Fic: Higher Education, 10/?
Title: Higher Education, 10/?
Author: knittycat99
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Puck/Kurt
Genre: Angst, Romance (lots and lots of Kurt angst in this one)
Warning: AU; discussions of self-harm and suicide, so beware of possible triggers
Spoilers: absolutely none
Disclaimer: Glee and the boys belong to Fox.
Author Notes: I've taken lots of liberties here with Kurt's internship and his responsibilites, and the intricacies of Puck's job. As far as the emotional content, some of it was hard to put words to. I only hope that I've done it justice, and that it resonates.
Summary: An encounter at his intership sends Kurt reeling.
Word Count: 2,851
Boston, Sophomore Summer
I have spent nights with matches and knives, looking over ledges only two flights up. Cutting my heart, burning my soul, nothing left to hold. Nothing left but blood and fire.
-Amy Ray/Indigo Girls
Kurt took a deep breath before leaving the relative comfort of the air-conditioned hospital lobby for the oven that was Boston in July. Even at 9 am, he could feel the humidity rolling in off the Atlantic and settling in the cracks of the city. It was going to be another nasty heat index day, that curious mix of high heat and even higher humidity that made Boston feel like a 115˚ steam bath. He stopped just outside the revolving door to remove his jacket, loosen his tie, and roll his shirtsleeves up to his elbows before moving on to stand in line at the coffee cart. His kingdom for an enormous, cold, blended caffeinated something with lots of whipped cream and chocolate syrup on top. He told as much to the barista, who knew him (and his order) on sight.
“Hey, Kurt. Rough night?”
“Janie.” He nodded at her. “Wretched night. Can I have an extra shot in that, please?”
“Are you planning on sleeping any time today?”
“The verdict’s still out. But I’m off tomorrow, so it doesn’t really matter.”
“Your man off too?”
“With any luck. Barring fire, flood, or someone with more seniority having Red Sox tickets.”
“Planning anything fun?”
“Heh. Nothing that’s any of your business!”
She handed him his drink. “I’ll remember not to ask the next time I see you,” she said with a grin.
Kurt took a deep sip and sighed as the caffeine hit his exhausted brain. “Thanks, Janie. Have a good one.”
“You, too. I hope it gets better.”
“Thanks.”
He sipped at his drink with one hand and scrolled through his texts while he walked, making a turn to cut under the walkway that connected the Emergency Room to the rest of the hospital in an effort to shave a two blocks off of his walk to the T. He was oblivious, lost in his own thoughts and half a block past the doors to the ER when his phone rang out the opening harmonica riff to “Thunder Road”. He answered before the third note.
“Hey, baby.”
“Dude. Turn around.” He did.
And there was Noah, leaning idly against the brick wall next to the doors, phone pressed between shoulder and ear, a bottle of Mountain Dew in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. His summer-issue uniform polo shirt was stretched across his broad chest and tucked into his navy blue cargo pants. He looked delicious. Except for the cigarette. Kurt pocketed his phone, crossed the street on a diagonal, and kissed Noah on his cheek. “I’m not coming near you when you have cigarette breath. I really wish you’d quit.”
“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“I am.” He let his voice go quiet. “What are you doing here?”
“Eh. We ended up overstaffed, and I need the clinical hours. So it’s ER for me today. I thought you were off at 6?”
“We had this kid.” Kurt gestured to his wrists.
“I heard. I didn’t realize you’d be working on that.”
Kurt was spending his first internship working with the staff psychologists on the adolescent floor. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it turned out that he was being given a more active role, especially in talk therapy sessions, than he had assumed would be the case. And when his supervisor had woken him in the on-call room at 3 am this morning, he certainly hadn’t anticipated what would await him.
“Adam took my training wheels off last night.”
“And you got the kid.” Noah’s voice was soft.
Kurt swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Not . . . not here.”
“Are you going to be able to sleep?”
Kurt shook his head. “Probably not. I’m going to head home, take a cold shower, and lay down in front of the AC.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No. But seriously, it’ll hold until you get home.”
“I’m off at 7.”
“Ok.”
“K?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you.”
“Thank you.” He pushed off from the wall, and let himself be pulling into Noah’s arms for the briefest of seconds before he turned and walked away.
He took the subway three stops to the tiny one-bedroom he and Noah shared in one of the university owned apartment buildings. Kurt counted his blessings every day that Maria in Admissions had gone to bat for him with the housing office, backing up his application to put his housing stipend towards one of the off-campus apartments. Kurt still wasn’t sure which of his reasons tipped the scales, but he was pretty sure it had more to do with the odd hours he’d be working at his internship and less to do with his fiancé’s move to Boston. In any case, Noah had moved out of his UMass dorm room the same day that Kurt got the keys to the apartment, and they had existed in a haze of domestic bliss for the better part of the summer.
Kurt could hear the tiny window air conditioner in the bedroom wheezing when he opened the front door. He left all the lights off as he dropped his bag and jacket on the floor. As was his habit when he was physically or emotionally exhausted, he just let things stay where he left them, including the clothes he trailed through living room and bedroom on his way to the bathroom. He stayed in the shower until the water beating against his back had numbed his skin and turned cold. He toweled off as best he could, and pulled boxers and a tank top on over sticky skin. God, he hated the humidity. He wandered into the kitchen, absently opening cupboards and evaluating his food options. He disregarded cereal, toast, and even the not-so-secret stash of blueberry pop tarts that Noah kept hidden behind the boxes of pasta and rice. The refrigerator yielded practically the same results of nothing he felt like eating. It was, he knew, a holdover from his teen years when he would stop eating when he was stressed. He also knew that not eating really didn’t solve anything and just made him cranky, so he finally grabbed a banana off the counter, sliced it into a bowl, and covered it with milk. Noah laughed at him when he did that, but there were times when he just wanted the cold of the milk and the sweet of the banana without having to deal with cereal. It helped take the caffeinated edge off his nerves, and muted the low-grade panic that had settled into his stomach when he had first seen the boy, bloodied and bandaged and soul-empty. He ate all of the banana slices and drank the milk, and set the empty bowl and spoon in the sink; he just couldn’t deal with them right now. He went back to the bedroom, turned the TV on to whatever Noah had been watching as he got ready for work that morning, and flopped onto the bed. He angled his body so that he got maximum coverage from the AC, and recited Billy Joel lyrics in his head. He was halfway through “Down-easter Alexa” when he managed to relax enough to fall into a fitful sleep.
He dozed on and off most of the day, and awoke, if not rested then at least less jittery. It was still oppressively hot, much too hot to cook. He slipped shorts on over his boxers and stuck his feet into flip flops for the walk down the block to the Stop & Shop. He picked up a rotisserie chicken, some potato salad, and a deli container of plum tomatoes, mozzarella, and balsamic. A quart of strawberries and the vanilla bean Häagen-Dazs that was a luxury. Comfort food that didn’t require cooking, and all of it things that would keep if Noah got hung up at the hospital. On a whim on his way to the register, he snagged a bouquet of tulips from a bucket. They looked happy and summery, and Kurt thought a little brightness in the kitchen would make him feel a little less like he was floundering.
Back at home, he sat on the couch and waited. Waited for Noah, and for the peace that he knew would come with confession.
*****
Noah had to admit, he was worried about Kurt. He’d heard from the night shift guys at the house about the kid, 13 or 14, covered in scars at various stages of healing, and the fresh, deeper cuts at his wrists. He’d thought the kid would have been taken to the pediatric psych ward on a hold, and maybe he had been. But he’d never expected Kurt to be involved. Not because he doubted his boy’s skills, but because Kurt was a 20 year old intern in Psychology, not a med student or budding psychiatrist. He also knew that some situations hit Kurt really hard. He’d told Noah the first week that he could handle the Eating Disorder kids, and the kids with chronic illness, but not Oncology. He hated Oncology, and had admitted over a very illegal bottle of wine that had been a welcome to the building gift from the grad students upstairs that Oncology made him think of his mother. Kurt dealt with it all, though. Just the week before, Kurt had come home after a particularly good day and told Noah that he loved what he was doing. Which was why the hollow-eyed Kurt he had seen outside the ER was such a shock. He really hadn’t seen that Kurt, that lost and empty boy, since the worst of the Karofsky situation all those years ago.
When he finally finished up in the ER, he walked down to the T and rode the same route that Kurt had earlier in the day. When he opened the front door, he saw Kurt sitting on the small couch they had gotten at a second-hand shop, staring off into space.
“Babe?” He put a gentle hand on Kurt’s arm.
“Hey.” His voice sounded hollow.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“A little. I got dinner.” He motioned with his head in the vague direction of the kitchen. Noah could see the plastic container with a chicken inside on the counter, and he assumed the rest of the meal was tucked away in the fridge; neither he nor Kurt liked their chicken cold.
“Do you want to eat first?” He wasn’t surprised when Kurt shook his head.
“No. I think I need to talk first.”
“OK. Let me change first. Be right back.” He headed to the bedroom, where he tossed his uniform into the laundry basket. He turned the shower to cool, jumped in and took the same kind of shower as he did at the station, using soap to wash up and shampoo his hair. He rinsed as quickly as he could, toweled off to where he could get clothes on, and was clothed and back in the living room less than 5 minutes after he had first turned the water on. He sat next to Kurt, tucked his legs under himself, and leaned his cheek against the back of the couch. “Talk to me.”
*****
It had been building for a few weeks, and he didn’t know how to tell Noah. He loved his work. Loved it in a way that surprised him, because really, the idea of dealing with kids who were sick and hurt had never appealed to him. He’d always thought that school counseling was where he wanted to be, but his supervisor had told him the first week that he had a real gift, especially with the kids who were really struggling. The ones in the eating disorder floor or the ones who were in group therapy for depression or self harm. Just two days ago over bitter coffee in the cafeteria, Adam had asked Kurt how he was able to see through all the crap the kids put out there. He hadn’t even had to think through a response. “I was the master of masks,” he’d said. “When you’ve worn them all, it’s really easy to see them on other people.”
He’d told Noah some of that, but there was so much more. He looked Noah in the eye, and began. “You know how I told you I’m really good at seeing the kids?”
“Yeah.”
“It goes deeper than that.”
“Okay.”
“I understand them. I understand where those feelings come from.”
“Okay.”
“Have you ever just had so many thoughts and feelings jumbled up inside you that you didn’t know what to do with them?”
“Yeah. That’s when I used to torment people and break shit.”
“Right. So you sent all of that out into the world. Not everybody does that. Some people just pull it all inside. It makes this kind of brick in your chest, and you feel like you’re suffocating. Sometimes from sadness, other times from anger. And then there are times when you can’t even identify it, but it’s big and there and it just hurts. Sometimes it feels like you’re being crushed and other times like you’re going to fly apart if anyone even breathes on you. And sometimes, the only way kids have to deal with that is to hurt themselves. To cut, or starve. Or to attempt suicide.”
“Right. Those are the kids you like working with.”
“Yes.” He had to stop again, to gather his thoughts. “I used to feel like that all the time.”
“But you didn’t . . .”
“No. I got lucky. Glee happened at a time when I thought I was either going to die or go crazy. I got to sing. And Glee made it a little easier to come out. And then I wasn’t suffocating anymore, and being able to breathe made it a little easier to get out of bed and face the world. But I understand where those feelings come from, and where those urges come from. There are still times I struggle with it.”
“Like when you’re stressed and stop eating.”
“Excatly. It’s a physical way that I can control what’s happening when my emotions go crazy. It’s a thin line in a lot of these kids, and I’ve walked that line so much myself, I just get overwhelmed.”
“Did you ever think about . . . ?”
“You can say it, Noah. Did I ever think about suicide?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Not in a concrete way. I could see the appeal, especially before I came out; I mean, sometimes I just wanted the feelings to stop, you know? But there was no was I would have ever done that to my dad. There are just some days when I think that if I hadn’t found Glee, I might not be here. Seeing that boy this morning really kind of sucker-punched me in a bad way. I did his intake. He wasn’t just a suicide attempt. He’s been a cutter since he was 9. 9 years old, Noah. He’s an honor student and a talented artist. And if his mom hadn’t felt like something just wasn’t right last night, he might have died.”
He really couldn’t even fight the tears. Noah shifted and held him. “I just hate that there aren’t measures in place to help kids who hurt so much. It’s got nothing to do with sexuality or anything; it’s like we’ve taught our kids that feelings are bad, and bad feelings are even worse, and they shouldn’t show their feelings unless they pretend to be all happy and bubbly, and there are all these kids who are dying because they don’t know how to handle the things they’re feeling.” He wiped his eyes on the hem of his tank top, and shifted again to look at Noah. “It pisses me off, and makes me sad. And that boy today broke my heart. He made me remember all of those days when I could have made a different choice.”
“But you didn’t. You got through it and you’re here with me, and you can help those kids.”
“Yeah. Thank you for listening.”
“Always. How come you never told me some of that stuff before?”
“Because it’s not the kind of thing you bring up in polite conversation: yes, I understand the inclination to hurt myself even though I never actually did. Kind of awkward. And it’s usually so much in the past for me.”
“That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt just as much when it’s not in the past.”
“I guess.”
“Promise me that you’ll talk with me when a case gets you down, okay?”
“Okay.”
“It just hurts me to see you like that.”
“I know.”
“Are you hungry now?”
“Maybe. I got ice cream.”
“The good stuff?”
Kurt nodded. “And strawberries.”
“Screw dinner. Let’s start with dessert.”