Chapter Text
Will Shuester had expected the Fabrays, the Joneses, and the Cohen-Changs and the Changs, as well as Finn's mom and Brittany's parents, but out of them all, he never expected the Hummels to show up on Parent Teacher Night.
Mr. Hummel was a short, squat man with a beer gut jutting out over the waistband of his jeans. His son, Kurt, obviously took after his mother, a tall willowy woman with pale, clear skin. She could have passed for a model, if not for the dark circles under her eyes and the defeated way she carried herself, as if the world had already beaten her down. A small bruise marred her the skin at her neck. It looked suspiciously like a bruise.
Kurt himself trailed behind them, head down, one hand clutching his dark green bookbag to his chest. Will stood as they approached.
"Mr. Hummel," he said. "So glad you could make it."
"Yeah, right," Mr. Hummel snapped. "I wouldn't be here except Kurt here says you aren't giving him his due."
"I'm sorry?" He looked at Kurt but the boy ducked his head away, avoiding eye contact.
Mr. Hummel got up close, too close into Will's personal space. "I know my boy's not that good at much and I don't really like all this sissy stuff he's got going on, but no one pushes the Hummels around."
"Mr. Hummel, Kurt's a very smart kid-"
A finger was thrust against his chest. "Let him sing whatever damn song he wants, got it. I don't want to have to come back here again."
Mr. Hummel pivoted on his heels and barked out, "Come on. I'm not missin' dinner for this crap."
Mrs. Hummel followed placidly behind, but Kurt paused to mouth, 'I'm sorry' at Will before his father yanked him along by the arm. Will watched them go, disturbed by what he'd just seen. As he'd tried to tell the other man, Kurt was a smart kid, in advanced classes, and so talented. But he was just so withdrawn, too much into his own world.
And he had a lovely voice, if only he would use it more. His voice on the assigned solos was soft and threadbare, as if he was afraid to be heard on his own. Will could tell by the way Kurt's face had brightened at the mention of Wicked that he was interested in it, but he'd said nothing, not a word, about wanting to sing a solo.
Rachel was the better choice, either way. She knew how to use her voice. The audience would have had to strain just to hear Kurt's. He made a note to himself to have a talk with Kurt Monday to find out what was going on. He'd been meaning to for a while now, just to make sure the kid was okay, but other things had gotten in the way lately and it slipped his mind.
It was probably nothing. Kurt was just shy. Nothing wrong with that.
Maybe Emma could talk to him instead.
x
Kurt hadn't meant to get Mr. Schue in trouble. He'd just been singing in the shower. He wouldn't have even guessed his father was listening. Normally, the man simply sneered at any mention of his son's extracurricular activity. Last night, though he still sneered, he'd shown an uncharacteristic interest in what Kurt sang to himself. Kurt told him about Wicked and, in some pathetic need to connect with his father, wind up talking about the solo his teacher had simply handed to Rachel Berry. He hadn't even asked if anyone else wanted to audition for it. Not that Kurt had planned to. Doing the weekly assignments were nerve wracking enough. No way could he handle going out on a stage and singing by himself in front of a crowd of people.
He should have known his father would have taken it as an affront. After all, 'no one pushes the Hummels around,' was the family motto.
Kurt's arm was throbbing by the time they got home, a hand shaped bruise circling his bicep from when he'd been dragged from the school grounds. Bruises were nothing new. His torso was covered in faded blues, yellows, and greens. Even his arms and legs were marked with signs of abuse. But never his face, never where people could see and wonder.
Dinner that night was a box of macaroni and cheese. Kurt and his mom ate at the table, everything set out in front of them just so, as if they were at a fancy soiree instead of the Hummels' faded, mildewy kitchen. His mother had shown him the proper way to lay the dishes and silverware when he was five.
"Some people call it snobbery," she'd told him. "But it's just good manners."
It was one of the many, small things she's taught him that had stuck over the years, like how to write thank you notes and how to wrap presents in ornate bows.
Mr. Hummel ate his food in the living room while watching a football game on the TV, his plate balanced on his stomach. He yelled for a beer midway through and Kurt's mom pulled herself wearily up and brought him one from the refrigerator.
Kurt frowned as he watched her move. Her limbs were slow and clumsy and she nearly dropped the can on the carpet before she even made it to the couch. He worried about her but, like his father, turned away and pretended that nothing was wrong.
That night, as he lay curled up in bed, the door to his room creaked open. Light from the hallway flooded the room, a hulking shadow soon blocking it out. Kurt squeezed his eyes shut and clutched at blanket. It was ten years old and decorated in Toy Story characters. His parents never bought him another, even when he finally hit adolescence.
The bed creaked as the person, his own father, sat down. Hands landed on his back, under his t-shirt, and began to rub small circles into his skin. Kurt tensed beneath them, but they didn't stop, merely began to travel around to his chest and stomach. Mr. Hummel's breathing grew labored. He grasped at one of Kurt's hands and pulled it back to rub against the bulge in his jeans.
Kurt turned his head into his pillow to muffle the few whimpers that escaped his lips. His hand was trapped, no matter how he tried to pull away, until his father's hips stilled. He grunted once, then lay limply against the bed. A moment later, he stood and left the room.
x
Burt Hummel drove up to his brother's house early Saturday morning. He liked to take Kurt to his house on the weekends, get him out of his own for a while. Burt and his wife never had kids and, even before she'd died, Kurt had become like a son to them. There was even a basement room set up just for him, and the fact that he'd have to give it up...well, Kurt was a good kid. Surely, he'd understand.
The Hummel house in Lima was rundown, white exterior coated with dirt and one of the windows knocked out. Chuck had put some cardboard on the inside of the window, which was ridiculous. The thing fell apart every time it rained.
He didn't knock when he got to the door. After all these years, they knew he was coming. Kurt probably had a small bag ready to go sitting by the door. Inside, Charlie lay on the couch, looking wan and pale.
"Hey." She waved her arm at him weakly, then called in a slightly stronger voice, "Kurt, your uncle's here."
Burt peered at her, concerned. "You been to a doctor yet, Charlie?"
"Oh, no," Charlie said. "You know we can't afford that, not with Chuck out of work and all."
The man hadn't looked for work in at least eight years, Burt wanted to say, but held his tongue when he saw Kurt enter the kitchen, a steaming bowl held carefully in both hands.
"I know this isn't exactly breakfast food," he was saying to his mom, "but I did some research on the school's computer and chicken soup really is the best thing to help fight illnesses." He sat the bowl beside her on the coffee table and glanced over at their guest. "Hi, Uncle Burt."
While Charlie lifted up the spoon with one gaunt wristed hand, Kurt crossed the room and pulled a blanket it out of a nearby closet. He tucked it carefully around his mother, fretting as if she were the child and he the parent.
"Kurt," Burt said to get his attention. "We got to get a move on if we want to make it to my place before lunch."
Kurt looked nervously at Charlie, who shooed him away.
"Go on, honey. Go have fun, I'll be fine."
"But-"
At a loud groan coming from the direction of his parents' room, Kurt jumped. He stepped back, closer to Burt.
Charlie looked at Burt. "Will you take his stuff to the car, please?" She set her bowl down and gestured for Kurt to come closer. "Come give your mom a hug."
Burt stepped out the door with Kurt's bag in his hand while the two of them murmured quietly to each other.
"You be good, okay?" he heard Charlie say as the door shut behind him.
Kurt emerged a few minutes later and got in the car. He wiped quickly at his eyes and sniffed once but kept his head turned to the window so Burt wouldn't see his face.
Burt put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll be back Sunday night. I'm sure she'll be fine."
Kurt finally turned to look at him, a small smile forced on his face. "I know."
The truck trundled out of the driveway and left the broken home behind.
They stopped at Burt's wife's grave on the way out of town. Kurt fussed over the headstone, brushing dirt and debris off its smooth surface and refilling the holder with new flowers they'd picked up from the grocery store. When he was done, Kurt sat on the grass, drew his knees up to his chest, and stared mournfully at the spot where Anne Elizabeth Hummel was laid to rest. Burt wondered if he was imagining his mother in that spot, but it would be a cruel thing to ask a child, so he remained silent and waited until Kurt finally stood to leave.
As they walked out of the cemetery, Burt reached behind him and soon felt a soft hand grip his own.
He waited until they were on the road again before he cleared his throat and said, "So...there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."
Kurt looked over at him with a mildly interested expression on his face.
"You know I've been seeing that woman I told you about for a while now. Well, we've talked it over and made a big decision."
Kurt frowned at him. "You're getting married?"
"Whoa, hold up there, kiddo, we haven't been together that long."
"Oh. Then what's the big news?"
Burt grinned. "We're moving in together."
His nephew made a noncommittal noise and turned his head back towards the window. Burt ground his teeth in frustration. He wanted Kurt to be happy for him, be the bubbly little kid he used to be, not this quiet, unhappy creature he'd turned into.
"You know," Burt said. "It turns out, her son is one of those kids in Glee Club. Finn?"
Kurt's head whipped back around at that. "Finn Hudson?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"Finn Hudson is moving in with you. Wait-" Kurt straightened in his seat. "What about my room?"
"I'm sorry, bud, you're going to have to share."
The inquisitive expression on Kurt's face dimmed. "Oh. Okay." And he turned once again to the window.
"I'm thinkin' about adding another room to the house after Christmas," Burt added. "I mean, I know you only come over on the weekends and stuff, but, well, we set the basement up for you when you were a tiny little thing. I know it must suck to think of someone else being in your space like that while you're gone."
Kurt kept his face turned away. "I don't care. It's your house."
Burt shook his head at the silence which fell over them. Someday, he'd get Kurt to talk to him, really talk to him, about all the things that were bothering him. Home, school...boys. He wished his wife was there. Anne was always so much better at these things than him. She'd even be able to make Kurt laugh. He hadn't in ages, not really. Maybe could Carole could fill the hole that Anne had left behind.