Preparing for another day in Hell.
But first, Finn had to wait for Puck to get done not-boning-Rachel, so he could give Finn a ride to work.
He waited outside the auditorium door, preferring that to actually going inside and having to see it.
Or, rather, see him.
But, god, could he hear him. And, god, was Kurt Hummel laying waste to those songs. In a good way. In SUCH a good way.
Goddammit.
And was he surprised to learn that withdrawal from Kurt Hummel was worse than withdrawal from Vitamin D?
Not remotely.
And was he surprised at that very moment, to learn that all it took was hearing that insane voice, at times husky and masculine, at other times lilting and feminine, to give him an adrenaline rush like the kind he got on the football field on those rarest of times when the team did something right?
Nope.
And did he expect to be able to concentrate on his stupid damn job that night for any amount of time before his mind wandered back to what he was hearing right now?
Not a chance.
God, he had to see him. He had to see him.
It was driving him insane. He was driving him insane.
The night before, when Finn had finally gotten home, Kurt had been asleep; the room dark. He had collapsed on his bed in utter exhaustion, ready to sleep the soundest sleep he'd had in weeks.
Instead, he found his thoughts returning to that damn voice. And the things he had said to add such an edge to it. He hadn't slept a wink, but had kept perfectly still. Maybe if he kept perfectly still, he wouldn't scream.
Now, did that edge come out in Kurt's singing? He put his ear against the door, but couldn't tell.
He opened the door a crack. An echoing, resounding wall of sound launched itself at his psyche. Yeah, that damn voice again.
Fuck him, for having so much power, Finn thought as he stepped through the door.
He was just waiting for Puck, after all. Just waiting for Puck.
It wasn't a dress rehearsal or anything. Everyone was just in their plain clothes, but it didn't matter. He walked into that auditorium, and he knew that up on that stage, they were as engrossed in the story and the atmosphere and everything that came with it as he had been, back before he ruined everything.
Though, as he watched them up there, he did find some consolation in the realization that he had only ruined everything inside his own mind. Because out there, everything was just as it should have been. It was absolutely perfect.
"Dude," Puck was saying, from out in the hallway, "Where the hell you been? We gotta get our asses to work."
"I know," Finn said.
He was not going to cry, goddammit. He was not going to stand there in the auditorium watching what really still only amounted to a bunch of teenage losers putting on some crappy play, and cry about it. He just wasn't.
"I know," Finn repeated. "Let's go."
As the door closed behind him, he wanted to throw up.
Tina, to her credit, was doing one hell of a job learning the steps and the lyrics. But there was one thing she couldn't fake, Kurt realized as he sat back and watched her, and that was the enthusiasm. When Tina sang the songs, that was all she was doing. Singing. When she danced the steps, all she did was dance. She needed to perform. He stopped her for the fourth time, and was met with irritated glares from the entire cast, save for Tina, who just looked humiliated, and Rachel, who looked relieved. She had obviously wanted to say something, too.
"Tina, honey," Kurt said impatiently, "You're so much more talented than this! You can do anything! Come on, feel it! Really feel it!"
"I know. I know," she said.
"Feel it!"
She started again. "Cell Block Tango". They had had to cut most of the other girls' lines from the song, and censor the choreography and costumes, because Principal Figgins had refused to let them do an entire number with girls (and Kurt) writhing about in their underwear singing about the ways in which they had murdered their men.
The play was going to be a disaster, it really was. But at the very least, they could do the best they could with what little they had.
Tina's lines had been cut down to a calm, innocent explanation of how she had most definitely not murdered her sister and husband, but oh, god, where was the nuance? The indignation?
The anger!
"Stop!" Kurt yelled. "Tina! Stop! God-"
"That sounded fine," Quinn said, raising an eyebrow. She had been assigned a dual role of Katalin Helinski for this number, in which she had no lines, and basically just stood there and looked pretty. And twirled a lot.
"It did not sound fine!" Kurt cried. "Tina, you're innocent, but you're really not, okay? That son of a bitch did you wrong! He broke your heart! He destroyed you! You are angry at him! Okay? ANGRY!"
"Well, god, Kurt, I'm sorry!" Tina snapped. "I guess I just can't be as angry as you!"
"Yes! Like that! Only with more rage!"
"Guys, let's take five," Rachel said, stepping into her de facto role as assistant director. "Okay?"
She locked her eyes on Kurt.
"Okay?" she repeated.
"Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Fine."
"Damn, Kurt, calm down," Mercedes said, approaching him carefully.
Kurt realized that he was panting, sweaty and scarlet-faced. He hobbled over to the edge of the stage and sat down. Mercedes followed him.
"Kurt, baby, Tina's doing the best she can. She's not used to all this drama. Literally."
Kurt shook his head.
"I'm... sorry."
"I wish you'd just tell me what the hell happened with you and Finn. I know that's what all this is about."
"It's not a big deal. I just… really want this play to be decent."
Mercedes scoffed.
"It's really not a big deal," Kurt said.
"I can tell. You know he's not worth all this bullshit. You know that."
He looked at her.
All of a sudden, he couldn't wait for that party. At least he figured that would take his mind off Finn Hudson.
The entire ride to the party, which apparently had been scheduled to begin literally just as soon as Brittany and Santana arrived, a la Ke$ha, was one long awkward avoiding-eye-contact-with-brittany-while-keeping-eyes-on-the-road-fest for Kurt, who had been appointed to be the girls' designated driver/chauffeur. "Yeah. Turn up here," Santana said. She had appointed herself to the position of giving sketchy and occasionally inaccurate directions from her spot in the backseat.
"Which way, Santana?" Kurt asked irritably.
"Left."
"Are you sure?"
She didn't answer, and he sighed loudly and turned left.
Brittany, meanwhile, spent most of the trip on the phone, occasionally with Santana, who had to remind her on more than one occasion that she was right there in the backseat. The rest of the time, Brittany was apparently talking to her cat. On the phone. Somehow.
"Yeah, it's this third house," Santana said, pointing at a yellow house with several cars already parked in front of it.
"Not to be a spoil-sport, but who all is going to be at this party?" Kurt asked.
"The cool people," Santana said simply.
"Will I know anybody?" Kurt asked dully.
"No."
Well, at least she was honest.
Santana, as it turned out, had been absolutely wrong. Kurt did indeed know quite a few of the partygoers. He recognized one of the guys who had been there that time that Finn, Puck and their Neanderthal former friends had smeared Kurt's front door with peanut butter. There were a few buffoons from the hockey team, all of Kurt's least favorite fellow Cheerios, and a few other people who he couldn't even bring himself to remember, but he knew were insufferable assholes.
"This might not be such a good idea," he whispered to Brittany. "I have a list at home, of people whose good names I intend to destroy as soon as I make it big. Most of the people here are on it."
"Just stick with me," Brittany said with a reassuring smile. "You'll be fine."
And Brittany, showing the mark of a good semi-hostess, spent most of the evening at his side, and took great pride in introducing him to everyone as her "squishy boy".
And with Brittany's approval, Kurt could feel the walls that had forever separated him from the cool people being torn down. The Neanderthal with the peanut butter had even shot Kurt an approving "Damn" after Brittany had told said Neanderthal about their make out session.
Kurt felt like a celebrity. Like... Jodie Foster. Which made Brittany a much more polite and slightly more mentally stable John Hinckley.
He tried to tell her that at one point, but her answer had been something about bingo.
Still, it wasn't bad. It really wasn't. And he was grateful to Brittany, and somewhat in awe of her social prowess. She got to fulfill her own deluded fantasies of being Kurt's fuckbuddy, and boost him up the social ladder at the same time.
In true Chicago fashion, she boosted him up his ladder, kid, and he boosted her up hers.
And it could have been absolutely perfect.
She prepared to sit him down on the tackiest sofa he'd ever seen, let alone had ever sat on.
"Oh, god, Brittany, wait," Kurt said, reaching into his pocket, where he had stashed a pack of Kleenex. He pulled out three, neatly lay them on the cushion, and gingerly sat down.
"There's no telling what's gone on on this sofa," he said by way of explanation.
"You're so funny, Kurt," she said. "I'll be right back."
Within another minute, she returned with two overflowing, mismatched glasses.
"Here you go, babe," she said, handing one of them to Kurt. He could smell its eye-watering stench several feet away and recoiled in horror.
"Oh, god, Brittany. Haven't they got anything to drink that wasn't distilled in a toilet?"
"It's good. Try it," she said. "Captain and Coke."
"Thank you, no, Brittany. I don't drink… anymore. I had a rather... humiliating episode several months back, involving a blackout, and vomiting on Ms. Pillsbury. I still haven't completely lived that down."
"But, Kurt..." she said, blinking with confusion."That's what's supposed to happen."
"Okay, no... Just..." Kurt took the tacky glass and set the glass down on the equally tacky end table.
Brittany shrugged.
"So, whose house is this, anyway?" Kurt asked.
Brittany frowned, deep in thought.
"Kelly? Or, no... Jade."
And who the hell were Kelly and Jade? He had no idea. Why had he even asked? Small talk. That was what happened at parties.
Brittany had somehow already finished half her glass, and Kurt gasped.
"Brit! My god! Slow down with that stuff! You'll make yourself sick!"
Brittany's reddened eyes took on a distinct glitter.
"You care about me so much, Kurt."
"Well, I just don't want..."
"You're not like other guys," she whispered.
"You can say that again."
"That's super sweet. I mean... you actually really care about me. It's… nice. I think a lot of guys don't."
Kurt was completely taken aback by her sudden burst of candor. Good god. Way to completely break his heart in the span of one sentence.
She laid her head on his shoulder, and Kurt blinked several times so as not to cry into her ponytail.
"I do care about you, Boo," he said quietly, using the pet name he had given her during their brief courtship. "Of course I do."