"And I don't want the world to see me, cause I don't think that they'd understand"

-Goo Goo Dolls

The thing is, Kurt was more embarrassed then anything.

Not that anyone had ever thought him to be some kind of secret superman or whatever; everyone and their dog knew a little girl could get bring him down. But it was one thing to theorize, and another to prove. And that kid, Azimo whatshisface, had proved it so brutally Kurt had to shave his hair (his hair. Oh, god, his hair!) so the doctor could make sure there were no severe lacerations on his head. This was how Puck felt, he was sure, this cool breeze only guarded by a gentle fuzz. Kurt Hummel could handle any fist you through at him, but when you take a girl's hair-that's when things get suicidal.

"Please be merciful," he moaned, on the phone with Mercedes, "bring a gun and end my misery. I can't live like this."

"Oh, sweetie," Mercedes replied, "it'll grow back."

"You can't understand this pain, Mercedes," he said. "Your black. Your hair grows faster then Kirstie Alley off Jenny Craig."

Mercedes laughed gently and there was the soft sound of piano keys in the background. It had been three days since they had let Kurt out of the hospital (a torturous two day stay), and two since his father put the talks of lawsuits and idiot kids to rest. The Hummel house was now so painfully silent that Kurt had literally no other option then to call Mercedes.

"So did you hear about Finn and Puck?" she asked.

Kurt sat straighter in his bed, dropping the Barbara songbook he'd been flipping through onto his side table. "What about them?"

"They beat the crap out of that kid Azimo. They won't give why, but they're suspended till next week," she scoffed. "Boys just wantin' to be hit, if you ask me."

"That's…" Kurt said quietly, sitting back down and looking up at his ceiling. The room was still adorned in maroon and red and bronze, décor too perfectly put together to tear apart despite what it had meant to whatever kind of happiness his father had acquired. Yes, Burt had still been seeing Finn's mother, but it was really impossible to be anything but wary of a man who had thrown your son out of his house.

This news was both surprising and…not. He knew that, despite his best efforts, Finn was just the hot head any other player on the football team was, and Puck was like an active volcano. But had they really-really-risked suspension for him? Did Puck even know his first name?

"Kurt," Burt called, "you want food?"

Kurt pulled the phone away from his mouth. "No, dad," he replied for the fifteenth time that hour. His father had always believed burnt barbeque was the band aide for a broken heart (or something).

"….so Azimo ran down to Coach Sylvester's office for some reason and she went to Figgins and, have you noticed that that man'd shoot down the moon for the lady? I'd swear they got something' goin' on if Coach wasn't, like, asexual…" He realized quickly that Mercedes had never stopped talking, and tried to ease back into the conversation.

"She worships Madonna, Mercedes. The woman could hardly be asexual-"

"You sure?" Burt hollered. "Got hot dogs 'r I could get some of that fish crap you like-"

"Dad," Kurt called, "I ate half an hour ago."

"Right, right…."

"So how are things with your dad?" Mercedes asked off-handedly.

Kurt sighed. "It's been like this for days. Like burnt cow meat will make me any less of a raging homosexual."

Mercedes laughed, loud and boisterous, "Girl, you gonna need a lot more then cow meat."

The sound of her laughter was infectious, so much so that Kurt couldn't tell whether he was laughing or his ribs were lighting themselves on fire in a ill-conceived suicide attempt. Either way, the pain made him double over, folding his legs up and leaning his chin on his kneecaps. "Ha-Mercedes, shut up-ha, oh."

There was the sound of air ripping through clenched teeth, and her laughter burst through her lips like water from a dam. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I can't….hahaha!"

"It's not even that-haha-funny," Kurt gasped, snickering into his leg and clutching his ribcage. "What are we laughing at?"

"I don't know!" she roared.

"Kurt?" Burt called. "You okay?"

Kurt tried to answer, but all that came out was painful, painful laughter.

Kurt was humming to himself when Burt came down and stood stiffly at the foot of the stairs. "The doctor said you can start school on Monday."

Kurt nodded absently, fingering the soft fray of his pillow.

"And, uh," Burt continued, "you can probably take off the bandages, too."

Sighing, Kurt turned his head slightly so he was looking at his Wicked poster.

"Said you shouldn't be singing cause, you know, the ribs…"

This was the only thing that urged a reaction out of Kurt; a small flinch, a flash of the eye and little else, quickly replaced with well-rehearsed stoic composure.

"How long?" he asked.

"A week, two tops."

Kurt nodded again.

There was a long, stifling silence and to Kurt it was almost as suffocating as cracked ribs.

"You hungry?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

"Right. Well, uh, get some rest and that girl-"

"Mercedes."

"Right, Mercedes'll be dropping off your homework later."

"I know."

"Uh, right."

Pause.

"You wanna, you know, talk?"

"No."

"Because I'm here if you, uh, do."

"I'm good."

"Right."

"You said that."

By the time Kurt had returned to school, everyone knew about him and they knew about Azimo and only the more practical few connected them, but none voiced these assumptions in anything but passing interest which quickly faded. Because gay kids got their asses handed to them all the time and so did football players.

But Azimo did not forget. Call it instinct, but when he found "fudge packer" spray painted in child's scrawl on his locker, Kurt knew this to be fact.

"Hey, Hummel," Puck said, leaning against the locker beside Kurt's as he replaced one binder for another. "How ya doin'?"

"I'm bald," he said flatly. He still couldn't say it without his stomach lurching.

"Nah, just buzzed," Puck said lazily, crushing his soda can in his still swollen hand. "Took care of Azimo fer ya."

"I heard."

"Gee, thanks, Noah," Puck said in a surprisingly high voice. "I don't know what I would've done without you-"

"Did I ever," Kurt stressed, "ask you for anything?"

Puck crossed his arms and leaned his back fully on the lockers behind him, looking over at Kurt. He tried not to notice. "I just figured you wouldn't mind me and your boyfriend teaching the kid-"

Kurt slammed his locker shut so violently the noise wrought a momentary hush throughout the immediate area. "Finn is not my boyfriend."

This seemed to be the only thing all day that could bring both boys out of their stupor-Puck, from his typical carelessness and Kurt from his partly drug induced daze. The second time in a week someone had caught Puck off guard.

"Shit, fine," Puck scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning on his heels. "Just checkin' in."

"Touching," Kurt muttered, flinging his backpack over his shoulder and shuffling towards the Spanish room.

"Kurt!" Mr. Schue greeted Kurt with all the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning, clapping him on the back and flashing him one of those grins that secretly made all of his students swoon. "Long time no see."

Kurt smiled half-heartedly, keeping his head ducked just slightly to better conceal his purple face under the rather suffocating hat Mercedes had picked out for him.

Schue's smile faltered slightly. "Mercedes told me what happened."

Kurt nodded, focusing all his attention on his seat in the back. Kids were beginning to pile into the class as the warning bell rang through the school.

Mr. Schue looked at his Spanish class and said, "Why don't you take a seat and I'll see you in Glee?"

More then happy to oblige, Kurt ducked his (bald bald bald) head and sat down.

"Fag!"

That one word sent Kurt running, no, sprinting down the hallway and slamming himself into the boy's bathroom, the one next to the home ec rooms that no one used because they smelled like piss and hairspray.

He threw the door closed and flipped the broken lock. He flipped it and he jammed it and he pounded it with his fist until his knuckles hurt because, bravado aside, he had never, ever been so afraid of a faceless voice in his entire life.

Hello?

You'll be fucking sorry, Hudson.

Azimo?

Hello?

Hello?

A/N Hey! I don't hate this chapter! Hopefully you don't either! Tell me if you do! I promise I won't kill myself!