.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself as he searched for his bag. He was sorely tempted to break a few of his own rules and show those sixteen year old apes how much damage an aluminium bat could do when wielded by a suitably pissed off adult. Fantasies of getting Puck to scare the crap out of those schoolyard bullies danced behind his eyes when he saw where his bag was – tossed into a tree too high up for him to reach. It would be so easy, so very tantalisingly easy...

"God damn it," Kurt cursed, feeling pathetic as he stood on tiptoes to try and reach the leather satchel.

"Kurt?" A pleasant voice piped up behind him.

Kurt turned, cheeks flushed in righteous anger, and floundered when he saw who was standing there. Thermos of coffee in hand, standing by a beat up blue car that looked less than road worthy.

"Mr. Schuester," Kurt breathed. He crossed his arms self-consciously, as if it were uncomfortable to be caught in a moment of height-related weakness. "I was just... I mean..." He gave the other man his best helpless look, wondering if it would have any effect. "I can't get my bag down."

The Spanish teacher looked back at him, expression indecipherable. After a moment or two he stepped forward. "Let me get that for you," he said awkwardly, taking Kurt's satchel down from the tree. "There you go."

"Thankyou." Kurt took the bag from him, fingers wrapping tight around the strap before he slung it over his shoulder. "I'm used to it, you know," he blurted, and blushed.

"Used to what?" Mr. Schuester had an odd, uneasy look on his face – like he knew the answer already but didn't want to.

Kurt dropped his gaze to the ground briefly then raised up again to the other man's face. "To having my things put in trees. To having no friends. You don't have to feel sorry for me. When you're different..." he smiled sadly. "Well, sometimes that's just the way things are."

"Kurt, I..." Mr. Schuester stopped, then suggested; "Have you thought about speaking to Ms. Pillsbury?"

"The guidance counsellor?" Yes, excellent suggestion, he thought sarcastically. Kurt was pretty sure that even a bullied gay teen would find the idea ridiculous. He shifted his grip on his bag and blinked guilelessly up at the other man. "Why?"

"Maybe you'd like somebody to talk to."

Kurt paused, taking the time to turn the idea over in his head. Here was presented an opportunity. "Thankyou," he said eventually.

Mr. Schuester smiled. "For what?"

Kurt smiled back, making it look shy and sad. "For noticing. For seeming like you care. That kind of thing, it means a lot to some people."

He left it at that and quickly headed inside to get to his locker before school started. Problem number two struck in the form of a small, foot-tapping brunette standing in front of his locker. Kurt raised his eyebrow at the blue ducks on her sweater, he suppressed the urge to laugh.

"Can I help you?" he asked instead.

"Yes," the brunette stated. "As a matter of fact you can. You can stop Mr. Ryerson from dedicating entire sessions of glee club to your sub-par 'soprano' and maybe, just maybe, give someone else the spotlight for a change. Someone who deserves it. Me. Rachel Berry."

Kurt had a lot of experience in reading people. He didn't know whether to be amused or alarmed that she was. "Excuse me?" He asked, genuinely bemused. "I've only been to one meeting."

"Yes, and that was one meeting too many. It was already hard enough for me to get word in edgewise with [Blah] taking every single solo and now that you've come along I may as well not exist!"

"Have you tried being a man?" Kurt suggested mock-innocently.

Rachel glared at him. "I don't appreciate that kind of gender-based discrimination or the implication that men are somehow more desirable as performers."

"Clearly they are to Mr. Ryerson. I'm not your problem, Rachel." Kurt sighed. "And if you don't understand that then that's still not my problem."

"Don't think this is over," Rachel said, then turned on her heel and stomped off down the hallway.

With a bit of practice and a little less melodrama that girl would make a good actress, Kurt thought. He considered her for a moment before dismissing her. Miss Berry was nothing he had to worry about.

.


.

Puck showed up to his first day of work five minutes late and with his shirt already off. He parked the corolla in front of the driveway on purpose, boxing in the cars already there. He also left it unlocked to test the neighbourhood . He got out of the car and stood beside the open door for a minute while he got ready – which basically just meant grabbing gardening gloves from the passenger seat and choosing a soundtrack of British punk. IPods were a wonderful invention. It was as if they were specifically designed to give you an excuse not to listen to people.

Puck tended to find he got his best results if he was a jerk. Women took one look at him and expected it anyway.

He kicked the car door closed and sashayed across the garden, completely ignoring the 'keep off the grass' sign. He was waiting to get noticed, and in the meantime he might as well scope out the current state of the front garden beds. Mostly neat, a little overgrown and in need of weeding. Someone desperately needed to mow the lawns too. Puck was half way to the front door when he heard someone barking at him and looked up to see Sue standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.

"What?" He asked pointedly. "Can't hear you."

"You're late!"

"What?" Puck asked again, just to piss her off. He reached up and took out one of the ear buds from his ears, Orgasm Addict by the Buzzcocks free to blast tinny and small from the tiny speaker. "I didn't catch that on account of being not interested. Where's your mower?"

He watched, privately amused by the shade of red that rose up on Sue's cheeks at being spoken to with such derision. "Listen up you sad, sorry excuse for an itinerant worker, I am not paying you to stand around listening to music. Now this may come as a shock to you, with all of your notions of America being the land of the free ride and social security, but I am actually paying you to work. That means you get here on time when I ask you to and you don't talk back to me. Understand?" She paused, waiting for his nod. "Mower's in the garage. You can get it yourself."

Puck nodded again and turned to walk towards the garage. "We still haven't talked about payment yet," he called back over his shoulder, smirking as he waited for a response.

The front door slammed shut. When he looked back Sue was nowhere to be seen.

.


.

Kurt discreetly made himself an appointment with the guidance officer to take place during that day's Spanish lesson. He didn't tell Mr. Schuester, trusting that the appointment would get back to him one way or another whether it was from Ms. Pillsbury herself or the note she'd have to write excusing his absence. He waited out his other lessons patiently, acting no different than he had any other day and answering questions when singled out without actively attempting to get noticed. The subject matter was all the same. Kurt was possibly the only man his age he knew who still remembered everything he'd been taught in high school. The curriculum had hardly changed in the years since he'd graduated.

When it came time to go to Spanish he instead made his way to his locker and put away his books. He took the time to adjust his hair in the cheap plastic-framed mirror he'd hung on the inside, fussing with his shirt collar until there were no other students left in the hall. He knew better than to be caught walking into the school counsellor's office. At least not willingly. The act tended to afford you some respect if you were being sent there because you were in trouble.

He rapped on the open door with his knuckles, peering inside with a timid look on his face. Like he'd never done this before. Like he'd never seen the inside of a psychiatrist's office before and a school counsellor was someone that might make him genuinely nervous.

"Ms. Pillsbury? I'm Kurt Hummel."

The woman sitting behind the desk in the office was small, pale, and redheaded. Possibly the most unthreatening woman Kurt had ever seen. She looked up with naturally wide, kind eyes and smiled at him. "Yes, please come in Kurt. Um. Have a seat."

Kurt stepped into the obsessively tidy little office and shut the door behind him. He looked around as he crossed the room, noting the stacks of pamphlets and helpful little posters on the wall (some of them looked like they'd been around since the school had first opened). He sat down in the chair opposite Ms. Pillsbury's desk and delicately crossed his legs. "Well," he began, nervously reaching up to touch his hair. "Well, I'm not sure where to start. I've never really... talked to anyone before."

Ms. Pillsbury smiled reassuringly, her hands folded together on top of her desk. "Why don't you just start wherever you like and go from there? We don't have to talk about anything you're not comfortable about."

Kurt gave a nervous smile in return. "I'm not comfortable about a lot of things."

"Well we don't have to talk about those," Ms. Pillsbury told him. "Why don't we... talk about how you're settling in here? You're a new student aren't you? How are you finding McKinley High?"

"It's a lot different," Kurt stated, even truthfully, "than the other schools I've been to. I've been to quite a few schools, we move around a lot and sometimes I don't get the chance to settle in at all."

"Do you find that hard?" The counsellor asked, genuine sympathy in her tone. "Maybe hard to make friends?"

"Kids at school... Kids don't like me," Kurt said eventually, recrossing his legs. "I'm far too smart to fit in, I'm interested in things they don't think are cool. I'm also obviously very gay which is, well, downright terrifying for a lot of people." He laughed nervously. "Musicals and high fashion don't make you too many friends, if you know what I mean."

Ms. Pillsbury was frowning. "You feel like the other kids don't like you?"

"Oh no," Kurt shook his head. "I know they don't like me. They've made that very clear by throwing me in dumpsters and taking my things. Yesterday someone actually threw a slushie at me."

"Oh dear."

"I guess it's not a big deal, you know. I'm not even that angry about it. I just wish..." Kurt bit his bottom lip briefly, hard enough to make his eyes water convincingly without needing to take the time to think about dead puppies and missed birthdays. "I wish I could actually find a real friend. Or just someone to sit with at lunch, someone who wouldn't make fun of me." He reached up and delicately swiped the tears from his eyes, sniffed, and took a breath or two to compose himself. "I've almost given up on that. College will be better. Everyone says so anyway. I guess I can hold on until then."

"Have you thought about joining some clubs?" Ms Pillsbury asked, glancing at a list on the wall that clearly labelled all available activities. "Maybe if you join a group that shares some of the same interests you'd find that you make friends without really trying. We have an art club, and a drama club..."

"I already joined the glee club," Kurt interrupted. "But there are only two other members and I know at least one of them is threatened by my voice. Mr. Ryerson is ok though... A little strange, but he seems to know his show tunes."

At that, just as he expected, Ms. Pillsbury pursed her lips and frowned a little. She didn't like that, not one bit. If he'd actually needed confirmation that Ryerson was the easiest mark in McKinley he'd just got it. Kurt kept the smirk from his face and waited for the guidance counsellor to say something. "Perhaps," she started, "you could join the Spanish club. I noticed in your file that you're very good with languages. I'm sure Mr. Schuester would be glad to have you."

"I don't know..." Kurt started, baiting to see whether that was just a throwaway reassurance.

"I can speak to Will about it myself," Ms. Pillsbury offered. "Would you be more comfortable with that instead of talking to him yourself?"

It was a ploy to get him a better male role model than Mr. Ryerson and Kurt could see right through it, but Ms. Pillsbury had also given away something else; She was familiar enough with Mr. Schuester to accidentally call him by his first name in front of a student. That meant there was a very real probability that she'd talk to him about Kurt coming to see her. If she spoke to Mr. Schue herself then Kurt wouldn't have to, he could just sit back and see whether the other man had the kind of exploitable need to help people that he was looking for.

"Ok," he said finally. "I wouldn't mind getting in a little more practice."

"That's great." Ms. Pillsbury smiled at him again. "I'm sure we'll have you making friends in no time. Maybe you could even tutor some of the other kids."

Or somehow weasel his way into advanced lessons and private tutoring. Kurt smiled. "Thanks Ms. Pillsbury."

.


.

Puck was half way through mowing the front lawn when Sue reappeared, this time from a side door and headed towards her car. Judging from the clipboard under one arm and the travel-cup in the other he'd guess she was going to work. He kept on mowing in straight lines, listening out with one ear for the yelling that was bound to happen when she noticed that he'd boxed her in with his car.

With his back to her he didn't see her coming until he was whacked over the back of his head with her clipboard. "Jesus, lady!" he exclaimed, turning around and glaring at her. "What was that for?"

He knew damn well what that was for.

The way Sue narrowed her eyes told him that she knew that he knew it. "You have two minutes to move that piece of duct tape and twine you call a car before I get into my range rover and drive right over it, squashing it into a pancake more roadworthy than it is now. And make no mistake, it will be squashed."

Puck turned his back on her and cut the motor, muttering curses under his breath that he'd learned from Kurt and not his supposedly-Latino heritage. He loped his way across the yard to the corolla and made a show of getting in to move it. He backed the car up the two metres it took to clear the driveway, then got out and spread his arms wide as if asking if she were happy.

The only answer he got was Sue's range rover revving its engine obnoxiously as she backed out of her driveway and the slight screech of its tyres as she sped away.