Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.
Kurt stared into the pink, heavily scented depths of the retro-styled thermos, then looked at his reflection. With a little trepidation he took a quick inventory.
"You look like a Dresden doll," he said aloud to the mirror. "You're dead meat. No wonder you get thrown into dumpsters on a daily basis."
He poured an ounce or two into the thermos cup and sipped it gingerly. The heavy floral air freshener taste faded into a sickly sweet burn. He shook his head and continued with his morning routine
The slight buzz from his taste of chablis sent him hopping around his bedroom as he picked out his clothes for the day. He halted in his tracks as he passed his vanity and caught sight of the thermos. "Maybe just a little more," he said to himself.
He drank the rest of cup and pulled on his clothes, singing along with his morning empowerment playlist. "Holdin' out for a heeeero," he belted, his voice soaring. Somehow it seemed like his voice sounded even better than usual. Maybe it was the whole alcohol thing loosening him up.
Kurt poured another cupful of chablis and swigged it. The burn didn't seem quite as strong now. He buttoned up his white collared shirt, still singing loudly. He reached for his tie and frowned. "Why isn't this shirt fitting properly? I just…oh."
He looked at his reflection. Somehow he had managed to skip both the top button and the third from the bottom; the shirt hung awkwardly across his thin chest. "Wow. That's no good."
He unbuttoned his shirt and redid it, carefully sliding each round button into each slot. "I think I might need a little more liquid courage," he said to himself. "Shall I? I believe I shall." The pink liquid trickled out of the thermos into the cup and he drank it quickly. At this point he could feel a pleasant warmth and a heavy buzz. He hummed loudly and tapped his foot as he tied his tie and shrugged into his pristinely pressed blazer.
He picked up his messenger bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed towards the stairs. But he paused on the way out and backpedaled to his vanity. "Just in case," he said to himself. He screwed the lid on his thermos and tossed it into his bag.
His father sat at the kitchen table, reading the paper and absently munching on a bowl of cold cereal. "Hey, kiddo," he said. "Heading off to school?"
"Yeah, that's all I'm up to," Kurt said, readjusting his bag nervously on his shoulder. "Just school. Just the educational institution."
"Staying for glee cub rehearsal afterwards?"
"Of course. Wouldn't miss it. Never miss it," he babbled.
Burt slowly lowered the paper. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked.
He laughed, high-pitched and awkward. "Of course I'm all right, why would you even ask that, Dad, I'm fine," he said.
"You're talking a mile a minute and you didn't bother to do that…that swoop thing with your hair," Burt said. He gestured at his forehead- which was difficult with the brim of baseball cap- to indict the swoop. "And your cheeks are all red. You got a fever?"
"Dad, my cheeks are red because I inherited my mother's porcelain complexion, which made her look like an ethereal angel, but for me only serves to further my resemblance to those fat German child figurines that little old ladies are obsessed with collecting," he said. "I promise I'm fine. I'll be home by six."
"Do you want any breakfast?" Kurt paused. His stomach sloshed a little, filled with only pink chablis. "I don't have time," he said. "I'm running late. See you at dinner. I'm making meatloaf."
Burt perked up. "Meatloaf?"
"With organic ground turkey and egg substitute."
"Oh. See you tonight, son."
Kurt dug in his messenger bag and pulled out his car keys. He hit the remote, and the resulting beep pierced his eardrums. "It's never sounded that loud before," he mumbled.
He climbed into the passenger seat, stopped, and looked around. "Wait a minute." He clambered over the gearshift and settled into the driver's seat. "All right," he told himself. "You are confidence. No, you are confident. You are fantastic. Now…drive."
Kurt jammed the key into the ignition; the engine roared to life. He stared down at the little letters and numbers on his shifter. "Stop moving around," he commanded. "All right…the R? For…revving?"
He shifted to the R and his car slowly rolled backwards. Kurt slammed on the brakes. "All right. Not that one. Next one. N…for…no, that's not it. D?" He shifted to D and his car rolled forwards towards the street. "Yay! I found it!" he said. He turned up the sound on his stereo as he trundled down the street in his Navigator.
The boring Ohio scenery rolled past. He sang along with his tick…tick…BOOM original cast recording, but his stomach began to churn as his car moved.
"Ugh," he mumbled. "Should've had breakfast."
He pulled into the school parking lot, not noticing that he had nearly run over Karofsky and he was going the wrong direction on a one-way lane. The Navigator trundled into a pull-through parking space. Kurt parked and killed the engine, then slumped back in his seat. "This is so not good."
He fumbled in his bag for the thermos and unscrewed the cap. "Don't fail me now," he said, his voice echoing into the silver depths. He took a long swallow and tightened the cap. "There. That should do it."
"Hey, lady face!"
He hunkered down in his seat. "Oh, no," he said in a small voice.
Karofksy yanked his door open. "Good morning, queer eye," he said. "Guess what you just did?"
Kurt quickly shoved the thermos into his bag. "I'm sorry, I mistook you for a very large mailbox," he apologized.
"And that's why you tried to sideswipe me?" Karofsky said. He punched the lock on Kurt's seatbelt; it whipped up and smacked him in the jaw.
Karofsky grabbed Kurt out of the driver's seat and tossed him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. "Can you at least close my car door?" he said. Karofsky ignored him, strolled to the nearest dumpster, tossed him inside, slammed the lid shut, and walked away, whistling.
Kurt hid in the darkness, holding his breath against the stench of yesterday's stroganoff surprise. Between the smell and the alcohol sloshing in his stomach, he was beginning to feel just a tad nauseous.
When he was sure that Karofsky was gone, he flipped the heavy lid and popped out like a slightly disoriented prairie dog. "Sweet merciful lord, I'm tired of this," he sighed. He climbed out of the dumpster, slinging his bag behind him, and wobbled slightly upon dismount.
His clothes smelled like old cafeteria food, something suspiciously slimy had smeared across the perfect leather surface of his messenger bag, and his hair was most decidedly askew. He ducked behind the dumpster and took another sip of chablis.
"You're fantastic," he mumbled to himself. "You are smart and sexy and delicious and this chablis is intelligent. No, wait. You are intelligent and the chablis is delicious."
He hid the thermos, stood up straight, and marched towards the school. I've had plenty, he told himself. I don't need anymore. I'll be fine. Besides, the pleasant buzz had turned into a woodpecker in his brain that was making his words come out slightly slurred and his steps slightly…well, sideways.
But he found himself going back for just a little more…like after homeroom, when he only escaped a slushie facial by ducking into the girls' bathroom.
And in the middle of gym class, when he was disoriented enough lob a dodge ball backwards and smack Coach Sue Sylvester into the basketball rack. Her displeasure was fearsome.
Finally he drained the remainder of the thermos sometime around algebra, when he managed to somehow turn the quadratic equation into laban-notation for a very elaborate eight-count of choreography set to Cobra Starship's "Hollaback Boy."
The rest of the morning passed by in an alcohol-blurred haze. It was somehow around fourth period- the last class before lunch- when he realized he was lurching down the hall. Or maybe it was his stomach contents swirling like a hot tub set on turbo that was propelling him forward.
He shuffled down the hallway like a well-dressed zombie. People passed by him in blurs of color, increasing his dizziness factor exponentially. A green blob nearly walked by him, then paused.
He looked up blearily and stumbled towards the speak. A pair of large brown doe eyes came into focus; the owner of said eyes said something that came out sounding like the wah-wah-wah of adults on Charlie Brown.
His lips went slack. "Oh, Bambi," he mumbled. "I cried so hard when those hunters shot your mommy."
The effort of speaking was enough to trigger his gag reflex, and he threw up violently all over the floor…and a pair of very nice shoes. Vaguely he heard exclamations of disgust as he slumped against a locker.
"Miss Pillsbury, y'okay? Miss…Pillsbury?"
"I think she's going into shock, man."
Kurt pressed his face against the cool metal of the lockers. "I miss you, Bambi," he mumbled.
A different pair of eyes swam into his vision- darker brown, and almond-shaped. "Kurt? You all right, buddy?"
"He smells like alcohol. And really nasty flowers."
Kurt pointed drowsily in the direction of the second voice. "Not flowers," he slurred. "Chablis."
"Uh-oh," said the dark-eyed boy. "Geez. Okay, Puck, you help Miss Pillsbury. I'm going to take Kurt to the nurse's office."
"No, no, not there," said the owner of the Bambi eyes in a high-pitched, strangled voice. "Take him to the choir room and call his dad to come pick him up. I don't want to get him in trouble."
"Trouble for what?" Kurt drawled.
Someone grabbed him around the knees and hoisted him into a fireman's carry for the second time that day. "Okay, Kurt. If you blow chunks down the back of my pants, I swear I'm going to drop you."
"This is nice," Kurt said dreamily, resting his head between his rescuer's broad shoulder blades. He was bumped and jostled as whoever it was carried him down the hallways; the combination of shaking and being held upside down made him feel sick to his stomach again.
"Finn? What the heck-"
"So guess who hurled all over Miss Pillsbury's shoes in the hallway?" Finn said.
An upside-down face faded into his line of vision. "You did what, white boy?"
Kurt blinked. "Why're you upside down?"
Finn set him down on one of the risers; he stretched out on his back and stared up at the slowly revolving ceiling. Someone sat down beside him and began to stroke his forehead. "What happened?" the girl asked.
"He said something about Bambi and then upchucked all over the hall," Finn explained.
"They killed Bambi's mother," Kurt said, struggling into an upright position. His eyes started to burn. "The hunters…they killed Bambi's mom and then he was all sad and…and…motherless."
"Is he crying?"
"Why's he crying?"
Kurt's chin trembled. "My mom died," he blubbered.
"Oh, dear God."
Kurt dropped his hands limply to his knees and looked up at the ceiling. "The hunters killed my mom," he bawled.
"So…he was talking about Bambi, and now he thinks he is Bambi?"
"Aw, Quinn, don't encourage him."
Quinn put her arm around Kurt and drew his head to her shoulder. "I'm not encouraging him, he's sick," she said sharply.
"She was just running in the woods, and they shot her," Kurt sobbed.
Quinn rubbed his back. "I know, I know," she soothed. "It's okay."
"What up with Fabray?"
"The mama bear hormones are coming out."
She shot Santana a murderous look as she continued her futile attempts at calming Kurt down.
Finn fumbled through Kurt's bag. "Miss Pillsbury said to call his dad," he said. "Where's his…oh, there's his phone." The thermos rolled out of the bag as it hit the floor. Mercedes picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and smelled the contents. She scowled and knelt beside Kurt. "Honey?"
He sniffled hard. "Are you a hunter?" he asked.
"No. Have you been drinking?"
"Drinking?" Tina repeated. She picked up the thermos. "Oh my gosh. It smells like the stuff I use to take off my nail polish." She passed it to Artie. "That's disgusting," he said. "Kurt, did you really drink that?"
"It was fabulous and it was supposed to make me delicious!" he wailed. "No! No, wait, it was delicious and it was supposed to make me…" He paused. "Oh, I feel sick."
Tina tossed the small classroom wastebasket to Mercedes, who dropped it in front of Kurt and backed away quickly as he vomited. Quinn just rolled her eyes.
"You're surprisingly okay with the disgustingness," Santana commented.
"Morning sickness. You get used to it."
Finn closed Kurt's phone. "His dad's on his way to get him," he said. "Did you guys say he's drunk?"
"Ridiculously so," Artie nodded.
"Also, he's proven to be a crying drunk," Tina added.
"He threw up," Brittany commented. "It sounded like someone punched a waterbed."
"Someone punched a…never mind."
Kurt pushed the wastebasket away and lowered himself slowly onto the riser. "I'm sleepy," he complained. "I just wanna…sleep."
"Wait a minute," Quinn said, taking him by the hand. "Kurt? Kurt, have you had anything to eat today?"
He squinted into the fluorescent overhead lights. "I had a lot of pink stuff that tasted like perfume," he said.
She pulled him back up into a sitting position and handed him a packet of saltines. "Eat some crackers and drink some water," she commanded.
"Then I can sleep?" he whined.
He obeyed her, the noise of the other kids' conversations buzzing in his ears. Finally he had swallowed enough for Quinn's exacting satisfaction and he laid down with his head in her lap, falling quickly into the heavy doze of the inebriated.
The next thing he realized, someone was shaking him lightly. "Wake up, kid."
He rubbed his eyes blearily. "Whazzit."
"Kurt, where did you get alcohol?"
"Wasn't alcohol, it was chablis," he corrected drowsily.
His father's face faded into focus. Somehow Burt Hummel managed to look disappointed, angry, and concerned all at once. "Son, chablis is alcohol," he said. "You do realize you're a good five years too young to drink."
Kurt burst into tears again. "I was supposed to be awesome," he sobbed.
Burt shifted uncomfortably. "Kiddo, don't cry," he said. "Your mom was good at the crying thing."
He was howling at this point. "She called me baby when I cried," he bawled. "And then the hunters shot her. They shot her deeeeeaaaaad."
Burt looked up at Finn. "What the heck is he talking about?"
Finn shifted his weight awkwardly. "He's really confused about Bambi," he said. "And he's a crying drunk. That's all we can figure out."
Burt shook his head. "Figures," he said. He pulled his more-than-tipsy son to his feet. "Come on, Kurt. Let's go home."
"But if I go home he'll give all my solos to Rachel," Kurt protested, swaying on his feet and smearing his tears across his face. "I'll die, I'll just die."
"You've got a little more than that to worry about," Burt said. "Can you walk?"
Kurt put his arms out in front to steady himself. "Possibly."
His father sighed. "Let's get you home. We'll talk about this later."
And as Kurt stumbled towards the door, tripping over his own designer shoes and his horizon flipping in front of him, he decided something very important.
No more chablis. It is not awesome and it doesn't make me delicious.
Wait. It is not delicious and it doesn't make me awesome.
I watched the "Oh, Bambi" bit about 36 times in the past twenty-four hours.
It makes me laugh. I think I'm a terrible person.
So I wrote this.
I hope you liked it! It was fun to write something goofy involving Kurt.