Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.
He was accustomed to a peaceful house.
Plenty of sunlight from open blinds. The pleasant scent of shampoo and motor oil. The sounds of his dad tinkering on the battered remains of a vehicle in the backyard. That was home.
On three days a year, however, the Hummel house descended into a spiral of silence and darkness.
June 24: his mother's birthday.
November 17: his parents' anniversary.
April 2: the day his mother died.
So when Kurt walked into his house on March the thirteenth and found it bleak and quiet, he was a bit concerned.
Did I miss…no, I didn't miss anything.
This is creepy. What could it…oh, no. Home invaders. It has got to be home invaders.
He slid his designer messenger bag under the couch- hopefully they wouldn't it spot it- and reached for the heaviest table lamp in the foyer. It was heavier than he thought, but he unplugged it and crept further into the darkened house.
"Beware," he whispered loudly. "I'm tougher than I look." He swing the lamp a couple of times, making the shade wobble.
A strange noise coming from his father's den startled him; he ran for the far wall and flattened himself against it. Belatedly he realized it was the whirr and scratch of a turntable.
The strains of John Mellencamp filled the house. Kurt rolled his eyes and opened the door. "Dad, what are you doing?" he said.
Burt slumped in his recliner. "Hey, son," he said.
"Dad, there are only three days when we are allowed to wallow in self-pity and angst," Kurt said. "This is not one of them." He gestured to the dark room with the lamp. "What is this? And why does it require Mellencamp?"
Burt tapped his fingers against the arms of his chair. "I know you don't like him much," he said. "You're pretty good at singing 'Pink Houses,' though."
"My fling with Mr. Mellencamp ended fairly quickly," Kurt said.
Burt stared at him. "Why are you holding a lamp from the living room?" he asked.
"Um...I thought there were...never mind." He set it down on the floor. "Come on, Dad. Sitting in the dark, listening to records? On a random day in March?"
Burt sighed. "This is the day I first kissed your mother," he said quietly.
Kurt sank down to sit on the arm of his dad's chair. "Really?"
Burt nodded. "This was our song, you know," he said.
"Mom liked Mellencamp?" Kurt said. "I thought I got my good taste in music from her."
"She only liked this one."
Kurt settled back against the chair and listened to the scratchy, skipping record, trying to envision the scene- his young, pretty mother, looking just like she did in his memories, and his father looking…not bald.
Little ditty 'bout Jack and Diane, two American kids doin' the best that they can
Jacky's gonna be a football star, Diane debutante backseat of Jacky's car
"His grammar is terrible," Kurt murmured.
"It doesn't matter," Burt sighed. He continued to tap his fingers against the arms of his recliner. "Your mom used to sing this. Said it sounded like us. Just two kids in the midwest, falling in love with each other."
Kurt glanced at his father. "So this is the day you kissed her first?" he said.
"I was trying to ask her to prom," Burt said. "And it was…uh…the day before prom."
Burt half-smiled. "I stopped by the café where she worked," he said "I ordered a piece of pie…and another…and another…"
"No wonder you had a heart attack," Kurt said.
"Next thing I know, I've got twelve empty plates, a receipt a mile long, and the café's closing," Burt continued. "And still no prom date. So I offered to drive Mollie home."
"Did she yes?" Kurt asked.
"Nope," Burt said. "She just laughed and shook her head and walked away. I got so upset that I took her by the hand, spun her around, and…well, I kissed her."
"And then she…" Kurt urged.
"She slapped me. Then she kissed me." Burt scratched the back of his neck. "She was a good kisser, you know. She could do this thing with her tongue that-"
"Dad. There are things a boy doesn't want to know about his mother."
Burt slumped back in the recliner, staring up at the dark ceiling. "I miss her, you know."
Kurt leaned over and rested his head on his dad's shoulder. "Me too," he said.
The record continued to revolve, playing its scratchy melody into the darkness. Kurt sighed, wondering what his mother would be like if she was still alive.
Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone…
This story came out of a very stupid reason. I am forced to listen to one of those "light rock" stations while I work- you know, the kind where they claim to play all sorts of music but it's usually Prince and Fleetwood Mac and occasionally something modern comes on and you're like "whoa, finally something I like"? Yeah, well, the station occasionally plays "Jack and Diane" by John Mellencamp. The lyrics were very fitting, and I thought it would be the nice jumping off point for a oneshot.
Also, I kind of wanted to toss in a reference to one of the most prevalent tropes in Kurt-centric Glee fanfiction: the home invasion. For the freaking love of plums, why? Why?
To be fair, when they're good, the stories are very very good, but when they're bad, they're horrid.
Honestly, there are some weird tropes. Like Burt being a bear. That weirds me out. Or Kurt getting pregnant. That really weirds me out. And is kind, you know, impossible.
Also, why does everyone want to see Puck and Kurt end up together? Puck would eat him alive. I just can't see that ending well...
Oh, well. To each his or her own, I suppose.
And maybe I will write a story about how Kurt is a half human, half bear cub whose cave is invaded by evil thugs who want to rape him and then he's saved by Puck, who falls madly in love with him even though he's not gay. Or a bear. And then they live happily ever after and have lots of little half-Jewish, quarter bear, quarter gay babies through the magic of m-preg. The end.
(And just for the record, I'm not trying to make fun of any of the authors who write any of these tropes. They put plenty of time and thought and energy into their stories. It's just that some of the tropes are very odd to an author just beginning in Glee fanfiction.)