A/N: Okay, the last chapter took place after both 'Never been kissed' and 'the substitute', but before 'Furt'. This chapter starts off pretty much where we left off in the last one, and will lead up to Furt. (maybe not in this chapter but in the next one).

Also, thank you all so, so, much for the reviews (and favourites and alerts). I'm incredibly flattered that you guys think I've got them in character – I was actually worried about that. Especially since recent episodes seem to have highlighted some aspects of Kurt's character I previously thought a little less overt.

I chose to take Kurt's flamboyant 'happiness' in 'substitute' as a cover - a mask – for a whole lot of decidedly opposite emotions warring within him. Clearly the abuse is still occurring – if the death threat is anything to go by. Even though Blaine's presence in his life soothes that pain somewhat, it isn't going to make it go away. Instead, it's festering inside of him and despite this new 'happy-go-lucky' facade – it's eating away at him.

Oh, also I mean absolutely no offence to any religious denomination whatsoever. I, myself, am religious. I just don't see how that translates to homophobia.

Hang onto your seats, it gets a little bumpy from here.

...

"Blaine, I don't know if I can do this." Kurt's fingers were bone-white as he grasped his I-phone like a lifeline. He relaxed slightly as Blaine's calm, soothing, voice floated through the speaker.

"Yes, you can Kurt." Blaine's voice was warm, comforting.

"No..." Kurt whispered, "I can't tell him, I can't – he doesn't know Blaine!" Kurt dragged a shaking hand through his hair and gripped the phone tighter, "he has no idea how bad it's gotten, and I can't..."

"Courage, remember? He has to know. I know you think you're protecting him, but in the long run you're making it worse. Trust me. It would kill him to know you're keeping it a secret."

"But I can't..." Kurt trailed off, Blaine was right. His dad would be hurt he hadn't confided in him. But he couldn't stand to see that look on his face. That frightened – terrified – gleam in his eyes, and the sorrow...the pain. His dad didn't know how to deal with this anymore than he did.

"Kurt your dad loves you, right? You told me he was supportive when you came out."

"He was," Kurt fisted the bed sheets, curling his fingers into the warmth of the duvet.

"Then correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't he want to be able to help you?"

"You don't understand," Kurt deflected the question, "it's not his fight. I don't want to drag him into this; I can't see him suffer because of me."

Because I'm a fag.

He heard a frustrated sigh echo through the speaker, "Kurt, how many times do I have to tell you? None of this is your fault."

"How do you know?" Kurt asked quietly, "Maybe if I'd just tried harder to be normal-"

"Kurt don't talk like that."

"Well maybe it's true," he argued.

"It's not."

"Maybe it is." Kurt replied stubbornly. After all, he only had about a dozen self-righteous religious people telling him to 'repent' and his soul would be saved' telling him that he'd chosen this path and that it was his choice whether or not to continue to follow it. Maybe they had a point. Maybe if he'd just tried that little bit harder to be normal – to blend in – to belong. Maybe if he hadn't been so out and so proud and so screw what anybody else thinks. Maybe they would've left him alone. Then he wouldn't have to have seen the light die in his father's eyes every time he received a derogatory phone call. To see those powerful shoulders slump helplessly against the wall, strong hands practically shaking with not just rage but fear. Fear for his son.

It was his fault.

If he were normal none of this would have happened.

"Kurt listen to yourself," Blaine sounded frustrated, "who would choose this? You didn't decide to be gay; it is not your fault."

"I can't do it," Kurt said finally, "I may not be able to change my sexuality, but if I can spare him just a modicum of pain by keeping him in the dark, then I'll do it."

"Well you can't transfer to Dalton without telling him" Blaine's response sent of shock of cold down his spine.

He was right. If he told his Dad he wanted to transfer to Dalton, he would ask why. There was no logical excuse Kurt could give bar an escape from the bullying.

"Then I won't go," he said finally.

"Kurt, you're not making it easy to help you." Blaine sounded like he was in the process of pulling out his hair.

"I never asked for your help!" Kurt clutched his phone tightly and blinked angry tears from his eyes.

"Maybe not, but you needed it all the same." Blaine sighed, "and I'm trying Kurt, but you keep finding excuses not to do anything."

"I-" Kurt began.

"You're pissed off that no-one notices at your school – that no one cares – but when it comes down to it you're not willing to do anything about it yourself." Blaine interrupted him, a harsh note in his voice, "you desperately want someone to help, but you refuse to ask for it. And then when help serves itself to you on a silver platter, you turn it away."

"You're the one who told me transferring was running away," Kurt accused, hurt causing his voice to rise several notes above its usual pitch, "that I should stand up to them, that I shouldn't let them chase me away."

"Yes, I did." Blaine answered unhesitatingly, "but to a certain point, and Kurt you reached it when you exploded in front of your entire Glee club and yelled at your teacher."

"You are such a hypocrite!" Kurt spat into the phone, his mind was clouding with hurt and rage and it was all he could do to think properly. Blaine was just like everyone else. He'd made a show of caring and now he was tired of it – bored – and he'd drop him just like Finn, just like Mr Shue.

"Kurt, staying at that school is not helping you," Blaine snapped, his temper ignited, "I would be a poor friend if I told you to suck it up and take it."

"Friends have each other's back no matter what," Kurt hissed, angry and hurt beyond rational thought. He was seeing things through a red haze – a new light – and he didn't like what he saw. "They don't take someone else's side, and they certainly don't pretend to care."

"Oh not this again," Blaine sounded angry, "Kurt not everyone in the world is out to get you! Some people genuinely care and god, I thought you knew I was one of them."

"I thought so too, Blaine." Kurt said softly, "guess we were both wrong." He hung up and flung the phone onto the end of his bed with a tad more force than necessary. Curling his knees up to his chest, he grasped them with his arms and buried his head between them. He felt hot tears gathering in his eyes and his throat constricted painfully. A harsh sob escaped and suddenly the flood gates were released. As the droplets slid down his chin he allowed himself to let it all out. He shuddered slightly as the sobs wracked his body and his head started to pound in time with the rapid fluttering of his heart.

What's wrong with me?

He'd probably just chased away the only person who seemed to actually care. The only one who understood what he was going through, who could empathise. No, he was wrong. Blaine didn't care – he never had. Kurt was just a project; a sad, lonely, boy who needed help and Blaine was all too happy to be the perfect saviour.

He never really cared. None of them ever did.

He brushed sweaty hair off of his face and tried to calm himself down; there was no use crying over a relationship he'd never really had. He needed to regain his control, to slide his mask back into place.

For Dad.

The only one who truly cared. The only one who'd stood by him through thick and thin, and never stopped loving him despite all the pain and hurt he'd brought him over the years. And god, there was so much of it...and it was all his fault.

He took a deep breath; he could do this. He could go back to McKinley. He would.

But he wouldn't just go back; he'd blend in.

For Dad.

...

"Mr Shue?" Kurt knocked gently on the doorframe, "I'd like a word." It was technically a question, but his tone left no room for argument.

"Sure, have a seat." The teacher's voice was noticeably cooler than the last time Kurt had spoken to him, and he resisted the urge to flinch away from the speculative gleam in the older man's eyes. He settled himself into the chair, propping his bag against the side, and crossed his legs. Suddenly, he remembered his new resolution to fit in and uncrossed them. Resting his hands on his knees he lent forward slightly.

"I'd like to apologise for my behaviour yesterday," he kept his voice calm and neutral, "I understand I was out of line and I'll accept whatever punishment you deem fit."

Shue looked at him wearily, the lines on his brow creasing, "Kurt, what you said? Frankly, I'm worried."

"It's no big deal," Kurt wished he could take back everything he'd yelled the other day. He'd honestly had no intention of telling anyone what was going on. It was, as he'd told Mr Shue before, his hill to climb, alone. "I was just tired and upset," he shrugged, "it won't happen again."

It's not as if you care anyway.

Besides, teacher intervention never truly amounted to a whole lot. If anything, it would only force the bullies to become more creative and vindictive when they realised he'd 'told' on them. He was also unconvinced Shue's concern was anything more than a fleeting fancy – a reaction to his tirade. It would pass and when it did – if the bullying had even stopped – it would most likely start up again ten times worse.

"You said you're being physically abused," Shue pointed out, resting his elbows on his desk, "that sounds like something to me."

"Just the occasional locker slam," Kurt lied, wincing internally, "nothing that hasn't happened before." The unsaid 'and you never stopped it then' loomed over their heads.

"You seemed to think differently last Friday."

"I was angry," Kurt sighed and averted his eyes, "but it's fine now." He reached down to grab his satchel, "that's all I wanted to say."

"Kurt," Shue spread his hands open and looked earnestly at him, "I can't help you if you downplay the situation."

"There is no situation Mr Shue," he clenched the straps of his bag tightly and smoothed a creased in the oversized trousers he was wearing.

At least, no more of one than there's always been.

Shue sighed and dropped his shoulders in acquiescence, "alright, but no more yelling about how no one cares, okay? Because it seems to me that you don't give people very much to work with. There's no punishment this time, but don't let it happen again."

Kurt nodded stiffly and rose to his feet, pausing briefly at the door, "thank you," he ducked his head briefly before schooling his features into neutrality and then paused.

He had to do this; it was for the best. Glee club was obvious, it was blatant. If he was to survive the next few years he needed to become invisible. So as much as it broke his heart...

"Also," he swallowed painfully, "I no longer wish to be a part of Glee, it's taking up too much of my time and I need to focus more on my studies." He swept out the door, leaving Mr Shue no time to argue with him.

Not that he would.

As he walked down the corridor he hunched his shoulders and pulled a cap out of his satchel. Shoving it onto his head and fighting the instinctive wince as it mussed his unusually messy hair further, he crept almost furtively past the lockers. His new plan of survival involved flying under the radar and to do that he needed to look like every other male student at McKinley – which meant no more makeup and face products, no more hair spray and a closet full of oversized trousers and flannel T-shirts. He shuddered slightly.

It's all worth it, in the end.

He almost considered skipping his first class. It was maths with Mercedes. He'd been ignoring her calls and texts all weekend – deleting them without even reading them – and he imagined she'd probably be furious.

If she actually cared; he reminded himself, then snorted. She'd get mad anyway – she just didn't like being ignored.

His phone buzzed. He whipped it out and scowled when his gaze fell on the sender.

Blaine.

He deleted it.

The bell rung signalling the start of class and he hurried into the maths classroom, glad that he was one of the first to arrive. He quickly sat in some other guy's seat and slouched down, pulling his cap further down his face in an admittedly futile attempt to hide his identity. As a few more students filtered in he felt a presence beside him and a shadow fell upon his desk.

'Ummm," someone cleared their throat, "this is my seat."

Kurt looked up and glared fiercely, "oh?" he feigned nonchalance, "guess you'd better find another one."

"Umm-ah yeah," the guy deflated and walked off.

Immediately the scowl fell from his face as a wave of self loathing crashed through his body. Now he was acting just like them; stealing some poor guy's chair. But he couldn't bear to face Mercedes. Not after everything he'd said. It seemed this plan – like pretty much all his others – was doomed to fail before it had even begun.

"White boy you had better have a damn good excuse for everything you've done." A cool voice sliced through his thoughts and he looked up to find a very furious Mercedes clutching the sides of his desk so tightly he was marginally afraid it might shatter.

"Everything?" He raised an eyebrow, natural defensive methods kicking in. He would keep this at bay; deflect the questions, she'd tire of it soon enough.

Oh but he knew her better than that.

"Don't you play dumb with me!" She grabbed him by the arm and proceeded to drag him from the chair. He stumbled to his feet as she jerked his arm and reluctantly followed her from the room. He'd sort of expected this; at some point, anyway. Out of the classroom, she released him and jabbed him the chest, "Now explain."

"Explain what?" He asked hopelessly, pretty much resigned to fact that he wasn't getting out of this interrogation.

"Explain," she waved her hands in the air, "why you never said a word about everything that was happening with Karofsky." Her eyes darkened, "explain why you've ignored me all weekend, and you'll damn well explain to me when I stopped being your best friend." He could hear the hurt in her voice and it killed him that he'd put it there.

He felt the beginnings of tears and mentally cursed his tendency to be over-emotional about pretty much everything. Sometimes, it was a hazard.

"I just-I," he stammered uncharacteristically and looked away, unsure of how to explain anything since he wasn't entirely certain himself. Everything had seemed so much clearer in his head – made so much more sense.

"And why in the hell are you wearing those ridiculous clothes?" She interrupted him, "I don't even recognise you anymore. It's like you're a different person and I'm just trying so hard to find the old Kurt Hummel in there, but I just can't see him." She crossed her arms and looked expectantly at him.

He looked down, unable to face her. He'd screwed up again. He'd hurt someone else in his life and all because he just couldn't seem to fit in, no matter what he did.

"I miss him," she said softly, placing a hand on his cheek and lifting his gaze to her eyes, "tell me he's still in there, somewhere."

He felt his throat clogging up, "I...I don't know," he rasped.

Maybe he doesn't want to be.

"What happened to you?" She whispered, hand falling down to her side, "and how did I miss it?"

"You weren't watching," He said bitterly, still fighting the urge to just breakdown and cry. He'd been doing that so much lately he was surprised he hadn't run out of tears.

"No," she shook her head emphatically, "oh no you don't," a hint of anger caressed her voice, "you don't get to blame that on me."

He looked away, grinding his jaw tightly.

"You never said anything," she accused, "you pretended like it wasn't happening, and you're blaming us for it?"

"You never cared enough to ask." He snapped and she jolted back as if he'd physically struck her.

"Is that what you think?" She asked, hurt, "that I don't care? How could you think that?" She yelled, "you are my best friend, hell you're like family."

"Some family you must have," he sneered.

"Who are you?" She stared at him, shocked, "you're like a different person. I don't even know you anymore."

"I-"He wanted so badly to apologise for everything he'd done. For bringing her down by being her friend, for tainting her with his abnormality. "I guess you didn't know me as well as you thought," he said instead, confident this would drive her away.

"I guess not," she looked stricken and he couldn't bear the sight any longer. He turned tail and fled.

It's for the best.

He couldn't go back to maths now; not when all he wanted to do was find a dark corner to curl up in and cry. Or a closet. And maybe this time he'd just stay in it. Heaven knew it was a hell of a lot easier. Seeing the choir room was empty he ducked in and closed the door behind him. He sat down on the piano stool and dropped his bag onto the floor. Resting his fingers on the keys he began to play a haunting melody.

"Close every door to me," he sung softly, "Hide all the world from me," his fingers tapped gently on the keys flitting from naturals to flats in quick succession.

"Bar all the windows; and shut out the light." He bowed his head, "Do what you want with me," he felt tears gathering, "hate me and laugh at me; darken my daytime, and torture my night." The tears began to roll down his cheek, "If my life were important, I, would ask will I live or die," he pressed harder against the keys, "but I know the answers, lie far from this world." He slumped against the piano and rested his head in his arms, tasting salt in his mouth as he struggled to hold back the tidal wave threatening to drown him.

"Hummel?" A rough voice echoed around the room and Kurt nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Puck?" He hurriedly wiped the tears from his eyes, "what are you doing here?"

"I always skip this period," the other shrugged and then levelled a curious look at him, "why are you here?" He wrinkled his nose, "and why do you look like my grandpa?"

"None of your business," Kurt scowled and turned around on the piano seat, figuring that if he simply ignored Puck he'd go away.

"Uh huh, so listen Hummel."

So much for that plan.

"What?" He snapped, still refusing to turn around.

"I'm sorry for Friday dude," Puck shifted uncomfortably, "but what you said was crap and I couldn't just let it sit."

"I have no idea what you're referring to," Kurt said frostily.

Puck growled, "you want to know why I threw you in the dumpster so much?" He clenched his fists, "because you're insufferable."

"Ooo big word," Kurt sneered.

"You walk around with your nose in the air like you're better than everyone," he stalked closer, "and you throw around those big words like you're smarter-"

"Oh please," Kurt stood up and turned around to glare fiercely at the other, "you threw me in the dumpster because you – like most other straight guys in this homophobic cess pool – believed all I wanted was a peak at your 'junk'" he quoted Karofsky mockingly.

"I don't give a rat's ass that you're gay," Puck said angrily, "so stop using it as a flipping crutch."

"A crutch?" Kurt asked incredulously, "I don't use it as a crutch!"

"You blame everything on it," Puck insisted, "but what you just don't get, Hummel, is that you're irritating beyond belief sometimes, and yeah maybe it's 'cause you act like a girl, but it doesn't change the fact that I don't give a damn who you screw."

Kurt blinked and felt like maybe he should be offended, but it sort of seemed like Puck was actually being nice in an insulting, roundabout, way.

"And look I know I called you that on Friday dude, but I didn't mean it. I just – I'm cool with the whole gay thing, but my ma isn't. At least I don't think she is." He rubbed his head, "it just – it"

"I understand," Kurt interrupted him. He knew he was lucky his Dad had been so accepting of his sexuality, and realistically he knew that a lot of people just didn't have it that good – at home, anyway.

"I'm not gay," Puck clarified, "but I just worry that something like that would hurt her anyway."

Kurt nodded and wearily dropped back onto the piano seat.

"So we're cool?" Puck raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Kurt attempted a small smile, "even though you insulted my personality."

Puck shrugged, "hey, I only said sometimes."

"Hmm," Kurt rolled his eyes.

"Well see you at Glee then," Puck said awkwardly, turning to leave.

"No you won't," Kurt whispered, picking his bag up and clutching it to his chest.

"What?" Puck apparently had super-human hearing.

"Nothing," Kurt stood up and made as if to leave, but Puck grabbed the sleeve of his shirt.

"You said 'no, you won't'" Puck accused him.

"If you heard than why did you ask?" Kurt deflected irritably, shaking his sleeve from the other's grasp.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He demanded.

Kurt sighed, he'd find out anyway, "I quit."

"Why?" Puck looked surprised and, to Kurt's shock, a little upset, "is it 'cause of what I said? 'Cause I said sorry-"

"It's not," Kurt said shortly, "I just don't enjoy it anymore."

He hadn't realised how absolutely true that was until he'd said it. He didn't know how long he'd felt this way but a shock jolted through his body at the realisation that he truly couldn't remember a time that he had enjoyed Glee. At least, not since Shue had relented and allowed them to do Brittany Spears.

"But dude you like love singing." Puck protested.

"Yeah but I usually enjoy singing words, rather than phonemes," it was only the surface issue, but it was true nonetheless.

"Yeah, I don't know what those are."

"Ooohs and Aaahs," he sighed as he scooted around Puck and out the door.

A/N: Song was 'Close every door' by Andrew Lloyd Webber.