Don't I Get A Dream For Myself? [Chapter Five]
Title: Don’t I Get A Dream For Myself [Chapter Five]
Author: niblettk
Rating: PG-13 to be safe
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Kurt Hummel, Noah Puckerman, Burt Hummel, Finn Hudson, ensemble / Puckurt, other couples are mostly canon (Finchel, Brittana, Wemma, Tartie, and Burt/Carole-whatever we’re calling that one)
Warning: This story does include medical themes and could possibly bring up cancer-related memories for some readers. Other than that, it’s possible some characters (Puck) could have a potty mouth.
Spoilers: Up to and including the season one finale.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Author’s Note: I take credit for all my mistakes, but I also need to give credit to the amazing rainbowdocms for all her help. And because I forgot to attach it (twice), here's a picture of Fiyero.
Summary: Kurt is diagnosed with the same disease that killed his mother.
Word Count: 2246
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four
Burt kneeled down beside his son’s bed, gently brushing hair up off his cheek. “Hey kiddo,” Kurt opened his eyes, blearily trying to focus on Burt’s face, and Burt struggled to keep his voice smooth, “How you doing?”
“I’m tired.”
Burt let his hand rest gingerly against his son’s cheek and leaned forward to press their foreheads together for a moment, “I know, Kurt.” Kurt closed his eyes again, “Love you, kid.”
Burt leaned back, resting painfully on his knees and watching Kurt’s face relax into unconsciousness. He tugged the blanket up to cover Kurt’s thin shoulders and the tube running from under his collarbone to the device on his bedside table. He traced his finger along Kurt’s jaw, simultaneously adoring and despising the way he looked like a carbon copy of his mother; she’d taken to the medication well, just like Kurt, but only for the first round.
“He’s going to be fine.”
Burt stood slowly, trying not to wake his son. He fought to keep the warning tone out of his voice, but he could feel it thicken the air in the room, “You don’t know that, Carole.”
“I do,” she took a step forward, pulling him forward and kissing him on the lips. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, whispering against the skin of neck, “He’s a strong kid, Burt, and Dr. Cartell says-”
He shook his head, “I don’t care what the doctor says. They said the same thing about Kate, and Kurt gets that strength from her.” It pained him to bring up his late wife to Carole; neither of them brought up their dead spouses to each other-neither wanted to breach the subject of how much love remained, how much pain.
“Burt, listen to me.” She pushed against him lightly, pulling back to press her hands to either side of his head, “He’s going to be fine and you need to stop being so goddamn pessimistic or I swear, I will withhold sex from you.”
His shoulders shook as he kissed her again, but he smiled against her lips and she knew they’d be okay.
---
Kurt rolled onto his stomach, reaching up to pull the pillow over his head.
The doorbell rang again. Fiyero sat up on his bed, whining and pawing at the back of Kurt’s thigh.
“Finn, get up.”
He heard a low groan from across the room, where Finn had fallen asleep on the couch in his room, as the doorbell echoed through the house. Fiyero climbed onto Kurt’s back and sat down, howling at the ceiling.
“Kurt, shut your dog up.”
Fiyero trailed out of his howl to bark at Finn, and then went back to howling. Kurt peeked out from under the pillow, “Finn, shut your friends up.”
“How do you know they’re not your friends?” He was grumbling, but Kurt ignored him; he could hear Finn throwing the covers off. Fiyero leapt off Kurt, using him as a springboard and following Finn up the stairs, yapping happily.
The doorbell rang three times in quick succession and then the house was quiet.
Kurt woke minutes later to somebody poking him in the shoulder. He cracked an eye open, wincing when the light turned on in his room, and Mike poked him again, “Get up, get up, get up.”
“Mike, kindly remove yourself from my personal space and explain why you’re shaking a cancer patient awake.”
“You’re not doing the chemo thing right now and you’ve been feeling okay for two days,” Matt was lounging in his egg-chair, running his hand along the inside of it curiously, “So we figured we could all go to the mall and then bowling or something?”
Kurt sat up. Finn shrugged when Kurt fixed him with a bitchy stare, “Hey, they’re our friends.”
Puck came out of Kurt’s walk-in closet, holding several pieces of clothing. Kurt clucked his tongue, allowing his frown to morph into a cheeky grin, “Coming out of the closet, Puckerman?” Matt and Mike started laughing.
“Ha-ha, Hummel.” He held the clothes out in front of him, “I figured these would be fine. This is your favorite shirt, right?”
“I just woke up!” Kurt ignored the question, choosing not to let Puck know that it was, in fact, his favorite shirt. “I’ve been off treatment for less than a week and my immune system is nearly non-existent!” He looked around and none of the boys looked like they really cared about either thing; none of them said anything, but they’d all noticed how his lack of sleep had come before his recovery. “Do I even get to shower?”
Finn shook his head, “If I don’t, you don’t. Plus, you showered last night and you have been feeling okay the past couple days. There’s no way we’re letting you sit at home when you could be out having fun.”
---
“Does anybody want a drink?” Kurt had to call out over the music-apparently their bowling alley had glow-bowling on Saturday’s-so everybody would hear him; Rachel, Mike, Matt, and Tina rattled off what they wanted, so Kurt stood up.
“Need help?” Puck, who had just finished his turn, leapt from his chair. Finn directed a half-hearted confused look his way, too busy trying to get Rachel to hold his hand to really pay attention.
Quinn jumped from her seat as well, but Puck pushed her back down and followed after Kurt, calling over his shoulder, “We got this.”
Kurt ordered while Puck browsed through the candy, trying to guess which would be Kurt’s favorite. When he turned back, chocolate bar in hand, he froze.
Kurt was mid-laugh, and the boy serving him was playing with the end of his scarf, smiling at Kurt through his eyelashes and speaking quietly to him.
Puck watched them laugh, glancing behind the guy. He’d finished filling all of their drinks and had left them there, forgotten on the counter. Finally-finally-Puck pulled himself from the jealousy-which had come out of nowhere but Puck was accustomed to randomly deciding he wanted somebody, so he wasn’t going to bother fighting it. It would likely go away just like all of his other infatuations.
He squashed the jealousy down, preventing it’s rampage through his body; he stormed over, resisting the urge to hip-check Kurt for flirting with this douche, and threw his arm around the sick boy.
He slapped a twenty down on the counter, “You gonna serve us, or what?”
The guy looked somewhere between offended and scared shitless, so when Puck made a shooing motion with his hand, he nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to deliver their drinks. He reached out, dropping the change-more than what the till was reading, but Puck was more than willing to accept the extra cash-into Puck’s hand and stammering, “Enjoy your game!”
“We will.” Kurt gathered three of the drinks into his arms and Puck grabbed the other half, making sure Kurt walked in front of him so the punk couldn’t check out his ass. He had fully expected Kurt to ream him out for scaring the boy off, but when he handed Kurt his drink, Kurt whispered, “Thank you,” to him.
Puck didn’t question it, even though it sent his mind reeling-why was Kurt mad that he’d messed up his chances with a boy who actually seemed interested? He simply tucked his chin down against his chest and took a long sip from his drink to hide his smile.
---
Kurt let the water run over his head, closing his eyes and embracing the warmth. A fleeting sense of dizziness had swept through him a moment before, so his hand was wrapped firmly around the handle his dad had installed; he’d been fine for three days, so he’d known it was only a matter of time before he had a new infection.
He turned off the water, stepping out and spitting phlegm into the toilet. He put his foot on the bathmat, feeling the shag fold under his toes, and then off of it, onto the cold tile.
He heard the squeak of his heel against the slippery floor and threw his hand forward in time to catch the edge of the counter and the cloth that sat beside the sink. He fell, twisting his body so he landed hard on his left side; he pulled the hand towel off the counter and several hair product bottles tumbled to the floor in a series of crashes.
He lay still a moment, rolling onto his back and feeling the cool blow of the air conditioner on his bare skin.
He felt weak. Helpless. Afraid. He despised himself for becoming everything he’d sworn he’d never become; he felt pathetic.
He might have lain there all night, but Carole was already pounding down the steps into the basement. He struggled to sit up as he heard her approach, but he could barely lift his arm to secure his towel around his waist.
She knocked quickly, “Kurt, sweetie, are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Carole. I just-dropped something.” He reached up, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the counter. He managed to pull his torso off the floor before his arm started quivering. His weight was too much; his hand slipped again and he dropped.
He moaned, too loud, as his head collided with the floor and Carole’s voice demanded, “Kurt, you have to let me help you.”
“Go away,” he hissed, covering his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Sweetie, you have to let me help you! If you hurt your-”
“Go away, Carole!”
She didn’t say anything else, but a moment later, he could hear the telltale scratching behind the doorknob that signalled she was trying to break in.
He wanted to scream and cry-beg her to leave him alone-but he could hear the blood rushing in his ears and he knew, instinctively, that the chances of him managing to make it to his feet on his own were slim.
The door swung open behind him; he lay still as she let out a breathless, “Oh, Kurt,” before stepping over him and standing above him, one leg on either side of his legs.
She leaned down, hooking her wrists under his armpits and lifting. He kept one hand on the towel around his waist, and the other came up to clench at the fabric on Carole’s shoulder. She had to half-carry him to his bed; they were forced to stop in the middle of the room so he could catch his breath.
She lowered him down on the side of his bed and moved away, collecting a fresh pair of boxers and a set of pyjamas. She put them down beside him and watched his eyes flutter shut, “Do you need help?” He shook his head, slow and detached, so she took a few steps away, turning her back to him and shuffling through the papers on Kurt’s desk.
He managed to pull on the lower half of his clothing, but when he went to slide his left arm into a sleeve, his entire body protested. His stomach cramped painfully and his arm sent a vicious jab of pain shooting up through his shoulder and down his spine, making him gasp.
Carole was at his side in an instant, cautiously pressing two fingers against his side and watching for a reaction. He hissed in pain. She repeated the process up the rest of his left side and on his arm, pretending each wince on his pale face didn’t break her heart.
“Sorry, sweetie. You’re going to have some nice bruises tomorrow.” She lifted his arm gently, pulling the sleeve up and over his shoulder and helping him button it up when his hands shook too badly to secure the shirt.
“Carole, I’d really like to be alone right now.” He kept his eyes down. His voice was weary, defeated-he knew what she must be thinking: that he was embarrassed, sad, ashamed. He was, but more than anything else, he was angry. Angry at himself for being weak, for not being able to handle a little warm water, for needing Carole to help him get dressed like a child.
“Kurt, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s not-”
He looked up at her, pleading, “Please. You don’t have to go away but please don’t tell me what to feel.”
She sat down next to him; the dip in the bed was much deeper than his and something in his chest tightened, “Kurt, I know you hate this, but you have to let us help you if you need it,” he sniffed, turning his head to stare at her, “We-Burt, Finn, and I-we all love you, Kurt. It hurts when you don’t want our help.
“I know I can never replace your mom, but I’m going to love you no matter what-and not just because I love your Dad. You’re a great kid, Kurt-brave, confident, talented, and so full of love.”
She stood up, and then turned to bend down and press a soft kiss to his forehead; he knew that words would fail him, so he simply leaned into her touch and sighed. Her lips quivered into a sad smile against his skin and she whispered, “Love you, Kurt.”
It made him even more ashamed of himself when he couldn’t bring himself to say it back.
Chapter Four | Chapter Six