"Your lashing out at me is fantastically compelling and inappropriate."
Kurt Hummel had never wanted to grow old, anyway.
The entire idea of it-wrinkly skin, aching bones, multiple internal ailments that all seemed to end in one sort of bodily function or another-had always made him shiver.
There was nothing, now or ever, in the Dior catalogue that would ever match liver spots.
That was what he told himself.
"Lookit the little fag cry," this big, apish looking fellow barked in his ear and he was greeted with boisterous laughter from his gorilla pals. It's not as if they were being cruel-no, Kurt had realized the moment he'd set eyes on the herd that they were drunk out of their senses and had no idea the sheer destruction they were inflicting upon Kurt's new outfit. Blood stains and the like, you know.
He clutched onto the pavement so hard his fingernails cracked, gritting his teeth man up as a shot of pain flared through his burning ribs, the familiar bumps of a football cleat tearing into his Calvin sweater and is it so horrible that Kurt was crying more for the soft indigo fabric then his own shattered bones? Is it really so horrible? Because to Kurt, is was a very sane line of thought amongst a sea of chaotic cries of agony.
Blood was bitter. Anyone who'd ever bitten their tongue could tell you that. Coppery, like a penny or a bronze chain (of which he had, in his vanity drawer, with a long tacky peace sign his mother had owned). But not a lot of people could vouch for a lot of blood, spitting out your nostrils and sliding down your throat and filling your lungs with thick globs in such great amount that you don't know if you can take your next breath. Not many people, Kurt thought.
None that he knew.
"God!" he cried, because cleats hurt and kicking hurt and spitting and name calling and punches and slaps and all the yelling hurt. It was an imperfect blend of his screams and their drunken laughter and it was so consuming that eventually his screams died in his throat and he waited for something to happen. For someone to walk along, for his hero to smack a bitch, for the great white light, for something. He waited and he thought how at least this would diminish all chances of him growing that first wrinkle and would save him a helluva lot of dye when his hair went gray.
The worst of it was that this was because he had worn that indigo Calvin sweater and because his jeans were maybe a little too tight and his voice had never seemed to drop and like he could help it. Maybe he could. Maybe there was something wrong with him.
"Take it like a man you little fairy," one snarled, picking him up by his hair and breathing in his face, enough for Kurt to smell absolutely no alcohol on him. Meaning the bastard was in a completely stable sense of being and he would not regret his actions while nursing a hangover the next day, which made Kurt sick. Literally, he blew chunks all over the same pair of cleats that had ruined him.
A cry of anguish matching his own split his head in two and the hand that held his hair brought it down into the concrete and Kurt saw stars. Barbara and Liza and Judy and Gaga and Cher and Bette, all the beautiful people he dreamt of singing besides and he thought, that's not a bad thought to go by.
There was a sudden screech of tires through the dusk and a final splash of liquid seared his open cuts and the cleats ran off and Kurt watched them with his head turned. He couldn't feel relief because his head was pounding and his new jeans were ruined, just ruined.
"Yeah, you run, fucking fags!"
Kurt flinched at the word (which had never been his favorite, but after this instance would probably be upped to most hated in the English language) as he saw two pairs of grimy sneakers run in opposite directions-one away, one closer. He tensed and tried to pull himself up.
"Jesus Kurt," said the very familiar and very welcoming voice of Finn Hudson. Kurt only being held up by his skinny and shaking elbows, coughing as the blood drained from his throat and dripped down his neck. "Jesus, shit."
"Eloquently said," Kurt quipped, his surprisingly greasy bangs falling over his eyes and giving his eyes a break from the unforgiving headlights and dim dusk sun.
"Little bitches ran off," Noah Puckerman cursed from across the school parking lot, gradually drawing closer as Finn wrapped his arms under Kurt's armpit. He was greeted with a pained grunt.
"No, wait, no," he gasped, slumping back down and hugging his arms tightly to his throbbing ribcage. "Wait…"
"Shit, should we call an ambulance or something?" Finn's voiced was frantic, his hands flying all over the place for lack of anything more productive to do. Clearly cracking under pressure, as Kurt always suspected he would. Boys were like that sometimes.
Kurt tried to keep his breath steady, tried to keep his tunnel vision, well, not tunneling, and all he could think of was his dad and the look on his face when he found out. It was be horror, it would be anger, sorrow, shame. No, no ambulance.
"Don't," he coughed, pulling himself up against until he had one heel to the ground and one arm clinging desperately to Finn's shoulder, "Please don't."
"Shit, now's not the time to drop the high maintence act, Hummel," Puck barked from somewhere towards Kurt's left, "Have you looked at yourself?"
Kurt shot the frostiest look he could muster without his skin cracking, "Sorry, I left my reflective heels at home."
Finn was half pulling and half dragging Kurt towards Puck's car, and he was saying something like they were driving to the hospital and open the goddamn door, Puck and he's going to kill those bastards and Kurt's voice, full yet weak, quipped, "They were drunk, they didn't mean it."
And there was more yelling and Kurt wanted to cry.
A/N Um, so yeah. This was going to be longer but I'm tired. I'll probably write more later. Hope you, y'know, like it. There won't be slash in this one, because I don't think anyone on the show is gay but Kurt and I don't have the creative power to think up some OC. Enjoy?