I was a boy, at an open door. Why are you staring? Do you think that you know?-Mika, "We Are Golden"

I'll probably always have these ugly scars.-Preggers, "Bust Your Windows"

"We Are Golden" is a sickeningly cheerful song by UK wonder-artist Mika. The lyrics themselves are like a slow whirlpool down teenage insanity, but the music, the way the words are presented…the personification of happiness.

So Kurt was conflicted.

His small keyboard filled his room with the same three keys, the beginning of the song he'd have to sing in front of the glee club, by himself, probably with tap shoes and a top hat. Happy.

"Running around again," he sung softly, "running from running."

A small knock on the wall alerted Kurt that, once again, his father was standing awkwardly at the foot of the steps.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," Kurt said…curtly. Not that he was angry with his father, or even really annoyed. It was just that this whole too-manly-to-hug bit was getting old so very fast. Just because you had more chest hair then a normal person didn't really stunt your ability to speak more then four syllables at a time, did it?

"So, uh," Burt said. "How was school?"

"Fine."

"You run into those punks?"

Kurt dropped his hands onto his keyboard, creating a loud clash of notes. "What?"

Burt nodded. "You heard me. They bothering you?"

"Dad…"

"Are they bothering you?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "What's your definition of bothering?"

"Kurt," Burt snapped.

Silence.

"You got hit again."

"Yes, I got hit again. Is that what you came in here to ask?"

"Goddamnit, Kurt," Burt spat, his stiff composure melting as he paced slow circles around the basement. "I swear to god, I'm calling the school. I'm calling the police. You can't let people do this to you."

"You think I'm letting them?"

"I think you don't realize that this is a crime-"

"You think I don't know what a freaking crime is?"

"Obviously you don't, the way your-"

"The way I'm what?" Kurt shouted. "The way I'm taking it like every other kid in the school? Do you think it'd get any better if I ran to the principal? What do you want me to do, dad?"

"I just," he grunted, "want you to….stop."

A long, thick, solidified silence followed.

"Stop," Kurt said, "what?"

Kurt knew the answer, even though Burt probably didn't (or probably did, in that way you know you gained a couple pounds, in that way you won't admit it, even to yourself, that way you know your human and it doesn't need to be acknowledged because it's so fucking obvious). He knew the answer, and he finished it in his head. Stop…putting on makeup and humming show tunes and wearing tiaras and dancing like a girl and using big words and singing high Fs and talking like a helium balloon and, damnit, stop being so gay, Kurt.

"Okay," Burt breathed out. "Okay. Fine." He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the ceiling. "If you don't care, fine, I don't either." He pulled one hand out quickly and flung a set of keys onto Kurt's desk. "There's your car back. You don't have to stop wearing those sweaters or nothing, either."

Burt left.

Curling around his bed, around those pillows he ordered for Finn because he had thought, hoped, prayed that they would be masculine enough to appease him, to appease his dad and himself and just thinking about everyone he couldn't make happy, all the people that were so disappointed with him because he couldn't get his voice low enough and he couldn't get his arms thick enough and he couldn't get anything anything enough and he cried, quietly into his shirt, with his homework laid out in front of him and his pain killers still floating in their glass of water and his ribs ached with every sob.

"How's your solo coming along?"

Kurt looked up at Rachel, who leered above him with her domineering smile that managed to convey both genuine interest and, what was that? Pity? Sadness?

"Fine."

"You know," she said, "my dads took me to a Mika concert on our trip to France last year. He really is quite the performer."

"I suppose."

Her smile faltered. They were in the library, Kurt because he had to catch up on a week's worth of homework and didn't feel like dealing with his father's…whatever, Rachel because she had to check back in her Angela Landesberry biography. She held a blue piece of paper tightly between her fingers.

"So," she continued, sitting down beside the boy, "how are your ribs? I heard they were cracked-"

"What do you want, Rachel?" Kurt sighed, leaning his elbows on the table and, in a very uncharacteristic move, rubbing his eyes.

She smiled thinly and smoothed out the paper on the table. "I…didn't want to be the one to tell you, but I feel something so…immediately problematic demands, well, immediate attention." She let out a nervous giggle.

Kurt squinted at her and grabbed the paper.

Attention McKinley High students.

To those involved with the recent unapproved flyers hung around campus, please know that we do not accept that kind of intolerance and bigotry in our out of school, and those found guilty of any offences related to these flyers are to be reported immediately.

McKinley has always prided itself in it's stance against bullying and tolerance…

A/N Not an awful lot happened here. I feel like…I don't know. Like no one's really there. Even if it is third person, I feel like there should be more of a connection of some sort.

Oh, whatever. You tell me.

P.S. Got a hankering for human guitars and our favorite soprano losing his hit? Visit the lovely, stupendous, uhmazing Swing Girl At Heart for her Expect the Unexpected series and prepare to throw up on your computer.