A Tale of Birds

Title: A Tale of Birds

Author: Jen

Rating: Teen

Warnings: General spoilers for 2.09 "Special Education"

The weird thing about the bird, Pavarotti, was that he was quite possibly Kurt's closet friend at Dalton. It even sounded odd to Kurt, but there was no mistaking it, and never had Kurt been more thankful for the Dalton Warbler's tradition.

To be honest, Kurt had plenty of friends at Dalton. Some of them were Warblers, and others weren't, and making friends wasn't especially hard. And naturally, there was always Blaine, who walked him to the dinning hall in the morning, and then hung around after practice to catch up with him on how his day had gone. There was never a shortage of people for Kurt to talk to, he never was picked last, or lacked a lab partner, or sat alone. He was surrounded by people who seemed to genuinely care how he was feeling, what he was doing, and what was on his mind. He was, if Kurt dared to hope, a bit popular, but that mostly had a lot to do with Blaine who seemed to rule Dalton without any effort.

But, when it came right down to it, there was no Mercedes at Dalton. There was no one that Kurt could share his most intimate secrets with .There was no one to lean on, or to trust, or to feel kinship with. At the end of the day there was no one to call him on the phone well past midnight and prattle on about stuff that was ridiculous unimportant. Uniforms at Dalton meant there was a lack of interest in fall fashion, and no one for Kurt to share his Paris fashion week predictions with.

But Pavarotti was probably as close as he was going to get to a confidant. Blaine couldn't be, not with the way Kurt's palms itched to pull him in closer and kiss him, but the perfect little bird could be.

He could sweep into his dorm, toss his bag down on the bed and exclaim to Pavarotti, "Robespierre was quite delusion when he assumed that a simple questioning of traditional practices and customary social systems would not incite a civil war between the classes." And Pavarotti would, silent as ever, merely gaze at him. Then Kurt could add, "And did you know that mauve is making a comeback this season? Shoot me now!" and still, Pavarotti would be watching him.

Kurt supposed it was easy to talk to something that couldn't talk back. It was therapeutic in many ways. So he did, talk to Pavarotti, as it were, and about everything. Pavarotti listened diligently as Kurt touched on subjects of school, his family, New Directions, and ultimately himself. Laying on his stomach, hands under his chin as he stared at the tiny bird, he'd ask, "You don't think I'm being too peculiar, do you?" and Pavarotti would never say one way or another, which was exactly what Kurt needed.

The problem, Kurt told Pavarotti one afternoon, a geometry book open in front of him a bit uselessly, was that, "The Warblers desperately need an infusion of something modern." They needed to keep a young audience awake for more than a minute or so if they wanted any chance of winning Nationals. At Sectionals they'd gotten lucky, Kurt was sure no one was going to disagree, but they needed something better for Nationals, something more hip. Something, Kurt decided, a little bit more like New Directions. Maybe a happy medium between that and Vocal Adrenaline.

"I'm the new guy," Kurt confessed, picking up Pavarotti's cage and taking him with him into the common area he shared with several other boys his age, "and I'm not attempting to steal anyone's place, but I feel like I don't belong." Blaine had told him to give it time, and to be patient, but Kurt wasn't sure that was going to be of much use to him. He was being asked to conform, and uniformity to a greater, central group of some sort had never been a strong suit of Kurt's.

Weakly, Pavarotti chirped, and Kurt smiled sadly at him, empathetic for his friend's molting.

"They're not supposed to roll over and let me have creative control," Kurt continued on, settling into and armchair and trying to relax. Several of the boys wouldn't be back for another hour or so, and one of them, a Warbler, Kurt hadn't seen the entire day. "Pavarotti, I just feel like the only thing I'm good at is standing out. How do I fit in?"

It was late November, and the fireplace in the commons crackled near Kurt.

"I'm," Kurt mumbled, reaching into the cage to stroke at the bird gently, "I'm lonely." There, he'd said it, he'd confessed to Pavarotti what he'd been feeling in his heart for a while. He'd expected the feeling to ease after the initial homesickness eased, but it hadn't, and the dejected loneliness had only grown. He missed McKinley, he missed New Directions, he missed his basement bedroom, and his clothing, his dad, and trips to the mall with Mercedes after school. He wanted to drive his baby, and argue with Carole over dinner, and fight with Rachel. He wanted … he wanted to shine again, but all he could feel was himself burning out.

Once more, Pavarotti chirped, forcing a smile to Kurt's face. Maybe he wasn't as lonely as he could be.

Kurt knew it looked a bit ridiculous, but he began taking Pavarotti with him around the school. The bird, deep into his molting, was quiet enough to risk the library while Kurt studied intensely for midterms. They strolled the campus grounds together on the days that were barely warm enough, and together watched Kurt's dorm mates assert their dominance on a nightly basis by wrestling each other for control of the television. When Kurt took up tennis, Pavarotti remained situated safely to the side, but never too far away. When practice ran later, Kurt and Pavarotti swindled the nice ladies in the cafeteria into feeding them later than everyone else.

"Look," Blaine said a bit uncomfortably one day, after Warbler practice and hours before curfew, "the other Warblers and I think it is absolutely admirable how you've cared for Pavarotti over the past few weeks, Kurt." And Kurt nodded fiercely, clutching Pavarotti's cage to his chest.

"But?" Kurt asked, sensing the word.

Blaine hesitated, a hand at the back of his neck, then said, "But he doesn't need to go everywhere with you."

Shoulders squared, Kurt mumbled, "You don't understand."

Blaine smiled softly, then reached out to take Kurt's wrist. "I think I do, more than you can possibly understand at the moment. Let me take you to lunch this Saturday. Pavarotti can remain behind, if only for a few, short hours."

"Lunch?" Kurt asked.

"Lunch," Blaine confirmed. "I'll swing by at eleven."

"I," Kurt said a bit dumbfounded to Pavarotti as he watched Blaine disappear into a crowd of people, "have absolutely no idea what just happened."

Pavarotti chirped, and Kurt thought it sounded suspiciously berating.

It was Pavarotti, and his damn chirping, something that had begun to pick up over the days, that had Kurt fumbling on Saturday morning. Kurt had managed to smuggle a great deal of his personal clothing into Dalton, and faced with the opportunity of finally getting to wear some it, he was depending on Pavarotti's opinion to help him decide. But the bird was being exceptionally uncooperative, fleeting around the cage, refusing eye contact.

"This blazer," Kurt had exasperatedly, "is from Milan. It was my entire allowance last May and is the very definition of high fashion." Paired with a finely tailored pair of dress slacks, Kurt was certain he'd found his maybe-date outfit. "Well, what have you to say?"

Pavarotti's back turned to Kurt and Kurt snapped, "You don't have to get snippy with me."

It was, Kurt was fairly certain, at date that he and Blaine were on. All the signs were present, from the way Blaine had pressed in closer to him, despite the extra room in the booth, and then offered to order for him from a menu in Italian that Kurt hadn't been familiar with. Blaine's fingers had been lingering dangerously close to Kurt's for a while before they brushed, then settled, and Kurt let his own curl with them. He never wanted to let go.

"Kurt," Blaine said quietly, "about Pavarotti-"

"I know," Kurt said suddenly, "that you think the amount of time I spend with him is a bit ridiculous. He is, after all, just a bird, but he listens. Maybe it is silly to say, but I feel like he listens, and I have a lot to say sometimes."

"Oh?" Blaine's eyebrows rose, and Kurt blushed furiously. "Like what?"

"Just stuff," Kurt managed. "It's easy to talk to him."

Blaine hummed a bit, nodded once, then asked, "Did you know I had my own Pavarotti?"

Frowning, Kurt shook his head. "One of Pavarotti's forefathers?"

Blaine nodded. "My Pavarotti was called Caruso. I'm certain I took him everywhere with me in the beginning, just as you and Pavarotti go everywhere. You forget, Kurt, I transferred to Dalton the same as you, just earlier. I was in the same predicament that you find yourself in now. I see it on your face, Kurt, and I know what you're feeling. I know why you're keeping Pavarotti so close to you."

"I don't think," Kurt said a bit tersely, "you quite understand." Because Blaine was incredibly popular. He barely made time for Kurt, between his school work and after school activities. He was everyone's friend, and always the first to find himself included, and invited, and the center of attention. He fit in naturally, like he'd always belonged, and always would, and there was no friction between Dalton and Blaine like there was with Kurt. Kurt had Pavarotti, and Blaine had everyone else.

"You think I don't see how lonely you are?" Blaine questioned. "Do you honestly believe you've hidden it well?"

"I'm not lonely," Kurt defended, even if he was. "I have the Warblers."

"We both know," Blaine said delicately, "that the Warblers are not what you had anticipated."

"Dalton," Kurt justified, "is about unity. There is a clear, definition of uniformity that is expected, and as I told you before, it will take some getting used to."

Blaine's fingers clung more tightly to Kurt's, and the older boy told him, "I used to cry myself to sleep at night. I thought, when I first heard about Dalton, that it was going to be this magical place where nothing bad happened and all my dreams came true, a bit like Disneyland, I'm afraid. And what I found instead, and what I believe you've found, is that regardless of its bullying policy, Dalton can be just as cold as your previous school."

Kurt glanced over at him and revealed, "I feel like a square peg, and all the openings are round, and as hard as I try, and I can't fit in, and I'm not meant to, because I'm square, and everything else isn't."

Blaine's forehead pressed down on Kurt's shoulder sympathetically. "For a long time, Caruso was my best friend at Dalton. That bird was a much needed ear. Now Pavarotti is the same for you, but I just want you to understand that he doesn't have to be. There are other people looking out for you, even if you can't quite see them. You're going to stumble, Kurt, this is a new situation that you're not familiar with and that you have no experience with, but we won't let you fall, and you don't need to rely on a bird to prevent scrapped knees."

With conviction, and his voice as strong as he could manage it, Kurt said, "It's not your responsibility to catch me, Blaine."

The older boy shrugged, then posed, "What if I want to?"

So maybe it wasn't a date. Kurt told Pavarotti, "He didn't kiss me. He didn't put his arm around me, either, but he did hold my hand. I suppose it's too hard to tell at the moment. But the fact remains that we split the check, he was a perfect gentleman, and the truly sad part is that I've gotten less action at Dalton than I did at McKinley." God, he wanted Blaine to want him.

Horrified by a sudden thought, Kurt asked Pavarotti a bit frantically, "You don't think he already had a boyfriend, do you? He must. I'm sure he had an older boyfriend who's away at college at the moment." He spent a good portion of the night wallowing in his predictions while Pavarotti chirped at him to pull himself together-at least that was what Kurt was certain, and he was getting very good at Pavarotti-speak.

After that, there was a change. Kurt has always been surrounded by a great deal of people, but the sheer number of them grew exponentially. Wes took up tennis as well, dragging David and another Warbler along with him as well, and they began practicing at the same time as Kurt. Kurt's roommates, Andy, Bill and Christian, instituted a mandatory Friday night movie marathon, something that quickly overlapped into Saturday, and frequently Sunday. Frank from down the hall insisted that Kurt give the entire hall formal dancing lessons for an upcoming dance, and despite the fact that midterms had passed, there seemed to be a line of people knocking at Kurt's door at all hours for help in various classes.

"I know what you're doing," Kurt told Blaine, daring to catch his elbow one night after Warbler practice. "I don't know how, but I know you are."

"I asked Pavarotti's permission," Blaine said simply, then shortly after sent him a text that sounded suspiciously like possible dinner reservations. Kurt still reserved judgment until that night when Blaine did, looking quite possibly more unsure than Kurt had ever seen before, frame the side of his face and lean in to kiss him gently.

"This okay?" Blaine asked him in the quietest voice.

Kurt's fingers caught the lapels on Blaine's jacket and he pulled him in closer, deepening their kiss.

"I guess," Kurt told Pavarotti that night as he changed for bed still feeling giddy, "this means things are bound to turn around."

And remarkably, without Kurt's knowledge, they did. It wasn't until Kurt was laughing again, stumbling between dorm rooms at ungodly hours of the morning, hosting his own movie marathon, taking Blaine out on a date, earning his first solo with the Warblers, and for the first time not curling in on himself at he slept, longing for home, that Kurt realized his square peg was suddenly a little more round. Pavarotti, naturally, was the true evidence, and little by little, Kurt did start to part with him more easily, and not feel remorse for it.

"I hate it," Kurt mumbled to Blaine one afternoon, kissing his boyfriend lazily, "when you're right."

"About what?" Blaine asked playfully, his fingers hooked on the belt loops of Kurt's pants. "Specifics, please."

"Pavarotti," Kurt said simply, then tilted his head and gave Blaine better access to his neck.

This was, of course, the moment in which Pavarotti died. Kurt came back from his accelerated French literature class with a bounce in his step, ready to relay news for his Christmas holiday plans, when there was a distinct lack of chirping from Pavarotti. At first, Kurt had thought nothing of it, after all, Pavarotti was a fantastic listener, but one glance at the cage, and at the prone figure, and Kurt had known the truth. Pavarotti was dead.

And Kurt, he could not be consoled. Regardless of the methods in which his roommates attempted to use to coax him out of his room, or the arrival of Blaine, who knocked gently and asked quite politely for Kurt to open the door, Kurt could not face the world. He could only sit on the carpeted floor, with his back to the door, clutching Pavarotti's cage tightly as he cried.

Eventually there were no more tears to cry, and his chest burned terribly from his heaving. Hands shaking, he set Pavarotti's cage to the side, stood on shaking legs, and then finally, with reservation, opened the door.

He'd expected to find an empty common room. After all, the hour was late, and while his roommates were friends, they weren't obligated to wait up for Kurt to be ready to let them in. And as for Blaine, Kurt knew how incredibly busy he was, and had resolved not to be offended by his lack of appearance.

But then Blaine was standing in front of him, looking liked he'd cried as well, with red eyes and a sad look. "Kurt," he breathed out, and then gathered his arms around Kurt, holding him tight.

"I killed him," Kurt choked out, "I killed Pavarotti. You … the Warblers … Pavarotti."

"It's okay," Blaine soothed, his hand heavy on Kurt's back as it rubbed. "It's okay, Kurt. These things happen. You didn't kill Pavarotti."

"You handed him to me," Kurt sniffled, clinging to Blaine's waist, "and they said I had to protect him."

Blaine shushed him once more, rocking them a bit, and offered, "You took such good care of him, Kurt. You fed him, and made sure he had water. You cleaned his cage and more than that, you talked to him. You sang to him, you took him places, you loved him, and you were his friend. That is more than anyone could have hoped for. You were the best to him, Kurt, and you did not kill him."

"Then why?" Kurt demanded. "Why is he dead?"

Blaine had no answers, and the look on his face said as much. He could only say, "He knew how much you cared for him, Kurt, and that is all that matters." Then he brushed his lips against Kurt's forehead and took him by the hand back to Blaine's door room.

"What happened?" David asked quietly as they passed through the shared commons. He was lingering near the door to his own room, and caught sight of the wetness on Kurt's face.

"Pavarotti," Blaine said gently. "He passed away."

Carefully, and with the privacy that Blaine's room afforded, Kurt let the older boy get him into borrowed pajamas, then take him to the bathroom and wash his face with warm water. In the bathroom, Blaine kept himself anchored to Kurt's back, lips kissing the back of his neck as he said, "You were so good to Pavarotti, so good to him."

They ended up on Blaine's bed, which was nothing new, but this time there was a different sense of intimacy between them. Kurt's head pillowed on Blaine's arm and together they were silent, Kurt thinking of Pavarotti and Blaine thinking of Kurt.

"It's ridiculous," Kurt mumbled the following morning, lingering on Blaine's bed and in his embrace. "It was just a bird."

"I had a Pavarotti," Blaine reminded. That seemed enough.

The Warblers, to Kurt's chagrin, did not hold Pavarotti's death against him. Instead there were several somber songs sung for his passing, a very public burial that seemed, even to Kurt, a bit foolish, and then a marked period of mourning in which Kurt asked to be alone.

The reality of the situation, he understood, was that Pavarotti was gone. It was simply hard to accept. The friend that had always listened, never judged, and had been a constant in his life, was suddenly gone, and Kurt felt alone once more. At least for a short while, until Blaine broke the self-imposed isolation and took him down to the local ice cream place.

Once there Kurt allowed Blaine to buy him a large sundae, and together they shared it, spoons digging in and scrapping occasionally against one another.

"If I tell you something," Blaine said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, "can I trust you to keep it between the two of us?"

"Of course," Kurt said with a frown.

"Caruso," Blaine said, mentioning his own bird, "suffered the same fate as Pavarotti."

"He died?" Kurt's ankle hooked around Blaine's.

"I killed him," Blaine amended, with a wince.

Kurt demanded, "You did what?"

"It was a complete accident," Blaine rushed to say, hands up a bit defensively. "I had a room, at the time, on the third floor, and one day the power grid for that section of the Academy failed. The air conditioner went down and it was a particularly hot day. I was hot so I opened the window, and I set Caruso's cage on the ledge. It was a complete accident when I knocked his cage over."

Kurt's hands covered his mouth as he shook his head.

"I never forgave myself," Blaine continued, "and I still don't to this day."

"This is a horrible tradition," Kurt said definitively. "Don't the Warblers know we're teenage boys? We can barely be trusted to keep ourselves alive."

With a small laugh, Blaine proposed, "I'll bring it up at our next meeting."

Life after Pavarotti was hard, but not unbearable. There were things to fill Pavarotti's void, and as hard as Kurt tried to keep his memory alive, after a while, he began to feel less and less important. The holidays passed, the second semester of the year began, and Kurt brought Blaine home to meet his family.

By the time the school year ended, Pavarotti felt like a distant memory. And Blaine, whispering as much into Kurt's ear, told him that was appropriate. Kurt believed him.