Okay, so I kind of hate the end of this— I have re-written the ending about six times, and this is the best I could do. Sorry if it gets wobbly near the end; I sort of ran out of things to say.

All Fall Down

As Kurt slid the final bobby pin into his hair to do its job and holding his wig in place, he felt a rush of adrenaline. Though the Hairography was long over, he had kept his wig, keeping it in a secret box and the back of his closet with his Muscle magazines. He knew his father would never go looking in there, because the box just screamed secret porn stash, and there was no way Burt Hummel was going to go anywhere near it just for that reason. It was safe from prying eyes in his secret box.

The wig was long and blonde, and Kurt had taken excellent care of it. Whenever he would put it on for Glee rehearsals, it would get messed up and tangled from the choreography, but he would spend a good hour afterward combing it out and making it flawless once more. He had a reason for being so meticulous when it game to that wig; it had sentimental value.

Mr. Schuster had never and probably would never see a picture of his mother, and for that Kurt was eternally grateful. Though the teacher may have noticed the way his eyes lit up when he was handed the hairpiece, he would never know why. The fact that it looked identical to his mother's hair— long and blonde and straight— was something he kept to himself. So, perhaps he found a certain joy in putting it on once and a while, even long after their Hairography was finished, but there was no need for anyone to know that.

Kurt looked himself over in the mirror, pleasantly surprised at the resemblance to his mother he held. He had her eyes— a soft mix of green and blue, gentle and caring— as well as her bone structure— high cheekbones and a rounded, button nose— and now, he had her hair. He met his eyes in the mirror, captivated. He looked just like her. There was a certain pride in knowing that he resembled her. It made him feel close to her again.

He shuddered slightly, and wrapped him arms around himself. He swore he could almost feel her presence, see her smiling at him. He wished he could know her better. He wished he could hear her laugh. He wished he could smell her, and hug her, and love her again. A tear had nestled itself in the corner of his nostril before he even realised he was crying. Once he started he could stop; he leaning over the sink, physically feeling sick and in pain from the heartache he was experiencing. It hadn't been this bad in years. Usually he could stop himself before he started crying. Today was the anniversary of that day, though, and it made it ten times harder.

"Kurt?"

His breath caught in his throat. His father was home from work earlier than he expected. Feeling slightly ashamed of what he was doing, his first instinct was to take the wig off— but that required time, and he realised he had none of that as he heard his father's footsteps on the stairs.

"Kurt, are you down here?"

Kurt couldn't suppress the sob that escaped him, or the tears that were slowly making their way down his cheeks. He felt utterly exposed, and he clutched the sink harder, so that his knuckles turned white. He heard the heavy footsteps stop outside the bathroom door. Cautiously, Burt knocked. Kurt sniffled, shaking his head and letting the blonde hair fall into his eyes.

"Kurt, are you... are you okay?"

Of course he wasn't okay. Didn't his father know what day it was? Didn't he look at the calendar this morning? Kurt shook with silent sobs, willing his hands to stop shaking against the porcelain. They didn't. Burt knocked again, hesitantly. He could hear muffled sounds coming from the bathroom, and he was quite sure his son was crying... but he had no idea how to handle the situation. The emotional stuff had always been her job, and he was no good at it, even with all his opportunities for improvement. But he tried his best with Kurt, and he knew his son appreciated it.

His hand found the knob and turned it experimentally; Kurt hadn't locked the door. He didn't think his dad would be home so early. Does anyone really lock the door when they're alone? He opened the door a fraction and peeked around the corner, instantly thinking he was hallucinating. In front of him, bent over the sink and shaking like a leaf, was his late wife, her hair hanging loosely around her face.

Of course, the minute Kurt turned around to face his father, this dream shattered; though the resemblance was noticeable, he looked much more masculine, with thinner lips and dark eyebrows. Kurt wiped at his eyes uselessly, staring at his father sadly. Burt felt as if he had seen a ghost.

"I miss her," were the words that left Kurt's mouth, instead of the excuse forming in his head. Burt simply stared at him, his jaw slack.

"You look..." He paused, his mouth coming together to form a thin line. "Take that thing off, Kurt."

Kurt turned back to this mirror, his hands shaking as he removed pin after pin, dropping them onto the counter, where the formed a small pile. After the last one was out, he tugged the wig off of his head, leaving his hair in disarray. He lovingly straightened the golden locks in his hands, looking at the hair rather than at his father. He was sure he was in for it. He was sure Burt was going to get angry at him. So when he felt the comforting hand on his shoulder, he looked up in surprise.

"Kurt," his father said, the gruff edge completely gone from his voice. He looked down at his son in contemplation before gathering the shaking teenager in his arms and hugging him gently. "I miss her too."

Kurt never thought he'd break down so completely in front of his father. He was usually so strong, but hearing Burt telling him that caused something in him to shatter. It might've been his willpower, or perhaps his resolve, but whatever the case may be, Kurt began to sob into his dad's chest, clutching at him like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," he whispered over and over, a mantra of sorts, as he tried to get a grip. What he was so sorry for, he didn't know exactly. But Burt hugged him back, one arm around his shoulders and the other hand on the back of his son's head, just letting him grieve. He murmured words of comfort to his son, holding him tight to his chest. When at last Kurt's tears and run dry, he looked up at his father with admiration then down at the wig.

"I know it's stupid," he admitted, stroking the hair lovingly, "But it makes me feel like I'm a part of her."

Burt reached out and wiped the tear-tracks from his son's cheeks, noticing not for the first time how much Kurt looked like his mother. But that wasn't the only thing they had in common. Kurt was kind, and had inherited his mother's morals, as well as her stubbornness; he was sometimes hot-headed like she could be sometimes, but always loving and felt his emotions deep. He was quiet, and kept his feelings mostly to himself, choosing to bottle them up inside rather than tell Burt about his problems. He was sweet, and loved the same kinds of music, and the same kinds of foods. He was a lot like his mother, really, and very little like his father. Burt was somehow very thankful for that.

"You always will be," Burt told Kurt assuredly, taking him by the shoulders in a comforting, but manly, way. "You are so much like her, you don't even know..." Burt sighed, letting go of his son and putting his hands in his pockets. "I came home early to see if you... wanted to come with me to put flowers on her grave this year."

Usually, Burt went alone to the graveyard on this particular day, and Kurt believed that by letting him do so he was giving his father a private moment or two to grieve for his wife, to talk to her and get his feelings out. But today wasn't any day. Kurt put the wig back in its box, and then followed his dad upstairs. Together, they visited their lost loved one; together, they grieved, for perhaps the first time since it happened. Kurt cried again, and Burt held his hand while he set the daffodils— her favourite flower— onto the smooth stone.

Maybe it wasn't the fact that he looked like his mother. Maybe it wasn't the fact that they were both very private people. Maybe it wasn't because they wanted to be strong for each other. Whatever the reason, they found each other that day. And, maybe, they healed.