Author's Note: I feel it best to reiterate the warnings of the first chapter. This chapter in particular includes strong and offensive hate speech. While it's used to make a point, if you believe it will offend you, you're advised not to read it. I'm not going to entertain flames for a plot device used to encourage discussion and debate. I'm offended by some authors who use the word 'fag' indiscriminately. They make no apologies and no one calls them on it; they use it for story purposes. That's all this is.
We will also be returning to some character bashing, particularly of Finn, Mercedes, and Blaine. Again, if that's not your cup of tea, no worries. Simply move along. Also, please bear in mind that while I'm writing this story, the viewpoints expressed by the characters, including those about canonical plots and other characters, are not necessarily my own. There are many points of view in this story, and I approach them from what the characters believe about their own experiences. While written in third-person, there is no omniscient narrator. Finally, this is fiction.
Kurt quickly made his excuses and escaped into Santana's bathroom so that he might have a very quiet and private breakdown. He certainly didn't want to lose it in front of his two new best friends. In the sanctuary of his own mind, he was unsure as to whether or not that last statement was sarcastic.
He slid down the back of the door, resting his head upon his knees. He paused to inhale the delicious fragrance of lavender and vanilla permeating the admittedly luxurious bathroom. Granted, it wasn't as spectacular as his own but, really, what could be? He sighed.
What was he doing? Not only in Santana's house, but with his life? For the past two years, he had done nothing but make poor choices. And now he could do nothing but sit there as every humiliating moment came flooding back to him. Was this his subconscious's way of forcing him to take stock? Stupid psychology.
The whole debacle with Finn had been completely embarrassing and utterly mortifying. Its remnants were long-lasting and appeared to be permanent. They had never moved past it, despite the excuses they made to their friends, their parents, and even to each other. Finn would never truly trust him and constantly suspected his motives, even when it came to something as banal as him doing a load of laundry. Finn was absolutely convinced that he was secretly some kind of sinister sexual deviant and considered it his duty to protect the virtue of all boys in their immediate vicinity.
He frowned. Was he being fair to Finn? Well, in his mind, yes.
He honestly didn't know if Finn was homophobic, because Finn was fearful of anything he didn't understand or was outside the realm of his own experience. Once he had taken pride in helping Finn to understand all of the nuances he failed to notice, both subtle and blatant, but now he simply found Finn tiring. He understood why Quinn had never bothered to explain things to Finn, but he was curious as to why she had decided to get back together with him.
He had long believed that, for Rachel, part of Finn's appeal was his obtuseness; it made her feel superior that he was so needy, never understanding that it wasn't necessarily her that he needed. Any port in the storm and all. Not that Finn didn't love her, only that what he most loved about her was how much she loved him. Honestly, he thought they brought out the worst in one another, but each was too stubborn to call an end to their collective misery. Rachel deserved better.
His mind flashed on her kiss with Blaine. Perhaps not.
But was he any better than Finn? He had been hopelessly clingy with Blaine, so much so that he didn't understand why Blaine had put up with him as long as he had. Of course, Blaine had friend-zoned him almost from the beginning, so it wasn't as though Blaine had been saddled with the same baggage.
Well, that was certainly sobering. Of course, it didn't stop him from wanting to shove Blaine's curly, overly-gelled head through a plate-glass window.
He was of two minds about the entire Blaine-and-Rachel situation: on the one hand, he desperately wanted to play the part of the martyr, the wronged party whose heart had been ruthlessly trampled upon; on the other, Blaine owed him nothing. They had never been in a romantic relationship, despite his own longing and desire.
Still, a part of him couldn't help but resent Blaine. He felt tricked, as though whatever hope he had been hanging on to, even if false, had been snatched away from him like a carrot from a donkey.
The bottom line was that Blaine owed him nothing, but the other boy had certainly been playing fast and loose with his heart. The question was whether he had known he was doing so.
It would be easy to dismiss Blaine's obliviousness as good acting, perhaps in a bid to let him down gently, but he knew Blaine wasn't that good of an actor. Besides, having known firsthand via Finn how clueless a teenage boy could be, it stood to reason that Blaine was simply ignorant of the feelings of one Kurt Hummel. He didn't know how much more obvious he could have been, other than coming right out and tackling Blaine to the floor and instigating a lip assault.
Ew. Shades of Karofsky.
That was a kettle of fish he'd just as soon leave unopened.
Still, some part of Blaine must have recognized that his feelings were more than friendly. He simply hadn't been unable to keep the heartbreak from his face after that nonsense with the Gap Attack. And for Blaine then to make out with Rachel? He had told Blaine everything about Rachel, the good and the mostly bad. If Blaine had to make out with a girl, why did it have to be her? Blaine had to have known how badly that would devastate him. Right?
Maybe Blaine wasn't malicious, but he certainly was thoughtless.
He had presented himself has some kind of older and wiser mentor. The truth was that they were the same age and Blaine was no more wiser than any of their contemporaries. Kurt wanted to sue him for false advertising, but he was the one who had bought into the fantasy, wasn't he? He had wanted to believe it, in Blaine, to surrender all of his problems to the irresistible lure of someone who was more experienced.
But was Blaine more experienced? He had told him that he too had transferred to Dalton to escape bullying, but what exactly was the nature of that bullying? Kurt had simply assumed that it was worse than his own, but why? It wasn't necessarily true. Sure, Blaine had been out longer, but what did that mean? Everyone Kurt had ever met had known he was gay from the moment of said first meeting. He had only been out officially for about a year, though only to his friends, but it was nothing more than confirmation of what everyone and their mother had long known to be true.
And now with the gift of hindsight, he realized that he had been so desperate, and still was to an extent, to deny what Karofsky and McKinley had done to him, he had been more than willing to look upon Blaine as a savior, one who had triumphed over much more scathing adversity. He had built up Blaine so much in his mind, put him on such a pedestal, that it was only a matter of time before the façade crumbled.
However, that didn't mean that Blaine wasn't just as guilty of perpetuating the myth.
Kurt honestly didn't know which was worse: Blaine knowing how he felt about him and not returning those feelings, or knowing and not caring.
And then there were his own actions. He was the one who had maintained contact with Blaine after their initial meeting. He was the one who told only Blaine about that horrid mess with Karofsky. He was the one who had blown off his friends in favor of Blaine. He was the one who had unloaded all of his problems onto Blaine, who then went about offering advice which backfired more often than not. Still, he had taken the advice, even when it went against his own instincts.
Kurt startled. He had done that, hadn't he? Somewhere along the line he had relinquished control of his life to another because he was simply too tired to maintain that control himself.
Well, that was just pathetic.
He had always prided himself on his independence, on his ability to solve his own problems, but he had been so overwhelmed he had checked out and placed the responsibility onto Blaine, who had demonstrated rather consistently that he was ill-equipped to handle the challenge.
But Blaine had taken up the mantle willingly, had convinced him that he knew best.
Really, what did he even know about Blaine? Nothing of great import. Blaine didn't talk about his family or what his life had encompassed prior to Dalton. Meanwhile, he had spilled all of his secrets to someone who, on the surface, was incredibly understanding, but who in fact knew very little. That nonsense with Karofsky was a prime example.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became, both with himself and with Blaine.
Why hadn't he told his father about that kiss? He had told himself at the time that it was to protect his father, protect his fragile health, but Burt Hummel was no weakling and had recovered completely from the heart attack. No, he hadn't told his father because he didn't want to appear any weaker in his father's eyes than he already had, which had been foolish. It was one thing to be independent; it was something altogether different to be stupid.
And it had been stupid; he was stupid.
If Karofsky had done the same thing to Brittany or Quinn, he would have been the first to encourage them to go to their parents – hell, he would have led the charge – so why had he demanded less for himself?
He closed his eyes. He was denying the truth again.
He hadn't gone to his father because he believed his father wouldn't have cared.
Well, that wasn't exactly true, but his father definitely wouldn't have understood. The entire sordid ordeal would have infantilized him even further. He didn't want his father rushing in to protect him. No, he had let Blaine do that for him, and it had been a colossal failure.
And now he was forced to rethink every decision he had made that had included Blaine.
He should have trusted in his father, in Miss Sylvester. Hell, even Miss Pillsbury.
But not Mister Schuester or Mercedes.
He flinched. Well, that was certainly telling.
He took a deep breath and slowly released it through his nose. He repeated the practice for several more moments, until he felt himself calm down.
Right. It was time to face some hard truths.
He hauled himself to his feet and stripped out of his clothes, which felt stiff and gross. He turned on Santana's shower and let the water heat up as he removed his essentials from his bad and lined them up on the counter.
One, he was incredibly unhappy with his life.
He tolerated Dalton only slightly better than McKinley. The Dalton curriculum was enthralling, encouraging him to push himself to his limits academically, challenging him in ways the Allen County public school system never had. He had transferred late in the semester and was still at the top of his class, surpassing Blaine and the Warblers in their age group. He didn't feel appreciation from his teachers, but there was a level of respect between he and they which had never existed at McKinley.
Still, that could be corrected, or at least ameliorated, were he to return to McKinley. He could take supplemental classes at the community college, or online at OSU. He knew his father would pay for them. If he went back, he could coast through his classes with no problem.
He stepped into the shower and let the water cascade over him for a few moments, loosening tired muscles and rehydrating his skin.
He had even fewer friends at Dalton than he had at McKinley and wondered if he was socially autistic. He didn't seem to fit well anywhere. Of course, he had allowed Blaine to isolate him at Dalton. He also realized he had allowed Mercedes to do the same at McKinley. For some reason, he chose as best friends that type of personality which sought to outshine him at every opportunity, while at the same time keeping him as close as possible to reinforce his own sense of worthlessness. He was fairly certain that neither Blaine nor Mercedes intended to come across that way, and it was more his fault than theirs because he had allowed it, but why were his closest relationships so unequal?
He bit his lip as he robotically reached up and massaged his imported organic shampoo into his hair.
Issue two: friends.
He would never be able to look at Blaine in the same way after last night. It wasn't a question of forgiveness, because it wasn't his responsibility or privilege to forgive Blaine anything, but the person he had believed Blaine to be had crashed and burned. Now he realized he really didn't know anything about Blaine and wasn't sure he wanted to.
Wes and David were acquaintances by association and nothing else. They accepted him, maybe even liked him slightly, but they weren't his friends.
He and Mercedes had been growing apart for months, before Blaine and even before Quinn. He loved her like a sister, he would do anything for her, but it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the fact that they had very little in common.
They liked to gossip about their peers, and about celebrities and fashion, but most of that was to disguise the fact that they had nothing else to say to each other. They had only started talking because they spent so much time together in Glee and were united in their distaste for Rachel. Artie and Tina had been his friends for much longer, and he realized now how he had pretty much shunted them aside in favor of Mercedes, a fact which shamed him.
Mercedes wasn't really a better friend to him than they were. He had allowed himself to get caught up in the newness of his relationship with her, abandoning people who had been at his side since elementary school. Then he had abandoned Mercedes when Blaine came along, which was doubly embarrassing.
He sighed as he came to unwelcome conclusion that he wasn't a very good friend. Amends would have to be made.
He had strong feelings for both Mercedes and Blaine, but he wasn't sure he liked them very much. Both were possessive and controlling, making demands on his time and causing him to question every decision he made, to the point where he had found himself unable to make any decision without wondering how they would react to it. When he disagreed with them, they would punish him by freezing him out for a while, presumably to give him time to come to his senses, which basically meant acknowledging that they were right and he was wrong. He was ashamed that he had given in to their demands and machinations more often than not, fearful of being left alone.
They were no wiser than him. They couldn't manage his life any better than he could; in fact, most of his troubles resulted from ignoring his instincts and following their edicts. Further, they were hopeless on their own. How many nights had he sacrificed to listen to them wail and whine about their various travails, begging him for advice, for direction, only then to ignore his words and dismiss them out of hand?
Didn't they realize how insulting that was? Didn't they care?
What had he gotten out of those friendships?
As far as Mercedes was concerned, he was there for her to dominate. Her only other friends were Tina and Artie, who had originally been his friends. His only purpose seemed to be to validate her. She knew how he felt about Blaine, that she disapproved, and as out of it as he was last night, he had still been cognizant enough to realize that she had watched Blaine and Rachel go at it and hadn't been interested enough to put down her bowl of Scoops even to give him a consoling hug. He never would have treated her that way.
And as for Blaine? Well, he kind of felt like Blaine's science fair project. He had been letting Blaine pull his strings for so long that he somewhat felt at loose ends now that those strings had been cut.
He also had to accept that he had never had any romantic future with Blaine. Once again, he had pursued a boy who had no interest in him. He supposed he could take solace in the fact that he hadn't been so pathetically obvious as he had with Finn, and at least Blaine was gay, but the situation had been just as hopeless.
He rinsed the shampoo from his hair and applied the conditioner.
Had he really left McKinley for Dalton because of his fear for his own safety, or was it because he wanted to be with Blaine? Had he joined the Warblers because he wanted to sing, or was it to be with Blaine?
The worst thing about his quasi relationship with Blaine was that it was forcing him to reconsider every decision he had made these past months, and he didn't like the direction in which his thoughts were leading him.
He began lathering up with his body wash.
Karofsky had been a real threat. He didn't know why Blaine hadn't understood that. That kiss had been disgusting and taken completely against his will and, for some reason, he was expected just to get over it like it had been nothing. In fact, Blaine had infuriatingly insisted that he should feel sorry for Karofsky.
Why? Because Karofsky was gay? Because he was in the closet and fearful of coming out?
How was that his problem? Why was it his responsibility? Because they were both gay, he somehow owed Karofsky something?
"Fuck that," he viciously hissed, startled yet pleased by his use of invective.
He hadn't made Karofsky gay. He hadn't forced him into the closet, nor had he forced him to try and step out of it. The kiss was his fault because he was out? Because of the way he dressed? Because of his pride in his sexuality and the absence of shame? Since when was it acceptable to blame the victim?
And he had been Karofsky's victim, as noxious as that thought was. Karofsky had been bullying him for years, since elementary school. Then the bullying had turned physical, violently so. And then that kiss had revealed that all of that bullying, all of that bravado and machismo, was really about Karofsky's own self-loathing.
But that didn't make it okay.
Karofsky had been physically assaulting him on an almost daily basis for three years. Everyone knew it and had done nothing to stop it. And when that awful kiss happened, he had realized that not only had he been physically assaulted but sexually harassed.
And Blaine hadn't seemed to understand the very real fear Kurt had felt in that moment, because he knew if Karofsky had wanted more and tried to take it, there was little he would have been able to do to stop him. That was terrifying and humbling. He was used to being attacked verbally and physically by groups of people, but the thought of being raped had never entered his mind.
And now he thought it about all the time, about the physical power others, other boys, had over him. How they could just take what they wanted from him. How was he supposed to trust another boy? He couldn't even posit letting another boy touch him in any intimate way, and he supposed it must have been apparent, because even Blaine made sure he could see any sign of affection coming from a mile away, on the chance he might want to call a halt to it.
He might not have been raped, but he still felt violated. He still felt as though he would always be at the mercy of another.
Karofsky hadn't just stolen his first kiss, but his sense of self and his ability to trust others. How was he supposed to get over that?
That disgusting moment when Karofsky's lips had smothered his own, he had been certain of the fact that he was about to be raped. That, mercifully, hadn't happened, but that it hadn't had done little to dispel the fear. And then the stalking and the death threats.
No. He'd had no choice but to leave McKinley, because they definitely weren't interested in protecting him.
If he was a girl, no one would have stood for Karofsky's actions, but because he was a boy, because he was gay, he somehow bore culpability.
That was why he hadn't told Figgins, because he knew he would be blamed.
That was why he hadn't told his father, because he knew his father would've wondered if he had encouraged Karofsky in some way; after all, he had a history of interest in jocks, namely Finn and Sam. He hadn't told Finn because he knew he would've gotten the same reaction.
After his father had sided with Finn and told him to stay away from Sam, Kurt had finally accepted that while his father loved him unconditionally, he didn't particularly like the person he was.
He didn't know why he hadn't told Mercedes. The fact that he hadn't was, in itself, revealing.
He rinsed the soap from his body and the conditioner from his hair, and then turned the water off. He stepped out of the shower, engulfing himself in a warm terrycloth towel, and looked at himself in the mirror.
It was time to make some hard decisions.
He failed to see how his friendships with Blaine or Mercedes were in any way beneficial to him. Those relationships were born out of either a presumed shared sexual identity or proximity. Blaine was only interested in him as a construct, not a person, and Mercedes used him to feel better about herself.
Granted, as of late, he had not been a very good friend to Mercedes. He was left to wonder if that was because they had never truly been friends, or if his resentment of her treatment of him had built up to a point where he could no longer tolerate her. Whatever the case, the relationships were unhealthy.
They had to go.
Finn was now his brother, but that didn't mean they had to be friends. He was the only one who had been investing any time and energy in their relationship and didn't see the point in continuing to do so when Finn clearly wasn't interested. He was tired of being made to feel as though he owed penance just because he once had an unrequited crush.
What was even more absurd was Finn believing he was entitled to have some say in with whom he was allowed to interact.
If he remained at Dalton, he only had to put up with Finn on the weekends. If he returned to McKinley, they only had to suffer each other's presence for another year until they both went off to college. Kurt was sure they could fake it well enough to appease their parents until they could part ways. Well, he could do it; he wasn't sure about Finn. He didn't much care, either.
He would apologize to Artie and Tina for being a fair-weather friend. If they forgave him, he would be elated; if they didn't, he would accept it, as he had no one other than himself to blame.
He would thank Wes and David for allowing him into the Warblers, even if they hadn't really wanted him to join, and would then resign.
He would never be friends with Rachel and that was okay. He wasn't required to get along with everyone, and he simply couldn't stomach the idea of pretending to like her just to get along with the others. He didn't hate her nor would he go out of his way to antagonize her; he would simply ignore her.
He didn't like Puck and never would. Check.
He didn't know Lauren and didn't feel the need to anything about that. Maybe they would become friends one day and maybe they wouldn't.
He adored Brittany and would crush anyone who made her frown.
He didn't have much occasion to speak with Mike, but they got on well enough in group settings. He hadn't forgotten that both Mike and Matt had once persecuted him alongside Puck and Finn, but that had stopped as soon as they had joined Glee. They had never apologized for it and he hadn't expected them to, but he had sensed some remorse on their part and that was good enough. Mike treated Tina well and that was really all that mattered.
As for Quinn, he was somewhat saddened that she had renewed her relationship with Finn. They didn't have anything in common and, most of the time, it seemed as though she could barely tolerate him.
He believed he had gotten to know Quinn somewhat during that time she had lived with Mercedes, and had been shocked to discover that he actually liked her. They had similar senses of humor and agreed on many political and social issues. Despite her deep religious convictions, Quinn had no prejudices with regard to his sexuality and his right to live his life.
She had pretty much dropped Mercedes once the school year had started, which, at the time, he had found a little ridiculous. Now he wondered if Quinn simply caught on to Mercedes much more quickly than he ever had.
What he had told Santana earlier was true: he knew about the games Mercedes played and, most of the time, he was fine to let her do so. But just because she didn't have a lot going on for herself didn't mean that she had to find her happiness at his expense.
He was going to miss her, or at least the person he had believed her to be. Perhaps the person he knew she could become.
He didn't often speak with Quinn since he had transferred to Dalton, but they texted on occasion. If she was now going to be a frequent guest in his home due to her relationship with Finn, he could keep the peace. He'd also keep up his guard.
That just left Sam and Santana.
They frightened him.
What did they want from him? Why would they even bother with him?
He could still feel Sam's arms around him. That terrified him.
He completed his exfoliating and moisturizing regimens and quickly dressed. He was somewhat disturbed that he had finished his morning toilette in under half an hour. Either that meant such a feat was truly possible and he had been wasting precious time for years, or he had missed several key steps in his process and his skin would pay the price later.
He took a deep breath, threw open the door, and charged out into Santana's bedroom.
Sam and Santana abruptly looked up from her laptop as Kurt made his appearance, their eyes widening as they regarded the look of steely determination on his face. Sam looked as though he was about to mess his pants while Santana thought some shit was about to go down and she was all for it.
"I have several things to say," Kurt began, "and the two of you will do me the courtesy of shutting up and allowing me to say them."
Santana raised a brow, while Sam's forehead furrowed in confusion.
"But we're not talking," he said.
"Irrelevant," Kurt snapped. "I'm about to do something I've never done before: be completely honest about what I think."
Sam's eyes grew to the size of saucers. "You mean, in all the time I've known you, you've been holding back?"
"Yes."
Sam shook his head. "Fuck," he whispered.
Santana smirked and patiently waited for Kurt to continue.
"First, I want to thank both of you for what you did for me last night." He held up his hand to stave off Sam's coming interruption; he knew Santana wouldn't bother speaking until she had something to say. "Don't dismiss it as though it were nothing. It was everything."
A bashful Sam reluctantly nodded and Kurt took another deep breath.
"I've reached the conclusion that I'm not a nice person and I haven't been a very good friend," he continued. "For a long time, I've convinced myself that I'm some martyr who's covered his hurt and pain with a superficial veneer of bitchery and false arrogance. That's not true. I am a bitch, and I kind of like it. But I want to be even better."
Santana definitely liked where this was going.
"I don't like many people," he continued. "In fact, I can count that number on one hand and still have room to flip someone off. Therefore, it shouldn't surprise me that people don't like me, but it somehow does. I purposefully cultivated a persona of cold indifference and aloofness to keep people at bay, and then had the gall to resent them when it worked."
He sighed. "I told myself that I wasn't liked because I was gay, that the people who treated me so horribly would one day know better, regret what they had done, and I would have the last laugh." He shook his head sadly. "I didn't want them to grow so that they would be better people, but so I could lord my superiority over them. I…was a selfish asshole."
Sam's mouth fell open and Santana flinched.
"I don't want to be that person anymore," Kurt said, "but nor do I want to be some doormat who allows people to walk all over him because he would rather have so-called friends than be alone."
Santana cautiously nodded.
Kurt began pacing. "I don't like this. I don't like self-introspection and personal analysis. It's much easier and more comforting to believe that the problem is with everyone else, but it's time I own my responsibility in how I'm treated. I've taken a lot of crap off people and given some of my own back, but now I need to level the playing field, and that starts by facing the very simple truth that I'm a bitch."
Sam cocked his head.
"I don't mean bitch in the good way," Kurt clarified. "I mean that I'm petty and spiteful and selfish. I mean that I've used people for my own ends, or even just because it was amusing. I mean that I'm a gossip who's spread as many rumors as have been spread about me. I mean that I'm dishonest about my feelings and ambitions, and I lie to people when it's convenient or advantageous. I've hurt people deliberately because I could or because I was thoughtless."
He halted his movements and closed his eyes. "Enough people have told me that I'm not a victim, and I'm finally starting to believe that. However, with that acceptance comes the realization that I have played that role when it suited, either to make myself feel better or appear more sympathetic in the eyes of others." He shook his head. "That's utterly pitiful, and it's going to change."
"How?" Santana asked.
"I'm going to become a good bitch," he promptly answered, his eyes snapping open. "I'm going to speak my mind about things that matter, things which affect my friends and myself. I'm going to defend my friends, but not placate them when I know they're wrong. I will not speak behind others' backs about that which I don't have the guts to say to their faces. I'm not going to worry over what people in whom I have no interest think about me, because, ultimately, they and their small opinions don't matter. I'm not going to be a person who has to build themselves up by tearing others down. I'm not going to live my life in fear of what other people may think or say about me, and I'm not going to waste my time trying to hurt people who are simply beneath me."
Sam and Santana stared at him, then at each other, and then back at him.
"Is that it?" Sam ventured. Frankly, he thought Kurt was being way too hard on himself, but what did he know? Kurt was obviously way more complex than he had ever considered, but he was looking forward to figuring out the puzzle.
"No. I owe you an apology, Sam, because you were right: I did throw you away, but not for the reasons you think. And I'm going to tell you those reasons, but first I want to put them in context. What I told you last night was the absolute truth: when I met you, it was friendship I wanted. I had thought that perhaps you might be gay, but that had nothing to do with you.
"I wonder about every guy I meet, whether or not they might be like me, because it's very difficult to feel so alone all of the time. That's probably why I latched onto Blaine so quickly and allowed myself to believe things that just weren't true. My only other experience with a gay guy is with Karofsky, and we all know what happened there."
Sam's eyes darkened and Santana released a stream of Spanish which soon had Kurt smirking.
"Did you kiss Brittany with that mouth?" he asked her.
"Yep," she nodded, "and she loved it."
He snorted and rolled his eyes. "The part I left out, Sam, is that I was very attracted to you. I still am. To be frank, you're the hottest guy I've ever met in my life." He gestured toward the door. "Feel free to run away now."
But Sam just sat there and continued to stare at him.
Kurt was confused and anxious. "Why are you still here?" he demanded.
"Why would I leave?" asked a flummoxed Sam.
Kurt's eyes bulged. "I just told you I think you're hot."
"So?"
"What!" Kurt shook his head. "You're not getting this."
"I get it just fine, Kurt. You think I'm hot. Why is that a bad thing? Thanks, by the way." He grinned.
Kurt stared at him in horror and then launched into a brief but detailed explication of the debacle with Finn, about how he had acted, about how humiliated he was by those actions, about how strained and tense his relationship with Finn now was.
"And?" Sam prompted.
Kurt stared at him again, with even more incredulity. "I'm a stalker, Sam!" he finally exploded. "You shouldn't want to be around someone like me."
"Because Finn doesn't?"
"Yes!"
Sam gave him a crooked smile. "You're forgetting something pretty crucial, Kurt. I'm not Finn."
Kurt blinked owlishly. "What?"
Sam shook his head. "Wow. Hudson really did a number on you." He sighed. "Okay, I've heard your explanation, but it's pretty obvious that you need some context of your own."
"What?" Kurt repeated.
"You liked Finn. He knew that you liked him, and you liking him made him uncomfortable. Is that right?"
"Yes."
"Did Finn ever tell you that?"
"Tell me…what?" Kurt slowly asked.
"That you made him uncomfortable," Sam clarified. "Did he ever tell you to back off? Did he ever tell you to stop hanging around him or that nothing like that was ever going to happen between you? Did he even flat-out say that he wasn't gay?"
"No?" Kurt said in a small voice, his confusion apparent.
"Weren't you the one he went to with most of his problems about Quinn and Rachel?"
"Yes."
"Didn't you tutor him almost all of last year in every subject?" Santana interjected.
Kurt nodded. "Yes."
"Did you ever touch him inappropriately or proposition him sexually?" Sam asked.
"No!" a scandalized Kurt bellowed.
"So what did you do that was so wrong?"
"I knew he wasn't gay and chased after him anyway," Kurt said.
"You already stated that he never told you explicitly that he wasn't gay," Santana snapped. "He knew you were gay and was more than content to use you as a guidance counselor and therapist. He knew that you liked him and he did nothing to discourage your interest. How is any of that your fault?"
Sam nodded. "The way I see it, you liked him, were a good friend to him, helped him with his problems, and were always available whenever he needed you. You stared at him a lot, sang some sad songs, and pretty much knew your crush was hopeless. For that, you deserved to be subjected to hate speech in your own home?"
"I had it coming," Kurt said softly, all of the assuredness he had discovered in the shower abandoning him. He abhorred his own vacillation.
"Your dad didn't think so," Santana argued.
"He didn't know everything about the situation."
"That doesn't matter, Kurt," Sam said, disbelieving that such a smart guy could be so susceptible to a dimwit like Finn. "Okay, I'm about to use some really bad language, but the point needs to be made."
Santana nodded. "I think I know where you're going. Do it."
"Kurt," Sam began, "for the sake of argument, let's say Santana acted toward me like you think you did toward Finn." He held up his hands. "I know, she never would, but this is Pretend Time, okay?"
Kurt narrowed his eyes but nodded.
"Now, I've never told her that I'm not interested. I've never told her that she's pissing me off. Then, one day, I'm over at her house and she's tutoring me in Spanish. I can't take the way she looks at me anymore, it all comes to a head, and I blow up at her and call her a wetback in her own home." He raised a brow. "Is that in way acceptable?"
"Of course not!" Kurt exploded, flushing with anger as his hands curl into fists. He took a deep breath, released it, and shook his head ruefully. "It's not the same thing, Sam."
"Why?" Santana demanded. "Because of sexual orientation? Then how about this? Let's pretend Mercedes is a lesbian. She's been in love with Quinn for a year, and when Quinn has nowhere else to go, Mercedes sees her big chance and invites Quinn to live with her. Quinn accepts, knowing how Mercedes feels about her. They've never spoken about it, it's the big elephant in the room, but they both know it's there. Everyone knows it's there.
"Quinn's discomfort grows. She's freaking out because even though she considers Mercedes a good friend, maybe her best friend at that time, she knows how Mercedes really feels about her. But it's live with Mercedes or be homeless. It's not as though Mercedes can make her gay. It's not as though Mercedes could force her to do anything. She's just scared because of something she doesn't understand, something she's never tried to understand because it doesn't pertain to her. She hopes that if she ignores it, it will go away. Still, she knows it will eventually have to be addressed, but she's too scared to talk about it. So all of the pressure builds up and she flips out and calls Mercedes a nigger."
Kurt gasped loudly, his disgust evident.
"It's exactly the same thing, Kurt," Sam quietly insisted, forcing the other boy to struggle to hear him and thus pay attention to his words. "Finn attacked your core identity, something over which you have no control, something which you didn't choose for yourself. Being gay doesn't define you, but it's a huge part of who you are. You didn't choose to be gay any more than Santana chose to be Hispanic or Mercedes chose to be black. And feel free to switch out those racial and ethnic slurs with others of your own choosing. Imagine if Finn had called Mike a chink, or Tina a gook. Imagine if he had called Rachel or Puck a kike.
"Would you still be defending him?" he asked. "Would you still put some of the blame onto Mercedes or Santana or Tina? Don't you see how wrong that is? How wrong Finn was?" He shook his head. "Let's bottom line this. Can you control to whom you are attracted? No. Can you control how you react to that attraction? Yes. Were you a little bit ridiculous with Finn? Probably. Did he ever tell you to stop? No. Did he have control over how he reacted to you? Yes. Did he exercise it? No."
"You want to be a good bitch, right?" Santana asked. "Like you said, to do that, you need to own your shit. Well, from what I've seen, you're owning yours. But I haven't the foggiest fucking clue as to why you're trying to own his."
"He apologized," Kurt whispered.
"How? By wearing a shower curtain?" Santana scoffed. "Brittany told me all about that. He was going to protect you, right? He was going to help make it better for you, like you were his own personal Trevor Project. Well, then, where the fuck was he when Karofsky was attacking you almost every single fucking day? Finn saw you getting shoved into lockers. He saw the words scrawled on your locker. He knew what Karofsky was doing to you, though not the extent."
"We all knew," Sam muttered, "and we did nothing."
Santana grunted.
"It's not your job to do anything," Kurt said kindly, "and if I recall correctly, Sam, you did more than your share."
A blush crept up Sam's neck.
Santana opened her mouth, but Kurt cut her off.
"No, we weren't friends, Santana, but we were also never enemies. Not really. You never used hate speech against me. You never slushied me. You never threw me in a dumpster or nailed my lawn furniture to my roof or threw pee balloons at me. You never called my house or my father's shop and made obscene remarks or threatened my life. You never crossed the street to avoid me. You never spray painted hideous remarks on my property. You never toilet-papered my house. You were never afraid to touch me when we were paired as dance partners."
She sat on her hands to repress her need to strangle something. "I never did anything to stop those things, either, even though I knew about them."
"But I never expected you to. We both knew what would have happened to you if you had. I never blamed you, Santana."
She grimaced, his absolution only compounding her guilt. She wasn't sure if she was more pissed at herself or at him. Since when did she experience guilt?
Sure, she knew what it was, one of those buzzwords thrown around that didn't really mean anything, like fat-free or restraining order.
But she had never known guilt; or at least she had been able to repress it, like she had her minions and most of her emotions. That was the problem with people like Kurt Hummel: they made you feel things.
Of course, she had already admitted to both herself and to Kurt that she had grown fairly tired of feeling nothing but a pleasant numbness at best or emptiness at worst, but was she ready for this?
She thought she had been, but then Kurt had stormed into the room and made a big speech which shared many points relevant to her own self-reflections. She didn't know if she wanted to make that journey with him, to make herself into an allegedly better person. She thought she was fine just the way she was; though, granted, some tweaks were definitely in order.
But wasn't that all Kurt was talking about, making some tweaks to his character? Refining some traits and refocusing his energies? There was nothing wrong with that, she supposed. And she couldn't expect to get everything right all in one go. She was sure that Kurt wouldn't expect that either, not from her nor from himself, but maybe it would go more smoothly if they worked together? How could she suggest that to him without sounding like a completely needy tool?
"We need you back here, Rainbow. Everything's just fallen apart since you left."
Yep, she was a tool.
He stilled and gazed at some point above her head, his fear rising to the fore. "I can't."
"We got your back, Kurt," Sam insisted, "I swear. We can handle Karofsky."
Kurt smiled and shook his head. "You can't, Sam. He threatened to kill me. He looked into my eyes and threatened to kill me, and I understood that he not only wanted to, but that he would. You can't protect me all the time. You can walk me to classes and you can walk me to my car, but you have no control over anything once we leave school. He knows where I live. He knows where I work. He will find me if he wants to. He's already been spotted at Dalton."
"What!" Sam and Santana screamed.
"He can't get in," Kurt continued. "The grounds are secured. There are alarms, video surveillance, guards, and dogs. His picture is posted in every security outpost. I am safe there, far more than I would be here. And, yes, sometimes I feel like a prisoner, but I much prefer that over being dead. For all I know, despite the events of last night, he's after Blaine in addition to me."
"Sweet Jesus," Sam whispered. "I had no idea it was this bad."
Kurt shrugged. "It is what it is. For whatever reason, Karofsky's decided that I'm to blame for all of the problems in his life. I've done everything I can reasonably do to protect myself. A record is being kept of every time he shows up at Dalton, every time he drives past my house, every time he calls or texts or emails me. The next step is a restraining order, and if he ignores that, I'll have him charged with stalking."
He sighed. "I know New Directions thinks I ran away, that I just gave up, but it wasn't only myself that I was protecting. It's not your job to take care of me. I can't ask you to do that, but more importantly, I don't want you to do that. I'm not helpless. What you don't seem to realize is that the moment you act as a group in defense of me, you all become targets, far more so than you ever were before. Your families will become targets. He knows Beth is with Shelby. He knows Puck has a little sister. I'm sure he knows he about Stacy and Stevie, Sam. Do you really believe that Mister Schuester and Miss Pillsbury are safe just because they're teachers? There's a reason most of the faculty ignores his behavior."
"I'll fucking end him," Santana hissed.
Kurt shook his head. "He knows all of you. He knows where you live. He knows your schedules. He's already attacked Finn and Sam for coming to my defense. He physically assaulted Tina by shoving her into a locker because she was wearing a costume to which he took offense. He's attacked Artie just for existing. Would he go after Puck or you, Santana, on his own? Probably not. But would he go after Rachel or Mercedes or Brittany if he managed to get them alone? You tell me."
"Don't you think it's possible you're just a little bit paranoid?" Santana asked, trying not to shake. If that asshole went anywhere near Brittany, his life would be forfeit.
"Oh, quite probably," Kurt chirped, laughing bitterly, "but better paranoid than raped and/or murdered."
"You really think he would go that far?" she questioned.
Kurt shrugged. "I honestly don't know; that's why he terrifies me. I have no idea what he's capable of, but I know that I'm in his crosshairs. So far, I seem to be the only one. I plan on keeping it that way."
He scratched the back of his neck. "I've often thought about returning to McKinley, but I know what would happen if I did. I'm not particularly fond of Dalton. I haven't really enjoyed my time there. They have, however, kept me safe. Yes, I pay for that privilege, but at least it's something. We all know Figgins understands what goes on in his school, and not just to me. He's simply uninterested in doing anything to rectify it. He hides behind budgets and the school board, and maybe they do hamper him, but we all know he could do more if he could be bothered."
"Figgins is a dickhead," Santana agreed, nodding slightly.
"Karofsky really is insane," Sam whispered.
Kurt looked down at the floor. "I would never forgive myself if he hurt you because of me."
Santana walked over to him and cupped his chin in his hand, her eyes all but spitting sparks. "You listen to me, Kurt Hummel. You are not responsible for the choices that asshole makes. You have done nothing to him. He is nothing more than a scared, pathetic, gutless little boy who's been allowed to do whatever he wants for far too long. I appreciate that you want to protect us but, by your own logic, that's no more your job than it is ours to protect you. Friends stick up for their friends."
Sam nodded resolutely.
"Santana, you're really not getting this. It's not just bullying anymore. It's not dumpster tosses or slushies. He threatened to kill me." He snorted. "And why not? He's never punished for his behavior. He gets off scot-free every time. He was expelled and it was overturned. Why? Because it was my word against his. Don't you understand he plans things that way? He has people to tell him when I'm alone and there will be no witnesses, where he can find me, and then he does whatever he wants because he knows he won't be punished. And do you know why?"
She nodded stiffly. "Because you're gay."
He nodded in kind. "Because I'm gay. Because there are people in this town, in that school, on its staff, who know what he does to me and they don't care, because they truly believe I deserve it for being what I am and not being ashamed of it. And do you think that's limited to Karofsky? Figgins truly believed that Tina was a vampire. He told me more than once that I needed to tone down how I dress, how I act, who I am. If Karofsky magically disappeared, do you think the hatred and the fear and the ignorance would go with him? Of course not.
"There will always be another bully. Perhaps they won't be as extreme, but I'll still be a target. I won the football team their single victory last year. Do you think I was thanked, that I was congratulated? The bullying was worse than ever before because I did something they could never do, because I had the audacity to show them up. If I was still at McKinley and managed to get a boyfriend, can you even imagine what he would be made to endure? And that's just as far as other students go. Do you believe we'd ever be allowed to attend a dance together? That we'd even be allowed to hold hands in the hall?"
Sam looked down at his hands as he felt a huge yellow streak slide up his back. Just as quickly he forced it to recede. He was in this now, and he was not about to give up on them just because it would be difficult. He had known that going in. He refused to be a pussy.
Kurt shook his head. "Rachel's been through hell because of how the world views her fathers, and while her pain is her own and I know she has great sympathy for me, she's not gay. She doesn't know what it is to be gay. She know how her fathers and I are treated, she know it's wrong and she steps up to try and stop it, and she knows how she feels when someone calls one of her fathers a fag." Tears slipped down his face. "But she doesn't know what it feels like to be called that herself. She doesn't know what it does to you, to be reminded constantly, on a daily basis, that the majority of the world thinks there's something wrong with you. That you're evil or soulless or a pedophile waiting to strike."
"I'm so sorry," whispered a devastated Sam.
"I don't want you to be sorry," Kurt said. "It's not your fault. I know how Rachel is treated because her dads are gay. I hear the whispers about her and Noah and Tina because they're Jewish. I hear the racial slurs against Mercedes and Mike and Tina, and Matt, when he was here, the ones that will never be said to their faces because it's illegal. I hear the ethnic slurs against Santana. I hear the insults against Artie and Brittany. I saw what Finn and Quinn went through during her pregnancy.
"Believe me, guys, I know that we're not the problem, that it's them, the ones out there who are so terrified of anyone who's different that they feel the need to lash out. And the points of your Pretend Time weren't lost on me. Perhaps I've been easier on Finn than he deserves, but after a lifetime of conditioning in which I've been compelled to believe that I'm wrong and everyone else is right, it's difficult to make myself recognize that I'm not responsible for everything. It's a constant struggle, and I suspect it always will be.
"I know that my pain isn't special. I know that I'm not the only one who's been victimized. I remember when we were eleven and someone burned a cross in Rachel's yard. Every time I'm at the mall with Mercedes and we separate, I see the sales staff follow her around, positive she's going to steal something. I gave Matt a ride once; his car had broken down close to the school. We pulled up to a traffic light and the white people in the nearby cars rolled up their windows and locked their doors. I've seen idiots affect horribly fake Asian accents and hurl slurs at Tina and Mike. Brittany's told me how she's been in restaurants with Santana where people ask her to take their order, because of course she must be the help; she couldn't possibly be there to dine.
Shame burned on Santana's face.
"Don't you dare," Kurt hissed. "Don't you dare allow yourself to take on the weight of their stupidity." He sighed. "Despite the fact that Dalton has a zero-tolerance policy, I've seen the anger on some of the boys' faces if Blaine holds my hand. Just because they can't act on their hate doesn't mean they don't still feel it. And no matter how much I hate it, no matter how much I want to stop it, no matter how badly I want to excuse their ignorance, I've also realized that it's never going to change. And you know what? That's okay. I can deal with it. But I can't deal with Karofsky."
Sam, who didn't know when he had risen to his feet, abruptly sat back down on Santana's bed with a defeated look on his face.
"What if you didn't have to?" asked a voice.
The three turned toward the doorway, where a defiant Lydia Lopez stood staring at them, her husband's arm wrapped around her shoulders.