Title: Only The Good

Published: 11-23-09, Updated: 05-30-10

Chapters: 27, Words: 34,798

Chapter 1: Mr Shue

Will Shuester

"Hi. I'm Kurt Hummel and I'll be auditioning for the role of kicker." Glee

Days and weeks and months later, I still go back to that day when I decided to try the Southern

circuit. The temptation was probably fueled by my own high school days, when Glee was cool,

when we competed all over the country, when I was the golden boy.

Terri always accused me of trying to relive my high school days. I never thought my dabbling

would have that big an impact on anyone, on you.

I'd been to El Paso before, with Glee, and I remembered it for its great Mexican food and other,

less discrete distractions. Getting the trip past the Board of Education was a joke once I

mentioned the Cheerios planned Spring Fling to the Bahamas. At least we didn't have to travel

through foreign affairs on the flight to Texas.

You must remember how excited the whole group was at the mention of a field trip, laughing,

already planning out roommates. You were the first one to pipe up, to ask what we were singing,

when we were leaving. When I said the trip was at the end of the week, you said, with that

dramatic flair you always have. Had. "We need to pack, Mr. Shue!"

"Not all of us need twenty hair products." Puck shot at you, and perhaps I was the only one to

realize he'd left off the fag. Maybe because he was getting to know you? Maybe because he saw

how your façade crumbled a bit every time that word was hurled, like a bullet, like a slap in the

face.

"Not all of us can throw a pair of boxers in a paper bag and say we're ready, Neanderthal." You

shot back, and high-fived Mercedes, grinning. Surprisingly, Puck was smirking, too, and not in

the You're-so-going-in-the-dumpster kind of way.

Did that mean I was doing something right? Or did this change of heart have nothing to do with

me at all?

You didn't think I'd overheard you, weeks ago, talking to Artie after the diva-off for the Wicked

piece. I knew you wanted to sing it, I knew you would have sung it perfectly, and the

conversation only confirmed my suspicions.

"What happened, Kurt? I heard you practice. You hit that note every time." You were one of the

people who would walk slow to stay next to Artie, who seemed to listen to him, not out of

misguided pity but because he was – is – a good person.

"I messed up on purpose." I knew it.

"Why?"

Neither of you noticed me, and perhaps this was the point where I should make my presence

known, hovering just outside the door to the Glee room, but I wanted to hear the answer, too.

You paused for a second, as if wondering if you could trust Artie with a secret of this magnitude,

though you let everything out in the end. Good choice. Artie is too kind to betray a trust. "I'm

gay."

"I know."

"Well, so does my dad. And if I hadn't told him, the phone calls would have." The frustration and

anger in your voice almost (almost) masked the fear.

For his part, Artie didn't pretend to misunderstand, didn't ask for more details. "Oh." Then,

voicing the exact question I wanted to ask, "Did they hurt you?"

"No worse than usual, though the wardrobe has been taking more of a hit of late. Dumpster

diving is back in full swing. I just wish they'd be more inventive." You sighed, as if genuinely

concerned for the jocks' imaginations.

Remembering that foray into eavesdropping, I asked you to stay late the day I announced the

trip. You yelled to Mercedes and Artie, waiting for you at the door, to go ahead, that you'd find

your own ride home, thanks anyway.

"Kurt." I hated to say this, I hated it so much, but you deserved to know, to be warned. "We're

going to El Paso this weekend."

"Mmm-hmm." You obviously knew this. The only time we weren't talking about going to Texas

was when we rehearsed the opening act we were going to perform there (Avenue Q, by your

overwhelming vote and no small amount of peer pressure, again by you).

I just had to get it out, "I don't want anyone to get…hurt." I was thinking of rednecks, of your

new rainbow necklace, of loud mouths and misunderstandings.

You stared at me for a second before the worst thing happened. Your eyes shuttered – not closed,

that would have been easier. It was like they turned dead. Black. You looked down, cheeks

aflame, already embarrassed for something you couldn't control. "I…I didn't think about that,

Mr. Shue."

"It's not going to be an issue." I assured you, "This is all just a precaution, a heads up. You'll be

with Glee. Just stick around Finn or Puck or…Mercedes. They'll scare anyone away." That got a

smile, at least. "I just want to be smart about this."

"I don't want to change who I am." You said, but when your eyes met mine I knew you were

looking for guidance, for me to tell you what to do to make sure that no one hated you at first

sight.

I touched your arm, smiled widely, and said with more conviction than I actually felt, "Don't

worry, you won't have to. It'll be okay."

Not even a week later, you were hooked up to machines, hanging on for dear life. Only the quick

actions of the football Glee members had saved us from standing over your coffin.

And I wondered, as I watched you struggle for breath, praying for an intervention, a miracle to

save what was left of your dignity, your sanity, hoping the police hunted down the bastards who

beat you so badly…could I have stopped this?

Chapter 2: Finn

Finn Hudson

"I'm sick and tired of people pushing me to be something I'm not."

"Your lashing out at me is fantastically compelling and inappropriate." Finn and Kurt

We were talking about football. It's a big deal down in Texas – even high school football.

Especially high school football. Somehow, Puck, Artie, you, and I had been nominated by the

others to get pizza. Four pizzas, four people. It all worked out.

You hadn't wanted to come. The only guy you talked to, really talked to, was Artie, and everyone

talked to him. When Puck was in one of his snarky moods, he'd tease you about having a crush

on me, and you'd blush, so I guess on some level that must be true. But you were never open or

pushy about it, ever, not even when we were rehearsing the ballads, and I was wrapped up with

Quinn. You never made me feel uncomfortable.

I thought you were brave. I still think you're brave. I just thought you should know that.

It wasn't the best street. Bars, and, therefore, drunks, hung out on both sides. Puck ended up

pushing Artie after "crip" was hurled one too many times, and he managed to look menacing

enough for the taunts to stop. You weren't paying attention to them. I remember thinking that

you might have had too much practice ignoring those types of insults.

That's when we started talking about football. Loudly. Maybe Puck thought that if those burly

men knew were tough football guys they'd lay off. You rolled your eyes when words like

Playoffs and Super Bowl were tossed around. I guess that stint on the football team hadn't

affected your opinion on that matter.

"This is ridiculous." You muttered, then turned around to face me, palm out. "It doesn't really

take four guys to get pizza. Give me the money." You snapped your fingers and shifted your

weight impatiently as I fumbled the money, still locked in conversation with Puck.

I didn't say that someone should go with you, if only so you wouldn't have to carry four pies

alone. I didn't consider that you looked totally out of place in this rough, old town. I didn't even

say goodbye, and soon enough you were gone.

We kept walking, slower than before, no longer in a hurry to get to the pizza parlor, content with

the fact that you would be back soon enough, meeting us halfway, pizzas stacked high. We'd end

up putting all four on Artie and talk about Glee on the way back, an apology of sorts for you

getting the pies alone.

When we reached the restaurant, Puck shouldered open the door, leaving me to wheel Artie in.

We were still laughing, talking, taking up the whole parlor with our size, our confidence. Puck

glanced around, his eyebrows creeping towards his hairline. "Where's the fag?" The insult was

different on his tongue, something new entirely, too much worry and compassion behind it.

"Maybe he went back a different way?" Artie suggested uncertainly.

I was already at the counter. "Did a guy get four pizzas from here?" At least that would confirm

he'd gotten here, and not found himself lost in the unfamiliar streets.

The woman behind the counter nodded absently, finishing a crossword puzzle. "He left fifteen

minutes ago. Slow day. The order didn't take long."

"How'd we miss him?" Puck muttered, already backing out of the pizza place.

There was no football talk this time. We went through the streets, peering in shops, though Artie

repeated that you wouldn't have gone in any of them. He was right – flannel and jeans weren't

your style.

Within ten minutes a slow, sick, slimy feeling had begun to grow in the pit of my stomach. We'd

get back to the theater soon enough and what would we tell Mr. Shue? The girls?

Lucky for us, for you, Artie was looking at the ground, was able to see the two tiny blood drops,

beginning to dry, pointing towards an abandoned side street. "Guys…" His voice wavered and

Puck and I followed his gaze.

You probably have that place burned into your mind. On one side a drug store, the other an

apartment building. This alley was narrow, contained mostly garbage cans and stray cats and

sand.

I have always been sorry for throwing you into trashcans. I didn't think it was funny, and

eventually I stopped, though the rest of the team didn't. Maybe they didn't see that you flinched

every time they laughed at you, or how your eyes shuttered at their insults, thrown around so

carelessly, burning you every time they registered.

It was Puck who opened the lid to the dumpster, though I don't think he was expecting to find

anything under it. You know how you'll be looking for something, like the remote, and check

under the same pillow four times, even though you know that it won't be there? That's how he

was like, lifting that lid. He barely looked inside of it.

The moan I heard from him I'd only heard once before, on the football field. Puck hits who he's

supposed to hit, doesn't even recognize size, placement. When he slammed, headfirst, into the

unyielding side of a linebacker twice the size of him, he'd crumpled to the ground. From my

position, ten yards away, ball in hand, game on the line, I'd heard that groan, that moan, that last

exclamation before he succumbed to unconsciousness.

I had my back turned this time, too. We'd left Artie on the street and to run into the alley. I went

all the way to the back, turning from side to side, looking for your jacket, your hair, knowing

that, if we found you here, your condition would not be good.

When I heard that moan, I turned around. When Artie heard that moan, he wheeled into the alley,

face white. You didn't move, didn't make a noise, when Puck removed you from that dumpster.

Chapter 3: Puck

Noah Puckerman

"You better stand tall when they're calling you out. Don't bend, don't break, don't back down."

It's My Life, Vitamin D

I opened that trashcan because I remembered all the times I'd thrown you in one. You probably

don't remember, or don't realize that, after the team leaves, I stay behind. I open the trashcan and

get you out, every time. The first occasion we threw you in one, you'd been scared, though you

were really good at not showing it. Even then you were flaming – always were, since we were in

elementary school.

You used to bang on the sides of the trashcan, afraid that you'd be stuck there, afraid we'd flip it

over, like we'd done with the outdoor lavs. I don't remember when you stopped. I don't know if it

was because you knew I'd get you out or because you'd given up on trying to escape.

When I saw you in that trashcan in El Paso, something broke inside of me. I couldn't even

scream at the sight of you, only moan. I felt like I had the day of the football game against

Dillon, when that big linebacker managed to get my facemask off and pin me beneath him, even

though I was making the tackle. Like then, all the air went out of my body.

Finn helped me get you out, carefully, gently, trying as hard as we could not to hurt you worse.

Artie was already calling an ambulance. You couldn't remember, but when the EMTs first got to

the scene, they went to Artie first. He was out of the alley, the first one they saw, and he was in a

wheelchair. On most days, Artie trumps all of us in the pity card, even Quinn (but this isn't about

Quinn, this is about you, so I won't even get into that can of worms) But not that day.

How do I describe the sight of you? Face beat in, swollen, bruised, bloody. Clothes ripped until

they were barely rags. Blood everywhere. Finn was the one who stripped off his jacked first, and

I followed suit, trying to warm you up, to cover you up. You looked so tiny on that blacktop.

And so dead.

I checked your pulse, two fingers on your wrist. Maybe you think that's overreacting, but you

didn't feel what I felt, that flipping in my stomach, like when you step out of a steamy shower

into cold winter air. A surprise.

Your breathing was making me worried. "Finn…" I looked at him, but he didn't know what to do

any more than I did. What is the standard operating procedure when one of your friends is dying

in front of your eyes? Even our QB 1 can't think that fast.

I saw Finn going into backup mode, filing away emotions, getting centered. I've known Finn for

years, and he does this sometimes, when a game gets too intense, when life gets too intense. It's

like he stores all of his thoughts in a little box and locks it away, so he can just focus on what's

going on, on getting through the next few minutes.

"I don't know how to fix this, man." Well, that wasn't what I was expecting.

Artie was at my side. The kid doesn't fidget usually. He's actually eerily still sometimes. But he

was moving now, craning his neck, his long, long arms, trying to hold you, comfort you. "I

called 9-1-1. And Mr. Shue. They should be here soon." There was an I hope tacked to the end of

that sentence. I didn't miss it, and neither did Finn. We were so far out of our league.

"Hey." I leaned close to your face. About the only part not bleeding or swollen was your ear.

"Hey, Kurt." I'd been in football since I was six, and with any face injury concussions are a

serious threat, and from there there's brain bleeds, internal bleeding, shock…you needed to be

conscious, as much as I hated to do it. We had to know exactly how much pain you were in.

You moved, thank God, and I let out a breath I'd drawn minutes ago and forgot to let go. Slits

opened in your bashed in face, impossibly blue against the pink, the white, the terrifying scarlet-

red. Your hands came up feebly, rested on Finn's chest as if trying to push him away.

It's weird, any other time I would have teased you mercilessly for that little movement. Now I

was just happy you could move your arms. "No…" You moaned, eyes closing again.

"Please…stop…no…"

"Oh!" Artie breathed, stretching, reaching until he could grab Kurt's face and turn him slightly so

he wouldn't choke on the blood he was coughing up.

"Finn?" I was scared. Spitting blood meant internal injuries. Thank you, football.

"I don't know what to do!" Finn cried, his hands sweeping your body, finding the broken ribs, the

broken wrist and nose, the broken fingers and bruised hip and bloody thighs. Finding injuries by

the dozen and unable to stop any of them from running their course.

I tucked one of the jackets more securely around your body and used the other to stop the flow of

blood from you leg, sickened when I found what looked like a stab wound there. The puddle of

blood under you had expanded until my knees were soaked red, until your back was stained

scarlet, and more kept pouring out of you.

How much blood could a person lose and still live? I was thinking of shock, or four pints or six

pints or eight pints, whatever my health teacher had said Freshman year about the amount of

blood in a human body, and thinking that we might be sitting in that much, that maybe there

wasn't enough left in you.

Finn was holding you, your head, talking or maybe singing, trying to get you to calm down, but

you were hysterical. If you had any strength you would have punched me, tried to stop me, but

you could do nothing except for cough and moan and beg me to please, please stop hurting you.

And believe me, right then I would have given anything to stop the pain you were feeling.

Anything.

The EMTs were there in six minutes, according to Artie's watch. Finn went in the ambulance

with you, mostly because your hand was tangled in his shirt, and I wasn't even willing to try to

break that grip. So it was me and Artie left behind, standing in your blood, watching you being

sped away from us and hoping to God that you'd still be alive when we saw you next.

Chapter 4: Artie

Artie Abrams

"I just wanna live while I'm alive." It's My Life, Vitamin D

The car accident happened when I was eight, but I don't think I've ever forgotten the smell of

hospitals, a combination of ammonia, old lady perfume, and dying people. I hate hospitals,

which is weird because I have to go to one more often than is really normal for a seventeen-year-

old.

When I was in that car accident, the car flipped and for perhaps twenty minutes I was upside

down while the EMTs got me out. The man in the other car, Jerry, he knelt next to me, kept me

awake until the pros got there. Kept me alive too – there was a bleed in my brain. Falling asleep

would have killed me.

Seeing you in that alley, huddled between Puck and Finn – it felt like being upside down in that

car again. Like my heart was about to explode out of my chest, I was so afraid for you. After

Finn left with you for the hospital, Puck and I were standing there, waiting for Mr. Shue and the

others.

"What the fuck, man?" Puck kept saying, his voice jumping octaves with every sentence. "Why

would someone do that?" I cringed, remembering your blood, your bruises and broken fingers

and that awful, wheezy way you breathed, the way your lips were tinged blue.

I tried to focus on getting Puck to calm down. When I touched his arm, he jerked away, turning

to punch the dumpster we'd just taken you out of. He kept pounding it, even after his knuckles

ripped open, wordless shouts echoing off the walls.

"Hey…" I rolled forward and put out my hand again, grabbing his elbow. "He'll be okay," but I

couldn't get the picture of you out of my head, and couldn't help but think that, after all that, after

being tossed away with the garbage – literally – there was every possibility that you might not be

okay, and that was the scariest thought I'd ever had.

Puck turned and grabbed my hand, holding it tight, and kicked out so my chair rolled out from

under me. Left floundering in his grip, he dropped me to the ground, still huffing and puffing

with rage and frustration.

I cried out when my sensitive back slammed into the ground, and this seemed to rip Puck out of

whatever zone he'd gone into. He gaped at me, bent double on the ground, as if he couldn't quite

figure out how I'd gotten there. "Artie?" He behind me for my chair, pulled it forward, shifted his

weight without meeting my eyes. "Do you need help getting…back in?" His hands were bleeding

as he reached down, spreading the blood over my shirt as he gently maneuvered me back into the

chair.

After that, Puck was calmer, though he did continue to curse out the monsters who'd hurt you. I

was numb to it, I think, remembering that stab in your leg, hoping that there was no permanent

damage. Wheelchairs seriously suck. I wouldn't wish this fate on anyone, especially you.

We hurried onto the bus when it pulled up, eager to get to the hospital, to you, but also unwilling

to let Mr. Shue or the girls see the pool of sticky red blood, gaping in the middle of the alley.

"What happened?" Mr. Shue asked, his eyes wide with worry. The bus was dead silent, so

different from the fun, musical atmosphere it often had. Puck had found a mode, a groove, and

was able to explain more calmly than I had thought he would.

At the end of the narrative, there was this one moment, a beat, as everyone waited for the punch

line, the fake out, hoping we'd just Punk'd them. "Someone beat up Kurt?" Mercedes asked, her

voice low and wobbling, sounding nothing like her confident, cool self.

"More than one person." I muttered, suddenly bitter. "He's in…in pretty bad shape."

"And Finn went to the hospital with him?" Quinn asked, one arm draped over her belly. Maybe

she was trying to protect the fetus from all this nastiness. I know I wouldn't want a baby hearing

about this, seeing you in the state I'd just seen you in.

"Yeah." Puck sank against his seat just as we pulled into the hospital parking lot, running a hand

over his face and looking at me. Right then, I had more in common with Puck than anyone else

on the bus. I knew exactly how bad off you were, while the others had to find out when we

rushed into the emergency room and saw Finn staring at a pair of doors, his face grey.

Quinn went over to him, draped an arm around his waist and squeezed. "His…his lung

collapsed." Finn said, wavering slightly. "In the ambulance. He was drowning in his own

blood… there was so much... and internal bleeding."

Mr. Shue led Finn over to a chair and got him a bottle of water, trying to calm him down. Puck

was fumbling with something in his pocket. "Do you really think this is an appropriate place for

a cell phone?" I snapped at him.

He stared at me and blinked once, trying to register my words s he flipped the tiny device open.

"I…I thought someone should call his parents."

I hadn't even thought of that, and felt a twinge of guilt for lashing out at him. "Let's wait until we

know something. It'll probably be a while."

Eventually, we all sat down. Rachel was the one who said, with a sad sigh, that we couldn't

compete anymore, since you were our twelfth member. We all just stared at her until she stopped

talking – the competition was the last thing on our minds, and she said it so callously, like she

didn't even care.

Eventually, Mr. Shue called your dad. We all heard it and listened quietly to one side of the

conversation. "Mr. Hummel? This is Will Shuester. I coach the Glee Club…no, we didn't

compete yet…Mr. Hummel, your son was injured. He's in the hospital…no, he didn't fall off the

stage. We think he was jumped…he's in surgery right now, sir, I couldn't tell you very much…I'm

sure he'll be fine…yes, it would be best for you to be here…as soon as possible…I'm sorry. I'm so

sorry."

Well, weren't we all?

Chapter 5: Quinn

Quinn Fabray

"Sometimes in our lives, we all have pain, we all have sorrow. But, if we are wise, we know that

there's always tomorrow." Lean on me, Ballads

I was a mess after being kicked out by my parents. Unable to do much more than throw up

(because of the baby, not because of bulimia. I tried that in the eighth grade and wasn't able to

keep it up – bad breath is so not my MO) and wallow in self pity, I moped around the house,

around school, around Glee, hoping that my dad would forgive me and let me go home.

So I was less than pleasant when I closed my locker door and you were standing there. This

was…maybe two weeks before El Paso, a few days after being kicked out, and I wasn't in the

mood. I just couldn't handle that, couldn't handle you, couldn't handle being Quinn Fabray, who

has everything in control all the time and doesn't let anything faze her. "What do you want?"

"Do you need a ride?"

You didn't have to ask, which was probably why I accepted. Finn had driven me to school, but he

had football practice right after Glee. I had been planning on walking home, but the baby and the

order of French Fries I'd eaten during lunch were both starting to rebel against that plan. But I'd

never talked to you, not one on one, not without the rest of Glee around.

Somehow, though, for some reason, I didn't tell you to back off, didn't give you the word that

was becoming more and more hollow as the week went on. Fine. I'm fine. Instead, when I

opened my mouth to tell you this, what came out was, "sure."

You led the way to a tiny car, pretty beat up on the outside but clean, perfectly clean. I slid into

the passenger seat and you flipped the ignition and we both just…sat, being quiet with each

other, and that was nice. I didn't have to pretend around you, didn't have to fill the silence with

meaningless conversation.

I didn't question how you knew where Finn lived. If I'd been acting like Quinn Fabray, the

goddess of all that is cool, I probably would have mentioned something about you being a

stalker, and couldn't you get enough of Finn at Glee? I had never been threatened by you, not

like I was by Rachel. Finn was many things, but he was not gay, and you weren't pushy enough

to do anything.

Instead, when you turned towards Finn's house, I just murmured thank you, which I hadn't

thought to say until them.

"No problem, Quinn." I smiled at your voice. It had always made me smile a bit – your voice is

higher than mine. It used to be annoying until I got used to it. "I'm sorry."

When you said those words, they didn't sound forced, fake, like when so many other people said

them to me. The only other people who had made 'I'm sorry' sound like that were Finn and his

mom. And Coach Silvester, who had murmured them to me in the hallway during passing,

grabbing my arm and staring at me until I was forced to realize that she meant them. I wish I

could change things

I knew that Coach hadn't kicked me off the Cheerios because she hated me, or because she was a

bitch made of metal. She really wasn't. She was worried about me, about the baby, and

expressing it in the only way she knew how. But I digress.

When you said I'm sorry, I felt something build up in the back of my throat, and when I

swallowed it just seemed to get bigger, but I wouldn't cry here. I've always had an issue with

crying in front of guys, mostly because I know my dad would view it as a sign of weakness and

just hate me more for it.

"You know, I used to be afraid my dad would kick me out of the house if I told him I was gay."

The admission came as a surprise, mostly because I couldn't believe anyone could miss the fact

that you were gay. You always seemed so open about it at school.

"I mean, I know he loves me. I'm all he has left. My mom died when I was six. But he always

wanted me to be more masculine." You laughed a little, "I mean, my name's Kurt. He might as

well have named me Guy. So I never told him, because I was too scared of what he'd say, what

he'd think of me. I don't mind what they say at school – gay and fairy and fag –" You probably

couldn't hear how wrong those words sounded coming from your lips, being issued with so much

hatred at the prejudice behind them. "But I do mind what my dad thinks about me. I was afraid

of…embarrassing him.

"And it's not unprecedented, you know? People get kicked out of their house for being gay. Their

parents just can't handle it." You looked at me then, your face so full of compassion I wanted to

cry. "But you know what he said to me when I told him? That he always knew, that he'd known

since I was three years old."

I think I was crying for real by then, the tears dripping down onto my yellow blouse, which I had

to dig out from the back of my closet. For so long I'd just worn my Cheerios uniform, I didn't

even remember where my other clothes were.

"I'm sorry you got kicked out. I'm sorry your parents made you think it was your fault. It wasn't

Quinn, really it wasn't."

No one had said that to me since this whole thing began. There's such a stigma on teenage

pregnancy, but I'd never wanted this. I wasn't some slut who slept with everyone who breathed –

just one time, one slip. But I was the whore, and Puck, Finn, the other factors in this

equation…they didn't have to go through any of it. The hormones, the pain, the holier-than-thou

looks I got from everyone, from the grocer to the teachers to the other kids. All of that put

together, and I'd never even stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, God wasn't punishing

me for my sins.

Maybe He was trying to show me something, give me a gift, a trial, some insight.

You parked in front of Finn's house and then did something that I would have thought awkward,

strange, just minutes ago. But the hug you gave me had nothing but compassion and kindness

behind it. "You'll be okay, Quinn. You're so strong." You patted my back and unlocked the door,

idling in the driveway until I'd opened the door and let myself inside the house that wasn't mine.

And it wasn't until weeks later, until I was standing at your bed, looking at you, dwarfed by the

machines around you, by the white, white sheets, that I realized that I wasn't nearly as strong as

you.

Chapter 6: Mr Hummel

Mr. Hummel

"Keep holding on, because you know we'll make it through. Just stay strong, because you know

I'm here for you." Keep Holding On, Vitamin D

I was too worried to do much on the flight to Texas. I booked the first one I could, and packed

nothing, just ran out of the house with my wallet and my keys. Nothing seemed more important

to me right then than seeing you, making sure, making quite sure, that you were okay.

About halfway through the flight, the concern turned to anger, to rage. Who could beat up a

sixteen year old kid? Who could beat up you? I didn't know what would have happened if the

injuries had been worse. I don't know what I would have done – probably killed those sons of

bitches myself, to Hell with the law.

There were teens draped all over the waiting room when I rushed in. Some were sleeping – quick

calculations showed that they had to have been there for at least nine hours – but most were

clustered in little groups, not really talking. At least two were praying, another was writing.

"Where's my son?"

That teacher – he looked so frazzled, as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself – came

up to me, looking out of his element. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hummel." I stared him down, knowing that

I was large, and probably intimidating to him. I would have fought for you right then, and if that

little teacher was trying to keep me from you…

"Where's my son?"

The teacher nodded at the door. A second later, I banged through it, moving through the halls,

looking for you. There were three boys sitting around your bed – later, they said they were Finn,

Puck, and Artie. I can only hope those weren't their real names.

I forgot about them, though, when I got a good look at you. "Oh, Kurt." I collapsed into one of

the nearby chairs and grabbed for your hand, needing to hold some part of you like I needed to

hold your mother throughout that awful chemotherapy. Even your hand was bandaged, though,

and one of the boys, Finn I think, said, softly, that perhaps it would be better for me not to touch

you.

I couldn't help it, though. You were such a mess. Puck, he recited all you injuries to me, his

voice a monotone, as if the only way he could deal with the emotions was to not acknowledge

them. Stab wounds in the shoulder and leg, bruises and lesser cuts scattered, covering nearly

your whole body, broken fingers, wrist, nose, collar bone, ribs, a concussion… "They say he'll be

okay, sir."

How could that be possible? You looked so hurt, so young. You were young. How could this

incident not leave some scar? "Who did this?

That question seemed to break whatever façade these boys had put up. Worried, scared

expressions were swapped for anger, for rage. "The policemen were here…hours ago. They're

saying it was a…" Finn swallowed, licked his lips, glanced at me, then you, "A hate crime."

"They were awful." Artie murmured, looking right at you, "Awful. They took one look at Kurt

and said that he shouldn't have dressed like that. That he was just attracting trouble, like it was

all his fault. I said that Kurt always dresses like this at home, and nothing like this has ever

happened in Ohio."

Of course, I knew, and those football players knew, that this wasn't quite true. Things like this

did happen at home. You never ended up in the hospital because of it, but you would come home

with a black eye, a swollen lip, and wouldn't say a word. I stopped asking about the injuries after

the first few times I saw your eyes blank, shutter closed.

Puck spoke next. "They said that they'd look, but they may not ever catch the people who did

this, especially if Kurt can't remember their faces." He paused for a second, shaking his head,

"Assholes."

I absentmindedly nodded in agreement, smoothing your hair. You were so meticulous about your

hair, your appearance. I knew you'd be crushed when you found out they had to shave a large

chunk of hair away to clean a gash on your scalp.

"Has he woken up at all?" I wanted to tell you that everything was going to be okay, that we'd

take you home and you could be different all you wanted. I wanted to tell you that I'd make this

alright.

"When we found him." Finn was staring at you in a way I knew would make you blush if you

were conscious. So many people care about you, Kurt. "We needed to make sure he wasn't going

to die on us, and he was unconscious, so we woke him up."

"He thought we were attacking him." Artie said softly. "He kept begging us to stop hurting him."

Artie was crying, you know. I think for the same reason I was suddenly getting too hot: he was

frustrated, and angry, and so very concerned.

"I can't get his screaming out of my head." Puck muttered, and I don't think I was supposed to

hear. He stood up, took one last look at you, laid his hand on your shoulder very, very gently,

before fleeing the room.

The other two watched him go, didn't try to stop him. I didn't blame him, them. You were so

messed up: I was an adult and I couldn't even comprehend what had possessed people to do this

to you. These were kids, your age, who had found you when you looked even worse than now.

I cleared my throat, made sure both Finn and Artie were looking at me. "Thank you." I cleared

my throat again, "You…you found him. You saved my son's life."

Guilt and pain ran over both their faces before they started to smile, tightly. "I hope he's okay,

Mr. Hummel." Finn said, looking down at you, looking at the machines beeping, monitoring,

keeping you alive. "I hope he's okay."

"He will be." Artie said, his smile growing wider as he carefully picked up your other hand, the

one I wasn't holding. "Kurt's strong. And he knows how much we love him."

Maybe we were expecting too much of you, son. Maybe we should have realized that no, you

wouldn't be okay. All I know is that, between then and now, you've shattered into a million

pieces, and I wish I knew how to help start picking them up.

Chapter 7: Rachel

Rachel

"Imagine all the people living life in peace." Imagine, Hairography

Let's get this out of the way: I know you never liked me. I never liked you very much either,

mostly because you weren't afraid to be yourself while I always seemed to be insecure. But

contrary to popular belief, I am a not a totally heartless bitch. I know I was the one who brought

up that we couldn't compete, but that was where my brain was stuck. Nothing bad has ever

happened to me, you know. So when I saw you on that white, white bed, so hurt…well, I said the

first thing that came to mind.

You couldn't be moved for four days, which was okay because that's when our flight home was

anyway, not that you ended up flying with us. We spent the time in the hospital, leaving only to

go to sleep and coming back first thing in the morning. "Visiting hours" didn't matter anymore.

Once, Mr. Shue suggested that we get out for a while, maybe find something to do in town.

Everyone just stared at him: we were a team. We weren't leaving you.

We spent our time sitting with you, talking to you. Only three people could really fit at

once…well, four, but your dad was always there. The rest of the time we tried to keep busy. It

was Brittany who found out that geriatrics had a stage, and after we started using it there was

always at least a tiny audience. Most of the songs we sang were hymns – I think we leaned the

entire soundtrack of Joseph, maybe because we thought that praying in song would help in some

way.

There were eleven of us wandering around the hospital, and most of the others made friends with

some of the patients. Artie found this little kid, trying to learn how to use a wheelchair. Quinn

was often in the nursery, looking at the babies, holding them. At one point, it was just me and

Finn on stage – I never left it, and normally I would have been ecstatic to just sing with him, no

one else around.

When Finn looked at me, though, and opened his mouth, the song that came out of his mouth

was too serious to flirt over. "Day by day…day by day. Oh, dear Lord, three things I pray." I

joined in, singing softly, sadly, "To see Thee more clearly, to love Thee more dearly, to follow

Thee more nearly, day by day."

And, of course, that made me think of you all over again.

You didn't some with us on the plane: your dad rented a truck and was driving you home,

because it was safer, but mostly because you started screaming if a stranger touched you, and

you probably would have freaked out in an airport. I'm not making fun of you: I know I would

have been scared, too…I don't know if I'd even want to be around my dads, not after getting beat

up by guys.

I didn't actually talk to you until we got back to school. We had kind of bonded over mutually

liking Finn (and I know I hurt you, Kurt, I know I did, and I'm sorry), but I still wasn't your

favorite person. You'd rather see Mercedes and Kurt and Finn and Puck and Artie and Quinn and

basically everyone else but me.

But because I was so distanced from you, because I knew that you didn't want to talk to me and I

didn't talk to you, I could see the differences. It's like when you leave your home for a month and

when you come back the puppy has grown into a dog, even though the people living in the house

didn't notice, because they were around it every day.

Maybe your change was more gradual than I remembered it, but everyone agrees that it

definitely started with El Paso. I caught you one day after Glee. You weren't made up, and your

hair was flat for the first time since I'd known you.

"Hello Rachel." God, your voice was flat. Usually you were bouncy, upbeat, and extremely

sarcastic. Usually, your voice was in the upper octaves, especially when you got excited. Now it

was dead. When I didn't move or say anything you shifted, adjusted your bag, looked at the door.

I knew you were uncomfortable. "Is there something you wanted?"

I didn't really want anything, except to tell you that I was sorry, but I hate it when people say that

to me. Sometimes, when someone asks if I had a mom, and started prying, and found out that I

had two dads instead…well, sometimes they'd tell me they were sorry, and that wasn't what I

needed to hear. I've never been sorry about my dads, never.

But no other words came to mind, "I wish nothing had happened to you in El Paso." I said

quietly, and you looked at me, hurt behind the gaze.

"So that we could have competed? Rachel, sometimes it's not -"

"No!" I cut him off. My words had come out all wrong, like usual. I hadn't been thinking that at

all. "No, I'm just…I'm not talking about the competition. I'm sorry you were hurt." You stared at

me, as if trying to figure out if I was kidding, or messing with you.

"It's okay, I'm over it." Except you weren't. You dressed differently now: as in, you didn't dress

differently. It was as if you were trying to look like every other boy in the school, when before

you wouldn't have been caught dead in jeans and American Eagle polos and mussed hair.

Somewhere in the week between the time we'd gotten back from El Paso and when I finally got

to talk to you, your entire personality had changed, and if I noticed (me, Rachel, who, I'll admit,

is too self-absorbed to really notice much) then how worried must the people who knew you –

really knew you – be?

Of course, your arm was in a cast, you didn't have to participate in gym because your collar bone

had just been knitted back together, there were yellow-green bruises all over your face, your

arms, band-aids, bandages. You looked like a mummy. Was it really fair of me, of anyone, to

expect you to bounce back, to become the easy-going, excited Kurt you used to be?

You needed time, that's it. You needed to get out of the casts and start singing again. We thought

everything would all be okay when you were whole again.

"This wasn't your fault, Kurt." I murmured, and patted your arm before I fled the room, running

from your pain, from your bruises, from your face, shocked, terrified, when I touched you.

Chapter 8: Mercedes

Mercedes

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

There wasn't a single kid in the school who didn't know what had happened to you. Before, you'd

been teased mercilessly by the jocks, laughed at by the cheerleaders, and grudgingly respected by

the outcasts. Now they all cut you a wide berth, as if misfortune was catching, as if they were

afraid that whatever was entity you'd pissed off would no longer hold them in favor, either.

Granted, it didn't help that either Finn or Puck walked next to you between every class, daring

anyone to mess with you, though even the worst of the athletes had to be sympathetic during

those first weeks, while you were still in casts, still bruised and cut up and limping along with a

crutch.

Now Finn I understand. Somehow, you two became bosom buddies over those ballads, which

was great for you, because you were so obviously smitten with him. But Puck had punched a

linebacker in the face when he laughingly lifted you into the trashcan they always dumped you in

two days after you returned to school.

The guy stormed off, muttering several choice words. You were hyperventilating, bent over

double on the ground, tears running down your cheeks. I was only forty feet away, and ran to

you even as Puck dropped to the ground, murmuring soft words I couldn't hear.

When I dropped my bag and got down on all fours, Puck snarled at me, "Don't touch him!" I

didn't' miss the look you gave him: thankful that he'd saved you the embarrassment of shrugging

off yet another innocent gesture.

I stood up, walked away from you, pretending I wasn't hurt that you preferred Finn, Artie, and

even Puck over me. They'd found you, after all, they'd saved you.

But that didn't mean I wasn't any less worried when you started dressing differently, when you

started jumping at the sight of your own shadow. You cried more often – not bawling sobs, but

tears trickling down your face as old insults hit home more often.

Now, Kurt, let's get something straight right off the bat. I was hurt when my crush on you was

brushed aside. Did you know that, for half the girls in school, their worst fear is that they'll go

out with a guy and then that guy will turn out to be gay? I was talking with Tina about it once,

and she agreed, because how awful would you feel after that? Like, maybe you weren't female

enough, or something. That didn't happen, obviously. You told me everything, right off the bat,

which was extremely decent of you (still sorry about the car, you know).

I'm just sorry that your life is going to be so much harder because of who you are. I'm sorry that

there are people in this world who won't accept you for the kind, funny, fashion-savvy guy you

are, but you have to know that I love you, that all the Glee kids and your dad and Mr. Shue love

you, that you're unique. Remember that, because recently I think you're forgetting.

Like when Rachel – who must be the most tactless person on the planet – came up to you,

literally bouncing on the balls of her feet, and asked if you wanted to be the first officer of the

new Gay-Straight Alliance she'd set up.

Artie batted Rachel away, "Are you kidding me, Rach? You don't think he's been through

enough?"

"What? I thought it was a good idea." She skulked off and you looked like you wanted to be sick,

your over-sized polo as ruffled as you demeanor.

"Don't pay attention to Rachel, Kurt." Artie said, wheeling along on your left side as I grabbed

your right hand and gave it a squeeze that you were too numb to register. "She just wants to get

into the yearbook again."

"Yeah, I know." You cleared your throat, obviously trying to sound normal, and checked your

watch. "C'mon, we'll be late for Glee."

It hurt you to breathe back then, do you remember? Ribs taped, but still broken, shattered collar

bone, swollen lips, they didn't help with getting music out. But I remember the first thing you

said to me when I saw you in that hospital in El Paso.

"Hey, Mercedes." You'd looked even worse there, in Texas, than you did that first week of

school. Your bruises were still black and painful-looking. Finn was on one side, your dad at your

other. Tina was with me, I think.

There was a white, white expanse of your body, the only place not covered with bruises and cuts

and bandages. You looked down at where I was staring and, impossibly, grinned. "Isn't it

amazing? The only place of me that's perfectly fine. They left my throat completely alone." I

batted tears away. I didn't deserve to cry, not compared to you, so hurt, in such pain, but the fact

that you were thankful for something like not being robbed of your beautiful voice made angry

and so, so sad.

Finn barely touched you, the back of your neck, and you turned away from, him, flinching

automatically like you did so often back then, so often now. When you turned away, I could see

the definite shadow of a hand, a bruise imprinted right on the nape of your neck. So they couldn't

even leave your throat intact.

Almost no one was in the Glee room when we walked in. You sat down at the piano and began

playing, not singing. Your voice was coming out in thin whispers when you tried to sing for too

long, and we all knew it pained you, so Mr. Shue said that maybe you could accompany on the

piano for a week or so, until you started feeling better. It was good of him, because just telling

you not to sing would have made everything worse, you didn't need to feel useless, not when

you'd just been beaten up by huge guys telling you that you were.

Your fingers drifted absentmindedly over the first chords of Pachabel's Canon, a song with no

vocals in it at all. Perhaps you saw us staring at you, just watching, but you blushed pink under

the bruises and murmured, "sorry. It's been in my head all day." You switched to a song we'd

started a few days ago.

"Pachabel's Canon was my mom's favorite song." Kurt muttered as Rachel began singing. I

nodded, feeling my throat swell as it had so often recently when I was around you. You were still

bright, still fighting, surviving, even after being put through Hell less than a week ago. You were

still smart and strong and funny and interesting.

What happened, Kurt, between then and now? What made you think that your life wasn't worth

living?

Rachel was still singing and your voice was thready, barely there, a hope, a wish so fragile that it

hardly disturbed the air around it. But you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable, and

life's like an hour glass glued to the table. No one can find the rewind button, boy, so cradle your

head in your hands.

I joined in then, trying not to cry, because there was no excuse for my tears, not when you had so

many reasons to let your own fall. And breathe…just breathe…

Your fingers stilled on the piano, and for a moment our voices were still hanging there, waiting,

then the chord died, and everything went silent.

Chapter 9: Mr Shue Part II

Will Shuester

"Smile though your heart is aching, smile even though it's breaking." Smile, Mattresses

This wasn't my first year teaching. Glee, yes, it was my first year with Glee, but I'd taught

Spanish for years before that, and I'd learned some things. Friendships, in high school, while

volatile and filled with strife, usually remained unchanged. If you were a cheerleader, you hung

with the cheerleaders, if you were a druggie, you hung with the druggies.

Glee defied all of that, you know. You joined football (and was hazed as all Hell for that, but you

did it anyway, and I hear you were a damn good kicker). Cheerleaders and jocks sung next to the

resident cripple, the divas, Rachel.

But still there are friendships, cliques within Glee. You would talk to Mercedes, to Artie and

Tina and, when you could get him, Finn. You'd make fun of Rachel and avoid Puck and have no

small amount of sympathy for Quinn.

After El Paso, the dynamic shifted, so slightly it's only looking back all those weeks that I realize

it was El Paso that sparked the change. At first, of course, you were playing piano, because I

couldn't stand the sound of you, gasping for air at the end of every measure. It damn near broke

my heart, because I was the teacher, the chaperone, and I didn't do my job. You got hurt, and I

will always feel at least partially responsible.

There's a lot of guilt to go around because of that incident, Kurt. I should have been more

vigilant, shouldn't have let you guys go alone. Maybe Puck and Finn and Artie shouldn't have let

you go off alone. Those guys definitely should not have beaten you within an inch of your life.

But none of the blame is yours. Not even a little, not even close. This was not your fault.

Anyway, things started changing. You talked less to Mercedes and Tina, more to Puck, Artie,

and, especially, Finn. It was like the four of you had retreated to your own little sphere. I thought

it was a part of you guys dealing with what had happened: it was just the four of you, and I guess

you felt safer with them than you did with anyone else, even the girls.

I didn't say anything about this. To tell you the truth, I felt pretty removed from most of the

going-ons in Glee, because I was a teacher, and I could only be so involved before becoming

meddling, a nuisance, so I usually end up watching these things, never being close enough to

really help.

Even I noticed the small signs, though. You often came to school with deep circles under your

eyes, and when Finn asked you if you were getting enough sleep you would shrug and mumble a

soft explanation about nightmares. You fell asleep in Glee sometimes, always waking up

happier, with no recollection of the brief nap. Once you slept on Puck, your body falling against

his shoulder. We all were waiting for him to push you off, but he just sat very still, keeping his

voice down as he sang, every move very, very slow.

Your clothing changed from unpronounceable designers to polos, T-shirts, jeans. You didn't look

messy, just less put-together than usual. You looked like every other boy in the school, which

was odd and alarming, because you were not like every other boy. You were Kurt, plain and

simple, and the switch to sneakers and jeans was gradual but, like everything else, undeniable,

inescapable.

It wasn't until a month after El Paso that I noticed the biggest, most terrifying thing that was

going on with you, after Finn pointer it out. "Hey, Kurt," Finn was one of the only people you let

lay his hands on you, and he did now, gently, carefully. There were still casts, still stitches,

though the bruises had faded by then.

"You hungry? Want to get some pizza?"

The others were leaving in twos and threes, only Finn stood next to you. Every other day you

would have been over the moon that you would get an opportunity with him one on one. El Paso

had done many things, but you were still obviously smitten with Finn, from a distance.

You looked up at him, smiled tightly, wincing as you stood. Singing no longer hurt as much, and

you'd started using your voice earlier in the week, but jarring your broken bones, especially your

collar bone, still brought a flicker of pain to your eyes. Finn noticed, tried to compensate.

"Or we can just hang out. We don't have to go far if you're not feeling good." He was staring at

you, so obviously trying to figure out what was going on in your head, then lowered his voice to

a deeper, richer, gentler tone. "Kurt, c'mon. got You've to eat, man."

You shook your head, fingers tapping a rhythm on your bag. The thought of food brought made

you wrinkle your nose in distaste, something so like the old Kurt that I looked away, made to

walk out of the room. Just as I left I heard you say, "Okay, Finn. How about a Frappacino?"

I hoped Finn made you eat a sandwich or four. How could I not have noticed that your face

wasn't just more drawn because of the shadows of bruises left on your cheeks, that, when you

brushed against me, you had no more weight than a feather?

Something needed to be done about this, about you. How could you not understand that you were

so important to us, all of us? I'd need to talk to your dad, to Finn, to see the extent of your

problems. They both saw you infinitely more than I.

I wish I'd realized sooner. I wish I'd seen the warning signs, that I hadn't taken my time calling

up your father, that I'd noticed you spiraling out of control, until you were so far gone you were

almost unrecognizable as the sarcastic, funny, fierce Kurt you used to be, until you were almost

out of our reach.

Chapter 10: Finn Part II

Finn Hudson

"Okay, I'll admit it. I'm madly in love with Finn." Kurt

My dad was in the army, Kurt, so I knew about PTSD. Sure, I didn't know my father, because an

IED blew him up during Desert Storm, but mom had told me enough stories about him, about the

guys he would hang out with – other army guys, with sharp laughs and haunted eyes who drank

more than anyone in their early twenties should, because they didn't want to have to think for one

more second about what they saw in that freaking desert.

So I know about PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, shell shock, battle fatigue. Anything you

call it, it sucks, and you had – have – all the symptoms. Losing weight, because you had zero

interest in food, not because you wanted to, needed to. You've always looked great, Kurt, and

that's not a come on, because you know, more than anyone, that I'm just not like that. It's the

truth.

You were constantly tired, you jumped every time someone touched you. Puck came up to me

one day after third period Spanish, told me in hushed voices about saving you from that loser

Johnston, who tried to throw you into the trashcan while you still had casts on.

"I want to pound his fucking head in!" Puck raged, and I almost talked him out of it, almost

because in the next breath he said how it'd taken you nearly five minutes to stand, ten more to

stop shaking, how you lay in his arms and Puck thought he was losing you all over again.

"He kept telling me to stop hurting him, please." Puck was quiet, which was weird because I've

known Puck since the seventh grade and he was usually loud, raging, intense, "And, God, I

wanted to help him. I don't know how anymore."

That was the last straw for me. I'd been silently diagnosing you since El Paso, because no one

else seemed to. Around anyone with any power, you put on a brilliant show, probably born of

Glee, or drama, and insisted, always, that you were fine.

Around me, and Puck…well, that was a different story. Around us, you were scared. Around us,

you opened up, a little, and inside all we could see was raw hurt.

And, God, I'm seventeen years old. I'm trying to deal with Quinn, which is messing me up,

totally, but even I admit that that's way more on her than me, because her body is changing, not

mine, and I try to be there for her…but you, you didn't deserve this, any of it, and teen pregnancy

has things like Planned Parenthood (which Quinn would never set foot in but was still there) and

support groups and websites and sympathetic liberals. There wasn't anything for you, wasn't an

instruction manual Coping with Bigotry and Beatings for Dummies.

About the only thing I could do was get back at Johnston for you, and with Puck next to me and

all of our frustration and anger about you, it was easy to make him see the error of his ways.

Then I went to you, and tried to coax you into hanging out.

We ended up at my house, first because you'd fallen asleep in Trig for sure, because Tina was

there and told me in passing, and probably other places, and you were obviously exhausted.

Second because you hated being home. You'd told me, maybe a week before, two weeks before,

sheepish, embarrassed, that you couldn't be around your father.

"I'm sixteen years old!" You weren't angry, perhaps a little bitter, sitting at my kitchen counter,

watching passively as I made a meal we both knew you wouldn't eat. "I'm not supposed to be

afraid of my dad." You sighed, which made your bangs, over-long in the fashion of teen punks,

flutter out.

It was quiet in the kitchen, and I think this is why you wanted to be with me, or Puck, or Artie,

and not the girls. I love girls, but they have a tendency to hover, to talk to fill in empty spaces

when silence could do so much more.

"There were five of them, Finn. Did you know that?" I didn't, and all I could think was what

cowards, because you couldn't, wouldn't take on a single attacker, let alone fine. "Saw me

walking down the street with the pizzas. Asked if that was all I wanted to eat."

I didn't want to hear this, but as far as I knew this was the most information you've given to

anyone, police included. My hands shook, slopping spaghetti sauce over the stove. You didn't

notice – you weren't noticing anything at that point. "It could have been worse. They could have

raped me. I could have died." You were scaring me by then. Your voice was so inflectionless

you sounded like a computer. "Mr. Shue was right. I shouldn't have dressed like that down there.

What was I thinking?" And even the question didn't go up at the end, like it would if you were

speaking like a human, if you weren't slowly going into shock.

PTSD. I leaned across the counter. I so wanted to touch you, not hold you or hit you or any of the

other hundred things that would make you look at me with that God-awful fear. Just touch your

hand, your arm, but even that could hurt you, scar you. So I talked instead. "Hey, Kurt. It wasn't

your fault, man. Five on one isn't fair at all. I couldn't have taken on five guys and I outweigh

you by forty pounds." Probably more by now. Your body was all lines and angles; protruding,

bruised, shattered collar bone, pointed, discolored cheeks, prominent, scarred hips. Perhaps the

weight loss would have looked handsome on someone else, but on you it made you look tired,

young, hurt, scared. Which is exactly what you were.

And you looked at me through those bangs, tilting your head, and whatever had made you tell

me about that night was gone, and once again a smile was on your face, this time not forced. "I

never thanked you, did I Finn?"

"For what?" I pushed a plate of spaghetti over and you began eating mechanically. I didn't care.

You were eating, and something tense unwound inside me. At least you weren't attempting death

by starvation.

"You saved me, Finn. You and Puck and Artie. The doctors all said another hour and I would

have died for sure. Thank you."

That lump was back, but I swallowed around it. I shoveled my own dinner into my mouth,

burning my tongue in the process. My eyes watered, and I couldn't tell if it was the heat or the

fact that, after what you'd been through, you were thanking me for keeping you from dying. This

was so messed up.

When a tear fell into the sauce, I ignored it, and your hand came out to touch my face, the first

time you'd voluntarily initiated human contact since El Paso.

Chapter 11: Puck Part II

Noah Puckerman

"I should be allowed to feel good about myself." Will Shuester, Mattresses

The school was accusing me of going soft. At that point, I don't think I even cared anymore. At

that point, you'd lost progress since returning from El Paso. You started cringing at loud noises,

whenever someone touched you. You shook every time queer and homo were tossed around, like

everything was normal, like it didn't matter if they teased you, you were Kurt, the gay guy, and

you'd always taken it without blinking.

So you spent most of your time with Glee. Some teachers – the sympathetic ones, Quinn said. I

said those who were less bitchy than others – let you out of class if they weren't doing much.

You hated crowds, and noise, and stares. Some teachers didn't care, and after such class periods

Finn and I would look for you and you'd be breathing hard, trembling, stuttering, and fly into the

nearest bathroom where you'd emerge, calm and cool and collected as always.

Why did you think you had to do that, Kurt? If you'd told us, we would have gotten you help

before it came to this.

Finn and I, we did everything to try to make you feel safe. He told me his suspicions about Post-

Traumatic stress, and he'd told Mr. Hummel, but your dad was getting to see you less and less.

You stayed over with Finn or Mercedes or Artie or even me instead of going home. We all

suspected it was because one of the men who'd beat you up must have looked like your dad, but

if you ever remembered what those guys looked like you never let on, never told anyone.

We were trying to help out at school, and it wasn't working very well. The worst, you know, was

Karofsky, who had had it in for you before, and he was always the most gung-ho about shoving

you into trash cans, the slushies, the assorted sly punches and kicks. He'd moved it up to a new

level since El Paso, though, and his intensity was scaring you, I could tell.

"Lay off Hummel, Karofsky." I might have cornered the kid in the locker rooms after football. I

still don't know exactly what sport that fag – sorry – jock plays. But I pushed him into a corner

because I was thinking of you, in my arms, probably dying in El Paso…you, all shook up after

Johnston tried to throw you into that dumpster, you always hurt and scared and…God, maybe it

was around here that we became friends, huh Kurt?

Weird. I know this must have been, like, the worst year in your entire existence, but…and this is

not gay in ANY way and if you tell anyone I swear I'll pound you into the ground…being

friends with you was probably the best part of that whole hellish time.

Anyway, I was just trying to protect you. We were all just trying to protect you. I guess we

should have done less protecting and more analyzing, therapy, whatever. But whaling on people

was always something I did well, so I went with my gut instincts.

So we were in the locker room, and Karofsky is pretty big, maybe as big as me, a little bigger.

He could definitely take you in a heartbeat, and if it came to a fight I wasn't entirely sure I could

come out on top. But I was pissed. God, was I pissed at this guy. There were plenty of people in

our messed-up school to make fun of. Why in God's name did he have to make you feel more

like dirt?

Karofsky pushed me, and I realized then that he was strong. And then… "make me."

"What?" I was used to people backing off, because I was bigger, more popular. Because I could

make their lives hell if they didn't do what I wanted. So this outright refusal floored me.

"You heard me." He pushed me again, and it was only then that I realized the room was deserted.

Just when I needed Finn as my wingman he bales. Typical. "Make me. Making homo explosion

miserable is the best part of my day."

That's when I realized that there was something sick inside of Karofsky, but I decided to go with

flippant, mostly because at that point, I was afraid of being beaten into the ground by a

psychopath. "Seriously? Get a better social life, Karofsky. Get a girl, if you can score one." Here

I lashed out, hoping to catch him by surprise. It worked, and I pinned him against the lockers

with one hand.

"But don't you ever, ever attack Kurt again. He's gone through enough without putting up with

your stupid shit." I let him go, turned away, half expecting him to punch me, jump me, whatever.

But instead, almost worse, I heard him behind me, those words, "Oh, Puckerman, it would be

great to see you try."

I turned then, to face him, to beat him to a pulp (or get beaten, at that point it was more about

taking my anger out on something other than my car). He was already gone – the door out of the

locker rooms was swinging lazily, like it was a fucking movie, like someone was just messing

around with my life, your life.

I grabbed my bag and booked it out of there, trying to forget that strange something in Karofsky's

eyes. He'd always just been a mean guy – not dumb or unhappy or depressed, just plain mean –

and I'd never liked him, but that distaste was upped tenfold when I thought about the threats he'd

made against you.

And Kurt, you have to believe me, if I'd thought for a moment that he was going to follow

through, that he'd do this to you, I would have put in the freakin' witness protection program. The

last thing I wanted to do was get you hurt – the entire show down with Karofsky was supposed to

save you from pain.

Instead, I think I'm the one who caused all this. I think I'm the one who made you go off the deep

end. And God, Kurt, I've never regretted anything more.

Chapter 12: Quinn Part II

Quinn

"You can't always get what you want." Sectionals

I was six months pregnant then, fat and bitchy and feeling mean at the world. And I was

extremely self-centered, which is why this is one of the only encounters we had after El Paso.

And I'm sorry for that, Kurt, because it's only now, later, with hindsight being, as everyone

knows, 20-20, that we all realize you needed friends more than ever.

But that particular afternoon, I went waddling down the hallway (exaggeration. I felt like I was

waddling, to be sure, but actually never got all that big. She – it has to be a girl, it just has to –

must be very tiny) to catch up with you. You were at your locker, staring morosely at your books

as if you didn't know what they were for.

And, seriously, what were they for at that point? Did anyone really expect you to be learning

anything? Your entire life had been discounted with a few simple words, within ten minutes,

fifteen minutes, however long it took those guys to screw you over this bad.

I understood that look, that wtf-who-do-these-teachers-think-I-am look. So, even though there

was another class left, I came up behind you, cleared my throat. All of Glee had gotten used to

not touching you to get your attention. Except for Finn and Puck and Artie, I hadn't seen anyone

touch you since El Paso, and I think you preferred it that way.

"Hey," I said when you looked at me. "You want to get out of here?" At your expression, I

smiled just slightly, nodding towards the exit. "You have gym next, right?" You conceded that. I

knew you had gym next because Santana was in the same period as you, and she'd told me, once,

while we were both trying to make ourselves look presentable in the girls bathroom, how those

friggin jocks kept messing with your head. You couldn't participate because of the casts, but you

still had to show up, reason enough for them to torture you I guess. I knew you'd want to skip

gym more than anything.

"Come on. I'm starving, and I know this great little place…" Okay, so maybe I shouldn't be

skipping out on Spanish, but Mr. Shue would totally understand. He knows that we have to take

care of you, Kurt, that you had to be our priority.

And if he didn't…well, at that point, failing Spanish didn't really matter as much as making you

more comfortable. Plus, I really was starving. And you smiled then, and nodded, and I knew I

was doing the right thing.

I had Finn's keys this time. He said he'd get a ride home with Puck after practice, that I should go

home and rest, because I never ended up sleeping at night anymore. So much for morning

sickness only happening during the first trimester – this kid was always making me sick. But we

had Finn's car and I slid into the front seat, feeling you get in next to me.

An overview of what you looked like, because I know these events must get so mixed up in your

mind: the bruises were mostly gone, or faded to a light greenish-yellow, except for your black

eyes, which were part and parcel with a broken nose and were still and ugly blue. You had casts

on your wrist, a splint on your ankle. Your collar bone and ribs were still healing themselves, and

I knew they were taped like the gash on your leg, which had needed seventeen stitches, which

was still not as much as that long, gaping scar from your cheek to your temple – twenty stitches,

and you would never look the same.

But you sat quiet, your bag lying across your denimed lap. "Thank you." And, God, those words

got to me, made my heart hurt a little bit more, because in no way should you be thanking me.

Did you think I was so heartless that I wouldn't notice you hurting?

"No prob. I needed to get out a little, too." I reached out tentatively before touching your hand.

You surprised me by turning your palm over, lacing your fingers in mine, holding on as if for

dear life. Touch-starved, but so unwilling to be hurt again that you wouldn't initiate any contact.

I cleared my throat, turning into the parking lot just a couple blocks away from school. A little

hole-in-the-wall type place called Do Me a Flavor, which had the best ice cream in the world.

Your lips twitched a little at the sight and I shrugged, blushing slightly under the scrutiny.

"Cravings…" I said by way of explanation, "I couldn't think about anything but their mint

chocolate chip all day."

A real smile, the first I'd seen in a long time. You shouldered the door open, and the little store

turned out to be deserted except for a motherly-looking forty-something behind the counter.

"This is perfect, Quinn. Thanks."

I ordered mint chocolate chip, topped it with four cherries, butterscotch, and whipped cream, and

took it to a corner table. Kurt, you had chocolate, do you remember? When you ordered, your

voice was more relaxed than I'd heard it in a long, long time, high and arching and sweet, that

voice that always made me smile.

You sat down across from me, ice cream buried under a pile of M&Ms, and ate, which made me

feel so, so good. You'd lost so much weight, Kurt. I'd be surprised if you were a hundred pounds

soaking wet. And Glee could only look on, watching, hoping you didn't do serious damage,

unable to find any way to help.

You seemed comfortable there, just the two of us, and I thought, well, maybe you were getting to

know me. Maybe you were getting to like me. And, somewhere between the pregnancy and Glee

and El Paso, I found that I didn't really mind being seen with you, that I liked you, that I wanted

you to be Kurt around me.

"I understand." Maybe it wasn't the best way to open a conversation, but you looked up at me

anyway, and I suddenly hoped with all my heart that you weren't seeing Quinn, the ice-queen

who would gossip about you in class. I hope you were seeing a friend. But I rushed on anyway.

"I understand why you think school is crap. I mean, what does it really matter, right?"

You nodded slowly, as if not sure if I was setting you up for something. "Yeah, I guess. I used to

like school, a lot, but now…" You shrugged, took another scoop of ice cream. I don't think you

knew just how helpless, how cute you looked sitting there.

"I totally get it. I go to class everyday and I listen to the teachers talk about sine waves or the

coefficient of friction and I think…well, I'm having a baby in three months, why don't you teach

me how to take care of that?"

You were getting into it then, nodded enthusiastically. "I always think, in Health, like, why are

you teaching me about heroin and drinking? Why don't you help me deal?" As if you realized

what just slipped out, you tried to cover up your admittance of weakness. "I mean, even

more…you know…I was always wondering…do they even care? Does anyone really care if I go

home every day with bruises, that I wake up every morning knowing nothing will ever be any

different, that this is my life?"

It was definitely the most I'd heard you speak since El Paso, and, like I said, understood. People

were always staring at me, pitying me, but almost never offered to actually help, just like with

you. There was a baby growing inside of me. There was…I don't know, anger and pain and

bitterness, I guess, inside of you. And I reached out, touched your hand, and again you folded

your fingers through mine, looking relieved, as if you'd been waiting to get all this off your

chest.

"I care, Kurt." I promised you, and at that point we were both crying, though I can blame mine

on the hormones that were screwing with my body. But this was important. You needed to hear

this. "I care."

And, surprisingly, I did. I do. We went back to school for Glee, and you were at peace, happier

than I'd seen you in a long time. I was happy, too, for reasons I couldn't explain. But I didn't

notice, not until later, not until the hindsight kicked in, that you'd asked me for help, in your

sweet, beautiful voice, Why don't you help me deal?

And I didn't, we didn't. And, Kurt, I'm so, so sorry.

Chapter 13: Artie Part II

Artie Abrams

"Being a part of something special makes you special, right?" Rachel

I know, Kurt, that I was the most understated of the three guys, us who found you, who, I like to

think, may have rescued you. I wasn't much help in the hallways, where Finn and Puck could

dominate because of their size, because people, oddly, respected them. But that didn't mean I

wasn't worried about you that whole time.

I tried to do things, little things, to make the world easier for you. But you mustn't misconstrue

this as charity, or pity. I just wanted to help you. We just wanted to help you. And maybe we

should have been more about the listening. Maybe we should have sent you to Mrs. Pilsbury, to

someone who might be able to help.

But we did what we could. I made sure the band director wouldn't flip on you when you came in,

dazed, wounded, looking for sanctuary three or four times a day. I know Santana, who, as much

as we hate her, has a lot of influence among the "it" crowd, got you a pass out of gym a couple

days a week. Basically, you were suffering, and we were teens who thought subverting the

system would make it all better.

Except it didn't. You were getting worse, and every week found you weighing less, sleeping less,

talking less. You'd started on a downward spiral, and it was a slippery slope with no end in sight.

Because…and we only found this out later, after….you thought your life just wasn't worth it.

Whatever those monsters had done to you in fifteen minutes had warped your psyche, dented

your amazing personality until you were a shell, a mannequin, smiling at the right times and

saying the right things but also jumping, screaming, crying, and only us nearest to you saw you

break.

Glee tried to be…well, gleeful. Mr. Shue put more show tunes onto the roster, so between the

Top 40 stuff Mercedes thrived on, we were also doing Time Heals Everything from Mack &

Mabel, Happiness from You're a Good Man Charlie Brown, Seasons of Love from RENT…

Everyone was already in love with musicals. You couldn't not be if you were in Glee, but you,

Kurt, especially seemed to have a soft spot for RENT because the lyrics were comforting and the

music was beautiful. We sang Seasons of Love a lot, like, almost every rehearsal, and you'd smile

and I'd imagine that everything was okay again, because you just can't feel bad while singing that

song.

We have a video of that, did you know, Kurt? A video of us, hanging out, not really in formal

rehearsal yet, singing Seasons of Love. Piper, who plays the cello, filmed it, and gave it to me,

and I'd watch it after you were gone and think, God, we look so normal.

I included a copy of it here. There's Puck, happy, clapping his hands and laughing so that his

smile reaches his eyes. There's Quinn, radiant, on her back with her hands over her stomach.

There's Rachel, dancing with Mercedes. And there's you, Kurt, and Finn, first sitting then

standing next to each other and, God, are you so in love with him.

It's a great video, Kurt. It shows that a few things actually went right in those few hellish months.

But, like I said, we were doing more show tunes in Glee, which is a lot of singing and pretty

precise choreography, because a good show tune tells a story. And you were so hurt, still pained

from injuries from El Paso, the worst breaks still healing, scars and bruises still healing, and you

would waver, sometimes, but press on, because you loved Glee so much.

And then there was that one time where you just fell and wouldn't get back up, not until we'd all

gathered around, and then you smiled so sweet and said, "Are we done already?" Scaring us all to

death.

Scarier, though, was when I walked in on you in the Glee room, sitting at the piano, playing your

own accompaniment. One Song Glory from RENT, and that's the first time it really hit home

from me, and I found I couldn't breathe.

I found Finn, on his way to the gym. "Skip." I told him, seriously, thinking that at this rate no

one in Glee would graduate but not quite bringing myself to care. I was a nerd as well as a

singer, so I had all A's, and I'd tutor them if it came to that. But you needed Finn. Now.

"He was singing One Song Glory." I said to him, and am a little ashamed to admit my voice rose

in pitch as I got more and more anxious. For you. And, of course, Finn looked at me blankly,

having never sat through the entire movie let alone an actual performance of RENT.

I skipped the plot and went right to the climax, adding in my own two cents for added effect and

making sure not to mince words. "My brother, Bryon…" I swallowed hard, forced myself

forward, "Undiagnosed bi-polar disorder." We were flying down the hallway, Finn jogging every

few steps to keep up with my rapidly spinning wheels.

"One day he came into my room…gave me his favorite jacket and his rosary. Said he loved me."

I wasn't crying, but I was close. "He was eighteen, I was…ten. Almost eleven." Swallowed

thickly. "He hung himself that night."

And that made Finn sprint, wrench open the door as if he expected to find you in the midst of

slitting your wrists. You looked up, smiled at the unexpected (and welcome) intrusion, but not

before we heard you words floating down the hall…

…One song, glory, one song before I go, glory. One song to leave behind. You'd started over.

"What's up Finn? Artie?" And you'd gotten up, bounded over, hair, longer now than it had been

before El Paso, mussed in a way that made you look two years younger. You seemed happy,

energetic, excited to have Finn all to yourself.

And I could see Finn trying to swallow past the anxiety that I'd induced. "What's up with the

depressing tune, dude?"

You shrugged, "I've always loved Roger. He's…pretty." You blushed, but didn't take the

statement back. Finn glared at me for nearly giving him a heart attack, and shook his head,

because, really, Kurt Hummel as a suicide risk seemed pretty far-fetched now, in this well-lit

room, with you laughing.

Sometimes I look at that day and point to it, and I'll mention it to Finn and he'll nod sadly,

looking stricken, hurt. Because we should have known.

Chapter 14: Ms Pillsbury

Mrs. Pillsbury

The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are

weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices, to be found only in the minds of men.

For the record, prejudices can kill. And the pity of it is that these things cannot be confined to

the Twilight Zone. Rod Serling, The Twilight Zone

Once upon a time there was a little girl who grew up with four big brothers. Her big brothers

doted on her, loved, her, and played the parent role much better than the people they all called

Mother and Father. And the little girl loved the big brothers back, because when they told her

that they'd make sure nothing bad would happen to her, ever, she believed them with all her

heart.

And she was breathtakingly, shatteringly happy.

Until she was eleven, she liked to play football with her brothers, bigger and faster and stronger,

but always letting her win. She liked to get in the mud and dirt and look for worms. She liked to

cook and get flour all over her body and make the kitchen dirty with experiments gone wrong.

She didn't have to wash her hands thirty-two times a day.

But then when she was eleven, the little girl was picked up from school by the person she'd

always called Mother. Mother and Father were far away in her life, occasionally flitting in and

out of the stories of her childhood. Always there was the three brothers, close around her,

protecting her. Sometimes the little girl would think, for a little bit, that they were protecting her

from Mother and Father.

When Mother picked the little girl up from school, she said that they were going to play a game.

They were going to hide and make sure that no one would ever find them, especially her

brothers. Double especially her father.

"Like hide and seek?"

"Exactly like hide and seek."

And so they hid in a cellar in the middle of the woods, but after a few days the little girl began to

get hungry, and bored, and she was missing her brothers terribly. "I don't like this game

anymore."

But the Mother was sick. Later, she died of a brain tumor that the doctors said was pressing

against her brain, making her do and say Very Bad Things. But the little girl didn't know that in

the cellar. She didn't know why the Mother left and never came back.

In the cellar, the little girl learned to hate dirty things. If she ate dirty things she would get sick,

and bugs would make the scarce food even scarcer. She became obsessed with lists, and

organizing things, and keeping them clean, because that's how she stayed alive.

And when her loving, wonderful brothers found her a week later, she was very sick and very sad

but very much alive. And they held her and told her they were Very Sorry and that the Mother

was in a special place and she'd never hurt the little girl again.

It would have been a happy ending, Kurt. It even may still be considered a happy ending. I –

obviously I'm the little girl – got to go home with my brothers. Stuart was twenty-one then, and

became our legal guardian. My brothers were always happy, optimistic people. We never had

much money, Kurt, but they did get me into music.

Maybe that's why identify with Glee so much. It's no secret anymore that Will was a large part of

the attraction, but it was also the musicals we would see growing up. Stuart was very good with

what little money he had, and his philosophy was that there was a ton of stuff you could do on a

cheap budget, so why not go out and do it? Every spring became play season, and we'd travel to

every Ohio high school, college, middle school, watching the spring musicals for five bucks,

getting a night out and smiles for a family that really didn't have much to be happy about.

Kurt, I like to think of myself as a happy person, but that one experience when I was eleven

changed me forever. I'm still the sunny, upbeat, cheerful Emma my brothers were so proud of,

but I'm also terrified of dirt, of bugs and anything unclean, all because of that week fifteen years

ago.

So I get it, Kurt. I get how one event can re-shape your entire future. I remember waking up the

next morning and feeling like the entire world is spinning without you and you're standing still.

More than anything, I understand, and remember quite clearly, plastering on a smile around

those who love you most. My brothers for me. The Glee club, your father, Mr. Shuester for you.

If there's one regret I have in my life, Kurt, it's letting that one week dictate the rest of my life.

Getting into that mindset of fear is a hard thing to work your way out of, and once you're used to

it, you make accommodations. But fear doesn't have to be a part of life, Kurt.

I can't say I've been well-acquantied with prejudice, though I've detested it in all of its forms

even before I became a counsilor. High school is just filled with hatred, isn't it, Kurt? Cliques

and rumors and whispers, and lately it seems as if they've all been about you. But there's nothing

wrong with who you are, Kurt. In fact, there's something amazingly right about you. The Kurt I

know, the Kurt the Glee club has grown around (you must know you are one of the central pillars

of the club. Rachel may have the talent and Finn the looks, but you are without a doubt the heart

and soul of the group. Just look at how invested they all were in you after El Paso!) was

confident about himself, and that's something every kid in high school desperately wants to have.

You are a wonderful, beautiful boy. One of the smartest I've seen in a long while – about the

only person I can see getting out of this school based on merit scholarships alone. But then

there's that voice, Kurt…

…Musicals helped me. Music helped me. I fell in love with Les Mis and South Pacific and

Funny Girl. I know that you love the same things. You're voice is amazing a pure. Don't let it be

crushed by people who don't know you, who are closed-minded and ignorant.

My brothers helped me, Kurt. I don't think I could have made it past that week without them.

You have to let people into your life, into the horrors you went through. There are some

moments in that cellar that I kept to myself for years. When I finally ended up spilling every last,

dark secret to my brothers, I felt so much better. Clean, for the first time since that week.

Let others help. Let me help, or the Glee Club. Finn and Puck and Artie have been in my office

so many times, talking about you in round about ways. So many people care about you, Kurt.

One last thing: On the day I spilled the last of those gut-wrenching secrets to my brothers, I

remembered something from the cellar. I had a single candle, and with it I could light up the

entire room. Darkness can never make a dent in a room filled with light, but that tiny spark

wholly eradicated the darkness. Do you understand?

I only wish I'd told you that sooner.

Chapter 15: Mercedes Part II

Mercedes

"'Cause we belong together, now. Forever united here, somehow. You got a piece of me, and

honestly, my life would suck without you." Sectionals

You showed up at my house one day in February, maybe March, drenched and shaking and pale.

"Oh, Kurt!" I grabbed your arm and pulled you inside. "Mama, me and Kurt are going upstairs!"

Mama clucked and said something about putting more food on. "Thanks mama!" You were the

only guy she allowed in my bedroom. Anyone else and we'd be down in the family room,

probably with mama standing in the doorway, disapproving.

You were shuddering, eyes wide and wild, and I pushed you into the shower. "Get out of those

clothes. Do you need to put something on your casts?" I'd never broken a bone in my life, but

damn if I didn't want to take some of the hurts off you. I could have stood a broken wrist or

collar bone or ankle, but you having all of these – and more – just wasn't fair.

Something mumbled came out of your mouth, about waterproof casts and few bandages. "Just

get warm." I twisted the knob on the shower to hot and put out the fluffiest towel I could find

before raiding my brother's closet.

Derek was in college and bigger than you but he left sweatshirts and pants at home. I put out a

U-Penn sweatshirt and Rutgers sweats (Derek liked to collect college clothes) next to the door

and flopped on my bed to wait.

It wasn't long before you came out, swimming in Derek's clothes and rubbing your wet hair, but

you were warm and dry and some of the terror had left your eyes. I stared at you, sucking on my

lip so I wouldn't burst out with questions that you would answer in your own time.

The silence stretched on, so odd for the two of us, normally talkative when apart, unable to shut

up when together. "Why aren't you eating, Kurt?" It seemed as good a place to start as any.

One shoulder barely raised above the other. "I do eat, sometimes." You made a face. "It's just not

on my list of priorities anymore."

"What?" I wanted to shake you, do something to you so that you'd lose that cold dead look and

snap at me with that voice that always held so much fire, so much enthusiasm. "Not on your list

of priorities? Keeping yourself alive is no longer a priority?"

You looked so tired when you turned to face me, cheekbones prominent, black eyes with deep

circles under them. "You go to church, Mercedes?"

I wasn't the only one in Glee who did, though I was the only one who went to Faith, the Baptist

Church just outside town limits. "You know I do, Kurt." We would talk about God sometimes –

not argue or debate or ponder, just talk about Him. You believed in God, just maybe not church.

There was a reason for you ending up on my doorstep that night. You were spending less and

less time at home but spending more and more time with the guys – Finn mainly, but also Puck

and Artie. We hadn't hung out in weeks, unprecedented before El Paso but now it was normal.

But you were with me that night, and while you may be scared and hurt, you weren't crazy.

There was a method to your madness.

"Do you think I'm a sin?" You weren't sniffling or crying when you said it. Your eyes were dry

and focused, your posture still and resolute, but your voice was so terribly sad. "Do you

think…I'm wrong for feeling the way I do about Finn?"

"Oh, honey." And though I knew you hated it, though I knew you shied away from every touch, I

reached across the space that separated us and hugged you carefully. "No, Kurt. Of course not.

You're perfectly normal," you stared at me and I amended myself, smiling a bit, "in a

homosexual kind of way."

"Yeah. A normal abnormal." You let yourself fall onto the covers. "I'm an abomination."

The worst part was I didn't even have to ask who'd put all these ideas in your head. "Have you

been thinking this since El Paso?" You looked at me, and seriously in my arms I thought I was

going to break you. No one would say I was petite but you could have held your own a few

months ago. Now you were bone thin and breakable.

"No. I don't know." You took a breath and let it out and more of the crazy look left your eyes.

You even laughed a little. "I'd have thought that after this I wouldn't feel so much, you know?

Like, maybe I wouldn't feel this way about Finn anymore, or I wouldn't see a random guy and

just go, 'man, he's hot.'" We both laughed, real laughs if a little weak. This was you. This was

Kurt.

"And I know that Finn isn't into guys. Believe me, I know." You looked up at the ceiling and

now your eyes were filling with tears, as they almost always did when you considered – really

considered – Finn and your hopeless situation. "But that doesn't stop me from loving him. It

doesn't stop me from wanting to be friends with him, even if nothing more will ever come from

it." You sighed, made a sound deep in your throat. Frustration. Anger too, maybe. "How is all of

this wrong?"

"It's not." I looped my arm over your shoulder and we both pretended you didn't flinch. We were

having a moment, like we used to all the time. And Kurt, I'm so happy you found me that night. I

like to think that maybe our talk postponed what we all now know was inevitable. It gave us a

few more months of Kurt. "Really it's not. You're a great guy, Kurt. And someday you'll meet

another great guy." I hesitated, then let the smile I'd been holding back break out. "And no God

would ever deny you Heaven. You're fierce when you want to be."

"Rawr." You said, quiet but smiling, and laughed that tinkling laugh I'd heard so rarely in the

past few months. For now, you were warm, and in the company of friends (me) who would chase

the nightmares away when they came. For now you were dry, and sure of yourself, and at peace.

And maybe because of that I deluded myself into thinking that maybe it would always be this

way, that we were watching you turn a corner. For a while there everything was okay.

But when it wasn't anymore, it was scary. When everything went down That Day, I found myself

looking back to then – you all skin and bones, you terrified of your dad, you suffering through

school, you bandaged and bruised and almost broken – as a good time, a time to be cherished.

Because, in the words of that dead poet we've been reading about in English, on That Day, all

hell broke loose.

Chapter 16: Rachel Part II

Rachel

"Sometimes being special sucks." Will

Kurt, I'm going to tell it like it is. It won't make me any more popular among the others, who all

loved you. Love you. I'm sure you know that. But I'm not perfect, Kurt, and you aren't either. I

think we both know that. I think we're both more honest with each other than with ourselves.

You and Finn would never have worked. He was too wrapped up in Quinn to even notice me, let

alone you. And he liked me. A lot. A girl can tell, Kurt. Anyway, you and Finn would never have

worked, and you never would have gotten close to him but for El Paso.

After that, he felt responsible for you. I know he felt guilty – all three of the boys do, the ones

who found you. So he tried to look after you. Tried to help you, although to tell you the truth

Puck made more of a difference than him. Puck was still semi-respected by the jocks despite his

Gleek status, maybe because he was a little scarier that Finn, a little rougher, you know?

But Finn did try to help. A lot. And, really, I ended up hating you because of it. Especially that

one day...

…you must remember it. It stands out so clearly in my mind, like a line, an arc. After El Paso,

you were terrified of everything (the line goes up there. Think exponential growth) and then it

levels off, maybe goes down when you get used to it, when you start to accept some stuff

(straight line), and then that one day…

I was waiting for Finn. We were supposed to be doing a project for history together and I was

waiting for him by his locker. We were going to work at his house, or maybe at the library. I

don't really remember (though, weirdly, I remember acing the project). It was after school,

though not much after. The buses had just left but clubs hadn't really started. There were about a

dozen people just hanging out in the hallway near his locker.

I was looking at some sheet music, I think, maybe humming (I said I was going to be completely

honest) so I was kind of lost, you know how it gets. When I looked up, the hallway was deserted,

except for Finn, except for you.

I could only look on from a distance. I was maybe fifty feet away but obviously I couldn't

impose. And this is me, Kurt, I always impose, but it was…well, it was everything about you

two. The way you were shaking, the way Finn was crouched over you protectively, you half

dangling in his arms, as if he'd carried you there.

"'M okay, Finn." I looked back down at the sheet music, but somehow Spring Awakening did not

seem all that important anymore. Even I could tell you weren't okay, not even remotely. "They

were just getting a little overzealous." You laughed a little, and it was so fake I winced and

Finn's face hardened.

"You didn't answer my texts." Finn accused, "I asked if you wanted a ride home…I was going to

pass right by your house…heading over to the library with Rachel…" Finn looked up then, and

locked eyes with me. In one glance, he shot me so many emotions: he was sorry for being late,

he was angry about whatever had happened to you, he was so, so worried.

At that point, we all were. You were well and truly falling apart and there was nothing we could

do to stop it.

"Sorry." You said bashfully, now really pushing yourself out of Finn's arms. "Thanks. Again.

For…you know." You climbed awkwardly to your feet. You were shaking, and I ran forward to

grab your arm before you fell to the ground.

You jumped about a foot before looking over your shoulder. "Oh. Rachel." You winced, "Sorry

about…making Finn late. It was my fault."

"It happens." I said quickly, because the last thing you needed to feel was guilt. "Are you okay?"

"Karofsky was whaling on him." I'd never seen Finn so angry. He was staring at you, hands

curling into fists at the thought of what had happened. "Puck and I were walking to his car, so I

could drop my stuff there after practice…we just happened to see…and he hadn't answered my

thirty texts."

You were staring at the ground but no longer tried to pull out of my grip. A brilliant new bruise

was forming on your neck. It looked like a hand. "So me and Puck started running…" Finn

continued, "He's probably still chasing them…I should've backed him up, but Kurt…"

"Sorry." As if this was your fault. You pulled away and straightened up, taking in a deep breath

that was very Old Kurt. "I'll just…"

"We're giving you a ride." I cut in quickly. "No way are you going past those Neanderthals

without some serious support."

You smiled absently, shoving your hands under your armpits and shivering in the middle of the

hallway. Finn was running to his locker, digging in it for keys, so he didn't get to see the look on

your face.

Hopeless. Resigned. This was a glimpse at the rest of your life, and from your prospective

nothing would ever change. "Hey," I said, hoping to interrupt whatever was going on in your

head, "It'll get better. Really." You totally didn't believe me.

"I've gone through this before, Kurt. Teenagers have the attention spans of goldfish. They'll

forget about you in a week. Things'll change." I was sure, because I'd gone through it before, that

everything would get better. After all, they couldn't get any worse, right?

You smiled at me, at Finn, and chatted as we walked out of the school, and I thought that we'd

rounded the corner, that this was the end. Looking back, I know it was just the calm before the

storm.

Chapter 17: Mr Hummel Part II

Mr. Hummel

"But provide what exactly? The understanding that money is the most important thing? Or the

idea that the only life worth living is one you're truly passionate about?" Will

I know that I was never able to do right by you, Kurt. I know that after your mother died you

were just trying to desperately clutch at the last parent you had left, even if it meant occasionally

watching Monday Night Football instead of Project Runway, even if it meant pulling shifts at the

shop to spend time with me.

For what it's worth, you were a good worker. You didn't complain (well, except for the time you

backed up into an oil slick and ruined those shoes I told you not to wear but you did anyway,

because you were already dressing in overalls, how much more Back to the Basics could you

get?) and you seemed to actually care about learning how to fix cars.

I thought it was a life skill. Personally, I was just happy you chose to give up three afternoons a

week to your old man. God knows you could have been practicing for that club of yours, or

studying. God, Kurt, I know that the first thing people notice with you is that you're…well,

otherwise oriented, you know…but you are so smart, so, so smart.

You get that form your mother. She had the brains in the family.

After she died, I tried to understand you. I knew you were…quirky…since you were little, a tot,

but I never took it like your mom did. She was the one who agreed to tap lessons, while I pushed

you to play football.

That ended in disaster (do you remember PeeWee football? You caught the ball and ran all the

way down the field, then refused to cross the line because the mud was going to dirty your new

white pants) but that didn't stop me from trying. Your mom gave you vocal lessons, I signed you

up for baseball.

When she died…well, I forgot about those lessons. Forgot about football, too. And, Kurt, this is

the important part: I may not have ended up with the son I thought I was going to get, the one

who would be the All-American Quarterback and take over the family business, but I wouldn't

trade the son you turned out to be for a million of those guys.

Because none of them would have ever had dinner ready for me, every single night when I got

back from work, real dinners that you actually took time and energy to make. Because none of

them would have gotten so much joy out of an old Tina Turner 8-Track of your mother's I found

in the attic. Because none of them were you.

And none of the football All-Americans would have helped in my shop, even with a broken arm,

still hurting ribs, slightly broken psyche.

Well, Kurt, I'm not going to lie, we didn't actually spend time together. I'd round the corner and

you'd place yourself on the other side of a car. Always four or five feet of space between us, and,

Goddamnit son, that was killing me.

"There's some customers outside." I said, trying not to wince as you retreated, because all the

doctors I'd talked to prescribed the same things: time and space, and plenty of both. "Some big

guys. You want to talk to them or work on the carburetor?"

We both expected you to say carburetor, because while you used to love talking to customers

before, and could pretty much hold your own when it came to shop talk, you'd started spending

more and more time in behind the scenes. Which is why your 'yeah, sure, dad' really surprised

me.

I leaned against the doorway, wrench dangling from my arm, because I wanted to see how you

interacted with these guys. I wanted to prove to myself that you were okay.

"What do you want Karofsky?" You had your back to me, and this Karofsky fellow laughed,

putting his hand on your shoulder in a way that I'd seen Finn and Puck do a lot since El Paso. But

you'd stopped stiffening under their arms: under his, you nearly jumped.

"I heard you were doing cars, Hummel, didn't really believe a homo like you was into the kind of

work."

"It's my dad's shop, Karofsky, he likes it when I help out." This guy and his friends were steadily

backing you into a corner, and you took it, moving with them, and even your voice didn't' betray

how uncomfortable you were. When you got against a counter, you used your arms to slide

yourself up, feel dangling, now two inches taller than Karofsky. "You got a car or what?"

I didn't hear much more after that, because Karofsky leaned in close, murmured something that

made his cronies laugh and you turn the palest white. I should've broken it up then, should've

given you my support anyway, but just kept thinking to myself that this had to happen sometime,

and I would interfere if it got worse.

It got worse fast. You jerked your face away when Karofsky went to touch you and then punched

him. Not hard (I would have to teach you how to fight when you were well and truly out of those

casts, but damn did that show of spirit make me proud), but hard enough. "Get out of here,

Karofsky." I smiled at your tone, loathing, enraged, but not the frightened mouse squeak I'd

heard all too often recently.

"Why you…"

And that's when Karofsky lunged.

I was ten paces away and already shooting out the door, hollering, arm and wrench raised

because I couldn't protect you against those monsters in El Paso but I sure could help you against

this cretin. Before I even got there, though, you'd managed to shove one of the cronies off your

arm and the other two were grabbed by helpful teens walking in the door.

"I told you to stay away from him, Karofsky." Puck's voice was low and deadly, and he shoved

the other jock away from him, sending him stumbling to the floor. Finn was holding onto your

arm, but you seemed more dazed than hurt.

"Get out of here!" I managed, holding Karofsky and one of the other pucks by the arm as I all but

pushed them out the door. By the time I turned around, livid, you'd already been lowered into

one of the chairs in the back room. I walked in, knowing enough to keep away from you at this

point, even though at that moment the thing I wanted more in the world was for me to be able to

comfort you without you being afraid of me.

Finn had his arm around your shoulder, looking angrier than I'd seen him in a while. "What

would you have done if we hadn't come in here, Kurt?"

"My dad would have helped me. He was in the other room." You didn't see me, you were facing

the opposite direction, but the other two knew I was there and they both smirked.

"I'm going to teach you how to punch after this." Puck said, his arms folded over his chest. "You

hit like a girl." But where before that might have been an insult, now it was said tenderly,

carefully. This guy, who'd thrown you in trashcans since Freshman year, had somehow morphed

into your body guard, your friend.

"Thanks." You said, your smile wavering when you saw that Puck's cheeks were already starting

to bruise. But instead of commenting you just ghosted your hand over his face and sighed,

leaning more heavily against Finn's arm.

"For everything."

Chapter 18: Finn Part III

Finn Hudson

No one deserves this feeling. You know what the worst part is, it's not the burning in your eyes,

or the way the slushie drips all the way into your underpants, it's the humiliation. I feel like I

could burst into tears at any moment. Puck

There are some times when I just want to punch something, or lean against the wall and cry, or

hold someone so hard that they can't ever be lost, can't ever dissolve right before my eyes.

Before, I would play football. Hours of drills and plays and running would usually work that

feeling out of me to the point where the emotion became manageable. Now, I settle on going for

a run with my iPod set to shuffle.

Life as I had known it months before had changed. I had become closer to you, Kurt, and

surprisingly, closer to Puck than I had been in years. We'd actually had a real conversation about

a week before, about you, about us.

"Hold still, Puck, or I swear I'll take you to the hospital." This was after he'd taken down

Karofsky in the school parking lot that time I'd hauled you inside. "Jesus, man, how many did

you take on?"

"Doesn't matter." Puck looked tired, didn't even bother trying to bat my hand away as I pressed

against his bruises and cuts, the parts of his face that had swollen. "What are we going to do,

man?"

I don't know. Our faculty seriously sucks, and security is awful. I mean, Puck and I have both

whaled on you enough to know that the administration doesn't even register bullying, that, in

fact, one counselor had told a kid to toughen up, because being bullied was like life. So it wasn't

like we had any adults to turn to.

There was Mr. Shue, but he was battling enough just to get permission to take us to competitions,

plus he was trying to get his marriage out of the toilet and help all of us Glee kids while still

teaching second year Spanish every day. And we all love Ms. Pillsbury, but she's not exactly

equipped to handle this…whatever this is.

So I was running, to get away from it all. Get away from Puck, scared and bleeding in my arms.

Quinn, getting bigger every day, trapped with nowhere to go. Rachel and whatever chemistry we

seem to have between us. You, breaking in my arms, disappearing, and with me standing by

without a cure and with no way to stop it.

There is not enough music in the world to make all that go away, but running did help mellow

me out. At least I no longer wanted to fling myself off the nearest building.

By the time I ended up back at my house, it was nine o'clock and the sun was starting to make

me seriously sweat. And you were there, on my porch, sheet music in hand. You looked up when

I came into view and smiled, raised a hand in a semblance of a wave, cocked your head so the

morning sun made your face the absolute worst shade of purple.

You must have seen my cringe because you lowered your hand and looked right back down at

the music. I felt like the biggest idiot, because I knew that, for some reason I'll never be able to

explain, you liked me, you had put me on a pedestal, especially after El Paso. Mr. Shue told me

to be nice to you (what an awful word…nice…my Great Aunt Pearl is nice. Daisies are nice.

Kwanza is nice). Like I needed a reminder to play nice with you. Like Puck and I were going

back to dumpster-diving after El Paso.

Sometimes, I wonder exactly what other people think I am. A monster, for even thinking I'd do

that to you? A tease, for hanging around you so often? A homo, just like you, using Quinn as a

cover up? I don't know the latest rumors of McKinley High, stayed out of that loop after El Paso.

"What's up, Kurt?" Trying to make up for whatever slight you thought I'd done, because being

mad at you wasn't worth it. No one could stay mad at you, not if they took the time to know you.

"Practice? Finals?" The statements came out like questions and you looked at me, as if worried

I'd kick you off my porch. "If you're busy…"

"I'm not busy. Did you knock? Quinn should be awake…" I opened the front door (it had been

unlocked. I wondered how long you had been on the porch) and found a note on the kitchen table

from Quinn and my mom. OB-GYN appointment. I think I should know what that means, but the

running took a lot out of me. I get a bottle of water.

"Thanks for partnering with me, Finn." You sat at the high counter, watched as I moved around

the room. "Finals are just sneaking up on me, I didn't know how else to fit this routine in."

"Yeah." We all had a lot on our mind. Finals meant June, and States, and the baby. It meant

summer and jobs and wondering how far away I could possibly get, between worrying about you

and worrying about Quinn. It meant thinking about colleges (I'd have to apply next year) and

trying not to think about staying in Ohio for the rest of my life, or about getting out the way my

dad had, through the army and an IED. "You okay to dance?"

Your cheeks colored, because even though the doctors proclaimed your bones healed you

managed to get new bruises every week, and your leg still hurt you when you walked. I'd heard

you talking to Artie one day, asking if he knew of any pain meds that would take the edge off. I

don't think I was supposed to hear that, or Artie's answer that he couldn't feel a thing below his

waist, sorry.

We're so messed up. How did Glee get so many messed up kids?

"Maybe we can just sing today?"

We can sing as much as you want, because the number we'd choreographed had almost no

dancing on your part. You pulled out the page, slid a copy over to me. "Meet you at the piano?"

"Mind if I catch a shower?" Because I needed one, just to stop staring at your face, which hadn't

been that purple two days ago at your dad's shop. How many more run ins with Karosky are you

having without telling us? That kid is seriously disturbed, and I know he's going after you more

than Puck or I can see.

"Go ahead." You moved carefully over to the piano bench, hummed and played a minor chord,

staring at me as I went up the stairs. "I'll be right here."

The shower took the most of the ache out of my body. I stepped out, thinking about the rest of

the day, about Quinn coming back from whatever doctor she was at now, almost eight months

pregnant and seriously freaked out about the fact that there was a baby inside of her. Thinking

about taking a casual walk, ending up at Puck's, just to see if he wanted to play some Halo (not

football), not to check up on his healing cuts and bruises.

I thought about you, and practicing our song, and wondered when the heck my life would

uncomplicate itself. "So where do we start, Kurt?" You turned to me, fingers resting on the keys,

and blushed at the sight of my naked torso, even though you'd seen it a dozen times when you

were on the team. I pulled on a shirt, smirking, and you laughed a bit. We both knew that you

had a crush on me, but at least there were times when we could be un-awkward about it.

And you know why I remember that day, Kurt, that day specifically? It was the last time you

were at my house, at my piano, practicing with me. It was the last time we sat outside in late

Spring and talked about the future. It was the last time before everything changed.

Chapter 19: Puck Part III

Noah Puckerman

"The best teachers don't give you the answers. They just point the way and let you make your

own choices, your own mistakes. That way, you get all the glory." Mr. Shue

Karofsy had somehow hurt me, though whether it was in the parking lot or your dad's shop I

don't know. But I kept thinking, as Finn helped me tape up my bruised ribs so my mom wouldn't

see them, that if he could hurt me (and, Kurt, I'm stronger than you. You can't deny that) than

how badly could he have hurt you?

So I put some ice of my face and made sure my ribs were in place before trying to look as mean

as possible when I stepped in the door of the school. "Hey, Finn."

He was looking at me with this weird expression, like he was expecting me to break while I was

standing there. "Stop staring, man." I frowned, about to let out a string of curses, because that's

what I did. I was Puck.

But Finn and I…huh, we've been friends since we were seven. Weird, when you think about it

like that. We were on the same Peewee football team, back when we were those tiny kids who

couldn't hold up their heads with the helmets on and just ran around the field with our heads

cocked to one side. I've been a lineman since the first year I played football, because I like the

physical, hitting part. But Finn was always…I don't know, daintier, smarter, more strategic. He

knew enough that he didn't want to be hit, so he started training to be QB.

We just kind of clicked, the two of us. Over PB&J and water breaks. And we'd been tight ever

since, until the whole Quinn thing blew us apart.

But then you got hurt, and I know that it's awful to say that it brought us together, but that's

exactly what it did. The weekend after I pulled Karofsky off you in the parking lot and got my

face turned into ground beef by some of his cronies was the first time in a while that Finn

stopped by my house, arms laden with chips and games so that he could pretend he wasn't

worried about me.

"You look like you're going to fall off your feet, Puck." This from Finn, in the hallway at school,

"Why don't you just skip?"

I pretended that we were speaking the same language. Sometimes it's easier that way. "Where's

the fag?"

"With the girls. Something about designing shirts for Glee?" I stared at him until he blushed,

"Man, believe me, I don't want to know."

"Whatever. He okay to go to class?" Yeah, I was worried about you Kurt, because Karofsky's on

the warpath and you're getting thinner every time I see you, because you have this hurt-puppy

look that won't go away, because every time I freakin' close my eyes I see you bleeding out in

Texas.

"Dunno. You know how Karofsky's been…" He must have seen something on my face, because

he quickly started, "But Mike has History with Kurt and I think Matt has Home Ec." And now

there was something too close to pity for my liking, "You seriously look like crap, Puckerman.

Get out of here."

"Been worse after a game, QB." I said, a little bemused, "What, you want me off the premises?"

"Puck, it took me nearly an hour to fix you up last time. You can't even move your jaw and I

know for a fact that you have more bruised ribs than you told me. And if you stick around you'll

be roped into another fight."

I quirked a quick smile, "Aw, it's like you actually care."

He smiled, too, relieving the tension between us. "Screw you." But he said it in the same tone I

use when I call you a fag, like the words don't matter, like he's actually trying to say something

that would sound way too gay to say out loud. Then his smile faded and he looked almost serious

again, "Really, Puck..."

"I know." I pulled my bag out of the locker. "Like I need an excuse to skip a Spring scrimmage.

Give my regards to coach, will you? And…" I was about to say something about you, about

making sure that Finn watched you, because even though we piled your plate high at lunch you

were still not eating anything.

Instead, I pulled away before Finn could look any more concerned about the bruises on my face.

"See ya, man."

"You skipping, Puck?" This from Artie, looking up with his head cocked to one side. "You look

awful."

"So I hear." I said dryly, looking forward to an empty house and painkillers and god-awful

daytime television.

"Don't forget about finals next week. I can tutor you – not that you need tutoring, obviously,

you're not dumb, but…you know, the offer…not that you need…" I smiled at the poor crip,

giving the kid a bone for putting his foot squarely in his mouth.

"Whatever. Not like I need to hablo espanol anyway." I was almost home free. Just the parking

lot and my car and sweet freedom, as long as I can keep this freakin' headache at bay long

enough to drive home without getting into a fender-bender with a pole.

Of course, it could never be that easy. "Oh…Jeeze, Puck, are you okay? My god, you look like

you were hit by a semi." Like you should be talking, with those awful bruises on your own face,

but you were smiling up at me, T-shirted arms tight around Catch-22 and Calculus AB.

Well, I felt like I'd been hit by a semi. I felt like the entire world was coming apart at my feet and

not a damn person cared that we were all caught in the crossfire. I felt like you were slipping

away from us, with your big, scared eyes and tiny, size nothing body. God, you were killing

yourself and you didn't even seem to notice.

But that moment, what mattered was me and you, in front of McKinley high. And at that

moment, I strode right by. Typical Puck. Not caring about the poor gay kid who'd been beaten up

in El Paso and was now in hell. There'd be whispers about this tomorrow, outright confrontation

from Glee, your own makeshift body guards.

But at that moment, I couldn't worry about any of that. I had to walk away, before you started

asking about the cuts on my face, before you began feeling guilty for something that wasn't your

fault.

Chapter 20: Quinn Part III

Quinn Febray

"Too late for second guesses, too late to go back to sleep. It's time to trust my instincts, close my

eyes and leap." Defying Gravity, Wheels

This was a week before it all went down, Kurt, but it was also three weeks before I was due, and

I had a living, thinking little girl to worry about. My daughter. You understand that, right?

I'd mellowed out, softened. Literally, I'm afraid.

"I'm so fat."

"No, you're not. You just look…well, you look pregnant." You smiled at me, straightened the

dress that looked like it should belong to my mother and stared until I smiled back.

"Finn's going to hate this."

"He hates getting dressed up. And he hates playing nice with the jock crowd, as much as he

doesn't admit it. But he'll say you look gorgeous and you get an entire night with him pretending

to be a teenager instead of worrying all the time." Your smile was sadder now, mostly because

you would rather be the one dressing up for Finn, as much as we both knew that would never

happen.

"What are you doing?"

"Going with Mercedes. Junior Prom. Not all of us can score tickets to Senior because we're the

quarterback and star cheerleader…ex-cheerleader." You looked bashful, ashamed that you'd

brought up what you assumed were old wounds. I shrugged it off, because it really didn't matter.

"Don't sweat it." I miss cheering, though. I need to start once the baby's here, so I can fit into my

old clothes. I was trying not to think about the after part of the delivery, couldn't even answer the

tough questions for myself, let alone face my ashamed parents. Would I go back to school?

Would I marry Finn? Would Puck be a part of the kid's life? Would I even keep the baby? "Hey,"

I impetuously grabbed your hand, held on tight to the fingers that were smaller, thinner, bonier

than my own, "Thanks for coming with me."

"I do have the best fashion sense." You smirked, "Plus, I couldn't let you go shopping alone. It

looks so tragic."

I wasn't supposed to be shopping alone to begin with, and you weren't supposed to be there.

Santana and Brittany had both promised to come with me, since they needed dresses, too. But

then Coach Silvester added another cheer event at the last minute and they were gone, sorry,

can't go this weekend.

They were going next week, but I had to study for the finals I'd been neglecting and squeeze in

two more doctor's appointments. Pregnancy was a bitch.

So, the morning we went shopping, I was moping in the kitchen of Finn's house, trying to work

up the courage to either go shopping alone or call one of the Glee girls – Mercedes or Rachel,

ugh – to come with me. Then you walked in the door.

You'd been looking for Finn. You were always with Finn now, but when you saw me at the

counter, looking to go shopping , you looked like you'd just won the lottery. "I'll go with

you…if, you know, you want…" If I didn't mind being seen with the homo who'd was so sissy he

got beat up by the big, bad Southerners. I smiled, just a little, so you knew I wasn't thinking that,

even if we both were, because high school was a bitch, too.

See, I had softened because of this baby.

And, maybe, that wasn't a bad thing.

"So…" You said, leaning against your car, absent-mindedly scratching the bandage around your

leg, one of the last ones from El Paso to come off, "You scared?"

I was terrified. How could I not be scared about giving birth (ugh) and being fat after I gave birth

(double ugh) and about raising a kid so she wasn't as screwed up as little ol' me? But I wasn't

going to tell you that. We were civil now, and you were probably one of the only people I didn't

have to act aloof or confident around, but we weren't friends. Not quite. Not yet.

So I answered a question with a question. "Are you?"

"What?" You obviously weren't expecting that, and looked right at me, delicate face furrowed

(yes, I describe your face as delicate. To everyone I know, whenever I talk about you. Delicate,

like the egg shells you stepped on every day, like the façade you wore to school).

"Hmm." I didn't pry. I wasn't going to tell you that I was terrified of giving birth, you weren't

going to tell me that you were scared to go to school, because every time you came back you had

more black eyes, because Finn and Puck couldn't follow you everywhere. Because we weren't

friends. You don't tell people who aren't your friends the things that make you want to bawl like

a baby.

Like the fact that I can't face my dad, or you can't face yours.

Maybe that's why we've become closer since El Paso. We're alike Kurt, we always were. Both

with a confident persona that we show off to the rest of the world, both with little things that

happened in a split second that changed our entire lives. Pregnancy. Bigotry.

"You want to go see a movie? There's this chick flick that's playing…" This is a diversion tactic,

something I'm good at. Plus, in a movie theater it's usually too dark to see that the sixteen-

almost-seventeen-year-old is eight-almost-nine months pregnant.

Three months ago, no one could have paid me to go to a movie with you, or vice versa. We were

in entirely different worlds. But three months ago was before the shit officially hit the fan, as my

dad so succinctly used to put it. Now we were…not friends.

But maybe we were getting there. Maybe we would, would have if it hadn't been that particular

day. If only, if only.

Miss you, Kurt.

Quinn

(last letter from Quinn Febray, dated 8 June 2010)

Chapter 21: Artie Part III

Artie Abrams

"Can you go now? I think I need to close the door and cry." Emma Pilsbury

I'll take a lot of the blame for That Day, because I deserve most of it. Line up the facts and you

always come back to me, because I was the one who left. Not that Karofsky wouldn't have just

beaten up the two of us, not that my awesome physique (snigger) would scare them off, but

because with two targets there's always less punches to go around.

It's why birds of a feather flock together.

Anyway, the rest of the gang are probably the only people who knew the whole story, from start

to finish (start being El Paso). The rest of Ohio figured out bits and pieces thanks to the constant

media attention on the subject. Glee asked me about my part in That Day. They've been there

since the beginning, so I was embarrassed, I was guilty, but I told them.

I'll take a lot of the blame.

Apparently, you had asked Quinn to drop you off at the park, because you were hoping to run

into Finn and he'd called Quinn, saying he was meeting Puck there. I was at the park. I'm always

at the park. Tina and I usually meet there to take a walk (and recently I've been thinking that

maybe it may be a "walk") but she didn't show up that day, so I was circling the park solo,

moving with the sun, Midsummer's Night Dream open on my lap.

"Hey, Artie." I always jump when someone touches my shoulder while I'm reading. I just don't

register people moving when I'm deep in a book.

I managed to mostly cover up my twitch by adjusting my glasses. "H-hey Kurt. Thought you had

a doctor's appointment today?"

"Yesterday. My nose is officially healed, and they took my arm out of its cast." You lifted up

your right arm, which had been casted for months now and looked white and slightly smaller

than your left. Still, I couldn't help remembering how it had first looked when we found you in

that alley, with bone sticking out past the skin, broken at the elbow.

"Can you use it?"

"Not really." You ran the hand through his hair, smiling awkwardly. "Have you seen Finn? Or

Puck? I thought I might meet them here…" You blushed, because just about any mention of Finn

made you blush now. You'd been crushing before El Paso, but you were smitten now that Finn

was one of your knights in shining armor. And that was okay – healthy, even, in my opinion. At

least you knew that someone was looking out for you.

And you were even trusting Puck to have your back. Puck, who had continued to throw you into

trashcans until the week of El Paso, was your fiercest protector by far. Maybe you hadn't noticed

his assorted "football injuries" but the rest of us have.

None of us liked Puck. Not really. Unlike the other football jocks, he'd always made it quite clear

that he was separate from Glee, that he was better than it. But since those bruises started

appearing, and because we all knew exactly where they came from, everyone had been…more

civil to him. Friendlier, maybe.

None of us really liked Puck. He used to tip my chair over twice daily. But we all love you, Kurt.

"I saw them over by the basketball courts before." I tucked the book in my backpack, started off

down the pathway. God, it was gorgeous that day. People don't believe me when I mention how

clear the sky was, how warm, how fresh everything smelled. It's like, whenever something bad

happens, it's almost better for it to be nasty weather. But that day (since then, it's become That

Day, hasn't it?) was beautiful.

You walked next to me, hands tucked deep in your pockets, whistling a song from Joseph and

the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I'm not saying that what happened in El Paso was good, or

justified, because it wasn't, not even remotely, but it had…matured you, I guess. Matured all of

us. Before, you couldn't go a minute without talking, or singing, or being the center of attention

in some way. Now you were…more mellow. Calm. And, yeah, a part of that was you still being

too scared to be in the same room as a grown man, and jumping at loud noises. But another part

was just you, us, growing up.

"So…are you going to prom, Artie?" You stared at the lake. Like I said, it was a really gorgeous

day, and everyone had turned out to the park to enjoy it. The lake was dotted with children

playing in the shallows, catching tadpoles and running to their mothers with the slimy things in

their hands. Your lips twitched up in a sad sort of way.

"Yeah. Tina asked me." I was still a little taken aback by that gesture. Just a few months ago

Tina and I had been laughing about how pointless prom was – to get all dressed up and waste all

that money on one night? It wasn't her usual MO. "I don't know how I'll get my hands on a tux,

though. I asked Tina if she was going to the mall to get her dress and she, like, bit my head off

because I asked if I could come."

You laughed quietly, in a way that made me think I was missing something important. "Artie,

you know that Tina thinks this is a date, right?"

"What?" I'm a little ashamed that my voice jumped up an octave. "No she doesn't. We're just

friends!"

You looked at me, a are you for real look plastered all over your face. "She's been crushing on

you for at least four months. Remember El Paso? You and her were like this." You held up your

hand, two fingers intertwined.

"No we weren't." I defended, feeling myself get more and more red, "And how do you know

that? Weren't you supposed to be drugged up to your eyeballs."

"I know all, Artie." You smiled cheekily, the smile only growing wider when you noticed

something behind me. "And it looks like you're getting a crash course in girl safety." I looked

over my shoulder to see Tina coming towards me, "Just remember, when she shows you pictures,

say you love her dress. And try to be…tactful."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." I swallowed hard, because AP Calc does not freak me out as much as girls.

You started walking away, probably because you didn't want to stick around for a train wreck in

the making.

"See you tomorrow, Artie." You headed towards the basketball courts, just around the next bend,

where Finn supposedly was. I let you walk away. I didn't even think twice about it.

"Yeah, see you Kurt."

I didn't.

(Last letter written by Artie Abrams, 8 June 2010)

Chapter 22: Finn Part IV

Finn Hudson

"You with the sad eyes... Don't be discouraged, oh I realize it's hard to take courage in a world

full of people you can lose sight of it all and darkness still inside you makes you feel so small."

True Colors

It wasn't until we started hanging out again regularly that I realized how much I had missed Puck

being my best friend. Things had been tense between us since Glee, since we both started dating,

actually. We'd started to drift apart, which was sad, since our friendship went back to soggy days

on the PeeWee football field.

Our renewed friendship wasn't the only thing brought about by you, by El Paso, wasn't even the

only good thing. And it had definitely started with you, when Puck got cut up defending you to

the other jocks. That was...well, it was nice of him. Really nice. Almost brave, which is what you

said when we went home that night. "Puck's pretty brave." Were you exact words. And I'd

nodded, because they were appropriate, because I agreed with you, secretly, even though I

couldn't pull off saying the sentance out loud. Now, though, I was less than thrilled with Puck's

performance.

"Seriously, dude, you hurl in my car and I'll kill you."

Puck flashed me the familiar shit-eating grin he always seemed to have ready. "Dude, I never

hurl. Some of us are made of stronger stuff."

I snorted, "I don't think there's a force in the world stronger than four Big Macs and a long car

ride. I'm just saying, you feel the need, open the window."

Puck nodded, turning up the radio until it was blasting in both of our ears. I don't know who

started singing first, but there was definitely singing, even though we didn't know about half the

words. It turned into a lot of laughing, a lot of hitting each other, and a little too much car-

swerving.

Eventually, we got back to my house.

Puck was worried about the baby, more worried than he was willing to admit. I guess that's

another thing you kind of helped with…the whole Puck/Quinn/Me thing. Before, I couldn't stand

being in the same room as Puck or Quinn after I found out they'd been lying to me, but you let

me rant about it, listened calmly, and poked holes in every one of my arguments.

"He's your best friend. She's your girlfriend."

"They lied to me!"

You stared at me. Hard. "He's your best friend. She's your girlfriend." As if that summed

everything up. As if that made sins forgivable. Maybe in your mind it did. Your loyalty ran deep

and true, like your anger, like your love. Your emotions were real. Mine always seemed

contrived, fake, forced. I had to think to myself, many times a day, why I was saying the things

that came out of my mouth if I didn't really believe any of them.

So Quinn was staying with us, because she literally had nowhere else to go. Her older sister

would visit, and she usually brought baby clothes and a lot of sympathy and whatever money a

college student could scrounge up, but in the end, Quinn really only had us.

The house smelled like apple crisp, like it was a home out of the 1950s Father Knows Best-type

shows. Mom had been coming home from work earlier than usual. She claimed it was because

she never got to see enough of me. We both knew it was so that if, God forbid, Quinn went into

labor unexpectedly, at least there'd be someone at home with her.

"Smells great, Mrs. H." Puck said, quirking a reflexive grin at my mother until I elbowed him in

the ribs. Hard. "Dude!"

"I do not need you hitting on my mom right now." I said, because that on top of everything else

might have made me homicidal.

Quinn was sitting at the counter, looking at her AP Bio notes with a look that said that the irony

of learning about the Way Things Worked was not lost on her. Puck kissed her and said, in a

voice that belayed way too much surprise, that she looked beautiful.

She really did. Her hair was thicker than before, with light streaks of almost white and random

glints of red. Her skin was clear, white, and her stomach…her baby.

I don't have any feelings for Quinn, not anymore, not that I know of. But at that moment, even

you would have fallen in love with her, Kurt. She was radiant.

But she wrinkled her nose when Puck came close to her. "BO and McDonalds so don't go. Were

you playing basketball that whole time?"

"Yeah." I said, collapsing in a chair, spent from the sun and the game but happy in a way that

only physical activity or singing could ever make me. "We met up with some of the hockey

guys…"

"…And Karofsky may be the biggest douche in the universe but he has some mad ball skills. Not

as good as ours, of course." And Puck nodded at me, eyes glinting with the knowledge that we'd

both fouled like crazy against Karofsky. Underhanded stuff. Unprovable stuff. We never really

bought into the theory that personal problems should remain off the field. The field was created

so that people could work their personal problems out on it.

Quinn's eyebrows met in the middle, creating a wrinkle I'd seen too many times before, when she

was working out a tough problem, when she was putting pieces together that just didn't make any

sense.. "So you never met up with Kurt?"

"Kurt?" I looked over at Puck, who shrugged, his stance changing slightly. "No, we didn't see

him." Just your name was enough to bring up protective feelings in both of us. We never minded

being your...well, your body guards, Kurt. It's part of what made us re-find our friendship.

Quinn tilted her head, concern flashing across her face. "I dropped him off at the park hours ago.

He said he wanted to find you."

We didn't wait for much more than that. Puck and I stood up, said hasty goodbyes to my mother,

and darted out the door. We might be overreacting (and God, I hoped we were) but if you had

been at the park, you would have found some way to find us.

Unless we'd already left. Unless you'd dropped by the basketball court and found Karofsky

instead. Karofsky who we'd just beaten using all the dirty tricks in the book. Karofsky, who

never needed an excuse to beat on you. Karofsky, who was crazy, who didn't seem to have a

filter, who didn't know when to quit.

Who might actually, truly kill you if he was given the chance.

(Last letter written by Finn Hudson, 8 June 2010)

Chapter 23: Puck Part IV

Noah Puckerman

"I miss getting hit."

"Pure boyish insanity." Finn and Kurt

This time, as soon as we got out of the car we ran, ran to the basketball courts, to where you had

been looking for us. We'd already been through this. We wouldn't waste any time.

There was blood, though not much. If we hadn't been looking, hadn't been feeling what we were

feeling at that time, we would have probably assumed that someone had gotten a nosebleed, a

scraped knee.

But we were thinking about you, thinking about what happened in Texas, and that little bit of red

made my own blood run cold. "No trail this time."

"Maybe it's not him." But there was no conviction in Finn's words. We'd spent the ride over

calling your phone…then Mercedes'…Artie's, Rachel's, Tina's…no one had seen you, though

Artie said, his voice high and worried, that the two of you met at the park, that you split when he

met up with Tina.

Went to the basketball courts. And now the basketball courts were ominously splattered with

blood, and we couldn't find you, and there was no sign of Karofsky, and we could imagine what

must have happened.

The park was mostly empty by then, or maybe it was just the section we were in. It was supper

time, and most civilized humans were taking dinner with their families. There was no one

around, or at least no one who cared, when we finally got to you. Just like El Paso.

Isn't there a saying somewhere that history repeats itself?

We ran. Like chickens with our heads cut off. In a way that was unorganized, unprofessional,

because we were both thinking the same thing…it was your blood, you saw Karofsky, who was

crazy, who'd always hated you. You could be…

And then I saw it. Maybe we did learn something from Texas, because as soon as the huge

dumpster came into sight I ran to it, jerked the lid open.

"Call 911!"

"No time! The hospital is five minutes away." Finn helped me get you out of that dumpster. We

weren't thinking about broken spine or back or legs, because at that point the odds of you being

alive weren't in your favor.

There was no triage, no laying you on the ground and waiting for a strange ambulance in a

strange city. By then you were light, so light. In El Paso you weighed…I don't know, over a

hundred thirty pounds, at least. Now I wouldn't be surprised if you were down to a hundred and

ten, less. You hadn't been eating, but it wasn't until I had you in my arms, not breathing, not

moving, bones splintering under my fingers, did I realize to what point you'd gotten to.

I cradled you. Think more football than baby, because we took off running, sprinting to the car,

just fifty paces away and it could have been a mile, because you weren't breathing, weren't

moving. I got into the backseat so I could lay you down across it. "Drive!"

Finn didn't need to be told twice. He turned the car on and the radio came blasting over the

speakers, because we'd been so anxious on the way to the park we'd turned the volume up to

maximum. Billy Joel's Only the Good Die Young. Finn punched it off with a little groan of

desperation. "How is he?"

"Not good." I stared at you for a few seconds, unable to bring myself to touch your neck to check

for a pulse. You have to understand, Kurt, you were…gruesome.

Blood was everywhere. On your neck and lower back. Your face, the back of your head, your

palms. Your wrist and collar bone had been re-broken for sure, probably your ankle, too. You'd

lost at least two teeth and your gums and chin bore a darker red blood than anywhere else. Your

ribs had been worked over, again…

Finally, I thrust my fingers at your neck, not even daring to hope. You'd survived this once.

There was no way you could pull it off again.

"Puck…?" Finn's voice was high and scared and the car weaved back and forth across the road,

attempting to run us all into a ditch. "Is he…?"

"I don't know!" I snapped, wiping your neck clean so I could get a good reading. "Drive straight,

will you?"

His driving improved by degrees and I forced myself to take a deep breath. It was like learning

how to tackle all over again. One deep breath, one blink, then hold it, hold everything, stay very

still and hope you come out on top. My fingers trembled as they went for your neck again.

"C'mon, Kurt."

There was no sudden gasp this time, no groan as you woke from your stupor. You remained dead

on the seat, dried blood slowly transferring to the grimy floor. But I did find a pulse.

My sigh of the relief was so profound, so genuine that Finn, up front, heard me and swiped an

arm across his face. "We're almost there, Kurt," He said, speaking in tones that suggested he was

near tears, if not there already, "Just hold on a bit longer."

"I don't know how much longer he's got." I said, angry, so angry, because I'd ripped open Kurt's

shirt to reveal a hole in your side, jagged, the source of most of the blood. "He fucking stabbed

him!" Then, after I took off my still-sweat-soaked shirt to press against the wound I said, quietly,

sincerely, "I'm going to kill Karofsky."

I looked up at Finn and we locked eyes in the rearview mirror. "Let's save Kurt before

committing any felonies, Puck." He slammed the breaks, hard, and swerved into the hospital

parking lot, "But when the time comes, I'll help you bury the bastard."

It's good to know that your friends have similar interests as you.

Finn hadn't really stopped before he jumped out of the car, which probably wasn't the smartest

thing, probably could have gotten us killed. But we didn't die, and he ran into the hospital.

Shouts of "Help! We need some help over here!" echoed back to me as I struggled to get you

back up into my arms, dripping blood onto the seats, onto the skin, onto my soul.

But, for all of Finn's cries for help, I didn't believe it would do anything. Because your pulse had

slipped away again.

(Last letter from Noah Puckerman, dated 8 June 2010)

Exert from a national newspaper, the following morning

The perpetrators of what officials are now calling a hate crime are in police custody. The

victim, Kurt Hummel, unfortunately…

Chapter 24: Mr Shue Part III

Will Shuester

"I was so lost back then, but with a little help from my friends I found a light at the tunnel at the

end." Smile, Mattresses

I was grading papers when Finn called me, trying to stumble through first-year Spanglish while

eating re-heated pizza. I've realized that I've been eating worse since I split from my wife. I was

only making dinner for one: there seemed no reason to go over-the-top.

"Hello," I tucked the phone between my cheek and my shoulder, an action that I'd picked up

from watching my wife for ten years.

"Mr. Shue?"

Okay, Kurt, first off, I'm going to say that I don't give my home phone number to all of my

students, though sometimes it feels that way. You and Finn. Quinn. Rachel got a hold of it

somehow. But it's because you guys are…well, special.

Second…I hope you never hear Finn in that tone of voice again. He wasn't just anxious: he was

scared to the extreme, needing somebody to tell him what to do. "What's wrong?" I stood

upright, barely noticing the paper I was grading fall to the floor. "Who's hurt?"

Third…I wasn't hoping anyone was hurt, but I was thinking about Celia Wintering and her

boyfriend. Celia had been in my class until two weeks ago when she got into a car accident

coming home from a date. She was killed instantly. Her boyfriend was still in the hospital,

probably paralyzed for life.

"Kurt," Finn's voice broke and I could imagine him leaning against a wall in the hospital. "They

hurt him again."

I didn't know who they were. I was already grabbing for my keys, fumbling the phone as I did

and losing the rest of Finn's sentence. "Who? How bad?"

"Don't know…we think Karofsky because Puck and I were playing basketball with him and he -"

"How bad?" I cut off, held back from heading out the door by the phone trapped under my ear.

Since then, I've been asked why I ran off to the hospital at a phone call, why I went to visit one

of my student when it wasn't my problem.

The people who asked me that question (and, yes, it was plural people) are either the most

callous in the world or don't understand how completely Glee had changed my life. Yes, I was

heading off to the hospital because of a phone call, and I would break more than a few driving

laws to get there. Yes, I would spend the night with my students at your bedside, because even if

it wasn't in my contract it was still part of my job.

You guys all changed me so much. Watching you struggling with your own problems – which

were so far beyond my experience – gave my own life some perspective. Glee centered me. You

students centered me. You centered me, Kurt.

"He stopped breathing. His heart stopped." This wasn't Finn but Puck, in the background, and

then he let out a string of curses that I would have frowned at if we'd been in the Glee room but I

now found completely understandable.

"Did you call his father?" I was hovering at the stoop, trying to think as fast as possible. I ended

up doubling back to the kitchen for my wallet.

"First thing, Mr. Shue, but…" Finn's voice trailed off, hitched at the end. It's strange, but in some

ways teenage boys were the most vulnerable people on earth. Too old to ask for help and too

young to know how to handle themselves emotionally, they were often left floundering in the

problems that erupted around them. I know. I've been there.

"I'm coming." Because I read Finn loud and clear. Burt Hummel was going to the hospital to see

his son, would be too (understandably) distracted to notice the two teenagers also waiting

anxiously. And Finn and Puck needed someone who could help them, not just Kurt. "Stay there.

Are either of you hurt?"

"No…we were too late." Too late. I remember praying to God that that wouldn't turn out to be

the case.

On the drive over to the hospital (running two stop signs and a red light, not because I was

speeding but because my head wasn't on right. Thank goodness I didn't end up in the hospital,

too) I kept thinking about how you looked in El Paso, when we received a similar phone call

from the boys. It's Kurt.

Even before Glee I knew who you were. You'd lurked in the back of my first year Spanish class

and then came back for more, turning in papers in precise handwriting, if not-so-precise Spanish.

You'd argued with me once about the relevance of foreign languages when you wanted to skip a

test in order to go to a taping of The Tyra Show.

I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me until that point, in the car, driving to a hospital where I

may or may not find you breathing, to realize that you were smart. Not just good at

memorization but savvy, interesting, intuitive, insightful. And yet the first and last thing people

notice about you is your appearance. They say to themselves oh God, he's so gay. The nice ones

ignore you. The not-so-nice ones…

I'd hoped with a blind, ignorant heart that the beating happened because we were in Texas,

because the South was known for being less…welcoming to change. I told myself that the black

eyes and bruised arms was football, cheerleading, a fall, because stuff like that didn't happen in

Ohio.

I was wrong, Kurt. Not only was I wrong, but I was hiding, willing to bet your life in exchange

for my own mental well-being. Because, as that book you all had to read last month said so

clearly, things are rough all over.

That sentiment didn't just apply to you, either. I ran into St. Dominic's Emergency Room and saw

how rough Finn and Puck were. Puck seemed intent on punching a hole in the wall. Finn just

stared straight ahead, his eyes wide and fearful.

"Hey," I grabbed Puck's hand and wasn't all that surprised when he yanked it away from me,

going back to the wall. This time I grabbed his elbow and held on tight. "You're going to break

your hand." By the look of the mangled knuckles, though, I figured we were past that point. I

turned to Finn. "A little help here?"

"He's not that big, Mr. Shue. He doesn't weight hardly anything. Why does Karofsky keep going

after him? He doesn't' fight back. It's no fun." The words were said without a hitch this time, his

eyes still big and scared. "I don't get it."

"Neither do I, Finn." I said in the most placating tone I could muster under the circumstances. I

kept a tight grip on Puck's arm just in case he got it into his head to go another round with the

brick. "Have you figured out if Kurt's okay?"

Puck stared at me then said, slowly, as if I were missing the point. "He died, Shue, in my arms on

the way over here. He's dead." He yanked his arm back and took another knock at the wall. I

didn't stop him this time. A sort of numbness wanted to spread through my body but I couldn't let

it. At that point, it was no longer about saving you, Kurt, but about saving these two boys.

"He's not dead." The voice that issued was different from any I'd heard from your dad, before or

since. It was laced with venom and sorrow, confrontation and pain. "But it's damn close." He put

on hand on Finn's shoulder, the other on Puck's. This time, Puck stopped hitting the wall. "What

the hell happened?"

The boys, even Puck, stopped moving, damn near stopped breathing. They cowered under your

father's rage, under the weight of the question, and I found my voice again. "I think that I need to

hear that answer, too."

(Last letter from Will Shuester dated 8 June 2010)

Excerpt from national newspaper the following morning

...the victim, Kurt Hummel, is unfortunately in critical conditions. He's been placed in Twin

Valley Hospital after an attempted...

Chapter 25: Mr Hummel Part III

Mr. Hummel

"Don't loose track of who you are just because it might be easier to be somebody else." Will

Shuester, Laryngitis

Kurt, I remember every last detail about the day your mother died. How the hospital smelled.

How the nurses touched your shoulder in a pitying way and you didn't shake them off. How

when I touched your shoulder, you moved out of my reach.

It always seemed like you were moving out of my reach. I try to say to myself that I understand

what you did that day, and why. That I understand you, but I keep thinking…I'd know if

something was that bad.

But then the proof came, because Finn and Puck just stood by sadly, but not surprised at all.

Even your teacher was upset, emotional. But unsurprised.

Why is it only me you constantly surprise me, kid?

When I first ran into the hospital, the first thing I did was try to check on you. "My son…Kurt

Hummel…" I didn't know how to ask after you. I didn't know how much, if anything, I'd be told.

"Please."

The nurse gave me a string of words. You remember when your mother was in the hospital. You

remember how much I hated those doctorly words. Why can't they speak damn English? Do I

look like I have an MD?

But out of that jumble of jargon, only one word jumped out. Only one word I needed. Alive.

Except I kept thinking for now. "He'll be out of surgery soon."

After the nurse turned away from me to answer the questions of a man with a hand as big as a

saucer, I looked dumbly around the room. Dazed, you might say. Really I wanted to sit down and

try to make sense of all this. Didn't we already do this for the year? Wasn't one panicked phone

call from the hospital enough?

That's when I spotted those boys, Finn and Puck. No matter how much you defended them to me

– and you'd been doing it a lot, because you hung out with them at every opportunity – I still

couldn't see past the jocks who'd thrown you in dumpsters for the first two years of high school.

The only thing that stopped me from banging their heads together was the looks on their faces –

as if they were as lost as I was. The one, Finn, he was talking to your teacher and shaking like a

leaf. The other was punching a hole in his knuckles. But both of them had your blood on their

shirts, on their hands.

I needed to know what had happened, son. I put my hands on their shoulders and demanded a

story. And, unfortunately, the one they told me was unoriginal. It was believable, too. And it

damn near broke my heart.

"How long has this Karofsky kid been after my boy?" I asked, voice low and deadly serious,

even as I was thinking, over and over, Why wouldn't you tell me? Why…

"For ever." Finn said dully, wilting under my hands. "But it got worse after Texas. Me and Puck

tried to help, but Kurt wound up with bruises anyway."

"So did you." That skinny teacher piped up. He'd looked as completely shocked by the story as I

was. Didn't any of you tell a teacher? A counselor? Someone? Did all of those PBS specials go to

waste when you finally needed to know what to do? "Puck, you told me the bruises were from

football."

I have to give the teacher credit – then and in Texas he actually sounded like he cared. A lot. And

he'd come out to the hospital to wait with those boys, even though he didn't need to. He was a

naïve, maybe, but he was trying.

Finn was shaking worse now, so badly that I thought that if my hand wasn't on his shoulder he

might have fallen over. Puck was trying to wipe your blood off of his hands, even as his own

blood pumped sluggishly from the cuts on his knuckles.

And from there, we waited. There was really nothing to say.

By the time you woke up, other people were there. The kids' mothers. A girl I recognized as

Mercedes, because you and her spent hours, pre-Texas, making clothes in the basement. A

blonde, pregnant girl. A boy in a wheelchair. A girl with dark brown hair who gravitated over to

Finn and stood there, not quite as outwardly upset as the others.

What happened? They all asked, and, Is he going to be all right? The boys wouldn't repeat the

story, not yet, and the second question couldn't be answered.

It was two o' clock before we could see you. You were stable, the doctors said, and the surgery

had gone well. More physical therapy, more healing, just as you were finishing the last round. I

sat down next to your bed, stroked your hair. I'd told the doc that Finn and Puck were my sons,

because something in me told me that you would have wanted them there. They took up most of

the space in the back of the room.

"Hey, kiddo." You looked awful. Your face was swollen, purple, cut. Your hair was gone and

your head bandaged instead. More bandages…your leg was broken, and your collar-bone re-

shattered. The only thing omitted this time was, astoundingly, your wrists, which were both pale

and thin-looking, the only parts of you not covered in casts.

And now I wish that they had been.

I didn't know where to put my hand, but I wanted to touch you somewhere. I decided on your

wrist. When I gripped it, my hand covered your entire forearm. You'd been wasting away before

my eyes, and I never realized it.

The doctor had said you'd be groggy from surgery, but when I touched your arm your lips parted.

Your left eye was completely swollen shut, but your right opened a fraction, stared at Puck and

Finn, then rolled over to me. "It's always going to be like this, isn't it?" Your voice was breathy,

your words clipped, as if you didn't have enough air to put them through. But worse than that,

your voice was dull, resigned.

And I knew what you meant just as those two boys knew what you meant. There were always

going to be beatings on the side of the road, always going to be people who looked at you as if

you were the devil's spawn, always going to be Do Gooders who preached about the hellfire you

were going to meet in the afterlife.

I wanted to tell you so badly that the world was going to change, that you wouldn't always have

to live with this, but you were always smarter than me, Kurt. You always knew when I was

lying.

Instead, I settled on squeezing your arm very, very gently. "I love you, Kurt." I wasn't one for

speeches, but I thought you needed one then. "I love you just the way you are. And those boys?"

I cocked my head back to Finn and Puck, still wearing your blood, "They love you, too. And

there's a whole club of people out there who love you." I couldn't look at you, all bandaged like

you were, so I looked over you at the door, willing my voice to be steady. "And the world may

not love you at the moment, but there's always people in it who do. You get that, son? I know

those aren't the best words."

You didn't even reply to me, didn't show that you'd heard a single word I'd said. I held your arm

for a while longer, rubbing it, holding it, promising myself that this wouldn't happen again. I'd

make you a bubble boy before I let someone do this a third time.

But when the nurse came in to tell us you needed rest, you were already taking matters into your

own hands. In the weeks after you slit your wrists, I kept thinking about those words, said in a

monotone, said without any expression of regret at all. "It's always going to be like this, isn't it?"

And I wonder if I could have changed anything.

(Last letter from Burt Hummel, written 9 June 2010)

Chapter 26: Mercedes Part III

Mercedes

"Is it getting better? Or do you feel the same? Will it make it easier on you now you got someone

to blame?" One, Laryngitis

Hi, Kurt.

I guess they all thought I should wrap up these letters 'cause I knew you the longest. Or the best.

Or…you know. Whatever. I knew you.

I couldn't read the newspaper the day after you did what you did. I couldn't look at the television

or walk outside or go to school. I kind of wanted to just sit down and cry my heart out, but even

that wasn't enough. I wanted to go back in time and change everything. I wanted to kill those

boys. I wanted so much for things to be different.

Do you remember Freshman year? More like, how the heck could you ever forget Freshman

year? We were attracted to each other because we were both queens (and don't you go denying it,

you're a diva in your heart and you know that's always been okay by me.)

We were sitting in the bleachers at a football game. I think we went to make fun of the Cheerios,

but I never was sure. Maybe it was just to make sarcastic comments in general. Maybe we really

needed a popcorn fix.

Anyway, we were in the bleachers when they made the announcement that the game was being

dedicated to Emilio Martez, and this hush came over the crowd, because Emilio had been

different. Not like you different…he was a creepy, lonely kind of different. He sat in the back of

every class and lurched down hallways and never, ever talked to kids in school.

He killed himself, the week before the last football game of the year, the night of the first

snowfall when the sky suddenly came alive with a billion swirling crystals. I don't know why I

remember that.

I don't know why I remember you suddenly going still next to me, then your voice, smaller than

usual. Choked. Fragile. "That's so sad."

And it was sad, in a way that we could never quite figure out. If he'd lived, I never would have

remembered Emilio, not even at reunions when people were talking about the strangers who

didn't show up. He was noticeable when around, unremarkable when not. But his death made

sure that I'm always thinking about him.

Do you remember that night, Kurt? Remember how we locked hands during the announcements,

because this kid was dead and he was never coming back.

The reason I mention Emilio is because he changed me a little. Not in a really big way: I don't

roll out the welcome wagon to the creepy kids and I don't defend them when the aristocracy

decides to rag on them. I'm sassy but not suicidal. Not me.

But I do smile. And I try not to talk about them behind their backs. Because something like that

should change you. It should make you think.

What was Karofsky thinking when he started pounding on you? I don't understand, I don't think

anyone could understand. He can't hate you if he doesn't know you, right? But he did. Those

guys in Texas did it, too.

And Kurt, you were brilliant, and beautiful, and lovable and kind and quirky and unique and

interesting in all the right ways. You put flowers on your mother's grave for Mother's Day and

then went over and gave Finn's mom an identical bouquet. You helped Santana with her

homework, even though I told you a thousand times you don't owe that girl anything.

I sneaked a peak at a newspaper, maybe the middle of July. The problem with living in Ohio is

that news is slow, and things invariably repeat. There was this article about the rise in teen

suicide, with a couple of specific examples. You were on there. As if they knew anything about

you. As if they could use you as a statistic to support whatever story they were trying to spin.

It made me angry, Kurt, when you did that that night in the hospital, with all of us standing right

outside, hoping and praying that you'll get better soon.

I once asked you, probably right after Emilio, what it would take for you to be driven to suicide.

The truth was I didn't know the answer to that question myself, because you never know. You

just don't know.

But you looked at me, dead serious, and said you'd never commit suicide. It was a sin. God

forgave sins, if you asked for forgiveness, but you couldn't ask for forgiveness if you were dead.

Why would you want your last action on earth to be a sin? How could you face God after saying

that you'd just thrown his gift away willy nilly?

This coming from the same person who didn't believe in organized religion, from the same

person who slashed his wrists in a hospital after being beaten up twice over.

So, Kurt, these letters kind of just…happened. I think Mr. Schue might have mentioned us

writing letters, but by then it was summer, we were out of his reach, we had to get through this

on our own.

Except we kept coming together. And every time we did someone brought another letter. The

story begins at the beginning, just before El Paso. There are some parts I didn't know – like

Puck's transformation into a human being with feelings. Like the help you and Quinn gave each

other.

The baby was born. I wish you could see her. She has blue eyes, like Quinn, but her skin and hair

are all Puck. She's the most gorgeous baby I've ever seen.

Quinn's not coming back to Glee next year. She's going to a high school a couple towns over that

has a day care program. A couple others aren't coming back either: Mike, I know, and Santana.

For me…it depends on what happens when I walk into that Glee room. You're all over that place,

Kurt, and I don't know if that will make me feel comforted or sad.

I don't know how the story can end this way, except that looking back at everyone's letters we're

starting to realize that you needed more help that we could give you, than we gave you, that from

the beginning you were breaking, that it was only a matter of time. We kept going through, kept

hoping for that happily-ever-after. I think everyone hopes for that happy ending, where the bad

guys change for the better and ht egood guy triumphs. Except that didn't happen, not in real life,

not where the villians are so, so much nastier.

Still, we were supposed to have such a happy story.

I miss you, Kurt.

(Last letter. Written 30 July 2010)

Chapter 27: Die Young

Kurt Hummel

"Every now and then I fall apart. And I need you now tonight. And I need you more than ever."

Total Eclipse of the Heart, Bad Reputation

In February, I was beaten and thrown into a dumpster like a piece of trash.

In June, I was beaten and thrown into a dumpster like a piece of trash.

I was breaking. I understand that now. The people here told me as much, when I was brought in

after attempting to commit suicide.

Hint: If you are ever seriously contemplating suicide (not that I in any way advocate it) don't try

it in a hospital. Their gadgets are way too good. They catch you before you bleed out.

I flexed my hands and read through Mercedes' letter one last time. They'd been coming to me in

small piles of threes and fours, starting with Mr. Shuester and El Paso. Some of the stuff I didn't

want to remember. Some I never even knew about. I had no idea about Artie's brother, about his

suspicions (maybe they were even true) about me contemplating suicide from the beginning. I

had no idea about the lengths Finn and Puck went to protect me. It was astounding.

Heartwarming.

Really, if I were to change anything about this arrangement, it's my lack of visitors. I get to see

dad every Sunday, when he's able to make the three hour trek up the mountains. He's only missed

one week, and that was because it rained non-stop. He's the one who brought me all the letters.

He's even brought me pictures of Quinn's daughter.

It's weird to think that Quinn has a daughter. Quinn's no older than me, and here I am, semi-

broken and useless while she's off being a child's whole world. How can we both be in the same

school, same club, and still be light years apart?

Reading the letters through, there's this ominous kind of feeling, like I'm dead and you're writing

to me or something. Like something huge is just around the corner. Maybe everyone in Glee is

going to turn to fiction or maybe I scared them that badly. It's awful thinking that I might have

hurt so many people with what I did, which I guess is what landed me here.

There's other kids here, too. Kids who are emotionally disturbed, psychologically unable to

handle life by themselves, like me, only most of them don't have the casts and bruises to prove it.

Some of the stories I've heard here are heart wrenching. Some are life-affirming. Others, pitiful.

There's a girl who hung herself in her closet after thirteen years of her dad raping her. Her little

sister found her. There's a boy who weighs about eighty pounds and looks like a nine-year-old

even though he's older than me. There's a girl who threw her baby in the trashcan, because she

couldn't bring herself to admit she was pregnant in the first place.

Mostly it's quiet. Mostly I go for walks, or if the pain's bad I sit in the common area and take out

sheet music to play on the out-of-tune piano, or spend the afternoon reading and re-reading those

letters. Those letters are proof that there are people out there that care about me, and according to

my shrink my main problem is lack of trust.

I see a shrink three times a week now, though it used to be daily. On days I don't go to see her,

there's group therapy, which is mostly a lot of BS with me looking at this really hot, really

straight guy named Andrew, wondering if I'll ever fall for a guy who likes guys.

Something in me broke that day, which is why I'm writing this letter. I just want to tell you guys

that those letters weren't in vain, that you all helped me so much through this whole…thing,

ordeal, debacle, whatever we're going to call it when we're old and grey and these problems

cease to exist, if that ever happens.

On the day I went shopping with Quinn, which is the same day I ran into Artie and the same day

I went looking for Finn and Puck, something snapped. When I finally got over to the basketball

courts…and I must have missed Finn and Puck by just a few minutes…only Karofsky was there,

with some of his dumber thugs. He had a split lip and a bleeding nose and was looking pissed.

I thought I could backtrack and he wouldn't see me. He has the IQ of a rabbit, but the ears of a

bat, apparently. I don't remember much after the first swing, except for me hoping they wouldn't

punch me in the throat, because losing my voice on top of breaking more bones would kill me.

Then, when I was about to pass out, I was just hoping they wouldn't kill me.

The worst part about everything wasn't the pain, or the sound of my own bones splintering all

over again. It was gaining consciousness for a split second in the dumpster and knowing for an

absolute fact that this was the rest of my life. If it could happen twice in four months, it could

happen again. And again.

I'm glad they tried Karofsky as an adult. It's the least he deserves. Three years is so not enough

for him.

I don't know if I can say thank you enough for finding me, guys, or if you'll even take me

seriously, seeing as I tried to…you know…just hours later, but through the haze and pain seeing

the lid creak open and light come in…I can't describe it.

Someday maybe I'll have the vocabulary to explain what I felt in the moments after dad and you

guys left the room. It wasn't pain. It wasn't even bitterness, or anger, or frustration. Just

acceptance. And depression. If there's one thing you learn in the Happy House, it's the difference

between sadness and depression. I was probably clinically depressed since Texas, with a little

PTSD mixed in for good measure.

One day, I'll go back to school. I can't imagine anywhere else but McKinley High and the Glee

club. I think about it every day while I'm here, and even tried to start a singing group, though it's

more like a chorus than anything. Still, we do a pretty good rendition of Suicide is Painless.

One day, I'll be able to face the world again, and I think that day might even be soon, might even

be before the start of the school year. When I first got here, I had no desire to leave, to take hold

of my own life. Now there's a part of me that's itching to get out. That's what passes for progress

over here: wanting to see blue skies and green grass and not wanting to hide in your room all

day.

I thought I was strong enough to handle it. I thought I was smart enough, and tough enough, and

that if I kept going things would be better. And for a while after I realized I couldn't handle

anything, I wanted to hide.

Funny, how something awful can change your whole life. My recovery was quick, according to

the doctors here, but it has little to do with me and more to do with your letters, with God. We've

made our peace, me and Him, and there's a Youth Group here run by this great Franciscan Monk

that we call Brother Tom. I never held with organized religion before, because all of them seem

to have issues with me being a member, but I think that's changing. I know I couldn't have made

it this far without God by my side, that's for sure.

There aren't thanks enough in the world for the letters, just for the fact that so many of you took

the time to write to me, to prove that out of sight didn't necessarily mean out of mind. A million

thank yous.

I owe Puck and Finn my life. I get that now, more than ever, and when I get out I'll find you both

and give Finn a non-gay hug, maybe even attempt to hug you, Puck, because I'll still be frail and

pitiful and even you wouldn't be able to push me away.

And I owe all of you my sanity. For those months when nothing else seemed to go right, when I

couldn't even go home because I was afraid of my own shadow and, absurdly, my own father. I

owe you all for those Glee rehearsals that were tiny havens from Hell, and for your repeated,

undying affirmations that I might just be worth it. Without you, I probably would have attempted

suicide earlier, and there might not have been doctors and a hospital around to save me.

And I think that I'm starting to get better. Slowly. No major stuff and no miracles. But soon I'll

be ready for the world, because if this place has taught me anything, it's that the whole world

isn't made of bigots and thugs.

There's also music, and love, and letters. And friendship. And singing.

Kurt Hummel

The end.

Thanks, a million thanks, to our wonderful reviewers who kept up updating every Monday

morning. You helped us more than you can ever know. We kind of wanted to keep the

letters going just so Mondays aren't so…Monday. But now we all have Tuesdays to look

forward to, and Kurt couldn't take much more bashing. He told us himself.

Listen, everyone, for all those who know someone who's depressed (not just teen angst but

really, seriously depressed), there is help out there, and sometimes even best friends aren't

a substitute for the pros. And, unfortunately, homophobia, along with prejudice against

people of other races, creeds, or beliefs still exists. There are kids in your schools and towns

who are bullies. There are kids who are victims. There are those special few who help. You

get to choose who you want to be.