Chapter 20

Thursday morning. Kurt was in the kitchen, not doing much of anything. He'd slept poorly, it was way too early, he didn't want to go to school. Didn't want to deal with the stress.

Right. He didn't have to.

What was the big deal anyway? He'd been dutiful, showing up in classes. Kurt Hummel. Here. Always in attendance. He could be sick, maybe he was sick. He could stay in, take a break. He could clean the refrigerator, would you look at that dingy - yellow. He could mop the floor. He looked forward to it.

He dressed easy, t-shirt and workout pants, and barefoot, he pulled out the cleaning supplies. He'd clean the house like he'd never cleaned it before. He dusted the rooms meticulously. Wiped down the surfaces. It took forever. Yes, his dad and him were far from slobs, but how often did they bother with the top of the cabinets? Almost never, and it showed. Next, vacuum cleaner. All floors, everywhere. How often did they move the sofa to clean behind? Yeah. And it showed.

All the while he couldn't stop thinking, thinking, thinking. Writing angry letters, an imaginary correspondence in his head. With his dad, his mom, Mercedes, Karofsky, freaking Figgins of all people. Couldn't stop. Caught in a rat-trap, trying to squirrel out solutions, only making questionable progress.

As he pushed the living room sofa back in place he made the half-baked decision to bleach his hair. Why? Here's why, going backwards up the trails:

He could go with a whole different color scheme. Icy blue. Light green. He could pull off black. He was a white canvas. No one should have to be a slave to their genetics. Maybe he'd just been imitating him mom. His dad had known since he was three. Right, what a crock of shit. It felt like betrayal. Why else the snide comments about his looks, the disapproving sighs and headshakes? His dad had done the opposite. He could have left hints, broad hints, could have told Kurt the it-would-be-okay-no-matter-whats, he could have done that. Remember, dad, how you'd changed the channel when the pride parade popped up on the news? His dad wasn't perfect, why would Kurt expect him to know? Telling him had fixed nothing, pathetic. Telling him about Karofsky and downplaying it. He'd always lied, and he kept lying.

Dear dad.

I lied to you.

Done with vacuuming, he could focus on the kitchen. The heart of the matter. His dad and him weren't slobs, but how often did they pull out the oven to clean behind it? Nu-huh. All the hidden grime. And it showed.

He removed the refrigerator magnets, sorted the food, cleaned the refrigerator. He decided, hands in suds, that he would donate two thirds of his future income to animal shelters. Since, hello. Being a veterinarian had to be the worst profession, the absolute worst. Here, backwards:

Veterinarians became veterinarians because they loved animals, and yet part of their job was to gas puppies. That's what they did. Take him to the vet. An animal that was in pain, lashing out at the people around him. Hurt misfiring as anger. Kurt had thought he might be able to talk to him, build a rapport, establish trust. Cocksucking mouth, that was a direct quote. Fairy, fancy, lady, fag. Making things up in his head, second guessing himself all over the place. He wasn't imagining, probably. Pushing him down with words. It was the clinging touch, the pressure to get close to him, to squeeze him and crowd him. That was no excuse. So what if Karofsky were rocking the self hating schtick. So what if Karofsky might look at him and think... that. No, that didn't make it better. No.

Dear David.

Should I feel sorry for you?

Life was short and then you died. A billion people were worse off than Kurt. No one wanted him dead, come on. Have some proportion. He was safe, pretty safe, worried about nothing. Almost nothing. If he acted like it was nothing it would go away. No, it wouldn't. If Karofsky hurt him at least he'd have proof. He'd know, no more lies, he'd know for sure.

Mopping the floor was his reward for doing all the other stuff first. Damp floor and the smell of citrus. He should cheer up. Stop being so freaking worried.

He tried humming, tried to sing outright, tried to dance with the mop. Couldn't. And that was so crippling, he had to wonder where his mind was at. Hello, cheer up, no one had died. Right. Done with mopping, he put the mop in the bathroom to dry. There was a whole lot of cleaning supplies for the widows, but he'd ignored them. Yes. All the windows were dirty, that's what he got. Underneath the refrigerator, inside the oven, behind the books in the living room. For all the dirty places he'd opted to skip, he was guilty.

Dear dad.

I'm not mad at you for changing the channel, promise. Sorry for being sullen and selfish, sorry for being a nag. And for all the tiny things you've done to hurt me, sorry for not letting it go. I'm trying to let it go. From now on I'll be prefect, placid, cool. Or you might die.

Snort. Oh great, he should write this down. Dear diary, I'm nuts. Ten years from now, he'd laugh.

The doorbell rang. Ding dong.

Seriously? A visitor. Somebody was out there, on the other side of the door. Company. Hey. If it was Puck he'd be okay with that. No drinking with Puck though, and keep an eye on the TV, he didn't have a spare. And if it was Mercedes, that'd be great, they could sing together, conceivably, maybe dance. It could happen. It could be Mercedes and they could be cheery, the way they were supposed to be.

He was in the hall, the smell of coats and shoes. Hand on the lock, he glanced out through the small window by the door. Huh. Look at that. It was Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury, standing side by side with grim and serious faces. Here to tell him something, both of them. Of course. They were here to tell him that his dad was dead. He wasn't even surprised.

His hand twisted the lock, unlocked and opened the door. Moving on its own. Kurt had little to do with it.

Mr. Schue was talking to him. His mouth was moving, but there was no sound. Silence in Kurt's head. Ms. Pillsbury reached out a hand, talking to him. He couldn't hear, but it was like when they had fetched him from French class and she had told him that she was sorry, but his dad was in the hospital and it was serious and she was so sorry. Again.

Kurt sat down on the chair his dad always used when he was putting on his shoes.

Ms. Pillsbury's hand was on his face, cupping his cheeks, stroking his brow. Her mouth was moving. Staring into his eyes, looking concerned. She should check his ears not his eyes, because he'd gone deaf. How strange.

She was tugging at his arm, and they were walking over to the living room, to the sofa, sat down again. Sit, stand. She was next to him, her hand on his neck, her touch light. Comfort, since that's what the guidance counselor did when a student's dad went into the hospital and never came home. It had seemed like the dad had gotten better, but no. Not true after all. Because you don't get better just like that. It was impossible.

Her hand on the back of his neck bowed him forward, like you did to people who felt faint, getting his head low. Kurt was staring down at his own feet, his toes bare. Curling his toes into the living room carpet, the rough carpet familiar to his toes. There was a ringing in his ears.

"Why did you do that?"

The ringing in his ears had stopped and he could hear their voices again.

"All the color drained out of his face," Ms. Pillsbury said. "His lips were gray."

"Oh, wow." Mr. Schue sounded stressed out.

Ms. Pillsbury stroked Kurt's back. "Don't worry," she said. "You're fine." Low and soothing for his sake.

Kurt looked up, straightened on the couch. Mr. Schue was in an armchair on the opposite side of the table, his hands clasped together and his face lined in concern.

"Kurt, what happened?" he asked. "Did they call from the hospital? Is your dad alright? Or... you're not sick, are you? Do you have a fever?"

"Will," Ms. Pillsbury said, urging him to silence.

Is your dad alright?

Is your dad. Alright.

"Why are you here?" He had to know, and now. The two adults in the room sort of jumped.

"We didn't see you at school," Ms. Pillsbury said. "We decided to check up on you, make sure everything was okay."

"Ever heard of a phone?" Not exactly welcoming. Served them right. Their faces had been too grim and too serious for somebody just stopping by.

Mr. Schue shook his head. "Mercedes already tried calling, but you didn't pick up. Everybody at glee club was wondering where you were. Besides... I had to be here in person." A slow grin, and Mr. Schue's voice changed, became that of a showman. Gearing up for something.

"Maybe this could wait," Ms. Pillsbury cautioned.

"What?" Kurt snapped. No reason to wait on his fricking accord.

Mr. Schue reached into a pocket. "If I wasn't here then how else could I give you - your prize!"

With a flourish he produced what looked like a big pink ticket, held it out to Kurt as if he was presenting a grand treasure. Kurt looked at the ticket. Read the text. Breadstix. Voucher, one meal.

"Don't tell me I won."

"You did! You and Puck, I mean. You both won."

"We won." That hardly seemed feasibly. "How?"

"Well." A smile. "It was an even race. But you got the most votes."

Oh. "You voted without me."

"Yeah, well." A apologetic shrug. "I assumed you'd be alright with that, considering." Mr. Schue wiggled the prize. Kurt's grand earnings.

"You can keep that." Kurt should probably be worried about how colorless it was, the sound of his own voice.

"What?" Mr. Schue blinked. Still holding out the voucher for Kurt to take.

"I don't want it."

"Why not?" Mr. Schue was all but stammering, he sounded so confused.

"Because everyone will think it's a date." Duh.

"You and Puck? But-but Puck didn't have any objections about going with you, if that's what you're worried about."

Kurt stayed silent, staring at his teacher.

"So what if there's a few rumors?" Mr. Schue smiled, probably trying to be encouraging. "Go on, take it. You deserve to celebrate your win."

Kurt leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms. Enough. He'd had enough.

"I don't understand." Mr. Schue placed the voucher on the table. "It's not like you to let things like that stop you from doing whatever you want. Don't you want to...?" He clenched both his fists, squared his shoulders. Meaning, stand up for yourself, be proud. All that.

"No," Kurt said, flat and hostile. "I'm not some superhero of gayness. In fact, I quit. That's right, I'm back in the closet. My personal preferences are no longer up for discussion. Go away, leave me alone."

"What? I don't-"

"I'm tired of this crap."

"Kurt," Ms. Pillsbury cut in. Her hand hovered close to his arm, but she didn't touch. Probably a good idea. "Were you worried we were going to bring you some bad news?"

Yeah. Kurt swallowed. That. "That doesn't matter, since obviously I was wrong." He moved away from her, angry. Too close, too intimate. He was tired of this crap.

"Hey," Mr. Schue said. "Cool it, Kurt."

No. He quit.

"Will, would you come with me for a bit?" Ms. Pillsbury stood up. She turned to Kurt, her voice kind. "We'll give you some privacy. Come." To Mr. Schue.

They left. Disappeared through the hall to the kitchen. Left Kurt alone. Flushed and mad. He didn't even know.

Ms. Pillsbury and Mr. Schue were having a hushed conversation in the kitchen. He could hear them, they weren't nearly as silent as they thought they were. Impulse brought Kurt closer, on bare feet, to stand in the hall outside the kitchen. To hear better. Listening in. It was a thing he did.

"Oh dear, oh dear," Ms. Pillsbury said. "The poor boy. Of course us showing up like that would take him back. Of course he'd jump to conclusions."

Mr. Schue said something. Something reassuring, by the tone of his voice.

The sound of a kitchen chair being pulled out. A kitchen cabinet opening and closing. Shoes against the floor. More cabinets opening and closing. Sounds. He kind of relished them.

"Look," said Mr. Schue. "Liquor. Easy access."

Dear Mr. Schue. That's my dad's kitchen. You don't belong in there. Stop looking, stop touching, stop thinking it's yours to judge.

"Don't snoop," Ms. Pillsbury said, so low he almost didn't hear.

"Yeah, sorry, just looking around. It's a nice kitchen. Very clean."

Thank you.

Ms. Pillsbury made a hum that wasn't exactly agreement. Of course to her standards he could always do better.

"Hey." Mr. Schue said, whispering. "Did he seem drunk to you?"

"No, not at all. I didn't smell any alcohol. It's fine."

"We're supposed to just wait in here?"

"I think so, yes. Give the boy some privacy."

"Yeah. I didn't expect the anger."

"Didn't you?"

"Mhm." Muffled, Mr. Schue rubbing his mouth. "About what he said, that thing about going back into the closet. Did that sound, I don't know, like something we should be worried about?"

"Leave it," Ms. Pillsbury said. "He's a teenager who just had a bad scare, no wonder he was emotionally regressing. I suggest you don't try to put any further pressure on him."

"I don't think I'm pressuring."

"He told you he didn't want that dinner, didn't he?"

Silence. Whatever response Mr. Schue was giving, Kurt couldn't see.

"Just leave it be," Ms. Pillsbury repeated, her tone fond. "Things don't always work out the way we picture it."

"He's not acting like himself. I told you about what he said yesterday in glee. What word he used."

"Yes, you told me," she said, firm. "Now hush. Stay calm and try not to rush things, it'll be fine."

The kitchen fell silent. Eavesdropper instinct moved Kurt back to the living room, made him slip away quick and silent before he was discovered. Or so he always had to hope.

He curled up on the sofa, feet pulled up. Comfortable clothes, workout pants, he slung his arms around his knees. The Breadstix voucher lay abandoned on the table, the stupid thing. He was the stupid thing, throwing a tantrum oven a slip of paper. Making his teacher worry when all he'd had to say was thank you and than just don't go. No Breadstix for Kurt. He could give the extra voucher to Puck, let him take some girl out to dinner for free, whatever. Since Puck was clearly hurting for money.

Petty. Kurt pinched his own arm, ouch. Served him right. He'd rather not be petty. But then, he was emotionally regressing due to getting a bad scare. Apparently. He'd gone temporarily deaf, how embarrassing. Making things up in his head. His face had gone gray, Ms. Pillsbury had thought he was going to faint. And he'd snapped at his teacher, slapped him down for his good intentions and told him he was going back into the closet, silly. Emotionally regressing. Bah. He'd show them. Show them as soon as they returned, how he could pull himself together. Be calm, get over it. He could be happy even, that he'd won. He'd won the competition.

He and Puck had gotten the most votes. Voting without Kurt, but that was fair. He hadn't shown up for the last of the duet performances, why should he be allowed to vote? The world didn't stop, no one had decided to put glee on hold just because Kurt wasn't there. But he'd won. Somehow.

What was up with that? Was it a pity vote, a miracle, or Mr. Schue's shenanigans? Or - of course. Finn. Making up for telling him not to sing with another guy. All apologies. Maybe he got Rachel's vote as well, strange how likely that seemed. Rachel. Okay. Giving him the win. Hardly sportsmanlike.

Kurt looked at the voucher, pink slip of paper. It was one of two. Puck had already accepted his, no protests about going with Kurt. Kurt would have to be the one who called it off, tell him he didn't want to go.

Would Puck be disappointed?

Kurt straightened his back. Come on, that was actually possible, alien as it might seem. Huh. He'd been so selfish, he had to smile. It had never crossed his mind, not a thought that Puck might want to go. With him. That Puck might think they were friends now. That he might care if Kurt said no. Seriously. He might.

Dear Puck.

Are you kidding me? You? You used to freaking look me in the eyes and laugh before you tossed me into the garbage. You vandalizing, mindless, shove-me-into-lockers Neanderthal. Your dad seems like a nightmare. Sounds like a crappy childhood, filled with dark memories, did your dad go to jail, did he do drugs? I've been spoiled. Read me a poem, would you really want to go? Do you really want to join the army, do you plan to be disciplined and brave and impressive? Would you feel rejected, would you think that's what you deserve, would you even care? How strange. I'm not used to considering your feelings. Would you prefer a compromise? Maybe not a public spectacle, but maybe Breadstix did takeaways. You could come by again. Or whatever.

Dear Puck.

Would you like to have dinner with me?