dismiss your fears, part i (glee, blaine/kurt)
Title: Dismiss Your Fears
Fandom: Glee
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, side Brittany/Santana, mentioned canon, ofc/ofc
Warnings: character death (not Kurt or Blaine), angsty angstness, schmoop, boys in love being silly, questionable musical taste, original character (but she's cool, I promise), h/c, homophobia, improbable medical decisions, Sue Sylvester being nice, some oocness.
Summary: When Burt dies instead of waking up from his coma, Kurt goes mute. The summer after his junior year, Kurt works in his aunt's secondhand bookshop, the same place where Blaine applies for a job as live entertainment. While Kurt tries to build up his walls, determined to keep from being hurt again, Blaine does his best to tear them down and help Kurt through his grief over Burt. The Glee clubbers help in their own ways.
Notes: Written for klainebigbang Thanks to the lovely keeper_of_rain for putting up with me and giving some amazingly quick edit jobs when the times called for it. Thanks also to artsnletters for the gorgeous artwork. All music mentioned or sung is embedded into the body of the fic. Let me know if any of it doesn't work and I'll get it fixed up asap.
The title and the lj cut lyrics are all taken from Mumford & Son's "After the Storm," which is a lovely piece of music. And in case anyone is curious, Kurt's aunt has looked like Anne Hathaway for me since I started writing her. I could write a paragrah more, but I'll just let you read the fic. Comments and insights are appreciated, as always.
Dismiss Your Fears
The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief--
But the pain of grief
Is only a shadow
When compared with the pain
Of never risking love.
Hilary Stanton Zunin
-
Kurt woke to the sound of beeping. He'd gotten used to the sound of it in the past week. It was a comfort, almost. It let him know that nothing had happened while he slept. His father was still alive and there was still hope that he would wake up.
Kurt stretched, grimacing at the fuzzy taste in his mouth and the ache in his neck. He'd fallen asleep at the hospital again. The nurses had tried to stop him the first time, but after he'd promptly insulted their looks, intelligence, fashion choices, and family connections, they'd left him alone. Kurt preferred it that way. He didn't want their kindness and he didn't want their pity. He wanted them to do their job and help his father wake up.
His dad looked peaceful. Kurt took his hand and carefully squeezed it. He took a long, shuddery breath when there was no response. His eyes felt dry and itchy. He'd cried so much this week that he didn't know that he had any tears left to spare. Kurt bent over and kissed his dad's hand. He even managed to smile when he imagined his father's flustered and awkward expression if Kurt had kissed his hand while he was awake. He'd be pleased with the gesture - Kurt rarely showed physical affection beyond a few hugs when they were having an emotional conversation . . . . Kurt's smile disappeared. He regretted that distance between them now.
"Good morning, Dad," he murmured. He'd been talking to his dad as much as he could. He remembered reading somewhere that some doctors thought coma patients could hear things going around them. "I guess I slept here again," he told his dad. "I know you probably aren't happy about it, but I don't like to go home. It seems really empty without you there."
Kurt sighed. With his free hand, he adjusted his bangs. He hadn't been taking care of himself much for the past week, and his hair was a wreck. Kurt really couldn't bring himself to care. Not when his dad was lying in a hospital bed, comatose.
"I'll probably have to head home soon," Kurt said quietly. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. 12:01 am, it read. He grimaced. "Maybe I'll just stay here for the night," he said.
For a while he was quiet, staring at his dad's chest. It was still rising and falling. If he could have done it without upsetting the various wires and tubes inserted in him, Kurt would've been on the bed in an instant, his head pressed to his dad's chest, listening to the beating heart that told him Burt was still alive. Instead, he pressed his index finger into the pulse point on his dad's wrist. The sluggish beat there relieved him. Still alive, he thought, as he had every time he visited. He always checked.
Kurt sighed, looking down at his dad. Being in the hospital all the time, talking to his dad all the time brought up memories. For the most part, Kurt's childhood had been a blur: the only clear spot he could truly remember was his mother's death. But the mind was a funny thing. Spending all this time with his dad and talking to him as Kurt did . . . it brought back memories. Sometimes he would just be sitting quietly, not thinking about anything, and then a memory would hit him. It would be something that he'd completely forgotten about until then, a memory that had blurred and disappeared as he'd gotten older.
For instance, as he stared at his father, Kurt suddenly remembered his seventh birthday party. It had been a small affair, only him and his parents. His mother had been at work for most of the day, but his dad had stayed home to be with Kurt. Kurt smiled a little.
"Dad," he started quietly, "do you remember my seventh birthday party? Mom was at work and you made a picnic . . . . Well, Mom made a picnic,” he amended with small smile. “You still couldn’t cook without burning the kitchen down.” He stared down at his father’s hand for a moment.
“I’d seen Aladdin for the first time the day before, I think,” he continued quietly. “And I remember telling you how much I loved it . . . . Or, more specifically, how pretty I thought Aladdin was.” Kurt shook his head with a small laugh. “Honestly, looking back, I’m not really surprised that you knew I was gay. What kind of normal seven-year-old boy thinks Aladdin is prettier than Jasmine?”
Kurt bit his lip, laughter dying. “I remember saying that I wanted to find someone to sing songs with, since that would show we were in love. And even then, even knowing that I was probably thinking of a boy in the future instead of a girl, you told me that you wanted that for me too, that I’d find it someday.”
"You're such an amazing person. I could never have asked for a better father." He bent his head and kissed his father's hand again. "I just wish you would wake up." He pressed his forehead to his dad's hand for a long time. "Please wake up," he whispered, closing his eyes.
A knock on the door. Kurt tensed, looking up. The doctors never knocked, nor did the nurses. Which meant it could only be his friends. Kurt bit his lip. He loved his friends, he did, but he hated that they couldn't respect his wishes about keeping their prayers to themselves. He understood that they were spiritual and they believed in God, but he didn't, and he wished that they could extend that understanding to him as well.
Kurt sighed and stood. Better to get it over with. Hopefully it was Mercedes and not Rachel. Mercedes, at least, attempted to understand.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened and Kurt's jaw dropped. It wasn't Mercedes or Rachel or any of his other friends. Instead, his Aunt Helen stood in the doorway, her clothes rumpled, a wild look on her face.
"Kurt!" she cried, striding across the room to catch him in a strong hug. She was shorter and smaller than he remembered, but her hug was a force of nature. "Oh honey, I just heard! I'm sorry it took me so long to get out here, I got the first flight I could-"
"Aunt Helen?" Kurt asked in disbelief. "You're-How did you-?"
"Carole called me," Helen told him, taking his hands in hers. Her hands were small but strong, and her grip was tight. "She told me she remembered Burt talking about having a sister and had to track me down when he-well. I was out of the door the moment I was off the phone with her." She looked Kurt over and her eyes softened. "Oh, honey. You look like shit. Have you been sleeping here?"
Kurt felt a little shaken. "Yes," he said. "I didn't-I couldn't-The house felt empty," he said.
Helen shook her head. "Aren't nurses supposed to keep you from doing things like that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Kurt shrugged. "I kind of told them that their efforts wouldn't be appreciated."
Helen laughed. "Gave 'em hell, huh?" she asked knowingly. "Good. Burt needs you with him." She dropped Kurt's hand and stepped around him to her brother's side. "How is he? Have the doctors said anything about how he's improving?"
Kurt bit his lip. "It's not looking good," he said. "The doctor-the doctor says that with every day he spends in the coma the likelihood of his waking up goes down. Or that if he does, then there's a likely possibility that he'll be a vegetable."
Helen's eyes looked bright. She took one of Burt's hands into her own. "Oh, Burt," she murmured.
Kurt looked away. Helen had never been a frequent visitor to their home. Kurt could count the amount of times she'd visited on one hand. In fact, he'd thought that and his dad had never gotten along, though his dad had never mentioned a feud between them to Kurt. That was why he hadn't called her when his dad had fallen into his coma. He'd thought she wouldn't care. Turning back and seeing how she clung to Burt's hand, staring down at his body, Kurt revised his opinion. Obviously she did care. Kurt wondered why she'd stayed away so much if she loved his dad so much.
"Kurt?" Helen asked, turning back to him, letting go of Burt's hand with a final pat. "Did you want to go home? I'd like to stay, but it's late and you look like you could do with a shower and night in a real bed." She smiled a little bit. "I'd kind of like one too, to be honest."
Kurt frowned. He didn't want to go home. He wanted to stay with his dad. But he knew that his aunt was probably tired and crusty from traveling, and the idea of a bed did sound very nice. And he wouldn't be alone in the house anymore. Helen would be there to drive away the silence and the loneliness, even if she wasn't Burt.
"Alright," he said.
-
The house was cold and dark. Kurt hadn't spent much time in it in the last few days. Whenever he opened the door, he half-expected his dad to be there, watching television or attempting to cook something or sitting on the couch, immersed in the Sports section of the newspaper.
"I'll set you up in the guest bedroom," Kurt told Helen quietly as they entered. She nodded, her eyes dark and understanding, and moved into the kitchen.
"I'll make us some food," she called over her shoulder.
Kurt had to turn away. There were too many memories in that kitchen. His dad, botching up every dinner he'd ever attempted. Learning how to cook, slowly and carefully, from his mother when he was six years old. His mother's bright laughter and her warm eyes as she made dinner every night, singing loudly and dancing with a bowl in her hand. Kurt shivered and hurried up the stairs.
The guest bedroom was cluttered with junk: they didn't usually have guests apart from occasional visits from Helen and Kurt's grandmother. Kurt slowly cleared it out or put it away, then laid down new sheets and pillow cases. Downstairs, he could hear his aunt singing. Kurt smiled a little. She sang better than his father had.
Does, Kurt reminded himself. She sings better than dad does. Using the past tense is the same as giving up. He eyed the newly made room then went downstairs. The smell of warm food was welcome and it brightened up the house more than turning on the lights had. Helen stood at the oven, flipping something in a pan.
"What are you making?" he asked, sitting down at the kitchen table.
"Stir-fry," she said. "I hope your greens are still good."
Kurt shrugged. "Probably," he said. He couldn't remember when he'd bought them.
"Well, it was either this or pancakes, and I wasn't in the mood for breakfast food," she said.
They were both silent for a long time. Helen finished the stir-fry easily, proving to be a better cook than Burt as well as a better singer, and she deftly set the table and poured out their portions. She settled into the seat across from Kurt's and they both ate. Kurt barely tasted it. He finished before Helen and took his plate to the sink to rinse off and put in the dishwasher. He made a mental note to clean it out as he did - it had been growing full in the last week despite how little time Kurt had spent at home.
"You know," Helen said from the table, "I always thought that out of the two of us, I'd be the first to go."
Kurt tensed. His hand tightened around the fork he was cleaning. Helen either didn't notice his reaction or ignored it.
"I mean, I was always the one getting into trouble when we were little, you know? I was always climbing trees and falling out of them, or getting into car accidents, or falling off of buildings or down stairs . . . Burt was always so dependable. He never got into fights, never broke a bone, not even in football. When he drove, it was always at the speed limit." Helen sighed. "I guess I always thought he'd live to be old and grey - or, well, bald - and I'd be the one dead at forty-eight."
"Stop it," Kurt said sharply. "Stop-stop talking like that."
"Kurt?" his aunt said. He heard her get up. "What are you-"
"Stop saying that he's going to die!" he said, not turning around. "He's not! You're talking like he's-like he's already dead and buried!"
"Oh Kurt," she said. Kurt hated her pity. "Kurt, you know I want Burt to live, but honey, he's already been out for a week-"
"The doctors say he needs time," Kurt said tightly.
"The doctors also don't know if he's ever going to wake up," Helen said. Bluntness ran in the Hummel genes. "Kurt, you have to be realistic about this. Burt might-"
"He's not going to leave me," Kurt said forcefully, throwing the fork into the sink. "He's not. Just shut up!"
"Kurt," Helen tried again, reaching out to him.
Kurt twisted away from his grip. Without looking at her, he hurried upstairs. He could feel the tears burning behind his eyes. He was surprised he had any left at all.
-
He woke up the next morning groggy and irritable. His eyes felt dried out and gritty and he tried to rub some moisture into them with little success. Grumbling under his breath, he got out of bed and made his way downstairs.
Helen was already awake and in the kitchen. Upon seeing her, Kurt paused, unsure of their standing after the argument last night. He hovered uncertainly outside of the kitchen door until his stomach grumbled loudly. Helen turned to look at him. She looked tired, but not angry. She even smiled at him.
"Come on in," she said. "I made those pancakes."
Kurt slid inside. He didn’t feel ashamed for what he’d said, not really, but he did regret yelling at her.
“Here,” she said, putting pancakes on his plate.
Kurt inhaled three before he put his fork down. In the back of his mind, a little voice was whispering that it’d all go down to his hips, but he ignored it. The pancakes were warm and they tasted good, and he could deal with a little fat for that.
“I was thinking we’d head over to the hospital after we’re done eating,” Helen said, eating her own pancakes at a slower pace.
“Alright,” Kurt agreed. His voice sounded croaky. He wanted to add something. Maybe a sorry or maybe a demand to know why she was dooming his father already, but he couldn’t get the words out.
He sat at the table while Helen ate her pancakes. When she was on her last one, the phone rang.
Kurt tensed. Helen froze, then slowly put down her fork. She got up and went to the phone. She stared at the caller ID for a long time. Kurt thought she was going to let the call ring out, that maybe it was a telemarketer or someone Helen didn’t know calling for Burt, and he relaxed a little bit. Then Helen picked it up.
“This is Helen Hummel,” she said. She listened for a moment, then said, “Kurt is here, yes, but I’m his aunt. I’d prefer it if you gave the information to me instead.” Kurt was having difficulty breathing. Good news, he thought desperately. Let it be good news. Helen was listening intently. Her face gave nothing away. “I see,” she said finally. “We’ll come in as soon as we can. Yes, thank you. Have a good day.”
Gently, she set the phone back down.
Kurt stared at her. His breath was coming in shallow gasps and his hands were tingling. It has to be good news, he thought desperately. It has to be, it has to be, it-
“Kurt,” Helen said. The tenderness in her voice gave her away.
Kurt crumpled in on himself. He didn’t cry, not really, but he couldn’t breathe and he could feel the pancakes he’d just eaten coming back up. He felt Helen’s hand on his head, then encircling him. He buried his head in her shirt.
"He's-" She couldn't get the words out. "He's gone, Kurt. He had another heart attack this morning and they lost him."
She made it sound like he’d simply wandered away, Kurt thought hysterically. As if they could wait a little while and he’d find his way back. Bile gathered in the back of his throat. Hastily, he shoved Helen away and hurried to the sink, where he threw up his pancakes and the remains of last night’s dinner. He heaved for a long time, even when there was nothing left to throw up, and he stayed at the sink, trembling and dry-eyed, only the counter top keeping him from collapsing.
“Kurt,” Helen said. Her voice sounded thick with tears. Kurt didn’t turn around to see if she was crying. He didn’t think he could move. She came up behind him and drew him into her arms. Kurt went without resistance. “Kurt, it’s going to be okay-“
Rage, sudden and violent, swelled up and Kurt shoved her away. “No it’s not,” he spat. “How can it be okay when he’s gone. He just-he left me. He promised that he never would, but he-“Kurt turned away from her, rage disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. “He promised,” he whispered, more to himself than to Helen.
"I'm sorry," Helen said, drawing him back in. "Kiddo, I'm so, so sorry."
"It's not good enough," Kurt said. His throat was closing up. There weren't any tears - he'd used them all up already. His throat felt painfully tight, though, and he wondered why he was even talking. What was the use of words when his father would never speak again? What was the use of talking, of laughing, of singing? What could anyone possibly say to make this better? Nothing, Kurt thought. Nothing can ever make it better.
Helen was hugging him tight. "I'm sorry," she muttered, over and over again.
"He's dead," Kurt said, throat almost closing up as he said the words. "Sorry doesn't help much."
He drew away from Helen's arms. She tried to reel him back in, but he twisted around her and moved out of the kitchen and out of his house that contained so many memories of his father that it was hard to look at it without hurting. He didn't care where he was going, and he didn't care how he was going to get there. He just needed to get away.
-
The hospital was busy for the early morning, but Kurt ignored everyone else there. The receptionist at the front desk attempted to get him to stop from heading back without signing in, but Kurt ignored her and she couldn't keep up with his stride so she fell behind.
When he got to his father's room, he paused. The door was open a crack. Kurt took a deep breath and pushed it fully open. He stared at the empty, neatly made bed. Everything that had been on the table was gone - the flowers his friends and Mr. Schue had brought, the heart attack book from Brittany that Kurt had kept on the bedside table when he needed to laugh . . . everything.
"No," Kurt said, turning on his heel. He grabbed the first nurse he found. "My father, Burt Hummel, where did they put him?!" he asked. The nurse stared at him, wide-eyed. Kurt glared at her. "He's not in his room, where did they move him?" He shook her. "Where did they move him?!"
A hand touched his shoulder. Kurt whirled around to see his father's doctor behind him. Dr. Oliver was a young man with dark hair and eyes, and he'd been good to Kurt and Burt. Kurt stared up at him, hope rising.
"Kurt," Dr. Oliver said quietly, staring down at him with eyes that were filled with sympathy. Kurt relaxation turned into hatred. "Your father's body was taken to the morgue. I expect they'll be waiting for a visit from you to prepare the body."
"No," Kurt yelled, turning twisting out of Dr. Oliver's grip. "You're lying. He didn't-He's not-"
"Kurt, your father is dead," the doctor told him. His sympathetic look was fading to something sterner. "Trying to deny that isn't going to make it any less true."
"Doctor Oliver!" the nurse said sharply, giving Kurt a look. "He's just lost his father! Be a little kinder."
Kurt barely heard her. Everyone's saying he's dead, he thought, breathing shallowly. It isn't true. It can't be true. It's not, it's not, it's not-- Kurt struck out. Dr. Oliver, the closest one to him, was the one he hit in the chest. He stumbled backwards, looking a little startled.
"He's not dead!" Kurt shouted shrilly. "He's not!" He struck out again, this time hitting the doctor in the shoulder.
"Kurt-" Dr. Oliver tried to say, grabbing at his hands, but Kurt twisted away from his grip with one of the dance moves Brittany had taught him.
"He's not dead, he can't be!" Kurt shouted. "You're lying, you have to be-" The nurse grabbed his arms to prevent him from lashing out again. "No, let me go, I want my father!"
"Get me some sort of sedative," Dr. Oliver said to one of the nurses standing nearby, watching with wide eyes.
The nurse gasped, although her grip on Kurt's arms tightened as he attempted to slide away. "Doctor, is that a good idea? I mean, he's just grieving-"
"He needs to calm down," Dr. Oliver told her, eyeing Kurt. Kurt bared his teeth at him and tried to swing again. He's a liar, he thought desperately. He deserves a punch in the face for trying to tell me dad's dead-
"Here," one of the nurses said, handing the doctor a needle. Kurt struggled more, trying to get out of the grip on him.
"No, no, I just want my dad-"
"I'm sorry, Kurt," Dr. Oliver said. He didn't look very sorry - he looked almost relieved. "Look, this will just calm you down a bit okay? When you wake up, you'll feel . . . ." He hesitated. "Well, you'll feel different. Better, hopefully."
"No, you can't, I don't-" Kurt trailed off as they stuck the needle in his arm, draining his contents in his bloodstream. As the world slowly blacked out, he heard one of the nurses yelling something. Dr. Oliver replied and then everything was dark.
-
part ii
Fandom: Glee
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, side Brittany/Santana, mentioned canon, ofc/ofc
Warnings: character death (not Kurt or Blaine), angsty angstness, schmoop, boys in love being silly, questionable musical taste, original character (but she's cool, I promise), h/c, homophobia, improbable medical decisions, Sue Sylvester being nice, some oocness.
Summary: When Burt dies instead of waking up from his coma, Kurt goes mute. The summer after his junior year, Kurt works in his aunt's secondhand bookshop, the same place where Blaine applies for a job as live entertainment. While Kurt tries to build up his walls, determined to keep from being hurt again, Blaine does his best to tear them down and help Kurt through his grief over Burt. The Glee clubbers help in their own ways.
Notes: Written for klainebigbang Thanks to the lovely keeper_of_rain for putting up with me and giving some amazingly quick edit jobs when the times called for it. Thanks also to artsnletters for the gorgeous artwork. All music mentioned or sung is embedded into the body of the fic. Let me know if any of it doesn't work and I'll get it fixed up asap.
The title and the lj cut lyrics are all taken from Mumford & Son's "After the Storm," which is a lovely piece of music. And in case anyone is curious, Kurt's aunt has looked like Anne Hathaway for me since I started writing her. I could write a paragrah more, but I'll just let you read the fic. Comments and insights are appreciated, as always.
Dismiss Your Fears
The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief--
But the pain of grief
Is only a shadow
When compared with the pain
Of never risking love.
Hilary Stanton Zunin
-
Kurt woke to the sound of beeping. He'd gotten used to the sound of it in the past week. It was a comfort, almost. It let him know that nothing had happened while he slept. His father was still alive and there was still hope that he would wake up.
Kurt stretched, grimacing at the fuzzy taste in his mouth and the ache in his neck. He'd fallen asleep at the hospital again. The nurses had tried to stop him the first time, but after he'd promptly insulted their looks, intelligence, fashion choices, and family connections, they'd left him alone. Kurt preferred it that way. He didn't want their kindness and he didn't want their pity. He wanted them to do their job and help his father wake up.
His dad looked peaceful. Kurt took his hand and carefully squeezed it. He took a long, shuddery breath when there was no response. His eyes felt dry and itchy. He'd cried so much this week that he didn't know that he had any tears left to spare. Kurt bent over and kissed his dad's hand. He even managed to smile when he imagined his father's flustered and awkward expression if Kurt had kissed his hand while he was awake. He'd be pleased with the gesture - Kurt rarely showed physical affection beyond a few hugs when they were having an emotional conversation . . . . Kurt's smile disappeared. He regretted that distance between them now.
"Good morning, Dad," he murmured. He'd been talking to his dad as much as he could. He remembered reading somewhere that some doctors thought coma patients could hear things going around them. "I guess I slept here again," he told his dad. "I know you probably aren't happy about it, but I don't like to go home. It seems really empty without you there."
Kurt sighed. With his free hand, he adjusted his bangs. He hadn't been taking care of himself much for the past week, and his hair was a wreck. Kurt really couldn't bring himself to care. Not when his dad was lying in a hospital bed, comatose.
"I'll probably have to head home soon," Kurt said quietly. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. 12:01 am, it read. He grimaced. "Maybe I'll just stay here for the night," he said.
For a while he was quiet, staring at his dad's chest. It was still rising and falling. If he could have done it without upsetting the various wires and tubes inserted in him, Kurt would've been on the bed in an instant, his head pressed to his dad's chest, listening to the beating heart that told him Burt was still alive. Instead, he pressed his index finger into the pulse point on his dad's wrist. The sluggish beat there relieved him. Still alive, he thought, as he had every time he visited. He always checked.
Kurt sighed, looking down at his dad. Being in the hospital all the time, talking to his dad all the time brought up memories. For the most part, Kurt's childhood had been a blur: the only clear spot he could truly remember was his mother's death. But the mind was a funny thing. Spending all this time with his dad and talking to him as Kurt did . . . it brought back memories. Sometimes he would just be sitting quietly, not thinking about anything, and then a memory would hit him. It would be something that he'd completely forgotten about until then, a memory that had blurred and disappeared as he'd gotten older.
For instance, as he stared at his father, Kurt suddenly remembered his seventh birthday party. It had been a small affair, only him and his parents. His mother had been at work for most of the day, but his dad had stayed home to be with Kurt. Kurt smiled a little.
"Dad," he started quietly, "do you remember my seventh birthday party? Mom was at work and you made a picnic . . . . Well, Mom made a picnic,” he amended with small smile. “You still couldn’t cook without burning the kitchen down.” He stared down at his father’s hand for a moment.
“I’d seen Aladdin for the first time the day before, I think,” he continued quietly. “And I remember telling you how much I loved it . . . . Or, more specifically, how pretty I thought Aladdin was.” Kurt shook his head with a small laugh. “Honestly, looking back, I’m not really surprised that you knew I was gay. What kind of normal seven-year-old boy thinks Aladdin is prettier than Jasmine?”
Kurt bit his lip, laughter dying. “I remember saying that I wanted to find someone to sing songs with, since that would show we were in love. And even then, even knowing that I was probably thinking of a boy in the future instead of a girl, you told me that you wanted that for me too, that I’d find it someday.”
"You're such an amazing person. I could never have asked for a better father." He bent his head and kissed his father's hand again. "I just wish you would wake up." He pressed his forehead to his dad's hand for a long time. "Please wake up," he whispered, closing his eyes.
A knock on the door. Kurt tensed, looking up. The doctors never knocked, nor did the nurses. Which meant it could only be his friends. Kurt bit his lip. He loved his friends, he did, but he hated that they couldn't respect his wishes about keeping their prayers to themselves. He understood that they were spiritual and they believed in God, but he didn't, and he wished that they could extend that understanding to him as well.
Kurt sighed and stood. Better to get it over with. Hopefully it was Mercedes and not Rachel. Mercedes, at least, attempted to understand.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened and Kurt's jaw dropped. It wasn't Mercedes or Rachel or any of his other friends. Instead, his Aunt Helen stood in the doorway, her clothes rumpled, a wild look on her face.
"Kurt!" she cried, striding across the room to catch him in a strong hug. She was shorter and smaller than he remembered, but her hug was a force of nature. "Oh honey, I just heard! I'm sorry it took me so long to get out here, I got the first flight I could-"
"Aunt Helen?" Kurt asked in disbelief. "You're-How did you-?"
"Carole called me," Helen told him, taking his hands in hers. Her hands were small but strong, and her grip was tight. "She told me she remembered Burt talking about having a sister and had to track me down when he-well. I was out of the door the moment I was off the phone with her." She looked Kurt over and her eyes softened. "Oh, honey. You look like shit. Have you been sleeping here?"
Kurt felt a little shaken. "Yes," he said. "I didn't-I couldn't-The house felt empty," he said.
Helen shook her head. "Aren't nurses supposed to keep you from doing things like that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Kurt shrugged. "I kind of told them that their efforts wouldn't be appreciated."
Helen laughed. "Gave 'em hell, huh?" she asked knowingly. "Good. Burt needs you with him." She dropped Kurt's hand and stepped around him to her brother's side. "How is he? Have the doctors said anything about how he's improving?"
Kurt bit his lip. "It's not looking good," he said. "The doctor-the doctor says that with every day he spends in the coma the likelihood of his waking up goes down. Or that if he does, then there's a likely possibility that he'll be a vegetable."
Helen's eyes looked bright. She took one of Burt's hands into her own. "Oh, Burt," she murmured.
Kurt looked away. Helen had never been a frequent visitor to their home. Kurt could count the amount of times she'd visited on one hand. In fact, he'd thought that and his dad had never gotten along, though his dad had never mentioned a feud between them to Kurt. That was why he hadn't called her when his dad had fallen into his coma. He'd thought she wouldn't care. Turning back and seeing how she clung to Burt's hand, staring down at his body, Kurt revised his opinion. Obviously she did care. Kurt wondered why she'd stayed away so much if she loved his dad so much.
"Kurt?" Helen asked, turning back to him, letting go of Burt's hand with a final pat. "Did you want to go home? I'd like to stay, but it's late and you look like you could do with a shower and night in a real bed." She smiled a little bit. "I'd kind of like one too, to be honest."
Kurt frowned. He didn't want to go home. He wanted to stay with his dad. But he knew that his aunt was probably tired and crusty from traveling, and the idea of a bed did sound very nice. And he wouldn't be alone in the house anymore. Helen would be there to drive away the silence and the loneliness, even if she wasn't Burt.
"Alright," he said.
-
The house was cold and dark. Kurt hadn't spent much time in it in the last few days. Whenever he opened the door, he half-expected his dad to be there, watching television or attempting to cook something or sitting on the couch, immersed in the Sports section of the newspaper.
"I'll set you up in the guest bedroom," Kurt told Helen quietly as they entered. She nodded, her eyes dark and understanding, and moved into the kitchen.
"I'll make us some food," she called over her shoulder.
Kurt had to turn away. There were too many memories in that kitchen. His dad, botching up every dinner he'd ever attempted. Learning how to cook, slowly and carefully, from his mother when he was six years old. His mother's bright laughter and her warm eyes as she made dinner every night, singing loudly and dancing with a bowl in her hand. Kurt shivered and hurried up the stairs.
The guest bedroom was cluttered with junk: they didn't usually have guests apart from occasional visits from Helen and Kurt's grandmother. Kurt slowly cleared it out or put it away, then laid down new sheets and pillow cases. Downstairs, he could hear his aunt singing. Kurt smiled a little. She sang better than his father had.
Does, Kurt reminded himself. She sings better than dad does. Using the past tense is the same as giving up. He eyed the newly made room then went downstairs. The smell of warm food was welcome and it brightened up the house more than turning on the lights had. Helen stood at the oven, flipping something in a pan.
"What are you making?" he asked, sitting down at the kitchen table.
"Stir-fry," she said. "I hope your greens are still good."
Kurt shrugged. "Probably," he said. He couldn't remember when he'd bought them.
"Well, it was either this or pancakes, and I wasn't in the mood for breakfast food," she said.
They were both silent for a long time. Helen finished the stir-fry easily, proving to be a better cook than Burt as well as a better singer, and she deftly set the table and poured out their portions. She settled into the seat across from Kurt's and they both ate. Kurt barely tasted it. He finished before Helen and took his plate to the sink to rinse off and put in the dishwasher. He made a mental note to clean it out as he did - it had been growing full in the last week despite how little time Kurt had spent at home.
"You know," Helen said from the table, "I always thought that out of the two of us, I'd be the first to go."
Kurt tensed. His hand tightened around the fork he was cleaning. Helen either didn't notice his reaction or ignored it.
"I mean, I was always the one getting into trouble when we were little, you know? I was always climbing trees and falling out of them, or getting into car accidents, or falling off of buildings or down stairs . . . Burt was always so dependable. He never got into fights, never broke a bone, not even in football. When he drove, it was always at the speed limit." Helen sighed. "I guess I always thought he'd live to be old and grey - or, well, bald - and I'd be the one dead at forty-eight."
"Stop it," Kurt said sharply. "Stop-stop talking like that."
"Kurt?" his aunt said. He heard her get up. "What are you-"
"Stop saying that he's going to die!" he said, not turning around. "He's not! You're talking like he's-like he's already dead and buried!"
"Oh Kurt," she said. Kurt hated her pity. "Kurt, you know I want Burt to live, but honey, he's already been out for a week-"
"The doctors say he needs time," Kurt said tightly.
"The doctors also don't know if he's ever going to wake up," Helen said. Bluntness ran in the Hummel genes. "Kurt, you have to be realistic about this. Burt might-"
"He's not going to leave me," Kurt said forcefully, throwing the fork into the sink. "He's not. Just shut up!"
"Kurt," Helen tried again, reaching out to him.
Kurt twisted away from his grip. Without looking at her, he hurried upstairs. He could feel the tears burning behind his eyes. He was surprised he had any left at all.
-
He woke up the next morning groggy and irritable. His eyes felt dried out and gritty and he tried to rub some moisture into them with little success. Grumbling under his breath, he got out of bed and made his way downstairs.
Helen was already awake and in the kitchen. Upon seeing her, Kurt paused, unsure of their standing after the argument last night. He hovered uncertainly outside of the kitchen door until his stomach grumbled loudly. Helen turned to look at him. She looked tired, but not angry. She even smiled at him.
"Come on in," she said. "I made those pancakes."
Kurt slid inside. He didn’t feel ashamed for what he’d said, not really, but he did regret yelling at her.
“Here,” she said, putting pancakes on his plate.
Kurt inhaled three before he put his fork down. In the back of his mind, a little voice was whispering that it’d all go down to his hips, but he ignored it. The pancakes were warm and they tasted good, and he could deal with a little fat for that.
“I was thinking we’d head over to the hospital after we’re done eating,” Helen said, eating her own pancakes at a slower pace.
“Alright,” Kurt agreed. His voice sounded croaky. He wanted to add something. Maybe a sorry or maybe a demand to know why she was dooming his father already, but he couldn’t get the words out.
He sat at the table while Helen ate her pancakes. When she was on her last one, the phone rang.
Kurt tensed. Helen froze, then slowly put down her fork. She got up and went to the phone. She stared at the caller ID for a long time. Kurt thought she was going to let the call ring out, that maybe it was a telemarketer or someone Helen didn’t know calling for Burt, and he relaxed a little bit. Then Helen picked it up.
“This is Helen Hummel,” she said. She listened for a moment, then said, “Kurt is here, yes, but I’m his aunt. I’d prefer it if you gave the information to me instead.” Kurt was having difficulty breathing. Good news, he thought desperately. Let it be good news. Helen was listening intently. Her face gave nothing away. “I see,” she said finally. “We’ll come in as soon as we can. Yes, thank you. Have a good day.”
Gently, she set the phone back down.
Kurt stared at her. His breath was coming in shallow gasps and his hands were tingling. It has to be good news, he thought desperately. It has to be, it has to be, it-
“Kurt,” Helen said. The tenderness in her voice gave her away.
Kurt crumpled in on himself. He didn’t cry, not really, but he couldn’t breathe and he could feel the pancakes he’d just eaten coming back up. He felt Helen’s hand on his head, then encircling him. He buried his head in her shirt.
"He's-" She couldn't get the words out. "He's gone, Kurt. He had another heart attack this morning and they lost him."
She made it sound like he’d simply wandered away, Kurt thought hysterically. As if they could wait a little while and he’d find his way back. Bile gathered in the back of his throat. Hastily, he shoved Helen away and hurried to the sink, where he threw up his pancakes and the remains of last night’s dinner. He heaved for a long time, even when there was nothing left to throw up, and he stayed at the sink, trembling and dry-eyed, only the counter top keeping him from collapsing.
“Kurt,” Helen said. Her voice sounded thick with tears. Kurt didn’t turn around to see if she was crying. He didn’t think he could move. She came up behind him and drew him into her arms. Kurt went without resistance. “Kurt, it’s going to be okay-“
Rage, sudden and violent, swelled up and Kurt shoved her away. “No it’s not,” he spat. “How can it be okay when he’s gone. He just-he left me. He promised that he never would, but he-“Kurt turned away from her, rage disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. “He promised,” he whispered, more to himself than to Helen.
"I'm sorry," Helen said, drawing him back in. "Kiddo, I'm so, so sorry."
"It's not good enough," Kurt said. His throat was closing up. There weren't any tears - he'd used them all up already. His throat felt painfully tight, though, and he wondered why he was even talking. What was the use of words when his father would never speak again? What was the use of talking, of laughing, of singing? What could anyone possibly say to make this better? Nothing, Kurt thought. Nothing can ever make it better.
Helen was hugging him tight. "I'm sorry," she muttered, over and over again.
"He's dead," Kurt said, throat almost closing up as he said the words. "Sorry doesn't help much."
He drew away from Helen's arms. She tried to reel him back in, but he twisted around her and moved out of the kitchen and out of his house that contained so many memories of his father that it was hard to look at it without hurting. He didn't care where he was going, and he didn't care how he was going to get there. He just needed to get away.
-
The hospital was busy for the early morning, but Kurt ignored everyone else there. The receptionist at the front desk attempted to get him to stop from heading back without signing in, but Kurt ignored her and she couldn't keep up with his stride so she fell behind.
When he got to his father's room, he paused. The door was open a crack. Kurt took a deep breath and pushed it fully open. He stared at the empty, neatly made bed. Everything that had been on the table was gone - the flowers his friends and Mr. Schue had brought, the heart attack book from Brittany that Kurt had kept on the bedside table when he needed to laugh . . . everything.
"No," Kurt said, turning on his heel. He grabbed the first nurse he found. "My father, Burt Hummel, where did they put him?!" he asked. The nurse stared at him, wide-eyed. Kurt glared at her. "He's not in his room, where did they move him?" He shook her. "Where did they move him?!"
A hand touched his shoulder. Kurt whirled around to see his father's doctor behind him. Dr. Oliver was a young man with dark hair and eyes, and he'd been good to Kurt and Burt. Kurt stared up at him, hope rising.
"Kurt," Dr. Oliver said quietly, staring down at him with eyes that were filled with sympathy. Kurt relaxation turned into hatred. "Your father's body was taken to the morgue. I expect they'll be waiting for a visit from you to prepare the body."
"No," Kurt yelled, turning twisting out of Dr. Oliver's grip. "You're lying. He didn't-He's not-"
"Kurt, your father is dead," the doctor told him. His sympathetic look was fading to something sterner. "Trying to deny that isn't going to make it any less true."
"Doctor Oliver!" the nurse said sharply, giving Kurt a look. "He's just lost his father! Be a little kinder."
Kurt barely heard her. Everyone's saying he's dead, he thought, breathing shallowly. It isn't true. It can't be true. It's not, it's not, it's not-- Kurt struck out. Dr. Oliver, the closest one to him, was the one he hit in the chest. He stumbled backwards, looking a little startled.
"He's not dead!" Kurt shouted shrilly. "He's not!" He struck out again, this time hitting the doctor in the shoulder.
"Kurt-" Dr. Oliver tried to say, grabbing at his hands, but Kurt twisted away from his grip with one of the dance moves Brittany had taught him.
"He's not dead, he can't be!" Kurt shouted. "You're lying, you have to be-" The nurse grabbed his arms to prevent him from lashing out again. "No, let me go, I want my father!"
"Get me some sort of sedative," Dr. Oliver said to one of the nurses standing nearby, watching with wide eyes.
The nurse gasped, although her grip on Kurt's arms tightened as he attempted to slide away. "Doctor, is that a good idea? I mean, he's just grieving-"
"He needs to calm down," Dr. Oliver told her, eyeing Kurt. Kurt bared his teeth at him and tried to swing again. He's a liar, he thought desperately. He deserves a punch in the face for trying to tell me dad's dead-
"Here," one of the nurses said, handing the doctor a needle. Kurt struggled more, trying to get out of the grip on him.
"No, no, I just want my dad-"
"I'm sorry, Kurt," Dr. Oliver said. He didn't look very sorry - he looked almost relieved. "Look, this will just calm you down a bit okay? When you wake up, you'll feel . . . ." He hesitated. "Well, you'll feel different. Better, hopefully."
"No, you can't, I don't-" Kurt trailed off as they stuck the needle in his arm, draining his contents in his bloodstream. As the world slowly blacked out, he heard one of the nurses yelling something. Dr. Oliver replied and then everything was dark.
-
part ii