FIC: In My Veins 21/?
Title: In My Veins 21/?
Rating: eventual NC-17
Warnings: AU, stepcest, language
Summary: He’d only introduced Carole to his father so that he could get closer to Sebastian - it was just a simple crush at first. He didn’t expect to become his stepbrother. And he certainly didn’t expect to actually fall in love. Kurt/Sebastian and Kurt/Blaine.
Notes: I didn't get to one particular scene I wanted in this part, but after another read-through, I figured this was a better place to end it. Aaand this was another installment that kept giving me issues. Grilled Cheesus remains one of my least favorite Kurt-centric eps.
---
For a few moments, he’s not at the hospital.
He’s sitting in the backyard at his little plastic table, his outfit picked out perfectly for the occasion. He hands his dad a little play-doh cupcake (“Grape frosting, it’s delicious!” he insists, smiling.) And his dad makes that face like he’s not really sure what to make of the situation, but he goes along with it anyway.
His dad doesn’t know how to properly drink from the teacup, so he teaches him. Pinky out, small sips. No slurping or smacking. Set the teacup down on the saucer as quietly as possible. It’s important for a gentleman to have good manners. Burt gives him a hesitant smile, and then he looks at the tipped-over bike like he’d rather be going for round two of teaching Kurt how to ride rather than sitting here learning about tea etiquette.
“Dad,” Kurt says, holding out a blue triangle. “I’ll try again. But you have to finish my scone first. It’s blueberry.”
Burt chuckles at that, and he pretends to bite the triangle. “It’s good. But how come you didn’t get your mom to do this with you?”
“Oh, Mom already knows all about tea parties. She loves them,” Kurt answers, using his hand to brush back a lock of hair. “But today’s our day, Dad. Just the two of us.”
His dad smiles, and then in the blink of an eye, he’s back at the hospital. The doctor says something about a coma. That they’re not sure when he’s going to wake up. If he’ll wake up.
Kurt’s throat is tight, and he’s almost too afraid to move. But he steps forward anyway, thinking that his dad looks so out of place here in the hospital with the sterile walls and the blue curtains and the smell of antiseptic. He was fine this morning, comfortable in his coveralls and looking like he was right at home in the garage. That’s how Burt Hummel should look.
Not like this.
He slots his hand against his dad’s, noting with some relief that it’s still warm. But that relief isn’t nearly enough when he realizes that the fingers don’t automatically curl back around his the way they did when he was young.
“Dad?” His voice is quiet, meek, as if the machine will flatline if he speaks any louder. “Dad, I’m here. Right here, holding your hand.”
No response.
He tries again. “If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
Again no response. He only squeezes tighter. “Come on, Dad. Just squeeze my hand.”
Show me you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re okay.
But when he has to grab onto the bed rail with his free hand to steady himself, he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince anymore.
---
As the week passes and his dad’s condition stays the same, optimism becomes difficult. He ignores his homework for the most part, choosing instead to go to the hospital right after school, as if the more time he spends with his father, the better chance he has of waking up.
Or maybe he just spends so much time there to make sure that he won’t die.
Either way, he can’t find it in himself to focus on other things right now. Distraction works for some - not for Kurt. Not usually, anyway. The only time he’s not worrying about his dad in the hospital is when he wakes up in the morning, his brain still sleep-addled - but when he heads upstairs and sees that olive green baseball cap sitting on the kitchen counter, it’s a sharp reminder of exactly why he didn’t fall asleep until close to 2 AM last night, and the cycle repeats of school, hospital, home.
And when religion becomes an issue in glee club after Finn’s sudden and rather contrived interest in Jesus Christ, the last thing he wants to do is explain why he doesn’t believe in the flying spaghetti monster.
Why bother?
Why waste his time doing the adult equivalent of wishing on stars just to see his dad still comatose? Why get his hopes up for something that will obviously yield no results? They can be angry with him all they want for not believing - it’s not his fault they’ve decided to board the crazy train. Thoughts are welcome, but prayers? Not so much.
God, Jesus - who cares? There are far more important - real - things to worry about.
---
It’s not a pleasant thought, but he would be lying if he said it never crossed his mind. The scenario repeats itself now more often than he’d like due to the whole coma situation.
He pictures himself dressed head to toe in black, walking slowly through a cemetery. The weather... rainy (there’s a flair for the dramatic even in his imagination). When he finds the stones bearing his parents’ names, laid in the ground side by side, he crouches down and lays his hands on the grass growing on their graves, and he sings. It’s not a song he can easily pick out - just a solemn, quiet little melody, almost like a lullaby, and if he closes his eyes and pretends that the grass under his fingers are their shoulders, it’s like the three of them are together again.
People always say they’re in a better place or at least now they’re together but Kurt knows that’s not true - they just say that to soften the blow of hey, you’re an orphan now. And there are times when he pretends to believe it - burying both parents before his 18th birthday hasn’t been easy, after all. Sometimes he needs to hide behind the convenience of lies.
Where would he live now? With Aunt Mildred, maybe. Or with his grandma in Indiana. Maybe he’d even be allowed to stay with Carole and Sebastian if the state of Ohio was feeling kind.
It takes a good violent head shake to remember that his dad is in fact still alive, and he doesn’t have to deal with messy things like dead parents and loneliness and new living arrangements, not yet at least. And that’s good; dwelling on those morbid cemetery thoughts usually leave him feeling either entirely helpless or sick to his stomach, neither of which are helpful for his daily hospital visits.
He stops in his tracks when he sees Mercedes, Quinn, and Rachel in his dad’s room. Rachel’s singing a number from Yentl, and though he wants to compliment her as-usual stellar voice, that want is heavily overpowered by something that feels vaguely like disgust and personal offense.
“What’s going on?”
Rachel turns sharply, Quinn’s thumbing over her cross necklace and Mercedes’ hands are clasped in front of her face - it’s obvious what’s happening, but he doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to believe that they’d pull a stunt like this. Didn’t he explicitly say that he didn’t believe in God, that he didn’t want their useless prayers?
“We were just praying for your dad, Kurt,” Mercedes answers softly. “We’re from different denominations and different religions, so we figure one of us has to be right.”
This has to be the most backhanded type of well-wishing in existence. They don’t think his dad can pull out of this just by his own will to live? They want to instead place their hopes on some higher being, one who - if he even exists - is kind of a jerk for putting his dad in that hospital bed in the first place? That’s not right at all. Might as well just deem him a goner and get it over with.
“I think you all should leave.”
“Kurt,” Rachel begins, but he doesn’t let her finish.
“Please! Just go,” he snaps.
The girls give him various looks as they pass, ranging from apologetic to sympathetic to upset - wait, why are they upset? They’re not the ones who had to put up with this crap.
“I saw that. Someone’s got their claws out today, I’m still shocked they haven’t put you on a Bravo show yet.”
“Nice, Sebastian,” he says, shooting the other teenager a dirty look as he enters the room. “It’s not like the guy who was almost your stepdad is in a coma or anything.”
“Easy, I’m just trying to keep things light.” Sebastian sets down a small white potted cyclamen plant on Burt’s nightstand. Then he pauses. “‘Was almost?’ Jesus, you’re talking like he’s dead already.”
“Sometimes I feel like it would be easier if he were,” Kurt admits, leaning back and flattening his palms against the wall. He hates himself for thinking that way, but... at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the constant flood of ‘will he or won’t he survive’ questions.
Sebastian snorts. “So much for that Hummel determination. I’m disappointed in you.”
And god, that hurts. There’s no way Sebastian knows that those were his dad’s last words, so it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose, but still - Kurt opens his mouth to tell him off, but the words are frozen in his throat.
His vision starts to blur, and it’s not until the first tear drips onto his scarf that he realizes he’s crying.
“I - shit, Kurt, I didn’t mean it like that. Stop,” he hears Sebastian say distantly, even feels an awkward hand on his shoulder, but none of that matters.
Not when he’d been such a jerk to his dad just before the incident - not when his dad’s last memory of him was colored with disappointment.
How is he supposed to live with the knowledge that he never got to put his best face forward before his dad slipped into a coma? His chest squeezes with an all-too-familiar regret - only this time, he’s not sure if it’ll go away.
It seems like ages pass before he wipes his still-stinging eyes and ignores the fuzziness in his head long enough to look around. At some point during his fit, he’d slid to a pile on the floor. Sebastian’s sitting on the chair next to him, and the monitor hooked up to his dad still gives off that same beat.
“My mom clocked in about an hour ago,” Sebastian says carefully, slowly shifting his gaze from Burt on the bed to Kurt. “She’s on this floor.”
Kurt doesn’t trust his voice enough to speak, so he merely nods.
“She’ll be able to keep constant watch on him. So,” Sebastian stretches out the last word, “I think you could use a little break.”
Kurt frowns. “Like what?”
Sebastian grins mischievously and holds out a small card for Kurt to take.
It’s a Hawaii driver’s license of a man with atrociously dirty hair, someone named Chazz Donaldsworth - and a combination of realization and dread quickly washes over Kurt. “Oh, Sebastian - you’d better not be thinking - ”
“We’re gonna take a little trip down to Celina,” Sebastian interrupts him, and he grabs Kurt’s hand to pull him out of the room before he can say anything else in protest.
---
“I still don’t understand why you brought me here,” Kurt mutters crossly, all but slamming his ammo box down into the lane console.
“What’s that?” Sebastian shouts over the sound of bullets firing and tearing into paper. He’s still wearing that stupid grin on his face as he loads up his pistol. What on earth possessed Sebastian to think that this would be a good idea? Kurt never gave him any indication that he’d rather be here potentially shooting his foot off rather than sitting vigil at his dad’s bedside.
“This is a waste of time, why are we here?” Kurt says louder, watching as Sebastian clicks the magazine into place and pulls the slide back. He aims down lane, focusing on the target - about 15 yards away - and presses down. The bullet fires, tearing neatly into the target’s neck.
Kurt flinches, unconsciously rubbing the same spot on his own neck.
“Just try it out,” Sebastian answers, and again he pulls the trigger, this time burning a tiny hole into the target’s head. “This is where I go to blow off some steam when I’m pissed about something. Maybe it’ll work for you too.”
“I’m just worried about my dad, I’m not angry.”
“Really? Cause it sure didn’t look that way when you snapped at your friends in that hospital room.”
Kurt’s jaw tightens. “What, are you siding with them now?”
“I never said that. I’m just saying you look like you need a distraction.”
“Distraction doesn’t work,” he grits out.
“Yeah?” Sebastian pauses and looks down at Kurt’s hands.
When he follows his gaze, he realizes that he’s already packed four rounds into the magazine and holds a fifth in his hand. “Not. A word.”
Sebastian smirks at him again and turns his focus back down lane. “Just imagine you’re a Bond girl. Or guy, whatever.”
Kurt frowns. “...If it’s Daniel Craig’s Bond then you can forget it.”
That earns a deep laugh from Sebastian. “Course not. I always figured you for a Brosnan Bond anyway.”
It’s kind of strange, maybe kind of wrong having a conversation as ridiculous as this while his dad is in that hospital bed clinging to life - so he clears his throat to sober himself up and says nothing more. As soon as he takes the first shot, he understands what Sebastian means about this as stress relief. The raw power, the recoil of the pistol in his hand - it’s almost like the tension in his body instantly melts away. Almost.
He doesn’t have to give Sebastian that satisfaction of being right, of course. “Sports, fishing, gun ranges - I swear you and my dad are into the strangest things.”
Just like that, another memory hits, and he falters before taking another shot.
He remembers walking through a cemetery, his dad in a black suit - one of the few times he’s ever seen him dressed up - and he eagerly steps forward, taking his dad’s hand.
His mom’s grave is in the middle of several other plots, it takes a few minutes to find her - but when they do, they just stand there gripping hands so tight, like a reminder that at least they still have each other.
Shot.
“For the record, I agree with you,” Sebastian interrupts his train of thought. “About the whole prayer thing.”
Shot.
“What gave them the right, you know? It’s like they deliberately went behind your back because you’re not a believer.”
Sebastian’s words start to sound a little off in Kurt’s head, and an uneasy feeling settles at the bottom of his stomach.
Two shots.
“Like praying from different religions is going to help either. If there is a god I’m pretty sure it’s the same one across the board. And they have to pray to him instead of hoping your dad wakes up on his own?”
Kurt had made this argument earlier, but he can’t help feeling defensive on his friends’ behalf this time around... Maybe he did overreact earlier.
Shot.
“Kind of a dick move, if you ask me. Especially since he’s probably not gonna wake up anyway.”
He slams the pistol down onto the console. “Look, I’m pretty sure they were just trying to help. And who do you think you are, trying to write off Dad like that - he’s not dead until that monitor goes flat and his body is good and cold.”
Sebastian sets his gun down too and gives Kurt a pointed look. “You don’t say.”
Kurt glares right back, right into those eyes that are all at once sharp, challenging, and smug, and it takes about ten seconds and Sebastian’s smirk to resurface before Kurt realizes what he’s said - rather, what Sebastian’s made him say through his newest rendition of strange and backwards psychological mind games. “...You’re an asshole.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Sebastian chuckles. “And yes I am. An effective, truth-seeking asshole. But you said it, didn’t you?”
What, that he realizes just how harsh he’d been with his friends? And how his dad’s situation really isn’t hopeless, that he’s merely being pessimistic? Trust Sebastian to push the limit of what should and shouldn’t be said. It’s simultaneously one of his best and worst qualities.
“I mean, you’ve kinda been moping around all week - and I get it, believe me. It’s hard thinking that you’re gonna lose a parent. God knows I’ve wondered what it would be like if my mom weren’t around,” Sebastian continues, raising his voice a bit as a pair of shooters a few lanes down increase their firing frequency. “But your dad’s not going to be taken down by something like this. Give him a little more credit than that.”
Guilt squeezes his chest at those words - and the knowledge that Burt’s son-who’s-not-a-son believes in him more than Kurt does? How can Kurt live with that? “I guess the next thing you’re going to tell me is that I should have let Mercedes and the rest of them pray for my dad.” It comes out sounding more self-deprecating than he’d expected - but maybe that’s a good thing.
“That’s the funny thing about friends,” Sebastian answers, reloading his gun. “They help even when you don’t ask them to. They can be the biggest pain in the ass, and the ways they go about helping you might be messed up as all hell, but they really just want to let you know that they’ve got your back.”
“Hm,” Kurt responds, catching Sebastian’s eye and sharing a soft, knowing look. “Sounds familiar.”
Next
Rating: eventual NC-17
Warnings: AU, stepcest, language
Summary: He’d only introduced Carole to his father so that he could get closer to Sebastian - it was just a simple crush at first. He didn’t expect to become his stepbrother. And he certainly didn’t expect to actually fall in love. Kurt/Sebastian and Kurt/Blaine.
Notes: I didn't get to one particular scene I wanted in this part, but after another read-through, I figured this was a better place to end it. Aaand this was another installment that kept giving me issues. Grilled Cheesus remains one of my least favorite Kurt-centric eps.
---
For a few moments, he’s not at the hospital.
He’s sitting in the backyard at his little plastic table, his outfit picked out perfectly for the occasion. He hands his dad a little play-doh cupcake (“Grape frosting, it’s delicious!” he insists, smiling.) And his dad makes that face like he’s not really sure what to make of the situation, but he goes along with it anyway.
His dad doesn’t know how to properly drink from the teacup, so he teaches him. Pinky out, small sips. No slurping or smacking. Set the teacup down on the saucer as quietly as possible. It’s important for a gentleman to have good manners. Burt gives him a hesitant smile, and then he looks at the tipped-over bike like he’d rather be going for round two of teaching Kurt how to ride rather than sitting here learning about tea etiquette.
“Dad,” Kurt says, holding out a blue triangle. “I’ll try again. But you have to finish my scone first. It’s blueberry.”
Burt chuckles at that, and he pretends to bite the triangle. “It’s good. But how come you didn’t get your mom to do this with you?”
“Oh, Mom already knows all about tea parties. She loves them,” Kurt answers, using his hand to brush back a lock of hair. “But today’s our day, Dad. Just the two of us.”
His dad smiles, and then in the blink of an eye, he’s back at the hospital. The doctor says something about a coma. That they’re not sure when he’s going to wake up. If he’ll wake up.
Kurt’s throat is tight, and he’s almost too afraid to move. But he steps forward anyway, thinking that his dad looks so out of place here in the hospital with the sterile walls and the blue curtains and the smell of antiseptic. He was fine this morning, comfortable in his coveralls and looking like he was right at home in the garage. That’s how Burt Hummel should look.
Not like this.
He slots his hand against his dad’s, noting with some relief that it’s still warm. But that relief isn’t nearly enough when he realizes that the fingers don’t automatically curl back around his the way they did when he was young.
“Dad?” His voice is quiet, meek, as if the machine will flatline if he speaks any louder. “Dad, I’m here. Right here, holding your hand.”
No response.
He tries again. “If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
Again no response. He only squeezes tighter. “Come on, Dad. Just squeeze my hand.”
Show me you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re okay.
But when he has to grab onto the bed rail with his free hand to steady himself, he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince anymore.
---
As the week passes and his dad’s condition stays the same, optimism becomes difficult. He ignores his homework for the most part, choosing instead to go to the hospital right after school, as if the more time he spends with his father, the better chance he has of waking up.
Or maybe he just spends so much time there to make sure that he won’t die.
Either way, he can’t find it in himself to focus on other things right now. Distraction works for some - not for Kurt. Not usually, anyway. The only time he’s not worrying about his dad in the hospital is when he wakes up in the morning, his brain still sleep-addled - but when he heads upstairs and sees that olive green baseball cap sitting on the kitchen counter, it’s a sharp reminder of exactly why he didn’t fall asleep until close to 2 AM last night, and the cycle repeats of school, hospital, home.
And when religion becomes an issue in glee club after Finn’s sudden and rather contrived interest in Jesus Christ, the last thing he wants to do is explain why he doesn’t believe in the flying spaghetti monster.
Why bother?
Why waste his time doing the adult equivalent of wishing on stars just to see his dad still comatose? Why get his hopes up for something that will obviously yield no results? They can be angry with him all they want for not believing - it’s not his fault they’ve decided to board the crazy train. Thoughts are welcome, but prayers? Not so much.
God, Jesus - who cares? There are far more important - real - things to worry about.
---
It’s not a pleasant thought, but he would be lying if he said it never crossed his mind. The scenario repeats itself now more often than he’d like due to the whole coma situation.
He pictures himself dressed head to toe in black, walking slowly through a cemetery. The weather... rainy (there’s a flair for the dramatic even in his imagination). When he finds the stones bearing his parents’ names, laid in the ground side by side, he crouches down and lays his hands on the grass growing on their graves, and he sings. It’s not a song he can easily pick out - just a solemn, quiet little melody, almost like a lullaby, and if he closes his eyes and pretends that the grass under his fingers are their shoulders, it’s like the three of them are together again.
People always say they’re in a better place or at least now they’re together but Kurt knows that’s not true - they just say that to soften the blow of hey, you’re an orphan now. And there are times when he pretends to believe it - burying both parents before his 18th birthday hasn’t been easy, after all. Sometimes he needs to hide behind the convenience of lies.
Where would he live now? With Aunt Mildred, maybe. Or with his grandma in Indiana. Maybe he’d even be allowed to stay with Carole and Sebastian if the state of Ohio was feeling kind.
It takes a good violent head shake to remember that his dad is in fact still alive, and he doesn’t have to deal with messy things like dead parents and loneliness and new living arrangements, not yet at least. And that’s good; dwelling on those morbid cemetery thoughts usually leave him feeling either entirely helpless or sick to his stomach, neither of which are helpful for his daily hospital visits.
He stops in his tracks when he sees Mercedes, Quinn, and Rachel in his dad’s room. Rachel’s singing a number from Yentl, and though he wants to compliment her as-usual stellar voice, that want is heavily overpowered by something that feels vaguely like disgust and personal offense.
“What’s going on?”
Rachel turns sharply, Quinn’s thumbing over her cross necklace and Mercedes’ hands are clasped in front of her face - it’s obvious what’s happening, but he doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to believe that they’d pull a stunt like this. Didn’t he explicitly say that he didn’t believe in God, that he didn’t want their useless prayers?
“We were just praying for your dad, Kurt,” Mercedes answers softly. “We’re from different denominations and different religions, so we figure one of us has to be right.”
This has to be the most backhanded type of well-wishing in existence. They don’t think his dad can pull out of this just by his own will to live? They want to instead place their hopes on some higher being, one who - if he even exists - is kind of a jerk for putting his dad in that hospital bed in the first place? That’s not right at all. Might as well just deem him a goner and get it over with.
“I think you all should leave.”
“Kurt,” Rachel begins, but he doesn’t let her finish.
“Please! Just go,” he snaps.
The girls give him various looks as they pass, ranging from apologetic to sympathetic to upset - wait, why are they upset? They’re not the ones who had to put up with this crap.
“I saw that. Someone’s got their claws out today, I’m still shocked they haven’t put you on a Bravo show yet.”
“Nice, Sebastian,” he says, shooting the other teenager a dirty look as he enters the room. “It’s not like the guy who was almost your stepdad is in a coma or anything.”
“Easy, I’m just trying to keep things light.” Sebastian sets down a small white potted cyclamen plant on Burt’s nightstand. Then he pauses. “‘Was almost?’ Jesus, you’re talking like he’s dead already.”
“Sometimes I feel like it would be easier if he were,” Kurt admits, leaning back and flattening his palms against the wall. He hates himself for thinking that way, but... at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the constant flood of ‘will he or won’t he survive’ questions.
Sebastian snorts. “So much for that Hummel determination. I’m disappointed in you.”
And god, that hurts. There’s no way Sebastian knows that those were his dad’s last words, so it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose, but still - Kurt opens his mouth to tell him off, but the words are frozen in his throat.
His vision starts to blur, and it’s not until the first tear drips onto his scarf that he realizes he’s crying.
“I - shit, Kurt, I didn’t mean it like that. Stop,” he hears Sebastian say distantly, even feels an awkward hand on his shoulder, but none of that matters.
Not when he’d been such a jerk to his dad just before the incident - not when his dad’s last memory of him was colored with disappointment.
How is he supposed to live with the knowledge that he never got to put his best face forward before his dad slipped into a coma? His chest squeezes with an all-too-familiar regret - only this time, he’s not sure if it’ll go away.
It seems like ages pass before he wipes his still-stinging eyes and ignores the fuzziness in his head long enough to look around. At some point during his fit, he’d slid to a pile on the floor. Sebastian’s sitting on the chair next to him, and the monitor hooked up to his dad still gives off that same beat.
“My mom clocked in about an hour ago,” Sebastian says carefully, slowly shifting his gaze from Burt on the bed to Kurt. “She’s on this floor.”
Kurt doesn’t trust his voice enough to speak, so he merely nods.
“She’ll be able to keep constant watch on him. So,” Sebastian stretches out the last word, “I think you could use a little break.”
Kurt frowns. “Like what?”
Sebastian grins mischievously and holds out a small card for Kurt to take.
It’s a Hawaii driver’s license of a man with atrociously dirty hair, someone named Chazz Donaldsworth - and a combination of realization and dread quickly washes over Kurt. “Oh, Sebastian - you’d better not be thinking - ”
“We’re gonna take a little trip down to Celina,” Sebastian interrupts him, and he grabs Kurt’s hand to pull him out of the room before he can say anything else in protest.
---
“I still don’t understand why you brought me here,” Kurt mutters crossly, all but slamming his ammo box down into the lane console.
“What’s that?” Sebastian shouts over the sound of bullets firing and tearing into paper. He’s still wearing that stupid grin on his face as he loads up his pistol. What on earth possessed Sebastian to think that this would be a good idea? Kurt never gave him any indication that he’d rather be here potentially shooting his foot off rather than sitting vigil at his dad’s bedside.
“This is a waste of time, why are we here?” Kurt says louder, watching as Sebastian clicks the magazine into place and pulls the slide back. He aims down lane, focusing on the target - about 15 yards away - and presses down. The bullet fires, tearing neatly into the target’s neck.
Kurt flinches, unconsciously rubbing the same spot on his own neck.
“Just try it out,” Sebastian answers, and again he pulls the trigger, this time burning a tiny hole into the target’s head. “This is where I go to blow off some steam when I’m pissed about something. Maybe it’ll work for you too.”
“I’m just worried about my dad, I’m not angry.”
“Really? Cause it sure didn’t look that way when you snapped at your friends in that hospital room.”
Kurt’s jaw tightens. “What, are you siding with them now?”
“I never said that. I’m just saying you look like you need a distraction.”
“Distraction doesn’t work,” he grits out.
“Yeah?” Sebastian pauses and looks down at Kurt’s hands.
When he follows his gaze, he realizes that he’s already packed four rounds into the magazine and holds a fifth in his hand. “Not. A word.”
Sebastian smirks at him again and turns his focus back down lane. “Just imagine you’re a Bond girl. Or guy, whatever.”
Kurt frowns. “...If it’s Daniel Craig’s Bond then you can forget it.”
That earns a deep laugh from Sebastian. “Course not. I always figured you for a Brosnan Bond anyway.”
It’s kind of strange, maybe kind of wrong having a conversation as ridiculous as this while his dad is in that hospital bed clinging to life - so he clears his throat to sober himself up and says nothing more. As soon as he takes the first shot, he understands what Sebastian means about this as stress relief. The raw power, the recoil of the pistol in his hand - it’s almost like the tension in his body instantly melts away. Almost.
He doesn’t have to give Sebastian that satisfaction of being right, of course. “Sports, fishing, gun ranges - I swear you and my dad are into the strangest things.”
Just like that, another memory hits, and he falters before taking another shot.
He remembers walking through a cemetery, his dad in a black suit - one of the few times he’s ever seen him dressed up - and he eagerly steps forward, taking his dad’s hand.
His mom’s grave is in the middle of several other plots, it takes a few minutes to find her - but when they do, they just stand there gripping hands so tight, like a reminder that at least they still have each other.
Shot.
“For the record, I agree with you,” Sebastian interrupts his train of thought. “About the whole prayer thing.”
Shot.
“What gave them the right, you know? It’s like they deliberately went behind your back because you’re not a believer.”
Sebastian’s words start to sound a little off in Kurt’s head, and an uneasy feeling settles at the bottom of his stomach.
Two shots.
“Like praying from different religions is going to help either. If there is a god I’m pretty sure it’s the same one across the board. And they have to pray to him instead of hoping your dad wakes up on his own?”
Kurt had made this argument earlier, but he can’t help feeling defensive on his friends’ behalf this time around... Maybe he did overreact earlier.
Shot.
“Kind of a dick move, if you ask me. Especially since he’s probably not gonna wake up anyway.”
He slams the pistol down onto the console. “Look, I’m pretty sure they were just trying to help. And who do you think you are, trying to write off Dad like that - he’s not dead until that monitor goes flat and his body is good and cold.”
Sebastian sets his gun down too and gives Kurt a pointed look. “You don’t say.”
Kurt glares right back, right into those eyes that are all at once sharp, challenging, and smug, and it takes about ten seconds and Sebastian’s smirk to resurface before Kurt realizes what he’s said - rather, what Sebastian’s made him say through his newest rendition of strange and backwards psychological mind games. “...You’re an asshole.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Sebastian chuckles. “And yes I am. An effective, truth-seeking asshole. But you said it, didn’t you?”
What, that he realizes just how harsh he’d been with his friends? And how his dad’s situation really isn’t hopeless, that he’s merely being pessimistic? Trust Sebastian to push the limit of what should and shouldn’t be said. It’s simultaneously one of his best and worst qualities.
“I mean, you’ve kinda been moping around all week - and I get it, believe me. It’s hard thinking that you’re gonna lose a parent. God knows I’ve wondered what it would be like if my mom weren’t around,” Sebastian continues, raising his voice a bit as a pair of shooters a few lanes down increase their firing frequency. “But your dad’s not going to be taken down by something like this. Give him a little more credit than that.”
Guilt squeezes his chest at those words - and the knowledge that Burt’s son-who’s-not-a-son believes in him more than Kurt does? How can Kurt live with that? “I guess the next thing you’re going to tell me is that I should have let Mercedes and the rest of them pray for my dad.” It comes out sounding more self-deprecating than he’d expected - but maybe that’s a good thing.
“That’s the funny thing about friends,” Sebastian answers, reloading his gun. “They help even when you don’t ask them to. They can be the biggest pain in the ass, and the ways they go about helping you might be messed up as all hell, but they really just want to let you know that they’ve got your back.”
“Hm,” Kurt responds, catching Sebastian’s eye and sharing a soft, knowing look. “Sounds familiar.”
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