Part 17

Kurt doesn't know his dad is home when he slams the front door.

"Kurt?" Burt asks loudly, his voice questioning.

Oh, Kurt thinks. He presses the back of his head against the hard surface of the entrance and squeezes his eyes shut. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe, and don't cry. The corners of his eyes are already wet.

"I thought you were going to the mall with Mercedes?" Kurt knows the instant his dad enters the foyer, because his volume drops and his next question morphs from curiosity to worry. "Kurt, what happened?"

It's stupid; Kurt knows it, but he can't stop himself from reacting. Puck, you know Finn's friend and Mercedes' new boyfriend? Well, he laughed and bobbed his head. I couldn't help but think of Noah, my rooster. Kurt's chest stutters with an aborted laugh, because even the explanation sounds ridiculous inside his head.

"Kurt," Burt says again, and this time Kurt opens his eyes.

"I'm okay," Kurt defends on instinct. He sucks in a mouthful of air.

Burt's hand curls around his shoulder. "You're not okay." Kurt's eyes flutter open. "Maybe you should start seeing the counselor again."

"No!" Kurt shouts. He jerks forward, slipping past his dad and stomps into the living room. "I said I'm fine!" Kurt knows it isn't the smartest thing to do, but his brain isn't working properly. He storms up the steps to his bedroom and throws himself on his bed. The soft material of his comforter clogs Kurt's nose, but he doesn't care.

The floorboards creak as his dad comes upstairs. "Kurt." Burt's voice has sharpened, but Kurt still doesn't respond to the steel.

Instead, Kurt tries to calm himself. Breathe, he tells himself again. Sobs stutter inside his chest. Think of something pleasant. It's one of the techniques the counselor had taught him- when you can't handle what's going on, focus on something else.

Unbidden, the memory of making dinner in Dave's cabin flashes to mind. It was one of the evenings before the trip to the natural amphitheater. Dave had puttered around the cabin, sweeping and cleaning, while Kurt stirred a sauce pan full of brightly colored vegetables. Kurt remembers opening the lid to a pot of rice, and Dave said, "Smells good." They ate dinner in relative silence. Kurt could hear the melodies of the forest-crickets, owls, and the song of the softly blowing wind. Afterwards, Dave washed the dishes while Kurt dried, then they settled in for the evening to read.

"Kurt." A hand presses into Kurt's back. Kurt rolls over. He looks up at his father, but has to close his eyes, unable to bare the worry etched across Burt's face. "Tell me," Burt says. His hand brushes across Kurt's hair, stroking.

I'm almost seventeen. That shouldn't be so comforting, Kurt thinks. He leans into his father's touch anyway. "I just…" Kurt begins. Emotion swirls in his chest, a combination of grief, sadness, and fear. He shifts, pushing himself upwards, looking again. He presses against the backboard of his bed, letting the hard surface keep him from falling apart. "I thought it would get easier," Kurt says. The bed dips as Burt sits. "It's been three months." I thought going home would fix everything.

Burt doesn't answer right away. When he does, his words take Kurt by surprise. "Are you afraid that he's going to come back for you?"

"No!"

Kurt answers at the same time Burt says, "I can call the police station, ask if we can get them to start their watch again."

"No," Kurt says again, "Dave would have already come for me if he wanted." During the long weeks of police surveillance, Dave hasn't been spotted anywhere near Lima, near Kurt. The call had come before they even reached home- that Dave had escaped the Canadian jail. Burt had flipped out, and by the time their SUV pulled into the Hummel-Hudson driveway, a cop car was parked outside.

Burt nods, and a thought slips through Kurt's mind. What's three months compared the years Dave watched and planned? Aloud, Kurt says, "I just want things to be normal. I want to be able to go to school without everyone staring at me. I want my friends to stop treating me like I'm dying. I want food to taste good again, and for the air to smell clean." Tears slip down Kurt's cheeks. He gives a soft snort. "Who would have thought I'd miss the days where I was thrown in the dumpster?"

"Jesus, Kurt." Burt wraps his arms around Kurt's body and pulls him into his chest. Kurt drops his head onto his father's shoulder. "What can I do for you?"

Kurt shakes his head. There's really nothing that his father can do to make it better. Having him around helps. It makes Kurt feel not so alone, but even Burt treats him differently. He treats Kurt like he's porcelain- fragile and strange. "Do you think I'll ever feel normal again?"

He feels Burt tense. Searching for the right thing to say. On one hand, Kurt wants to his dad to lie. He wants Burt to say everything is going to be okay. On the other hand, Kurt doesn't want to be coddled. He so damn tired of being coddled.

"Honestly," Burt whispers, "I don't know."

Kurt nods and swallows back tears. "Can I be alone?"

Burt sucks in a mouthful of air, but shakes his head. "Okay." His hand rubs one final circle against Kurt's back, then his fingers slide away. The bed eases upwards as Burt stands. Kurt watches his dad walk toward the hall. "Kurt," Burt says, wavering. "You need to tell me if something is wrong. I can't help you otherwise."

"I will." There's nothing you can do. "I love you," Kurt calls out.

Burt smiles. "I love you, too, Buddy." He eases the door shut. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

"Thank you," Kurt replies softly. There's a short click as Burt closes the door, then Kurt's alone.

A car passes by the house, engine roaring. Kurt presses his face into his pillow trying to block it out. When that doesn't work, he rolls over and flips on his radio. Adele's sings out and Kurt takes a deep breath before sliding from his bed.

His Chucks indent the carpet as he walks toward his dresser. The edges of the piece are smooth and sleek. He got it from at Ikea last year, and the sharp, modern edges of the thing don't stand to the craftsmanship of the dresser Dave made for him. Kurt opens the bottom drawer; it slides out with little effort. He digs through socks and underwear until his hands meet plastic. It crinkles, seemingly loud, and Kurt glances around.

Don't be stupid. There's no way his dad can hear the sound from downstairs, especially with the television on.

He slips the bag from the drawer and settles onto the floor. The weight of it isn't heavy, lying across his thighs. It's clear, so the contents are easy to see. Kurt can feel the fabric of the folded jeans through the plastic; he can see the dark purple shirt tucked under the jeans. He doesn't see the gray briefs or the white socks sandwiched in-between, but he knows they're there. The only thing not in the bag is the thick pair of boots Dave gave him. Those are in Kurt's closet, hidden amongst the mountain of all his other shoes.

Slowly, and as quietly as possible, Kurt unzips the bag and pulls out the jeans. There's still a woodsy scent to them. A combination of dirt and sweat, and that fresh air smell that Kurt can't seem to find anywhere in Lima, Ohio. He tucks his fingers along the fold of the cloth, right behind the knees. Careful not to touch any of the dirty spots, Kurt brings the jeans to his nose.

He closes his eyes and pictures the empty outdoors of the Canadian wilderness. He remembers smelling like this after a morning in the garden. The scent of the earth, of the chickens and vegetables clung to both his and Dave's skin. At the time, Kurt would have killed for a bottle of raspberry body wash, but now, his nose twitches at the artificial scents that pollute his hometown. Kurt breathes in the jeans again and tries to even remember the smell of the grass after a night of rain.

It's not as clear as it once was.

Carefully, Kurt sets the jeans on his lap. His thumb drags over the pocket of the rough fabric. He can't stop himself from rubbing circles along the seam.

Next, he takes out the shirt. The polyester blend is much softer than the jeans. Kurt brings it to his face and rubs the shirt across his cheek. The scent of sweat is stronger here. The heavy smell of his own body, still startling strong without the enhancements of lotion or cologne, hits his nose. Kurt takes another breath. Dave's scent, forceful, masculine and heavy, washes over his skin.

He tingles, partly from fear, because he knows what he's doing is wrong, and partly because for some strange reason, Kurt misses Dave. His counselor told him that Emma Pillsbury was right; that he has a form of Stockholm Syndrome. Despite the diagnosis, and despite the fact he knows he doesn't want to live in the wilderness with Dave, Kurt feels this overwhelming sense of wrongness here in Lima. He itches deep within his soul, and his skin doesn't fit anymore. Even the things he once did for enjoyment- shopping, watching movies, gossiping- don't feel the same.

He folds the shirt and sets it on top of the jeans. I should have burned them when I said I did, Kurt thinks. He knows it isn't healthy to dwell like this. His fingers skim the outside of the plastic bag before sliding inside again. Something silky soft grazes his skin and he jerks his hand out in surprise.

"What the…?" Kurt flips the bag upside down and shakes out the socks and underwear. Purple catches his eye. Kurt lifts up the socks, and suddenly, he can't breathe.

At a snail's pace, Kurt reaches out and picks up the flower. It's a little thing, soft petals spreading out no further than the palm of his hand. One of them is crushed, bent like a dog ear marking a page in a book. Kurt straightens the crooked petal, pressing it between his thumb and forefinger. He raises it upwards, catching it in the light of his window.

It isn't the first time he's seen that little purple flower. There were many mornings Kurt woke in the cabin and found them in a vase on the kitchen table. Bouquets of them made their way onto Kurt's nightstand, along with Dave's hesitant half-smile and a soft, "Good morning."

Heart pounding, and flower held delicately in his hand, Kurt rises to his feet. He looks around his bedroom taking in any space someone could hide. "Dave?" Kurt says softly.

There's no answer.

Kurt slides open his closet door and peers inside. He sees clothes and shoes and even a few bags. No bodies.

It could have been in the pocket of the jeans and fell out. Kurt's held the jeans a thousand times since they were returned from the police. There was no flower.

Slowly, Kurt walks around his room. He sweeps every surface, every space, looking for clues. He passes by his window three times before he notices it. The lock is open. I know I locked it last week when we had that storm. He pushes open the window.

His breath catches in his throat.

The frame of his screen is bent. Kurt touches the peaked metal. His eyes scan outside, looking for… well, something. A few feet from his window caked to the roof tiles is a muddy footprint. His chest stutters, and he stumbles backwards.

"Kurt!" Burt's voice is like slap to the face. Kurt whirls around then takes a shaky breath when he realizes that his dad isn't in the room. "Come downstairs and watch TV with me. That movie you like, the one with Goldie Hawn's daughter is on."

Kurt glances at the flower in his hand then back outside to the footprint. "I'll be down in a minute," he shouts back.

"Okay. I'll make some of that low fat popcorn you like." The pantry door creaks open.

Goosebumps prickle his flesh. Kurt brings the flower to his lips. The petals feel like silk. Kurt's eyes fall shut and he shudders. He risked himself to let me know he still cares. Kurt knows it's wrong. He knows that Dave really does need help, but to matter more than anything else, to be the sole focus of all that attention… Dave would do anything for me. He did do anything for me.

Kurt yanks open his nightstand door and shuffles around for a scotch tape dispenser. He sticks a few pieces to the back of his hand. He presses the flower to the top left corner of the window, then carefully layers the tape over the stem and cool glass. When he's done, Kurt steps back to look.

It should be visible from the street.

He rolls his shoulders, suddenly feeling much lighter. A movie with his dad sounds perfect. Just before he leaves, he glances back to look at the flower, one more time. Then he heads downstairs.

###

Faurot Park is dark. Kurt eases his SUV around the curve of the road, keeping his eyes peeled in the stream of his headlights. The last thing he wants is to hit a deer. Snow falls lightly onto his windshield, the first of the season, and his wipers make a soft whoop-whoop sound as they swipe across the glass.

"Come on, where are you?" Kurt says softly, looking for the sign that marks the entrance to the picnic area. The whole park is deserted. The blast of winter weather combined with the early setting sun has everyone heading for home by six. It's only half past eight now, not late by most people's standards, but besides the tiny ranger's station located at the front of the park, there aren't any lights anywhere in the park.

Kurt almost drives past the sign. He only sees it because his headlights catch the metal rope that stretches across the parking lot entrance to his left. How am I supposed to get in? Kurt turns his car into the entrance of the lot, pressing down on the brakes before he hits the chain. He tries for the three point turn, trying to get the length of his car out of the main road and into the small space of the entrance. He ends up the tail end of the SUV poking out into the road.

It doesn't matter anyway. No one is going to be driving here. The Ranger's station was empty, employees tucked away after a Thanksgiving Day feast. I hope Dad doesn't call Mercedes, Kurt thinks as he cuts the engine and tucks the car keys into his pocket. A blast of wind howls through the trees and his car door slams shut. Kurt winces and looks around.

"Who's going to hear it?" Kurt whispers. Besides the person I want to? He drags his zipper up to his chin and tugs on his gloves. His ears are already cold, and he's sure his nose and cheeks are rosy red. He eases his scarf from the collar of his coat and rearranges it so the soft material covers most of his ears and face.

Despite the utter darkness, headlights now gone, Kurt knows where he's going. He's come this way a dozen times in the past two weeks. When the pavement of the parking lot turns into the uneven path of grass and dirt, Kurt takes out the flashlight in his pocket. It's a mini one, so it doesn't light up much, but it's enough that Kurt doesn't trip.

He walks through the barren soccer field, past the decade old wooden playground, and keeps going past the picnic area. He's never seen the park empty. The wind through the trees and his own breaths are the only sounds. Something that feels like fear curls around Kurt's heart. What if I'm wrong? Kurt doesn't know what he'll do if he's wrong. I'm not wrong.

There's a stretch of flat ground, then Kurt's heading downhill. He crosses over the dirt walking path. The area goes from friendly park to woodland forest. Most of the trees are leafless skeletons, branches tangled together above Kurt's head. There are some winter pines, and old pinecones litter the ground. A fine layer of snow is already kissing the tops of the low bushes by Kurt's feet.

He stops walking and starts to wait. His breath curls like smoke around his nose, heating his skin with every puff. He cups his hands around his mouth to capture the warmth. Kurt doesn't wait long. It's only been about five minutes when a voice calls out, "Kurt?"

Kurt's heart leaps into his throat. He swings the flashlight to his right. Even in the pale stream of light, the man's dark green jacket blends into the night.

"Hi Dave." Kurt's back snaps straight. The last time he had seen him, the man was behind bars. Kurt shines the light onto Dave's face. He looks thinner. His jaw juts out on either side of his face, looking sharp. A light dusting of facial hair covers the lower half of his face.

"What are you doing here?" Dave asks. He takes a step closer, and his hand reaches out. Halfway to Kurt, his fingers drop and Dave stuffs both hands into his coat pockets. "It's snowing," he adds, sounding utterly lost.

Kurt ignores the question and the statement. Instead, he says, "You've been following me." Stalking me. "I found the flower." Dave nods. He saw that I put it in the window, Kurt thinks. "I figured you were here." Living in the one forested area in Lima. Living where we first met.

"I saw your SUV," Dave says in response. A hard gust of wind has Kurt shivering. The flashlight drops from his fingers. He reaches down to pick it up. Dave's hand closes over his. Kurt jerks backwards, Dave doesn't let go. "You look good," Dave whispers. His breath is warm against Kurt's cheek.

Kurt swallows. "I don't feel good," he says, voice rough. Dave frowns, and suddenly, Kurt's angry. "You messed me up Dave." Hot tears slide down his face. "I'm screwed up. The whole time you had me I wanted nothing more than to be home - home with friends and family. Then finally, I'm here, and nothing's the same." Kurt sucks in air, and cuts off a sob. He curls his hand into a fist and slams it against Dave's chest. The man coughs in surprise, but doesn't move.

"I hate it. I hate this town. I hate the malls and my friends. I hate the way they look at me and judge." Kurt looks at the other boy. There are tears in his eyes, too. "I hate myself and I hate you."

"Kurt…" His name falls from Dave's mouth like a tortured plea.

Kurt digs his fingers into Dave coat, yanks him forward, and smashes their lips together. Dave grunts, surprised, but then his hand is in Kurt's hair, holding his head in place. Dave's lips are chapped and rough. Kurt bites at them.

It isn't sweet, and when Dave's thumb starts to rub circles into Kurt's neck and he tries to smooth out the kiss, Kurt tears his mouth away. "Don't," he says. The word sounds like a curse. Both of their chests rise and fall as they pant like racehorses. Kurt can feel a distinct hardness against his hip. "Don't be nice."

Dave shakes his head. "I don't want you to hurt. I love you too much," he says, voice small.

Kurt snorts. It's an ugly sound. He drags his gloved hand through his hair. "I know, Dave." And that's the problem. "I don't think that anyone will ever love me the way you do."

Dave isn't stupid. He knows the words aren't a compliment. "I'm not here to take you," he says, surprising Kurt. "I know you can't live like that. It was wrong of me to make you try. I just… I just needed to see you."

This time, Kurt laughs. It's an aborted chuckle that's just as bad as his snort. "Why shouldn't you see me? I see you every time I close my eyes." Kurt curls his arms around his chest and stares at Dave. Tears are running down the bigger man's face.

"How can I make this better?" Dave asks. It's the same question everyone else in Kurt's life has been asking for months.

Leave, never come back. Kurt thinks, but he knows that won't fix anything. Never seeing Dave again won't change the past. "I think you should try and get some help," Kurt says.

Fear darkens Dave's face. "Why can't you help me?"

He didn't deny the need for help. "Dave," Kurt says, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Dave's forearm. "I can barely help myself. I can't help you."

A shuddering breath shakes Dave's body. "If I go to one of those…places, will you come visit me?"

Hesitantly, Kurt nods. Dave moves fast. One second he's a foot away, and then his mouth is against Kurt's. "Promise me," he says between kissing Kurt and taking a breath. "Promise me you won't leave me alone."

I promise. Kurt returns the kiss.

"Say it," Dave demands, mouth pressed into Kurt's chin.

"I promise," Kurt says.

The words knock the strength from Dave's body. One second he's standing, then the next he's sinking to his knees. Kurt follows him. They sit there, on the cold ground, Kurt dry-eyed and feeling empty, and Dave crying, until Kurt can't feel his legs anymore.

"We need to get up," Kurt says. Dave doesn't respond, so Kurt says it again. This time, the other man nods. Kurt's feet tingle painfully as blood rushes through his limbs. He uses the flashlight to get them back to his car. Kurt turns off the radio and turns up the heat as soon as the SUV rumbles to life.

As warmth creeps back into his body, Kurt looks over at Dave. The man is staring out the passenger side window. Kurt doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. He feels like he's floating, as if all the anger and fear he's been holding onto these past few months was left in the snow.

The Lima Psychiatric ward is only twenty five minutes from here, Kurt thinks. He looks at the clock. Ten o'clock the night of Thanksgiving. He's not even sure if the place will be open. He looks over at Dave again. The man's eyes have drifted shut. Guess we'll find out.

Kurt pulls out onto the road and drives.

9