Author's notes: Short companion piece to "Going It Alone" done for the angst_meme. Can be read as a sequel of sorts or as a stand-alone piece.

The night was still and calm around him. Quiet.

It was like the world was keeping silent just for him, allowing him some peace. Burt Hummel sat alone on his porch, a half empty bottle of beer in his hand. The dark amber glass was slowly absorbing the heat from his fingers, growing warmer the longer he sat there, the longer he held it against his palm, and he knew the liquid inside was slowly heating as well. He pressed the opening of the bottle to his lips, but the rush of alcohol that filled his mouth made him feel nothing. He couldn't even taste it.

He shouldn't be doing this. He knew it wouldn't help, knew it might send him spiraling again, but this was a special occasion. He'd been planning this night for almost twenty years.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed, letting the warm summer air wash over him.

Five years. Five years since he'd last come home to the smell of dinner cooking on the stove. Five years since being treated to his last impromptu musical in the living room. Five long, terrible years since he'd last held his son.

There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't run each and every possible scenario over in his head. All those things he'd done wrong. He should never have taken away Kurt's car. It shouldn't have mattered how expensive the damn thing was; and spray paint could always get washed away, coated over. It hadn't been Kurt's fault, not really. It was all those stupid kids. That car could have kept him safe.

He shouldn't have let Kurt walk home that day, should have insisted that he catch a ride with a friend or wait the extra five minutes for Burt to pick him up. How could he have left his kid alone like that?

He took another swig of beer and let his arm go slack at his side. The bottle almost slipped from his fingers as he slid further down into his chair, the cheap plastic groaning with his weight.

He should go inside, eat something. Throw away the last of the stupid bottle of cheap booze that wasn't even doing anything, but he couldn't bring himself to move. It was a clear night out, clearer than it had been in weeks, and over the hazy orange glow of Lima's streetlamps, Burt could make out a couple dozen stars winking in the dark blanket of sky overhead.

Kurt had always loved the stars.

He was going to be one someday, on Broadway or the silver screen, not left beaten and tied to a fence on the outskirts of town for some stranger to find.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as far as it would go. He couldn't dwell on this. It was too painful. The tight bunch and pull of his neck muscles felt good, relaxing almost, but the fingers of his empty hand itched. He cracked open one eye and looked over at the little glass table in front of him.

Stupid.

So stupid.

This wasn't helping anyone. It wouldn't make him feel better.

It wouldn't bring Kurt back.

But the thought didn't stop him from leaning forward and reaching out to the tabletop. The plastic was smooth under his fingers as he shifted the thing around in his hand. The kitchen phone. His enemy and his saving grace. He placed his nearly empty bottle on the ground beside his chair, barely registering the clink of glass hitting cement as it touched down.

This was stupid.

It wasn't helping anyone.

And yet he needed it. He needed to do this. He turned the phone over in his hands until he saw the thick black numbers atop the plastic buttons facing him. He brushed his thumb over the ghost of the five. He'd pressed the damn thing so many times, the cheap paint was wearing off. His fingers moved of their own accord, pressing down in that same familiar pattern, and he set the phone to speaker.

One ring.

Two.

This was stupid.

Three.

Why do you do this to yourself? You know no one will ever pick up.

Four.

Five.

Oh god, please pick up.

Six.

Pause. "Hi, you've reached the one and only Kurt Hummel. I'm not near my phone right now, but if you leave a message, I'll be sure to call you back."

Beep.

Burt sat there in silence for a moment, hunched over the phone, the speaker just inches from his face. The stillness of the summer night hung over him as he let his son's voice seep into his every pore. God, this hurt. Five years and this still bled like a fresh wound to his heart.

"Hi, buddy. It's me, your dad." He sucked in a deep breath and tried to keep himself calm. He could do this. It was the same as a thousand times before. Just like Christmas and Thanksgiving. Just like every Friday night when he sat alone in the kitchen, staring at the chair Kurt should have filled. "I just…I just wanted…"

He ducked his head low and swallowed, trying to ease the rough edge from his voice. Kurt had always said that he sounded like a rusty chainsaw when he got upset. "I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I know you'd have wanted me to kick the habit, but I thought you wouldn't mind tonight." He chuckled a little, his voice quiet and low with suppressed emotion. "Special occasion and all," he murmured.

Burt straightened and leaned back in his chair, bringing the phone along with him. "You know I've had this stupid day planned since you were in diapers? I figure you'd probably be in New York right now, living it up with your pals, but you can't blame a guy for dreamin,' right? I always thought I'd share your first real drink with you. You know, to celebrate you becoming a man."

His hands were starting to shake and he desperately wished that the beer he'd just drank had been something stronger. Then maybe this wouldn't be so hard. "I just want you to know that I'm sorry. You probably think I'm being stupid, and maybe you're right, but I thought you should know. I'm sorry, bud, and I miss you. Everyday. There isn't a day that goes by that I…"

He was babbling. He needed to cut this short. He was being stupid. It wasn't as though Kurt was ever going to get this.

"I love you, Kurt. I didn't tell you that enough before. I love you, bud. Happy birthday."

His chest ached as he ended the call. There was so much left that he wanted to say.

So much he'd never get to say.

He really should stop this; he should stop paying that damn phone bill and tormenting himself with all those stupid messages. Kurt would have wanted him to move on. It had been five damnably long years. He needed to let this go.

He placed the phone back down on the textured surface of the glass table. He picked up the beer bottle and downed the rest of the alcohol in one swift drink. The glass had cooled since he touched it last.

Five years.

The media circus had died down, and the fervor over gays and hate crimes and all such nonsense had faded, leaving him empty. Kurt was just a face to them, another sad statistic to bolster a cause. To them, he wasn't a singer, a mechanic, an entertainer. A son.

Burt closed his eyes and let the soft sounds of the night creep into his consciousness. He needed to get some sleep. Tomorrow was another day. It didn't matter how many times he called Kurt's number; his son was never going to answer. Kurt's voice would never change. Burt would never see his son off to college or see his first show on Broadway. Kurt would never again peek around the corner of the kitchen and ask him how his day was, no how many years had passed. He was kidding himself.

Kurt was never coming back.