Fanfic - Boys Don't Cry

[teacandles]

Fandom: Glee
Characters: Burt, Kurt
Warnings: AU, character death
Summary: The silence between them was tearing their relationship apart, and neither one really knew what to do.
Disclamers: Glee is not my intellectual property

Thought I should post this here because I'm worried about going over the character limit on my masterlist post. Thread URLs are kind of long. This story is for this prompt on the angst_meme and is inspired by the song Boys Don't Cry by Plumb. Kind of different from my usual stuff.

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If he could take it back, he would. Everything, just like that. If only it would give him his dad back.

Kurt curled his legs tighter to his chest and tried to ignore the darkness creeping over him. He knew Finn wasn’t comfortable sharing a room with him, and honestly, Kurt really didn’t give a damn. Finn probably thought Kurt still had a thing for him or something, and it put the boy on edge. Kurt wasn’t stupid; he saw how wary Finn was around him, even when they weren’t at home. That’s why Kurt had taken refuge upstairs on the couch for the night. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but Finn wouldn’t have to worry about Kurt jumping him in the middle of the night if Kurt wasn’t around.

Whatever made Finn happy.

His dad seemed so much happier when Finn was happy, so Kurt went along with it.

He thought back to when the Hudsons had moved in. Kurt had tried to put on a happy face for the announcement, had tried to reassure Finn that he’d stay out of the room as much as possible when the other boy was down there. Neither one of them was particularly happy with the arrangement, but Kurt could make concessions. It was fine. He was flexible.

He knew how much his dad liked Carole, and even though she’d never be a replacement for his mom, Kurt rather liked her too. Things would work out for the better. As long as his dad was happy things would be okay.

“So, you need to like, stay. Over there.”

Kurt sighed and fought the urge to fall back onto his mattress in exasperation. “It’s all right, Finn. One of us can sleep on the couch tonight since your bed won’t be moved down here until tomorrow. You can stay down here if you want.”

Finn grimaced. “No way. I’m not sleeping on your bed, dude.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Fine. Then take the couch. I’m not going to follow you into the bathroom or something. I promise to stay out of your way as much as possible. I don’t want to ruin this for my dad.”

Finn’s face suddenly softened. “I don’t want to mess this up for my mom either.”

“Then we’d best get along.”

“Yeah.” Finn paused and wrapped his arms around his bent knees. He couldn’t be comfortable sitting there on the floor like that, but Kurt knew he didn’t really want to touch any of the furniture just yet. “Your dad’s a cool guy, you know.”

Kurt thought about his dad, about how hard they’d worked to talk to one another, about how easily Finn had slipped into his dad’s heart. He thought about his dad’s hand squeezing his as they lowered his mom’s casket into the ground, and he wondered if his dad would have cried then if Kurt had been more like Finn or if he would have been just as strong, just as silent as he’d been then. Probably not. Real men don’t cry.

He wondered if perhaps his dad’s life would have been easier, better, without him, and he pulled his feet up onto his bed so he could rest his chin on his knees.

He wondered if his dad might have loved him more if he’d been the kind of son his dad deserved.

“Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

He tucked his head in closer to his shoulder and tried to keep his breathing under control. It was far too late for him to be awake right now, but he couldn’t get himself to fall asleep. His mind wouldn’t stop racing.

It was stupid. He knew how important those damn Friday night dinners were to his dad, how they were one of the last connections either of them had to his mom, and yet he’d brushed it off like it was nothing. He was a teenager now. He didn’t need to hang on to silly little rituals like that.

Except, he’d left that night and found that he couldn’t do it; he couldn’t disappoint his dad like that. But then the car had broken down on his way back, and it had been a bitch trying to figure out just what had gone wrong and what he could do to patch the thing up in the dark.

His dad had been furious.

Kurt slunk into the house, quietly shutting the front door behind him. He needed to tell his dad about the Navigator. It had held up on the way home, but he’d have to take it into the garage when they had the space to get it fully checked out.

But right now what Kurt needed to do was apologize.

The porch lights had been out, which his dad almost never did unless he didn’t want anyone coming around. Kurt swallowed and strained his ears for any sound, any movement in the house, but there was nothing.

Carole and Finn had already left, since her blue sedan hadn’t been anywhere near the walk, but his dad’s truck was still there, silent and looming like a giant in the dark.

Kurt quickly scanned what he could see of the downstairs and was relieved to see lights on in the den. His heart began to pound, but he needed to do this. He owed it to his dad.

He could see the familiar edge of one of his dad’s baseball caps from over the lip of the couch as he approached, and his heart beat even faster. This was it. “Dad?”

There was nothing.

Kurt tried again, rounding the sofa so he could see his dad’s face. “Dad?”

Burt sat almost perfectly still, his eyes locked forward. He had his hand wrapped around a bottle of soda-Kurt had managed to break him of his beer habit a few years ago; he only indulged every now and again, usually on the weekends when he played poker with some old college friends. “Hello, Kurt.” His voice was soft, but Kurt could hear the hurt and disappointment laced in his words.

“Dad, I-”

“Don’t start.” His grey eyes snapped onto his son, and Kurt shrunk down a little. “It was one night, Kurt. Was that too much to ask?”

“No, dad. I-”

“I get that you’re a teenager now, and that this sort of thing probably seems stupid to you, but you knew how important this was to me. Finn was there. Don’t you think that he has other things to do on a Friday night too? He came because this was important to his mom.”

Kurt looked away. He really didn’t feel like arguing now. Not when things were so one-sided, and those last statements were baiting him, trying to get him on the defensive about Finn. His dad was trying to pick a fight, and Kurt refused to be part of it.

Burt sighed and twisted the cap of the bottle in his hand around with his thumb and forefinger. “Did you at least have fun at your thing?”

“That’s just it, dad. I didn’t go.”

He hadn’t expected the anger. His dad suddenly stood and faced him. “Then where the hell were you? Is this some sort of rebellious thing? God damn it, Kurt.”

Kurt couldn’t contain his own frustration now. This wasn’t fair; he was being treated like some sort of criminal when he was trying to apologize. “I tried to, but I realized that I shouldn’t have brushed this dinner off. I didn’t want to disappoint you-”

“Well, you did.”

“Would you just let me finish?!”

His dad just frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know what to do with you anymore, Kurt. I know we’ve never had much in common and we don’t really have anything to talk about, but I don’t think I know you anymore.”

That hurt more than he’d expected, and Kurt really didn’t know what to say. He sucked in a deep breath and walked past his dad toward the basement. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,” he breathed out as he passed, trying to keep his emotions in check.

Crying would just make things worse. Boys aren’t supposed to cry.

Kurt curled up further and tried to ignore the hard button of his jeans digging into the skin of his stomach. He really should have changed before trying to get any sleep. He looked over at the tiny digital clock on the DVD player. It was late. Really, really late. Everyone should be fast asleep by now.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the couch so that his bare feet brushed the carpet. It felt nice against his skin. Like petting Artie’s dog.

The house was so quiet; Kurt almost wanted to turn on the television or sneak downstairs for his headphones to blot out the overwhelming silence. It just put him on edge, made him feel even more alone.

His dad had taken to ignoring him. It was mostly little things, like coming home a little later from the garage or keeping just enough food in his mouth during dinner so that he wouldn’t have to say anything more complex than a noncommittal grunt. So Kurt stopped trying.

There were plenty of things he wanted to say, like how well the glee club was doing (though he probably heard enough about that from Finn), or how impressive the football team was this year (again, Finn would know more about this; his dad had probably gotten an earful from him about Coach Beiste and everything). The more Kurt thought about it, the less he had to say. There was nothing he could talk to his dad about without Finn knowing first or knowing more. Except cars.

And the bullying.

Kurt still helped out at the garage, but tension ran high at the shop whenever he was around his dad, so he stuck close to some of the other guys. Most of them had known him since he was really little and were used to him by now, but it still hurt to watch his dad work without him by his side.

And his dad didn’t seem to notice the bullying anymore.

Why should he? He was wrapped up in a romance for the first time in years, finally had the sort of manly son he’d always wanted, and Kurt never said a thing.

Why should he care if Kurt was hiding tender blue-black bruises on his arms and sides from hip and shoulder checks into lockers? Why should he care if Kurt was coming home in a different outfit than the one he’d left the house in because the old one had been soiled by refuse or food dye?

Why should he care that Kurt hadn’t slept properly in weeks since he’d figured out Dave Karofsky’s dirty little secret?

These weren’t his battles. Kurt could handle it just fine. He’d done pretty good so far, and high school was almost over. Then he could escape Lima and his dad would never have to see him again. Things would work out for the better.

Even if Kurt had never felt more alone in his entire life.

Kurt padded over to the laundry room and flicked on the light. There were still a few bundles of clothes he hadn’t taken downstairs yet. Mostly things he didn’t care about, things for working around the house like old t-shirts and sweatpants.

They would have to do.

He hastily changed his clothes, trying not to think about how exposed he was standing there. He could have done this in the bathroom, but no one was awake right now. It didn’t really matter, did it? He carefully wrapped his shirt and jeans around his arm and placed them into the basket set aside for colors. Perhaps he’d get to the laundry a little later today.

The little clock in the dining room, the only one they owned that wasn’t digital, sounded out the hour. Two in the morning. The witching hour. He really should get some sleep, but his head was too full. He’d never fall asleep at this rate.

His eyes tracked over to the hall. Maybe some water would help. They had a little in the fridge so he wouldn’t wake anyone up with the humming of the pipes. Maybe that would help.

The silence was starting to eat away at him, and Kurt began to dread the thought of going home. But staying at school was worse. Far worse.

He couldn’t escape the feeling that someone was watching him, that there were eyes following him wherever he went, and the stress was starting to take its toll. He tried talking to Mercedes, but she was growing distant. He tried talking to Blaine, but he lived all the way in Westerville. He didn’t dare talk to Finn. Not even when he tried to figure out why Kurt and his dad were fighting.

Friday nights were almost unbearable. Kurt sat there, pushing around food he didn’t have the heart to eat while his dad, Finn and Carole looked the picture of a perfect, happy family.

He’d excuse himself early and retreat down into the basement until Finn had fallen asleep. Kurt was sure the other boy had figured out that he wasn’t sleeping down there anymore, but neither one of them said a thing. It was easier that way.

So Kurt would sit on the couch late, late at night, lost in his thoughts about Karofsky and high school and why his dad didn’t seem to care about him anymore. He stopped sleeping nearly altogether, and it was getting harder and harder to keep up his façade. He could feel his mask slipping day by day, and he was helpless to do anything about it.

He was falling apart at the seams, but he refused to cry, even when he was alone.

Boys don’t cry.

It was late. Really, really late. And Burt Hummel couldn’t sleep.

He wasn’t sure why, really. Carole’s warm body was pressed against his side and the quiet of the house should have lulled his mind into submission by now, but dreams evaded him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Perhaps it was the talk he’d had with Finn two nights ago that was still bugging him.

I really think you need to talk to Kurt. Something’s wrong, but he won’t tell me anything. You’re his dad, so maybe you can help. Maybe he’ll listen to you.

But Kurt had been far too distant lately. Burt had never really known what to do with the boy, and now that he was a teenager, things had only gotten worse. What do you say to someone with whom you have nothing in common? What can you say to someone who won’t look you in the eye?

Is there something going on between you and Kurt? It’s like you two have been fighting and neither one of you wants to man up and apologize.

He wasn’t in the wrong here, was he? This was what Kurt wanted, right? To spend less time with his old man? He was just giving him space.

I think you might be being a little too harsh on him. Every boy needs his father.

Carole. His voice of reason. He looked over at her sleeping face and smiled. She was so wonderful. One of the most wonderful things that had happened to him in years, as a matter of fact. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to break the silence between him and his son.

He looked over at the clock on the bedside table. Almost three in the morning. Kurt would be asleep by now. Burt sighed and looked back up at the ceiling. Only two more hours. Kurt wasn’t exactly a morning person, but he was always up so early, doing his skin routine thing or whatever. He sighed again. This wasn’t working. Maybe he could go down and check on the boys, make sure they were doing okay. Then get some milk or something. Maybe make some coffee. It was too late to bother trying to get any sleep now.

He slowly peeled back the covers and slid himself out of bed, careful not to wake Carole. They both had work in the morning, and his insomnia shouldn’t have to be her burden too.

The house was so quiet and still as he walked down the hallway past the photos of relatives pasted across the walls. Things had been far too quiet these days.

He trudged down the stairs toward the basement and was surprised to see lights on in the kitchen. Odd. One of the boys was awake. His pace quickened just a bit, the twisting feeling in his gut intensified ten-fold.

Something was wrong.

His footsteps seemed far too loud in the emptiness before him, and he couldn’t tell if the thudding in his ears was from his weight hitting the floor or his heart pounding in his chest.

Something was wrong. He could feel it.

He rounded the corner and froze, his mind not quite comprehending what his eyes were telling him. The boy on the floor certainly looked like Kurt, but that couldn’t be his son. Kurt wasn’t that stupid. Kurt was better than that. It had to be somebody else lying there against the cabinets, his hands coated in red.

He just couldn’t figure out why some stranger would break into his house to do something like that.

He stood there for a moment, body completely still before his mouth widened into a terrible smile. A small chuckle escaped his lips that erupted into full-blown hysterical laughter that he couldn’t control. That couldn’t be Kurt. Kurt’s hair was never quite that messy, and his son would never wear something like that. He would never do something like that. Not his son.

Not Kurt.

He could feel tears running down his cheeks, hot and wet as his laughter evolved into screams. He couldn’t breathe. That wasn’t his son. That wasn’t Kurt. His body spurred into action of its own accord, his feet slipping on the slick linoleum as he raced over to the boy on the floor.

Nothing seemed real anymore; everything was moving far too slowly, and he could hear someone screaming in the background. It wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him because Kurt was just downstairs. He wasn’t the boy sitting there before him, his eyes glazed over with a hazy, translucent film, the wounds on his arms no longer bleeding onto the floor.

That wasn’t Kurt’s handwriting on that little slip of paper next to his thigh-it wasn’t the right shape. Kurt never wrote his y’s like that. His son was in his room, just down the stairs, fast asleep. It was just the lack of sleep that made the curve of his jaw feel so familiar, a trick of the light that was fooling his sleep-deprived brain.

He could hear the harsh beat of Carole and Finn’s footsteps as they raced into the kitchen, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the boy in front of him. His hands brushed at the boys still warm cheeks, trying to rid the skin of tears. This couldn’t be his son.

His son hadn’t cried in years. Kurt was far too strong for that.

This boy wasn’t his son.

Kurt was just asleep downstairs.

Kurt couldn’t believe that he hadn’t seen it before. It was so simple, but the thought still terrified him.

It wouldn’t be that bad though, would it?

His hands were unsteady around the pen, his normally neat scrawl shaky and foreign to his eyes.

Two simple words: I’m sorry. There was so much else he wanted to say, so much more he needed to say, but he just couldn’t find the words.

I’m sorry for disappointing you.

I’m sorry we couldn’t talk about things.

I’m so, so sorry to do this to you.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be the son you always wanted.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be Finn.

I’m sorry for everything.

He tried to push down the ache in his chest, the tight knot that had formed in his throat. He had to do this, but he couldn’t figure out why it was so hard. It was only his dad. Things had never been this hard before.

He could feel his sinuses burning and he wanted to hit himself for being so stupid, so weak.

Boys don’t cry.