Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.
You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
'Cause we'll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms
He kept looking over his shoulder at the ever-approaching darkness. She had told him not to, but he just couldn't help it. It loomed closer and closer, stretching towards him like it was going to swallow him up.
She tugged on his hand. "I told you not to look," she said gently.
"What is it?" he asked for the millionth time.
"Don't worry about it, honey," she said.
He studied her. There was something familiar about her- about the stubborn lift of her chin, the upturned tilt of her nose, the ocean-blue color of her eyes. "Why won't you tell me who you are?" he asked.
She shrugged. "It's not time yet," she said.
"And where are you taking me?" he persisted. "Why are you here?"
She smiled and tucked a long lock of silky hair behind her ear. "I'm here because he asked me to," she said.
He frowned. "Who?"
"You'll know, in time," she said. She squeezed her hand, and he kept walking beside her.
Someone was screaming, loud and hoarse. He didn't know where it was coming from, and he was terrified.
A light flicked on and someone grabbed him by the shoulders. "Finn, it's okay, you're having a nightmare," his mom said. "Honey, it's okay. Calm down."
He curled up in his mother's arms, sobbing like he was six instead of sixteen. Carole stroked his hair and made soft shushing noises, trying to calm him down. "I remember, I remember," he sobbed.
"Calm down, sweetheart," she soothed. "Tell me if you can."
He choked the story out, slowly and painfully- the jerks in the locker room, the dismal glee rehearsal, the drive home, the accident. "Kurt looked dead, Mom," he said, his voice reduced to a raspy whisper. "He was…he bled everywhere. It was awful."
She rubbed the back of his neck. "Honey, are you sure about this?" she said gently. "You just had a nightmare. Maybe you just dreamed it."
He shook his head violently, bringing back his headache full-force. "No, no, it happened," he insisted. He pulled away from his mother and stumbled towards Kurt's desk. It was untouched except for the clear plastic bag from the hospital. He tore it open, picking up the torn, bloodied remains of the clothing Kurt had worn the day of the accident and tossed them aside.
"Baby, calm down," Carole said.
He shook his head as his hand closed around the slick surface of Kurt's phone. "I didn't dream it," he persisted. Shaking, he plugged the phone into the charger on his desk and waited for it to wake up. As soon as it reached the home screen he scrolled through the message drafts
Rach its f goin wit k ill call u wen
He seized the phone and showed his mother the unfinished, unsent message triumphantly. "See?" he said. "I didn't dream it. It happened."
She covered her mouth with her hands. "Oh, honey," she said. "Did they really do that to Kurt?"
He nodded. "He's got…he's got those cuts on his head," he said, his train of thought slowly unraveling between exhaustion and pain. "You should tell them to check. If they check, they'll know I'm right." He wavered and gripped the back of the chair to keep his balance.
Carole got up and put her arm around his waist. "Go back to bed, sweetheart," she said. She started to lead him towards his half of the room, but he stopped and shook his head.
"I want to sleep in Kurt's," he said. "It's just…it's nice, you know? It's like…like he's back."
She made that funny facial expression she always had when she was going to cry but didn't want him to see; her mouth turned into a strange, compressed smile. "I know," she whispered.
She walked him over to the bed and he curled up under the covers, relaxing into the softness of the mattress as his mother tucked him like she did when he was a child. "Go to sleep, honey," she said. She kissed him on the forehead. "Have good dreams, okay?"
He nodded, already beginning to succumb to the sleep tugging on the edges of his vision. His mother turned off the light and he burrowed into his brother's bed, still replaying the vivid dream in his mind and wishing it hadn't really happened.
Carole wasn't exactly sure of what she would do. So she stood a little ways back, letting Burt and the doctor worry. She wasn't his mother, anyway.
The doctor slid her hand under Kurt's head. She looked too young to be a doctor, with her long hair tied back in a ponytail and the faint hint of gloss on her lips, but she seemed very calm and sure of herself. "We checked those cuts when he came in, but we assumed it was from the accident. If you lift him, I can take another look."
Burt put his arms under Kurt's shoulders and raised him up carefully. His hand supported the back of his thin neck. The young doctor checked over the back of his head, brushing his hair out of the way. "He has three horizontal cuts," she said. "They could have come from a locker door."
Burt leaned his son back against the pillows. The ventilator kept up its rattle, steady and awful. "If he was already injured prior the accident, it could explain why he's having so much trouble recovering from his comatose state," the doctor said. "From what the boy's brother said, your son probably had a mild concussion already. The injuries from the car accident compounded the trauma his body was already dealing with."
Burt kept his hand on Kurt's shoulder. "When do you think he'll wake up?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," the doctor said. "He's fighting this, we can tell that much. But his injuries were severe. He went into shock in the ambulance when they brought him in from the accident, and he can't breathe on his own."
"But he can get past that, right?" Burt said.
The doctor took a deep breath. "Possibly, yes," she said. "If Kurt can breathe on his own again and we can take him off the ventilator within in the next week or so, I would say that his chances of recovery will improve drastically. But if he can't…I think it might be best if you…made plans."
Carole's heart skipped a beat. She looked from the doctor, young and pretty and apologetic with her hands in her pockets, to Burt, who held onto his son's hand like his life depended on it. And in a way, she supposed, it did.
"I'm very sorry," the young doctor said. She seemed like she honestly meant it. "I have some information I can give you, if you think you need it."
"It's okay," Burt said hoarsely. "I already buried his mother."
The doctor bit her lip. "I really am sorry," she said. "I'll keep a close eye on his condition. I really hope he pulls through."
"Me too," Burt whispered. The young doctor left quietly. Carole stood a little ways apart, trying to think of something to say.
Burt let go of Kurt's hand, placing it gently on his stomach. He reached out like he was going to touch his cheek, then pulled back. "I can't do this," he said, his voice cracking. "Not now." He left abruptly, not looking behind for a last glance or even to acknowledge Carole. She watched him go until he disappeared down the hall. The ventilator kept up its painful sounds.
She sat down carefully on the edge of Kurt's bed. "Hi, honey," she said gently. She put her hand on top of his, taking care to not jostle the IV taped to the back of his hand. "It's Carole."
She knew he was sixteen, she knew he was almost grown up. He always seemed older than his age, always poised and mature and clever. But he didn't look grown up to her right now.
"I don't know if you ever hear us when we talk to you," she said. "I hope you can." She smoothed his hair away from his cold forehead. "Honey, you have to get better. I don't think your dad will be able to take it if he loses you too."
The steady, metallic gusts of the ventilator provided her only answer. Kurt looked small and young and horribly vulnerable, lost in the bleached sheets and medical machinery. He might not have been her biological son, not like Finn, but she still loved him. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and tucked him in snugly and found herself unconsciously praying that he would open his eyes and come back to his family.
But he didn't move.
It was weird to be back.
Everything seemed the same. The uncomfortable desks, the smell of the cafeteria, the sounds of lockers slamming, that same sleepy sensation that he got every time he sat down for history class.
But the people all seemed different.
They kept giving him funny looks and a wide berth as he walked down the hall. None of his teammates offered friendly punches to welcome him back, just tentative shoulder pats, if anything. Teachers kept a close watch on him during classes, as if they were afraid he was going to keel over or have an emotional meltdown while they lectured.
It was unsettling.
"Finn, are you okay?"
He glanced up. Rachel sat next to him at the lunch table, her hip pressed up against his. "It's only your first day back," she said. "I'm sure your teachers would understand if you went home early."
He shook his head. "No, I'm okay," he said. He glanced around the table at all of his friends staring at him with that strange look on their faces. "Stop looking at me like that! I'm really okay."
"Sorry," Tina said, ducking her head and staring at the remains of her sandwich.
Finn sighed and stabbed at the food on his cafeteria tray. Rachel rubbed her fingertips on the back of his arm. "We're just concerned," she said gently. "I mean, your memory only came back a few days ago."
He winced. While he was relieved to know what happened, he really didn't want to think about it. "I'll be fine," he repeated.
Puck crumpled his empty chip bag. "You better be," he said. "You keel over in the hallway, I'm not catching you."
"None of us expect you to," Quinn said coolly. Puck scowled, as if he begged to differ but didn't want to say anything.
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. His tray was still half-full, but Finn dumped it out anyway and followed his friends to his next class. He wasn't that hungry, when he thought about it.
His afternoon classes dragged on, and he started wondering if Rachel was right, if he really should have gone home. His body ached from dragging himself down hallways and up stairs when he was still used to two weeks of lying in a hospital bed or on the living room couch.
But then it was time for glee rehearsal, and he was glad he hadn't left. Glee meant friends, and right now that was more important than sleeping through CSI marathons on the couch.
Mr. Schue gave them a little time to clown around, dancing off some of their pent-up energy after seven hours of schoolwork before launching into rehearsal. But after ten or fifteen minutes he turned off the CD player, half-laughing at his students' antics while he got their attention.
"Okay, you guys, time to get started," he said. He pulled a sheaf of sheet music out of his briefcase while the students took their seats. Rachel cuddled close to Finn in their front row seats, her arms tucked securely around his. He grinned down at her. It was kind of cute that she was so concerned over him.
"I've been thinking through some ideas for sectionals," Mr. Schue said, handing out the sheet music packets. "There's a couple of songs I think we should try, so we're going to sight-read some of them and see what we think."
Rachel tore eagerly through the pages, her eyes lighting up for some and her lips pulling into a frown for others. Finn just glanced at it, dreading the sight-reading process. He was never very good at that. Usually he just listened to Kurt and sang an octave lower.
He bit his lip. Don't think about it, he reminded himself.
Brad launched into the introduction and the others started singing; Finn followed along half-heartedly, stumbling through the notes. Rachel sang out strong and clear beside him. She was so caught up in her performance that she didn't notice him struggling initially, but when she realized he was having trouble keeping up she sidled closer with the sheet music spread between them. He followed her guiding finger as she led him through the tenor part, sometimes even dropping from soprano line to his so that he could have someone to follow.
He managed to sing through the four songs that Mr. Schue wanted them to try. His voice didn't sound all that fantastic- a combination of not practicing for a few weeks and not being able to read sheet music very well- but it was still fun. Rachel was pressed up against him, a warm and comforting sort of presence, and it was a relief to hear Brittany's one-liners and Santana's snark and Artie's nerdy jokes and Mercedes' laugh in the breaks. It was like life was normal again.
"Okay, guys, that was great," Mr. Schue said. "We might come back to one or two of those. They might be good for sectionals."
He rummaged around the piles of music on top of the piano and pulled out a glossy black songbook. "I think we should try 'Songs for a New World' again," he said. "It's a great piece and sort of unusual. Plus, we can do some really great solo work, especially in the bridge." He flipped through the book until he got to the right page. "Tina, I want you to take the opening."
Finn frowned. "I thought Kurt was singing that part," he said.
Mr. Schue glanced up. "He was, but I think Tina can do a good job with it," he said.
"I mean, she's just singing it for today, right?" Finn said.
"I think it might be a good idea if I reassigned it to Tina," Mr. Schue said quietly.
Rachel put her hand on Finn's thigh and squeezed it. He didn't know if it was meant to be comforting or a warning, but in either case he ignored it. "It's not like he's dead, Mr. Schue," he said.
He glanced around at his friends. "Come on," he said. "He's going to get better. He'll be back."
No one answered him.
Finn couldn't breathe. "Kurt's going to be fine," he argued to no one in particular. "And that's his solo. You can't take it away from him." He stood up, his knees shaking despite himself. "He's going to come back."
Rachel took him by the arm. "You're upset," she said softly. "Let's go home, okay?"
He pulled away. "No," he said. "Tell them he's going to be okay. Tell them to stop looking at me like that."
He surveyed them desperately, his friends and Kurt's, waiting for support, for someone to back him up. But they just stayed silent- Tina, Artie, Quinn, Mike…even Mercedes, who just stared down at her shoes, hiding her face behind her hand while her shoulders shook. He lost the ability to speak, the words stopping in his throat.
Rachel tried to reach out for him, but he stumbled back. Someone gripped his shoulder, someone taller and stronger and more forceful than Rachel. "C'mon, Hudson," Puck muttered.
Finn said nothing as Puck forced him down the hallway and into the parking lot. He kept his mouth shut when Puck shoved him into the passenger seat of his battered old car and drove him home. And he couldn't say anything until they had been sitting in the driveway for a good ten minutes, the car idling noisily, and he realized that he had to voice the thought that he had been denying himself since he had dreamed about the accident.
"Kurt's going to die, isn't he?" he whispered hoarsely.
He had only encountered death once, when he hadn't been even a year old. And his father's death wasn't so much a sudden, painful bereavement, but a quiet empty space that he had simply lived with all his life.
But to lose someone that he knew, that he cared about…that was different. And sure, they had their differences, major differences. They fought and argued. But Kurt was his roommate, his friend, his singing partner. His little brother.
Finn slumped in the passenger seat of Puck's junky car, his long legs cramped and his arms folded across his chest. He stared blankly at the closed garage door, barely noticing when his vision blurred.
Puck's hand closed over his shoulder, tight and fierce. "Don't give up on him," he said. "If you give up on him, I'll have to too."
Finn covered his eyes with his hand, unable to speak, and Puck kept his grip on his shoulder, even as time ticked by on the dashboard clock and drops of rain started drizzling from the pearl gray sky.
Quinn glanced around before slipping into the intensive care room. Her superiors weren't going to be too happy about this, but she was on her break and it was during visiting hours anyway, so they couldn't get too mad at her, could they?
She leaned over Kurt and kissed him on the forehead. "Hi," she said softly.
Working at the hospital was turning out to be an even better deal than she thought. Sure, it wasn't her dream job and it didn't pay the best and she had to wear a really unattractive uniform, but it meant she could check on Kurt when no one else could come in to visit him.
"Finn's been back at school for a couple of days now," she told him. "He's doing better, but he's still kind of…shaken, I guess. He misses you a lot."
She stroked her fingers through his messy hair. If he had been awake, he would have been mortified by how he looked. "We all miss you," she said. "Glee isn't the same. Nobody can carry the high parts like you can. Not even Rachel." She smiled. "You missed it. She was wearing this sweater with a turkey on it. It was ridiculous. I told her that her first grade teacher called and she wanted her themed holiday sweater back. You would have been proud."
Her fingers moved from his hair to the curve of his jawline. His cheeks were thin and hollow, making his eyes look dark and sunken. She wondered how much weight he had lost during his three weeks in the hospital.
"None of us want to lose you, you know," she said quietly. "We all want you to get better. So you have to wake up, okay?"
She wondered what life would be like if he never came back. Glee wouldn't be the same, that's for sure. No more of his grand ideas and flashy costumes, or his bright clear voice soaring through the notes that no one else could hit, or his excited smiles when the audience applauded and his funny laugh when he watched Finn try to dance or listened to one of Mercedes' stories.
School would go on. The jocks would miss their favorite target and the teachers would miss his intelligence, but he would slip by in the collective school memory, a footnote in the yearbook. Maybe they would hold a candlelight vigil in the gym, or something hokey like that.
But there would have to be a funeral. She'd only gone to one before, when she was ten and her grandmother passed away. Her mother cried, and it was awful, so she clung to her father's coat sleeves and kept quiet while they sat in church, listening to the pastor talk about her gramma in the past tense.
She tried to picture it, standing next to Kurt's grave in a black dress. No, not a black dress. It would have to be the pink one that he bought her, when he took her shopping before school, when she had reached her pre-pregnancy weight and her mistake was reduced to a couple of fading stretch marks, but she would have gladly put those thirty pounds back on if it meant that she could snuggle her baby in her arms. Kurt had dragged her to the mall and made her try on dresses and shoes and pick out headbands and bracelets, entertaining her with his running fashion commentary until she was laughing instead of crying. And when he dropped her off at the crappy apartment where she and her mother lived now, he hugged her tightly, as if he was trying to tell her without words that he understood and he was sorry and he was worried about her.
No, not a black dress.
So she pictured it, standing by Kurt's grave in that pink dress, surrounded by Mercedes and Tina and Mike and Artie and Santana and Brittany and Rachel. Would Puck bother coming? No, of course he would. She would drag him there if she had to. Mr. Schue would be there, and Miss Pillsbury. Maybe even Coach Sylvester, if she was in a benevolent mood that day.
And Finn would be there, quiet and awkward and uncomfortable in his ill-fitting, rarely worn suit. His mother would be there too, holding on to him. She had gotten to know Carole decently well, back during Babygate, when she lived in Finn's house. His mom was kind and loving and gentle, and she knew that she thought of Kurt as her own child. So she would be upset, of course.
But Kurt's father…
She didn't know Mr. Hummel all that well. He came to the glee performances, and to Kurt's single football game, and even the pre-Nationals cheerleading show they did. And now that Kurt had been in the hospital, she had seen him there every day, sitting by his son's bed, looking more and more haggard as time went on but his voice stayed gentle while he talked to him.
He loved his son. She could tell. And she knew that Kurt's mother was dead, so his father had already dealt with losing someone important before. She couldn't imagine what would happen if he lost his son too.
"You have to get better, okay?" she ordered softly. "Nobody can make it without you."
She looked down at him and then drew back. "Kurt?" she said.
He was moving.
It was just a little bit, but it was more of a response than they had seen in weeks. His lips were moving around the ventilator and he was almost making a face, as if he was upset.
Quinn hit the call button several times, then grabbed his hands. "It's okay, baby, it's okay," she said, her voice rising in panic and the endearment slipping out despite herself. "Kurt, baby, you're okay."
The machines beeped and the ventilator shook and she gripped his cold slender fingers. "Just hold on, okay?" she begged. "Just hold on."
He hated going out there.
It was a thirty minute drive from the house, wending his way through narrow two-lane roads that twisted and turned past green fields and black fences, until he reached the outskirts of Lima. Usually he only made the trek once a year, on a disproportionately sunny day in May, and that was more than enough for him.
But he never came alone. His son always sat in the passenger seat, a little taller and a little older than he was for last year's trip, always pale and quiet and looking thoughtfully out the window. Sometimes he cried silently on the way back, always silently, the tears clouding the pretty eyes that looked just like his mother's until they spilled out and dribbled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin.
He never said anything about it. If he tried to speak, it would just start him up too. So he kept his mouth shut and kept his hand on his son's knee, moving his thumb up and down in a steady, reassuring rhythm. And slowly his little boy's hand would creep closer and closer until his tiny fingers would close over his big rough ones.
He was only nine years old for that first trip, a fourth grader, a little boy in sneakers and glasses. Just a baby, really. But time had gone by, and he was a little older and a little taller for each trip, until the last one made him realize with a jolt that it wasn't his baby sitting next to him, clutching his hand and trying not to cry, but a young man.
It made his heart hurt to think of making this trip without him.
Burt finally switched off the ignition and picked up the bouquet discarded in the front seat before he could talk himself out of it and drive back home. The crisp, fragile cellophane wrapped around the flowers crinkled noisily as he slammed the driver's side door and stalked across the parking lot.
No one was around, and for that he was thankful. He walked through the wet graying grass, dull and lifeless in the continuing fall weather. There was no need to consult the directory in the tiny front office. He knew where he was going.
He picked it out specifically. It was a small, cozy spot, tucked away from most of the other neat rows under the branches of a birch tree. He walked up to the gray stone, the treads of his work boots slipping across the grass.
"Hi, little girl," he said gruffly his voice sounding too loud in the quiet hush. "I know I only come once a year, but I figured this was enough to make an exception."
He brushed away the dead leaves in front of the stone. This was always Kurt's part. He put together the flowers, picking the blooms and colors and scents that he remembered she liked best and binding the stems with a ribbon. Then he would clean up the little plot and place the new flowers down gently.
"Kurt's better at this than me," he said. He pried away the rubber band that held the grocery-store bouquet together and peeled away the cellophane, stuffing it in his pocket so it wouldn't blow away in the late autumn wind. "They're not as good as his, but…I brought you daisies. I know they're your favorite."
He remembered going to the park with her, first when she was a starry-eyed teenager and he was her proud boyfriend, then when they were happy newlyweds, then as young parents. She used to pack picnics and bring toys for the baby and fishing magazines for him and they spent hours in the sunshine. She would sit between them, sometimes leaning over to kiss him, sometimes picking up her round-cheeked baby to snuggle him on her lap, but she always seemed to be surrounded by flowers- daisies and pink clover and buttercups. She would sit in the grass with blossoms spread around her and weave them into chains. When Kurt got older he would clamor for her to make him crowns and necklaces and bracelets and she would oblige, draping him with floral jewelry. Sometimes he would run over to his father, giggling, and Burt would permit him to deck him out while Mollie laughed.
Burt shook his head. He didn't come to reminisce. That was reserved for a sacred, terrible, May morning, not a dismal, rainy November afternoon. He looked around Mollie's grave, looking at the plots that were still open. Kurt would want to be buried beside his mother. It was only fair.
Burt set the bouquet of yellow and white daisies on his wife's grave. For an awful moment, he wondered what he would bring for Kurt. But he closed his eyes, and took a breath, and traced his fingers over the sunken letters on the gravestone that spelled out Mollie's name and the dates that marked her brief life.
"What should I do now?" he asked aloud.
He sat there for what felt like a decade, crouching in the wet grass until his legs ached and the sky had darkened and the cool wind was beginning to cut through his coat. Reluctantly he stood up, balancing carefully until the feeling came back into his creaking knees, and made the slow walk back to his truck.
He got ready to pull out and start the drive back to Lima, but he rummaged through his glove compartment first. Mixed in amongst the drive through napkins and pens and his truck registration were a couple of cassette tape cases. He tugged out the first one he could reached and squinted at the faint round cursive on the side of the box. It wasn't exactly the one he was looking for, but it would work. He took out his well-worn Springsteen tape and popped in the other cassette.
It whirred to life as he turned on his headlights and navigated out of the little parking lot and back onto the two-lane road. There was a moment of static, and then it started.
It didn't matter that it was a ten-year-old recording. For a moment, it was like Mollie was back.
"Say hi to Daddy."
He smiled at the sound of his son. Kurt had always had such a high, piping little voice.
"So it's your birthday again, and KK and I have come up with a really good list of songs for you."
"Better than last year!"
No one had called Kurt that nickname in years. Mollie came up with that, claiming that every baby needed a pet name. She called him that up until he started preschool, and then saved it for the important moments- when he was hurt, or he was sick, or he woke up with a bad dream. But the nickname had died with his mother.
"This is the first one. Kurt picked it, so you have to like it, okay?" Mollie started playing the piano, the sound slightly faraway. Then she started singing, clear and sweet. Kurt joined in, his voice high and just a little bit warbly.
Burt smiled despite himself. He had a whole stack of those tapes, starting when Mollie was fifteen and they had just started dating. She loved poking fun at his taste in music, and delighted in making him mix tapes of music she found to be more appropriate. But every birthday she picked songs that she liked and he liked and recorded herself playing them on her piano and singing, adding in a running commentary and a sweet, funny little birthday message. When Kurt got old enough, he helped her.
The first side of the tape finished when he realized that he had gone on autopilot and was driving to the hospital instead of back to the house or the garage. For a second he debated turning around. Carole would be at home, probably putting dinner on the table. It would be nice to sit down and have a real meal. And Finn would most likely be slouched on the couch, staring blankly at a football game he wasn't really watching. The kid had been really upset lately; it might be good to sit down and keep him company.
But as appealing as that sounded, he kept driving towards the hospital. He needed to see his son. There might not be much time left to be with him.
He parked and headed inside, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked through the dark parking lot. It was past visiting hours, but Kurt's doctors had stopped asking him to leave when they were over.
He headed upstairs to intensive care unit, bracing himself for the ventilator and the IV and the heart monitors. But he frowned as approached. Carole was there, and Finn, and that young girl doctor. His heart stopped beating.
"What's going on?" he demanded. "Kurt? Is Kurt…"
The doctor turned around. "He started fighting the ventilator," she said.
He still couldn't get his heart to start back up. "I don't know what you're saying," he said. "You're smiling. This is good?"
"It's really good," Carole said. "Burt, he's off the ventilator. He's breathing on his own again."
His heart went from dead to racing. "So he's going to be okay?" he said.
"I can't tell you anything for sure, but this is a huge improvement," the young doctor said. "We removed the ventilator about two hours ago and we've been monitoring him closely. His breathing is very steady and we've even seen a little movement."
"He looks a lot better," Finn said, relief all over his face.
Burt sat down on the edge of his son's bed. Kurt was still pale and his closed eyes were still ringed with dark bruises, but his lips had color again and he was breathing. "Hey, kiddo," he said. "You get better, okay?"
He took his hand and squeezed, remembering the sound of his son's childish voice on those old mix tapes. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you're ready."
Don't panic! There shall be one last chapter.
I, in my authorly wisdom (um, yeah right) have decided there will be one more chapter, and then the story will be over. If people really want more, I do have some epilogue ideas bouncing around, but yeah. The lovely Prieva totally called it, and there's no reason for me to continue harping on a story that could have ended strong four chapters earlier. I mean, that's why Oliver Twist has such a janked ending, amirite?
But yeah. One more official chapter. And then you'll get to see if Kurt lives or not...
I might have to write that oneshot about Kurt taking Quinn shopping. I think it would be unbearably sweet.
Also, I came up with all these little things about Kurt's mother, and somehow she ends up in every dang story I write. And then I'm like "dang, girl! I'm giving you your own multichapter! Leave me alone!" And then I write Mollie into crap. Gaurgh.
Please, please, please listen to "Songs for a New World." It's the titular song of one of my favorite musicals, and it never fails to give me chills.
So...in any case! I hope you enjoyed this penultimate chapter. One more to go! Please let me know what you think of it.