Layer Three: The Truth

It was a long time ago…I was twelve years old, and my brother's friend Richie had just arrived from the United States…

"Yo, Kurt! Go long!"

"Huh?" Kurt looked up from his book just in time to catch a spinning football full in the face. Stefan and Richie had to bend double, they were laughing so hard. Kurt glared up at the tall teenagers through watering eyes, clutching a hand to his painfully throbbing nose.

"Don't cry," he hissed to himself through tightly clenched teeth. "Don't cry, don'tcry, don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcry…"

"Aw, look at the poor wittle baby," Richie scoffed, nudging the chuckling Stefan in the ribs. "Look at 'im, Stef—he's crying!"

"I am not!" Kurt retorted angrily, shutting his book with a fierce slam.

"Ha! That's it!" Richie exclaimed. "The kid's showin' some spunk at last!"

"Yeah, Kurt," Stefan said. "Why don't you put that book down and play some ball with us? Seriously, you're getting as bad as Jimaine."

"I would if you were playing real football," Kurt scowled from under his hand.

"This is real football," Richie smirked, bending down to recover the brown, oblong ball from where it had rolled across the uneven ground. "Soccer is for wimps."

Kurt's golden eyes widened dangerously at that deliberately provocative statement. Richie may have been twice his size in both height and girth, but at that moment all Kurt saw was an obnoxious, loud-mouthed cretin who had continuously picked on him and monopolized his big brother's attention since his arrival at the circus two days ago. It was time to show him just whose country he was in. Leaving his book on the ground, Kurt clenched his fists and took a threatening step forward, his long tail thrashing behind him like a whip. Fortunately for the slender twelve-year-old, Stefan caught on before Richie noticed Kurt's intent.

"Hey, Richie," he said quickly. "Why don't we try out that game you were telling me about this morning?"

"What, baseball?" Richie asked, absently tossing the football in the air and catching it. "Nah. We don't have enough guys to play a real game, and there's not enough room in this dinky camp for the bases. Besides, stupid customs wouldn't let me take my bat onto the plane. Said it was a weapon." Richie furrowed his brow, deep in thought. At least, that's no doubt the expression he'd intended. Kurt thought he looked constipated.

"You know," the teen said finally, "we could try a game of stickball. I've got a baseball in my pack, and there are plenty of sticks in that forest. Wanna give it a shot?"

"Sure!" Stefan said, taking firm hold of Kurt's shoulder. Kurt shot him a glowering look, but Stefan grinned him down. "Kurt and I will collect some good sticks. You go get the ball, OK?"

"Got it," Richie nodded. "We meet back here in fifteen minutes. Then I'll show your little blue pipsqueak friend how we Americans play ball, right Stef?"

Kurt gave his brother a meaningful look. "Please, Stefan," he gritted through his teeth. "Just one little punch, right in the nose. Just one, that's all I ask."

Instead of responding, Stefan said, "Yeah, that's right, Rich. Fifteen minutes!"

Once Richie was out of sight, Kurt spun on Stefan, his golden eyes blazing. "I don't get how you can you stand that jerk!" he exclaimed. "Why don't you tell him off for once, instead of just grinning like an idiot all the time?"

Stefan sighed, crouching down until he was at Kurt's eyelevel. "Look, Kurt," he said, "Richie and I have been pen pals for a long time. Trust me, he's not as awful as he seems."

"Hrumph," Kurt snorted. Stefan frowned.

"Kurt, I'm serious," he said. "You don't know what he had to go through to convince his parents to let him come here. Give him a chance."

Kurt glared at his brother for a long time, but finally he sighed. "All right," he nodded.

"Good," Stefan smiled. "Now come on. We have to find some sticks."

To his surprise, once he was comfortable with the rules of the game Kurt found he was really enjoying himself. It turned out he had a talent for pitching, and he wasn't so bad as a batter either. Unfortunately, Richie wasn't satisfied with a simple, friendly game. He had an aggressively competitive nature, and once he saw how good Kurt was as a pitcher he couldn't resist the challenge. Before they knew it, the stickball game had turned into a fierce pitching contest—each of the boys trying to outdo the other two in speed and accuracy.

It was Kurt's turn at bat. Stefan handed him the stick with a grin and strode off to watch from the sidelines. Kurt twirled the stick a few times, then got into position, turning his full attention to Richie.

"All right, let's see what you've got," he shouted. Richie laughed.

"Try to beat this, kid!" he grinned. Winding up, he fired the ball towards Kurt with all his strength. Eyes wide and focused with determination, Kurt swung. Stick and ball connected, only to erupt in a minor explosion of splinters. Kurt cried out in alarmed pain, dropping the stick to cover his left eye. Richie stood frozen, but Stefan ran at once to his brother's side.

"Kurt!" he said firmly, trying to get the boy to lower his arms. "Kurt, let me see. Look at me, Kurt."

Kurt dropped his hand for a moment, only to wince and press it back over his eye even harder than before. Stefan bit his lip.

"Come on, Kurt," he said, taking his brother by the elbow. "I'm taking you to see Mom. Richie, you're coming too. Hurry up—this looks pretty serious."

Kurt moaned, but allowed himself to be led. One if not more of the splinters had lodged in his eye, he knew that. What he didn't know and couldn't guess was just how bad his injury would soon turn out to be…