(Untitled)

[likeihatenazis]

Characters: likeihatenazis & isfullofennui Hummel
Setting/Location: Your friendly neighborhood Lere'unfru saloon.
Date & Time: Day 22, morning/afternoon
Warnings: Maybe language. Nothing serious.
Summary: Father and son have a family reunion in order to stare at each other and hopefully get up to speed. Awkwardness, hoy.

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[isfullofennui]

Half an hour later, carrying a plate of warm doughnuts - feat. one jelly cream center - Kurt had begun to make his way so fastidiously around what could only be described as the set of 'The Good, the Bad and the Terribly Inconvenient', ducking his head into every saloon and inn he passed and coming up with absolutely nothing, he can't help but begin to wonder if he really is the victim of an elaborate prank.

If this world can transform him into a child, of course it can know what he keeps in his hope chest.

Kurt worries his thumb along the edge of the plate, turning his head to peek into another saloon, then starts massaging his wrist. And then he laughs, subdued for proprieties sake, stopping in his tracks and looking down at the doughnuts in his hands. This is ridiculous. He feels ridiculous, setting off on a wild-goose chase because a prepubescent voice in his Junogam told him they were his dad

[likeihatenazis]

By that time, he's starting to question if Kurt would do more than look in and move on; would he even know what he looked like? There are a lot of kids running around, and nothing in particular that would make Burt stand out as the right one. It's a possibility he debates sticking to, because the other possibility is that his son ran into some kind of trouble while he sat around a saloon with a thumb up his ass.

Wouldn't that just beat all.

Burt's half out of his chair and considering calling Kurt back when the universe decides to throw him a bone for once. He'd know that face anywhere. He throws an arm into the air to wave shortly and just starts walking over instead of doing that all day.

"Kurt!"

[isfullofennui]

Kurt whips around, and his eyes grow wide, because years of scrapbooking left him pretty spot-on at picking his dad out of an old Polaroid and that - that is his dad. "Dad," he tries, stumbling at the violent turn of his mood before there's a lopsided smile painted on his face and he's moving to meet Burt halfway. See, the thing about assuming that assumptions turn out to be wrong but assuming them anyway is they still turn out to be wrong, regardless of your insight, and you just feel the fool.

So yeah, he can concede that his dad is currently older than him by a couple of years. He can settle for that.

"Dad," Kurt repeats when he comes up close enough to extend the plate of doughnuts, knuckles white. "I grabbed you a jelly cream center." His breath is coming out it short puffs, struck breathless, heart thudding in his throat and his eyes wet.

He can't stop thinking past oh my God, my dad is here. His mind keeps repeating it over and over. He has to actively fight back the urge to drop the plate and throw his arms around his dad

[likeihatenazis]

He offers up his own crooked half-smile at being recognized- not that he wasn't sure he could answer whatever other questions Kurt might toss at him, but not having to was a much better option at the end of the day. It takes considerable effort not to start making offhanded, painfully falsely-casual remarks on the weather or the fact that they're surrounded by rejects from The Quick and the Dead.

Sudden doughnuts and the fact that Kurt is there and seven, maybe eight years old, and looking upset as all hell, go a long way towards putting a stop to it. "That's- that's great. Thanks. Let's get a table, huh

[isfullofennui]

More than happy to remove himself from the sun, Kurt holds the plate of doughnuts aloft in one hand and walks towards the nearest saloon. As luck would have it, a congregation of bugs is situated on the closest table, and he shoos them away, half disgusted, places the plate in the middle, and stands to the side like he can't decide what to do with himself. Mostly because he can't.

He also doesn't say anything - not because he can't, but because where would he even begin?

Kurt drops his hands flat palmed against the table and looks up, cheeks hot from the rudiments of sunburn. His thumb starts rubbing along the grooves, and he silently hopes that the surface has been cleaned, then remembers it was just slathered in bugs and yanks his hands back. Instead of grossing him out and sending him running for the closest functioning restroom, however, the stumble in hygiene only stands to weirdly draw attention to the fact that his dad is standing in front of him - still somehow managing to look like a bastardisation of Ohio trucker chic -