Chapter 29/? We're so close.
I feel like I say this every other chapter, but my apologies for taking so long to write and post this chapter—as I inch toward the ending, it seems to get more and more important that I fit in every significant detail and thread, before I run out of chances. Patience of saints, you have.
I don't own anything but a pile of reviews (that I swear I'm getting to; see above re:patience).
One night when Kurt was hiding under the covers of his then-twin bed with a book and a flashlight, determined to find out what happened to little Charlie Bucket before one of his parents caught him and made him go to sleep, two police officers had come to the door to tell Burt that there had been an accident. Another driver, whose blood alcohol content had been just over the legal limit, had run a stop sign and had slammed into his wife's car. It had been instantaneous, they'd said, as Kurt crept barefoot down the hall to spy on the visitors, completely unaware of how his life was about to shatter. She had been killed on impact, and hadn't lived long enough to suffer, or even feel any pain.
That was reserved solely for those left behind.
Years later when Kurt had thought that Burt was going to die, his anguish had been of a similar tenor, though inherently modified by age and the passage of time. And by frame of reference—losing a parent, especially as a child, was a distinct type of agony that only those who had experienced it for themselves could possibly understand.
Kurt was certain that his first grief counselor, the one he'd bitten in a fit of temper—followed by several hours of hysterical crying until Burt had agreed to find someone else for him to see—hadn't had that experience.
In any case, Kurt knew what raw, wrenching, bone-deep pain felt like, and being without Blaine—as hard as it was—wasn't nearly as bad as that. Still, knowing that didn't make him feel any better, particularly when the hollow sadness left in the wake of Blaine's departure to Dalton was mixed with guilt; an adult's recognition of the role he'd played in causing his own unhappiness.
He wasn't responsible for his mother's death in any way, and however agonizing the year after the accident had been for him, at least he hadn't tortured himself with a misguided sense of blame and culpability. But even though Blaine might have chosen to leave on his own, Kurt couldn't pretend that he himself had nothing to do with the decision.
People were starting to worry about him, Kurt knew.
Nobody actually voiced their concerns out loud—or, at least, not directly to Kurt—but it was easy for him to guess what they were: how he was coping with his dad's health scare. How he was coping with his increasingly responsibility-laden schedule. How he was looking thinner, paler, sadder, more tired than usual. How suddenly his breakup with Blaine (speculated over by half of Carmel when they thought that Kurt wasn't listening, since nobody knew what had caused, it or had confirmed it with either party) and Blaine's transfer had happened on top of everything else, giving Kurt so little time to adjust.
The employees at the garage clapped him on the shoulder so hard and so often that Kurt was secretly worried that he might end up lopsided by the time he finished growing, and they found any and every excuse that they could to send him home early on the days that he came in. His teachers were watching him more closely, while at the same time calling on him less often and grading his work more leniently. Shelby, at least, still expected excellence from him, but her constructive criticisms lacked the sharp edge that Kurt knew she was capable of. And whether Sasha and the others had picked up on her pointed lack of venom and were following her lead, or whether they would have been kinder to him anyway, Kurt didn't know, but the announcement of Vocal Adrenaline's potential numbers for Nationals—which included Kurt's second solo of the year—was met with far fewer fake smiles and dirty looks than Kurt would normally have anticipated.
Giselle still smirked at him, of course, but she was a bitch and Kurt wouldn't have expected any different. Still, even she didn't have the nerve to mention Blaine in front of him.
The only person who did was his dad, and even then only twice: once to mention that he hadn't seen Blaine in a couple of weeks, and once to ask if they'd had some sort of fight that Kurt wasn't telling him about. Both times, Kurt's throat had closed over and his jaw had locked, and both times, his sudden, tense silence was enough to convince his dad to change the subject. Kurt was grateful for that. He loved his dad, and the amount of time that they'd spent together since Burt's heart attack had brought them closer; made it easier to talk about certain things than before. Still, telling his dad about Blaine wasn't the same as telling anyone else—anyone else, he could fool and misdirect if he wanted to.
Telling Burt would make everything real. And Kurt wasn't ready for that quite yet.
Instead, he'd kept busy: taking care of his dad, keeping the house running smoothly, cooking three heart-healthy meals a day. Stopping in at the shop several days a week and plowing through as much of the paperwork as he could before someone forced him out. Rehearsals with Vocal Adrenaline, as well as practices with Shelby or Zach. Studying every spare minute that he had, reading books and writing essays and conversing with himself in French. None of it made him particularly happy, but there was a certain kind of satisfaction in pushing himself to the limit; a curiosity he hadn't realized he had about just how hard he could work if he applied himself with every ounce of energy and willpower that he possessed.
It was a strange type of experiment with only himself as a subject, and enough of the time, it was a sorely needed distraction.
Sometimes, though, usually in the early hours of the morning when his body was too tired to let him sleep easily, he would lie awake in a state of fragile half-consciousness, and it would drift through his mind that it would have been nice to be able to cry; something that he hadn't done since the day that he had read Blaine's letter.
Now that Vocal Adrenaline was preparing for Nationals, rehearsals were more grueling and intense than ever. Dakota Stanley taught and drilled them on choreography almost faster than the team could retain it, and Shelby coached them through all six potential songs in record time, directing and enhancing and picking at them hour after hour, day after day until their throats were stripped raw. Everyone was expected to stretch and warm up on their own before rehearsals began, in order to keep practices as productive as possible, and slacking off or failing to keep up was dealt with more harshly than usual.
Not that that happened often—there was so much work to do, and so much riding on their success, that everyone rose to the challenge with the maniacal fervor that made Vocal Adrenaline such a force to be reckoned with. Routines were polished and perfected, run through again and again until even the weakest freshman could have performed the entire repertoire in his sleep.
And if most of the team spent their five minute breaks collapsed in a heap on the stage, remembering how to breathe normally while guzzling bottles of water and cans of energy drinks, none of their enemies had to know that.
Kurt didn't mind the extra work, even if (or maybe because) it meant that he hardly had the chance to talk to anyone. And, an unexpected perk of the situation, being so busy during rehearsals meant that he was too preoccupied with dance steps and lifts and high notes and controlling his diaphragm to spend much time worrying about Jesse.
He and Jesse hadn't spoken to each other since the day that Kurt had confronted him at his house, but Kurt had known Jesse too well and for too long to assume that their mutual quietness was permanent. They seemed to be in silent agreement, however, that whatever connection that was still between them was too delicate and damaged to risk dredging up in front of everyone else, or even anytime soon, and the chaotic rush that rehearsals had become was as good an excuse as any for the two of them to consistently be on opposite sides of the stage.
Still, Kurt noticed Jesse looking at him, sometimes. It was that, more than anything, which made Kurt certain that some of what he had said to Jesse that day must have hit home.
He wasn't sure how he felt about it all. On the days that he missed Blaine the most, seeing Jesse across the room or hearing him sing one of his many solos was enough to make him angry all over again. Other days, he just felt sorry—sorry for Jesse, for their gutted friendship, for the lingering sense of loss that hung over them both. One thing he knew, however: if he and Jesse were ever going to be friends again, it was going to have to be a different kind of friendship, one where the two of them met on equal terms.
Anything less than that simply wasn't worth it anymore.
Kurt was drenched with sweat. Sunscreen was dripping into his eyes and irritating his contact lenses, and the collar of his costume shirt was definitely smeared with makeup. Next to him, Sasha was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying to take some of the pressure off of her toes after three straight hours of dancing in the black stiletto heels that all of the girls were wearing. Kurt didn't even have to look at her to sense the murderous vibrations rolling off of her in waves. And privately, he didn't blame her: if Shelby didn't eliminate one more number and finalize Vocal Adrenaline's Nationals program by the end of rehearsal, he wasn't going to hold himself responsible for his actions.
The competition was a week away, and four numbers were still in contention: one group number, Kurt's solo, and two of Jesse's remaining pieces. Shelby had been relentless that day, making the team run the potential songs over and over again and in various orders, frowning and stopping them mid-number to change costumes and switch to a different routine more than once. Kurt's legs and lungs were exhausted, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd needed a shower so badly.
The day you had your first date with Blaine, when Mrs. Parkinson's minivan had that fuel leak, his brain helpfully reminded him, making him stumble out of a turn.
Shelby raised a delicately arched eyebrow at him, and he grimaced apologetically as he stepped back into formation.
Stop thinking and dance, he ordered himself sternly.
He managed to make it through rehearsal without another mistake.
Kurt frowned as he drove home that evening, his toxically sweaty costumes thrown into one of the three large bins that were probably already being carted to VA's preferred dry cleaner. Even before he'd gotten distracted and stumbled, Shelby had spent far more time than usual staring at him during rehearsal that afternoon, and it had been…unsettling.
He sighed as he turned onto his street. Obviously, Shelby had only been watching him because there was a reasonable chance that he was going to be one of her featured soloists in just over a week—Bohemian Rhapsody had brought the house down at Regionals, and Shut Up and Drive would probably be chosen since it was their only group number left, leaving the third slot open for either Kurt or Jesse. Still, there had been a number of times, even when he wasn't the one singing lead, that Kurt had looked out into the audience to find Shelby watching him, an almost thoughtful expression on her face.
Kurt parked the Navigator in the driveway behind his dad's truck and yanked his keys out of the ignition. He was even more off-balance than he'd thought if he was unnerved by a little positive attention, instead of reveling in it.
Kurt knew that something was different the second that he stepped into the house late Saturday afternoon, but it wasn't until he'd shed his coat and shoes and walked down the hall into the kitchen that he knew what it was: the counter near the sink was covered in take-out containers, and his dad was sitting at the table, grinning as he waited for Kurt's reaction.
It was swift in coming. "Dad," Kurt reprimanded sharply, the initial shock at Burt's flouting of the doctors' advice starting to fade as his anger grew to replace it. "What are you—you're not supposed to—"
His dad was still smiling. "Easy, Kiddo," he soothed, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, "this isn't what it looks like, I promise. I called that Thai place you like and asked the girl on the phone to pick out the healthiest stuff on the menu; it's all chicken and vegetables, and none of that NSG crap you hate."
"MSG," Kurt corrected automatically, shoulders relaxing—he still wasn't thrilled, but the situation wasn't nearly as bad as he'd thought if Burt had really gone to all that effort to appease him and stick to his diet.
For some reason. "Why?" he wondered out loud, looping his bag over the back of his chair and sitting down across from Burt.
Burt's grin slipped a little. "Your letter from that summer program came while you were at school today," he explained, fingers drumming nervously on the table. "I was gonna bring it to you when I realized what it was, but you were in rehearsal already, and I didn't think you'd want to open it in front of everyone."
Kurt's breath caught in his throat.
His dad was looking at him, concerned. "Want me to open it for you?" he offered, leaning forward in his seat a little. "Get it over with?"
Kurt exhaled sharply. "No," he decided, "I can do it. Where…?"
Burt reached over and lifted up the newspaper that had been sitting on the table. Underneath it was a white envelope with Kurt's name and address printed in the center; the fancy typography in the upper left corner indicating that it was, indeed, from The Academy.
Kurt slid it across the table with shaking fingers. So much had happened since his audition—his dad's heart attack, everything with Blaine, preparing for Nationals—that he hadn't given The Academy a whole lot of thought since he'd gotten back from his daytrip to Columbus. Now that the letter had actually arrived, however, all of the stress that he'd been ignoring or suppressing was hitting him at once, and Kurt's stomach lurched unpleasantly at the idea of having to find out what the auditors had really thought of him.
Slowly, he flipped the envelope over and peeled the flap open.
And paused.
"Whatever it says, it's going to be okay," his dad reminded him quietly, reaching across the table to gently squeeze his wrist. "I want you to get in because I know that's what you want, but I'm proud of you either way. Got it?"
Kurt nodded in response, swallowing dryly.
He pulled the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it before he could lose his nerve.
Dear Mr. Hummel, it read,
Congratulations! You have been accepted into the Young Pre-Professional Summer Performance Academy's 2010 session as a student of Musical Theatre. This summer's incoming class of students was drawn from our most competitive pool of applicants in the history of the program, and the difficulty of the selection process is a direct reflection of the hard work and talent of not only those who were successful in securing a place in their program of choice, but of…
The letter went on, but Kurt had stopped reading after the first few sentences, stunned. He'd been accepted by The Academy, the most rigorous and competitive performing arts program in the country.
He'd gotten in.
"…Buddy?" he heard his dad asking, "What does it say?"
Still speechless, Kurt handed him the letter.
A few seconds later, Burt let out a joyful, wordless shout, and Kurt felt himself flying up out of his chair as Burt yanked him roughly into a hug, spinning them both and laughing with some combination of happiness and relief. His arms were strong around Kurt's back, and Kurt held onto his shoulders just as tightly, allowing himself to get swept up in his dad's excitement, if only for a few seconds.
When Burt set him down on his feet a moment later, his eyes were shining. "I knew you'd get it! I'm so happy for you, Kiddo," he said earnestly, his grip on Kurt's ribs tightening almost painfully. "We've gotta start planning; make sure you're ready to go."
He let go of Kurt with one hand, snatching the letter off of the table and scanning it again. "It says here that you start on June 22nd," he read. "When's your last day of school?"
Kurt shook his head slowly. "I don't know," he murmured, starting to feel sick with dread as the reality of what he was going to have to do began to sink in.
Burt clapped him on the shoulder and let go. "That's okay, we'll look it up on the calendar," he said dismissively. "If it's the week before, I can—"
"No," Kurt interrupted before Burt could continue, his voice hoarser than he'd realized it was, "I don't know if I'm going."
There was an awkward silence.
"What do you mean, you don't know if you're going?" his dad asked, after a minute. "Of course you're going; this is what you wanted. You've been saving up to go for almost a year."
Kurt swallowed again. "I know," he admitted quietly. "But Dad, you're still sick, and I—"
"Kurt, I'm fine," Burt cut him off, looking at him seriously. "I'm already back at the garage part-time, and I've been going for walks and eating healthier and everything."
Kurt bit his lip nervously. "I know," he repeated. "But we've got a nurse coming over next weekend while I'm gone, and I'm only going to be away for three days—we're talking about a whole summer, Dad."
It had been Burt's doctor's idea to hire a private nurse to check in on him while Kurt was competing in Nationals. "Quite a few of the nurses who do rounds in the cardiac wing pick up extra hours outside the hospital on a per diem basis," he'd assured Kurt, when Kurt had realized that leaving the state with Vocal Adrenaline meant that Burt would be alone for the long weekend, and had subsequently panicked. "If having someone come by for an hour a day would put you at ease, it might be worth looking into—they can get you a list of names and phone numbers at the information desk, if you'd like."
Kurt had liked, and Carole Hudson, the nurse who had let Kurt in to see his dad without forcing him to show his I.D., was scheduled to look in on Burt twice while Kurt was gone.
Burt was shaking his head. "Yeah, and if you were leaving for eight weeks starting tomorrow, I'd say you had a point," he acknowledged. "But your program doesn't start for another month. And sure, maybe I won't be 100% by then, but I'll be a lot better than I am right now, right?"
Kurt slumped a little, wavering.
Burt leaned in slightly, forcing Kurt to meet his eyes. "Listen," he said carefully, staring steadily at Kurt. "Nothing bad is going to happen to me just because you take some time for yourself to do what you want. Don't give up this opportunity just because you're scared, all right? I'd never force you to go if you really didn't want to, but…"
Kurt shook his head, blinking rapidly. "I'm not scared," he argued, "I just…"
He paused. "I don't know," he said quietly, finally. "I don't know what I'm thinking right now."
Burt nodded. "I get it," he offered, tone soothing, "you're under a lot of pressure right now." He glanced back down at the letter on the table. "Look, they don't need your decision until the 5th," he pointed out. "So why don't you sleep on it for a little while? Talk to your coach, go on your trip. We can talk about it some more when you get back. Okay?"
Kurt felt the lump in his throat dissipate slightly. "Okay," he managed, nodding. "I love you, Dad."
Burt smiled at him, but the worried look in his eyes still remained. "Love you too, Buddy," he replied, ruffling Kurt's hair. "Now, how about we sit down and have some of those tasteless vegetables?"
It took Kurt a long time to fall asleep that night.
He'd gotten into The Academy. He'd wanted to go for more than a year, ever since Jesse's second acceptance letter had arrived and he'd spent weeks telling Kurt about the instructors and exercises and the network of famous performers that were tied to the program, many of whom frequently returned to take or teach master classes. It was an artistic retreat, and an incredible opportunity—no other program or school was its equal in prestige or influence, and a good recommendation from them would open doors for Kurt that he might never get through otherwise.
And, if he was being honest with himself, a tiny part of him really wanted to go in order to prove that he could. If he succeeded at The Academy, nobody would ever be able to tell him that he wasn't good enough, or talented enough, or hardworking enough.
Rolling over onto his stomach, Kurt buried his face into one of his pillows.
Dad.
Because his dad's heart attack hadn't happened until after his audition, Kurt hadn't been forced to think about the possibility of his going away while Burt still needed him. The second the letter had been put into his hands, however, the unpleasant realization that he could hardly be in two places at once had begun to sink in, and he had known even as he opened the envelope that he would be spending the summer in Lima, accepted or not.
And there had been a single, horrible moment when Kurt had almost hoped that the letter would be a rejection, depriving him of the responsibility of having to deny himself and do what was right, instead.
His lungs began to protest their lack of oxygen, and Kurt rolled back over onto his back with a sigh.
His dad hadn't said anything else about The Academy during dinner, but Kurt knew that he was merely biding his time until after Nationals. It was obvious that he thought he was well enough for Kurt to leave him for almost two months, and that he hated being the reason that his son was turning down such an incredible opportunity.
But that can't be the only reason, Kurt realized suddenly, his dad's imploring expression when Kurt had told him that he wasn't sure he could go seared into his memory. Because if his heart was really in it, he would have let his dad talk him into leaving without putting up a fight—they couldn't afford to hire a nurse to come over and take care of Burt in his absence, the way they were doing in order to get through the next weekend, but the Hummels were nothing if not resourceful; if there was a possible solution, the two of them would come up with it eventually.
Giving up without a fight—or an exhaustive internet search on how to care for an ailing parent from hundreds of miles away with almost no money—wasn't like him, and it wasn't something that Kurt would have done if Burt's illness was his only concern.
The problem is, he brooded petulantly, that I don't know what my problem is.
He glanced around the room, as if it somehow held the answers, and his eyes fell on the picture of his mother that Blaine had given him for Christmas.
Kurt bit his lip. God, it would be so easy to blame this on him.
And it would have been, but Kurt knew that it also would have been a lie: he might be desperately unhappy at times because of how strained his relationship with Blaine had become, but he could be unhappy about it at The Academy just as easily as anywhere else. And if Blaine's parents really were sending him to spend most of the summer with his Grandma, like Blaine had suspected, then there was no real reason why Kurt needed to stay behind.
Climbing out of his bed, Kurt crept over to his dresser and picked up the picture. His mother smiled back at him, beautiful and young and so, so beyond his reach.
Kurt blinked harshly, stemming the tears that were forming in his eyes and threatening to fall.
What's wrong with me?
"Nothing is wrong with you," Shelby told him sternly, giving him a hard look over the rim of her coffee cup. "You're having doubts, which is completely understandable—you've been going through a lot of upheaval since the audition process, and you're not in the same space that you were when you applied. It doesn't mean that you don't want it, or that you don't recognize what a fantastic opportunity it is for you; it just means that you're aware of the sacrifices you're making."
Kurt nodded tiredly. Once again, he was in Shelby's office ridiculously early on a Monday morning, seeking advice. He'd brought her another latte and had spilled the whole story—learning, in the process, that an administrative assistant at The Academy had phoned to let her know that he had been accepted during classes on Friday. Which answered one question, at least.
But not the one he was hoping for. "So…you think that I should go," he reasoned slowly, watching Shelby's face for clues that he was interpreting her advice correctly.
Her expression didn't budge. "I think you should think about it, like your dad said," she amended, taking another sip of her coffee. "I can't tell you what's right for you, but I can tell you that this is a big decision either way, and you should take your time making it."
She frowned sympathetically. "I know that things…haven't been easy for you lately, Kurt," she offered carefully. "And I don't just mean everything with your dad. I don't—"
Shelby paused. "I don't see everything that goes on with you guys, especially lately," she admitted, not quite looking at Kurt. "But I know you, Kurt, and the you that I've been seeing lately…he's been depressed, and maybe a little lost."
Kurt bit the inside of his cheek, not sure whether or not to protest.
Shelby shook her head. "But things are going to get better for you, Kurt, if you just do your best and slog through it. You're a good kid, and good things are going to happen for you, with or without Sarita and The Academy."
It was possibly the most openly complementary thing Shelby had ever said to him, and Kurt couldn't help but smile a little. "Thank you," he responded quietly.
"You're welcome," Shelby replied. "And don't screw up this weekend, got it? I'm taking a chance on an underclassman because I believe you've got what it takes—don't make me regret it."
It took Kurt a minute to realize the significance of what Shelby had said. When he figured it out, his head snapped up automatically.
Shelby was smiling. "Come see me during your lunch period today," she ordered. "If you're singing a solo in front of a competition audience, we've got to make sure you can nail every single note."
The rest of the week flew by in a flurry of classes and rehearsals, homework and shop paperwork and doctor's appointments until suddenly it was Thursday night, less than 48 hours before the National Show Choir Competition was scheduled to begin. Two district busses would be arriving at Carmel by 7:30 the next morning to take Vocal Adrenaline—and their massive amounts of luggage and costumes—to the airport for their 10:15 flight to LAX, and Kurt's suitcase was already waiting by the front door, only the few items that he'd need in the morning left unpacked.
Burt was distracted after dinner by a phone call from one of his old high school buddies, so it was easy for Kurt to slip out of the house as the sun was setting, leaving a note on the table claiming that he was out picking up a few more travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner for his trip. Well aware of Kurt's distrust of hotel-provided toiletries, his dad probably would have believed him anyway, but if Kurt had to lie to Burt at all, he preferred to do it on paper.
And in this case, a lie was necessary: the idea of explaining to Burt why he had to go to the Zoo on a Thursday night—the Thursday night right before his flight to Los Angeles, no less—was just too much for Kurt.
Blaine's lions had gotten so big since the first time that Kurt had seen them. They still weren't finished growing, if the size of their mother was any indication, but Kurt couldn't think of them as babies anymore, the way that he initially had. They were almost too big for their exhibit, even counting the large outdoor pen that was attached to their indoor room, and Kurt had no idea what the zoo was going to do with them once they had fully grown up, leaving them with four adult cats.
"They'd better keep you," he murmured quietly, watching the one little lion who was closest to the fence as she paced, the only one of the three no-longer-cubs who wasn't sleeping in the corner. "Blaine loves you so much."
Blaine. If there was anyone in the world that Kurt wanted to call about his Academy letter, it was Blaine. He still had no idea what to do about the summer and his dad, even though he'd been thinking it over like Burt and Shelby had both suggested, nor did he have a clue what would be best for him anymore—and even if Blaine didn't have any answers either, at least Kurt would feel safe and loved instead of so hopelessly alone.
But Blaine had asked for space and Kurt had promised to give it to him, and Kurt was determined to keep his promises this time, even when they became difficult not to break. So he had come to see the closest thing he had left to Blaine, instead.
The little awake lion had stopped her pacing and was sniffing in his direction, and Kurt smiled sadly back at her. "I don't know which one you are," he admitted softly, "Mali or Priya, or—I don't know. But Blaine does, and I know that he must drive out here from school to see you, or maybe he comes on the weekends."
He paused, gripping the fence with both hands. "The next time he's here, tell him I love him, okay? And that I miss him, and that I know that he needs more time, but everything is just so much harder without him, and—"
Kurt cut himself off, inhaling sharply.
The lion looked at him. If she recognized him, she didn't show it—or maybe she did, and Kurt was just a dumb human who couldn't see what was right in front of him.
"Sorry," he apologized stupidly, closing his eyes. "You were probably doing just fine until I got here, weren't you?"
When Kurt looked up again, the lion was lying down on the ground, watching him with her inscrutable expression that could have meant anything or nothing at all. "Right," he muttered faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair out of his eyes. "Sorry to dump all of that on you; I just miss him. But that's not your fault."
He glanced at his watch, then grimaced. "I've got about three minutes before they lock the gates with me inside, so I should go," he informed the lion—Priya, he decided; maybe he was wrong, but it was easier to think of her by any name, whether he was accurate or not.
As if she would have known the difference. "Goodnight, Princess," he sighed, heading toward the door. "I'll see you when I get back to Ohio."
She blinked a sleepy goodbye at him on his way out, and Kurt drove home in the dark, hoping that Burt would still be on the phone when he got home.
He slept badly that night, images of Blaine feeding his lions and smiling beautifully keeping him awake until nearly dawn.
The flight to California was predictably boring. Under strict instructions not to speak unless it was absolutely necessary (a strained vocal cord was worse than a bullet wound during Nationals), to finish their airline-provided pretzels and bottles of water (the usual method of replacing lost fluids with an IV drip would leave needle marks, so avoiding dehydration was key), and not to fall asleep (the time zone change was not in their favor as it was), there wasn't much left for the team to do but read or watch the in-flight movie.
One look at Adam Sandler's face in what obviously wasn't The Wedding Singer was enough to have Kurt scrambling for his book.
Once the plane touched down in LA, it was more of the same: a shuttle bus waiting for them at the airport whisked them off to the hotel where they (and at least three other teams, given the commotion in the lobby) were staying, three blocks away from the Convention Center where the competition was being held. Shelby went alone to register Vocal Adrenaline, giving everyone an hour and a half to unpack and freshen up before they spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in last-minute rehearsals for the next day, only stopping for a thirty minute dinner break.
"Apparently,we used to go to the official Kickoff Meet & Greet, instead of being confined to our hotel floor the night before the competition," James confided in Kurt from the desk in their suite that evening, where he was trying to access the hotel's wireless network. "But rumor has it that someone from one of the other teams tried to sabotage us the year that Nationals were in Baltimore by sneaking shellfish into our lead singer's pasta. She went into anaphylactic shock and had to be rushed to the hospital, and now Shelby carries half a dozen EpiPens in her purse and won't let us go anywhere, just in case."
Andy, who was sprawled across his and Kurt's bed—with four people to a room, everyone was sharing with someone else—looked morbidly interested. "Did they ever catch who did it?" he asked, eyes lit up with interest.
James shrugged. "I don't know for sure; that was Alicia's freshman year, so I was only eight or nine at the time," he explained, naming the elder of his two big sisters, both of whom had also been in Vocal Adrenaline.
His smile took on a dangerous quality. "I do seem to remember something about the third place team's auditorium being permanently closed that summer, though," he added, keeping his tone neutral. "Something about five hundred pounds of rotting oysters contaminating the whole building during a record-breaking heat wave."
They went to bed soon after that, mindful of their 5:30am wakeup call, and Kurt fell asleep listening to James's hushed voice as he told them story after story about Vocal Adrenaline, passing down more of his sisters' stories as well as telling his own.
"Four years," he murmured after a while, just as Kurt was finally drifting off. "It's hard to believe that everything ends on Sunday."
Despite being 5th in the program lineup, Vocal Adrenaline was the first team to arrive at the Convention Center on Saturday morning, stumbling in the front door with their Carmel-subsidized Starbucks immediately behind the head of the building's custodial staff, who looked as tired as Kurt felt.
An hour and a half later, the stage was discreetly marked with thin strips of glow-in-the-dark tape, indicating their starting positions for each number, their costumes were securely locked in VA's private dressing room (theirs until 2:30, when it would be taken over by an all-girl choir from Miami), and Shelby had commandeered one of the dozen pianos scattered throughout the building and was leading everyone in an extended vocal warm-up. Despite not being entirely awake yet—jet lag was a vicious, vindictive bitch—Kurt found it relatively easy to concentrate on the tone and tenor of his voice, and then on the comfortable stretching of his muscles when Ben began their familiar dance warm-up.
Or maybe being tired is actually helping, he mused, as Shelby gave them a final pep talk before dismissing them for half an hour, ordering them to be back in the dressing room when the first group took the stage in order to get costumed and made up before their own call time. If I'm not awake, I can't be nervous about singing my first competition solo in front of eight thousand people.
Checking his watch, Kurt grabbed his phone out of his duffle bag and weaved his way through his teammates and out into the hall. If he hurried, he could squeeze in one last phone call to his dad before Burt left for the afternoon shift at the shop.
Or maybe wake him up—he could never remember what time zone he was in, relative to home.
Kurt was ten feet away from the dressing room door when his phone rang in his hand, twenty-eight minutes later.
He didn't even look at it as he answered. "I'll be there in five seconds," he promised whichever one of his impatient teammates that was calling him, "I'm right outside."
Grabbing the door handle, Kurt pulled the phone away from his ear, ready to hang up and turn the sound off until after the competition.
And stopped, frozen in place: Blaine's picture was lit up on the screen, dark eyes smiling shyly at him through impossibly long eyelashes.
Kurt's hand flew back up to his ear so quickly that he nearly dropped the phone. "Blaine?" he asked hurriedly, his mouth suddenly dry and his stomach clenching with more nerves than he'd felt all day.
There was a long, terrible pause, and Kurt was almost beginning to worry that Blaine had hung up on him—or, even worse, that he had pocket-dialed him by mistake and hadn't really wanted to talk to him at all—when he heard a soft sigh.
"…Hi, Kurt," Blaine said quietly.
Kurt's eyes were suddenly, messily filled with tears, and he let go of the doorknob and sat down with his back against the nearest wall before his legs could betray him and collapse. "Hi," he breathed back just as softly, too mentally incoherent to say anything else.
It seemed to be enough for Blaine, however, and Kurt's grip on the phone grew painfully tight as he instinctively pressed it closer to his ear.
"I just…" Blaine began, before sighing and starting over. "I wanted to call and wish you—break a leg, today."
He paused. "I didn't know when you were going on, though, since I don't know the performance order, and the time difference and everything," he rambled apologetically. "Am I too late?"
Kurt shook his head, forgetting for a moment that Blaine couldn't see him. "No," he managed to gasp, choking back a sob even as tears were running freely down his cheeks, "No, we're not on for another half an hour; you're not too late."
Kurt heard a strangled hiss over the phone, and Blaine's voice was pained as he spoke. "Oh no, don't—don't cry," he stammered. "Kurt, please don't cry. God, I shouldn't have called, I should have—"
"Don't you dare hang up," Kurt cut him off mid-sentence. "So what if I'm crying, I don't care."
"But you have to sing," Blaine reminded him, "and—"
"I don't care," Kurt repeated, not bothering to keep the tears out of his voice anymore. "You're here, that's what I care about. It's been weeks, and I've been—I didn't know how much I needed to hear your voice until right now."
"I'm so sorry, Kurt," Blaine choked out, clearly starting to cry as well. "I'm so sorry that I wasn't there for you. I've missed you so much."
Kurt's tears were beginning to soak the collar of his shirt, and he wiped his face distractedly with his sleeve. "I miss you too," he managed to reply, "god, Blaine. It's been so hard without you."
"I know," Blaine answered quickly, his breath hitching, "I know. I have post it notes all over the place in my school notebooks, in my dorm room—every time I think of something that I want to tell you and you aren't there. There must be hundreds of them, by now."
Kurt opened his mouth—he didn't know what he was going to say, but that hadn't stopped him so far—but before he could speak, there was a hand on his shoulder.
"Kurt, we've gotta go," someone was saying, and Kurt shook his head, wanting whoever it was to leave him alone. The hand gripped his shirt insistently, however, and Kurt looked up to see Sasha staring down at him, a worried expression on her face.
He sighed. "I have to go," he told Blaine sadly, feeling his chest tightening anxiously, "I'm supposed to be—"
"No, I know, I'm sorry," Blaine interrupted, sounding as wrecked as Kurt felt. "You're going to be amazing today, Kurt. I love you so much."
A fresh wave of tears filled Kurt's eyes. "Can I call you?" he asked quickly, before Blaine could hang up. "When I get back to Ohio? I need to—I just really want to see you again, or even just talk to you, if you're not ready."
"I—yeah," Blaine stammered, exhaling softly in Kurt's ear. "Yes. Call me when you get home. I—I want that, too."
Kurt bit down on his lip to keep from sobbing with relief. "I will," he promised. "I can't wait. I really have to go, though."
Blaine laughed. "Go, Kurt. I love you."
Kurt closed his eyes, smiling. "I love you, too. I'll talk to you soon."
He waited for Blaine's quiet "Bye, Kurt," before hanging up, then turned his phone off and handed it to Sasha.
Her face softened as she slipped it into her pocket. "You are so late," she admonished gently, holding out a hand and helping him to his feet. "And your face is a mess."
Kurt grimaced, feeling the salty tear tracks on his cheeks as they pulled slightly at his skin. "I know," he agreed apologetically. "I'm sorry."
Sasha nodded. "Did you do what you needed to do?" she wanted to know. When Kurt nodded back, she smiled softly at him. "Go wash your face, and I'll do your makeup," she ordered, turning him around and steering him toward the men's room. "Your eyes are so bloodshot, you'd probably stab yourself in the face with the mascara wand, and then we'd all be in trouble."
Kurt couldn't help but sniff a little. "I love you," he told Sasha, who rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, well, you just love everyone right now, don't you," she pointed out, smirking. "Tell you what—get through this performance, and maybe I'll return the favor."
The curtain was made of heavy black velvet; sprinkled with dust and close enough that Kurt could have reached out and touched it, if he'd wanted to. Vocal Adrenaline's championship performance the year before had begun with everyone backstage, and Kurt had forgotten at some point that the stagehands lowered the main curtain between groups at Nationals, in order to give each choir the same opportunity to set up in privacy.
With nothing but a wall of fabric and twenty feet of empty space separating him from several thousand people, all of whom were eager to see what the Vocal Adrenaline Machine was going to pull off this year, however, it seemed impossible to Kurt that he could have forgotten the only protection he had left. The anxiety that had been absent all weekend was finally beginning to catch up with him, and Kurt took a deep, shuddering breath, determined to calm back down before his lungs began to spasm.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so incredibly small. He wished his dad was there. And his mom. And Blaine.
Blaine.
Out in the auditorium, the thunderous voice of the Master of Ceremonies announced Vocal Adrenaline's name and defending championship status, and the sound of applause filled the room, ringing in Kurt's ears and overwhelming all of the nervous voices in his head.
Whether he was ready or not, it was Showtime.
Slowly, the curtain began to rise.
When Shelby had first played Kurt the song that she wanted him to sing at Nationals, all the air had rushed out of his lungs, and he'd struggled to hold himself together even as he refused.
"I can't sing that," he'd argued weakly, "not after—it's just too much right now, Shelby. I'm sorry."
Shelby had shaken her head in disagreement. "It's the perfect song for you, and you know it," she'd maintained. "I know everything feels a little distressing for you right now, and that's all right. Use it."
"I can't," Kurt had persisted, aware that she had a point but still unwilling to face it. "Jesse can do it; he's got the range for it, and—"
"Jesse is an incredibly gifted singer," Shelby had interrupted evenly, "but he doesn't sing with his heart. You do, Kurt, and I haven't always encouraged that because I thought that you needed time to build up your dynamics and raw abilities, first. But it's time, Kurt, and the only thing that's going to stop you from being extraordinary is you. You can do this."
Behind him, Danny played a quiet opening note, and the familiar music began.
Gripping the microphone in front of him so tightly that a tiny, detached part of himself was surprised when it didn't shatter in his hand, Kurt took a deep breath and began to sing.
"I found the pieces in my hand; they were always there, it just took some time for me to understand;
You gave me words I just can't say, so if nothing else, I'll just hold on while you drift away…"
His voice, high and clear, rang out beautifully in the enormous space, cleaner and sadder and more breathtaking than it had ever been before. He didn't take the time to appreciate it, diving into the chorus as a small cross-section of singers softly began to harmonize underneath the melody. Jesse was among them, Kurt knew, but for once his voice didn't stand out from the group—he was blending perfectly with the others, letting Kurt have his moment without trying to overshadow him.
Kurt was grateful to him for that.
"The cities grow, the rivers flow; where you are I never know, but I'm still here,
If you were right and I was wrong, why are you the one who's gone and I'm still here?"
The rest of Vocal Adrenaline was onstage by the end of the bridge, but Kurt didn't turn around, choosing instead to close his eyes as he started the third, and the hardest, verse:
"I held the pieces of my soul; I was shattered, and I wanted you to come and make me whole,
And then I saw you yesterday, but you didn't notice,
And you just walked away."
Forcing his eyes open, Kurt let the choir carry him through the chorus. Everything he was feeling—all the grief and longing and sadness and anger and hope, most of all hope—was written all over him, and that, so much more than being the loudest or the most precise, was what mattered.
Which was good, because Kurt couldn't have stopped it for anything. Not after his conversation with Blaine had stripped away all of his defenses and left him, raw and exposed, on the stage in front of everyone.
And besides that, he had a song to finish.
"The lights go out, the bridges burn, once you've gone you can't return, but I'm still here,
Remember how you used to say I'd be the one to run away, but I'm still here.
I'm still here."
The applause was deafening, and only grew louder as the crowd rose to its feet and gave Kurt Hummel his first personal standing ovation.
Smiling professionally, Kurt took a single, appreciative bow, and then quietly exited the stage as the team arranged themselves for the next number.
As anyone at the competition could have predicted in their sleep, the rest of Vocal Adrenaline's performance was exquisitely flawless.
Mindful of the abrupt emotional transition between Kurt's solo and the group number that followed it, Shelby had pulled Kurt out of the second piece, putting two sopranos on the countertenor part with Andy and giving him a few minutes to recover and change outfits before Jesse closed out their set with his stunning, highly anticipated rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. The vocals were more than solid, the dancing was crisp and visually spectacular, and as the curtain finally fell—Jesse had bowed three times, to tremendous accolades—it briefly occurred to Kurt that he felt incredibly sorry for whichever unlucky choir was sixth in the program lineup.
According to the fliers posted in every hallway, dressing room, and restroom in the building, eighteen of the twenty-nine groups that had both qualified and made it to Nationals were scheduled to perform on Saturday. The other eleven would finish early the next afternoon, giving the judges plenty of time to deliberate and finalize their rankings before the Awards Presentation and the official Closing Ceremonies on Sunday evening. Except for the awards, which were mandatory for obvious reasons, only the freshmen were required to stay for any of it (or else be forcibly shipped back to the hotel). The rest of the older students were welcome to remain and watch the other performances if they felt like it, but were otherwise free to explore Los Angeles—"In groups of three or more, and legal activities only," Shelby had warned them sternly the night before, "I am not explaining to anyone's parents why their child suddenly has a tattoo written in a language they can't actually speak."—until 7:00pm, when the entire team would meet in the hotel lobby to go out for a celebratory dinner.
Although all Kurt wanted to do was go to the hotel and sleep until it was time to take the shuttle bus back to the airport, he ended up appeasing Sasha and James by agreeing to meet them for a late lunch after he had the chance to shower and take a short nap (and if he was breaking Shelby's rule by going alone, well, nobody had to know).
And he had every intention of keeping his promise, but for some reason, changing out of his costume and washing off all of his makeup had become tasks of insurmountable difficulty that required far more effort than usual, and by the time he was finally dressed and cleaned up, he was the only one left in the dressing room, and he couldn't seem to persuade his useless body to move from its slumped, hopeless sprawl in front of the mirror.
Get up, he urged himself impatiently. You just impressed an enormous crowd, you're in a spectacular city with friends that want to spend time with you, and Blaine is talking to you again. There's no reason for you to be alone, acting like someone shot the puppy that you will never have because dog hair on everything you own, God.
The pep talk was, shockingly, less than helpful.
Kurt glared tiredly at his reflection in the mirror, which was paler and more bleary-eyed than he remembered. "I'm starting to think that Shelby might have had a point about you, the other day," he muttered at it darkly.
His reflection stared right back. Kurt sighed.
Typical.
"There you are."
Kurt, who hadn't heard the door open in his fatigued stupor, whipped around in his chair. Shelby was watching him with one hand on the doorframe and a small smile on her face, as if she'd been summoned by him mentioning her name.
If she'd heard him, though, she didn't say anything. "I didn't see you leave with the others," she explained, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. "I wanted to congratulate you—you were incredible today, Kurt. I've never been more impressed with you than I was today, and I'd be extremely shocked if we don't win tomorrow, with the way that you sang."
Kurt was stunned by the compliment. "Th-thank you," he managed, well aware that his eyes were far wider than was considered normal or at all attractive.
"Of course," Shelby replied evenly, sitting down in one of the empty chairs across from him.
She studied him for a minute, contemplating, and Kurt squirmed slightly under the scrutiny, not sure what the reasoning behind it was. Before he could develop any theories, though, Shelby smiled at him sadly.
"I'm leaving Vocal Adrenaline next year," she said quietly, continuing to watch him with steady eyes.
Kurt sat up so quickly that he nearly tumbled out of his chair. "What?" he asked stupidly, certain that he'd misheard her.
Shelby's expression turned indulgent. "You're the first one I've told," she admitted, glancing at the door before turning back to him. "Everyone else will find out at our next rehearsal on Wednesday—I'm trusting that you can keep it a secret for that long."
Kurt shook his head absently, a million questions running through his brain.
"Why are you telling me now?" he asked finally, not sure what else to say.
Shelby blinked at him. "After today, I'm surprised that you have to ask," she replied. "When my replacement arrives in September, you'll be taking over as Vocal Adrenaline's lead singer."
Kurt's heart stopped.
"You want me to take Jesse's place next year," he clarified, looking inquisitively at Shelby. "For me to be the lead soloist."
Shelby nodded. "You've proved that you can handle it," she told him. "What's more, you've earned it, Kurt."
Kurt nodded back, slowly. He let the words wash over him, waiting for the meaning to sink in.
Nothing happened.
The excitement, pride, gratitude that he'd expected to feel, hearing Shelby acknowledge his hard work and talent and reward it accordingly—none of it was there. He felt…
Nothing. Numb. Just as strangely empty as he'd felt when he'd opened his acceptance letter, one week earlier.
Kurt blinked. What the hell is wrong with me?
A warm hand slid over his own. "Kurt?" Shelby asked, her voice more gentle than he could ever remember hearing it. "Are you all right? Talk to me."
Kurt exhaled shakily.
"Being the lead soloist, winning Nationals," he said slowly, staring at their hands. "Getting into The Academy. All of it's happening at the same time. Everything that I wanted, for so long."
Kurt looked up. Shelby was nodding, waiting for him to continue.
He took another deep breath. "But I don't feel anything," he confessed, almost pleadingly. "Why don't I feel anything?"
Shelby looked at him silently for a long, long time.
"There's a baby girl, back in Ohio," she said, finally. "Her name is Beth. She's perfect, Kurt, an innocent little angel that deserves to be the center of someone's world. And she's spending over three whole days and nights with a nanny, because her mom is on the other side of the country with three dozen teenagers, chasing after awards and titles that aren't going to mean anything to any of them in twenty years."
Kurt stared at her, too shocked to interrupt.
Shelby met his eyes. "Sometimes, the things that you think you want the most change, without you even realizing it," she said seriously. "You have so much talent, Kurt, and I think that you could be something amazing. But you're the one who has to live with your choices, your decisions. No one else."
Before Kurt could even begin to process what she had said, Shelby was pulling her hand back and straightening up in her seat.
"I know that this isn't the best time," she admitted, a hint of apology in her voice. "But there's someone outside who's been waiting to speak with you, and I've kept her waiting long enough. Can I send her in?"
The last thing that Kurt felt capable of was more conversation, but he nodded anyway, too overwhelmed to disagree. Shelby nodded back, taking his hand one more time and squeezing it briefly before standing up and slipping out the door.
A minute later, Kurt heard a faint clicking sound as a woman in stilletos crossed the threshold into the dressing room. "Hello, Kurt," a vaguely familiar voice greeted him.
And even though he had only heard it once before, Kurt recognized her immediately, and knew even as he stood up and turned around who he would see.
Sarita Jackson, the lead instructor at The Academy, had just entered the room.
