CHAOS THEORY: Vibrato

Chapter 23- Of Sepia and Vibrancy

"It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world."

-Chaos Theory

…

"There's a ripple effect in all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you."

-Anonymous

It was four p.m., ten years after the McKinley shooting to the day, and despite the sun shining down on Lima, Ohio, white candles were slowly being lit in a basin of water. One by one, wicks were brushed with fire and the candles were set afloat until eleven flames were reflected in the water, and in the eyes of their solemn audience. Eleven white candles for the eleven lives ruthlessly stolen.

Silence shrouded the crowd, broken up only by the occasional sniffling or shift of weight.

More candles, these a soft, butter-like yellow, were brought out and added to the pool. Their sheer number soon had the white surrounded- it was at least thirty- but they melded together with neither overwhelming the other, and the yellow almost made the white shine brighter. In the water's reflection, the tiny fires of each slowly joined to form a single, sure flame.

Silence still, mostly. Some smaller children were being tutted and hushed, and several of the attendants were muttering prayers or sympathies. These, however, didn't stop the silent, still feel to the air of the makeshift amphitheater.

Nor did the sound of a throat clearing into a microphone- or until the voice itself emerged, that was.

It was a worn voice, a wary one, high in pitch and simultaneously hard and soft in tone. An unmistakable one, to be sure.

Murmuring would have erupted through the audience if any of them had been able to shake their shock enough to do so. As it was, they settled for staring and working to hear through their haze.

Kurt Hummel, now twenty-seven and distinctly as determined as he'd ever been, plowed on.

He'd made a choice to come here, back to a city he'd left behind a decade ago and hadn't returned to since. And when Kurt Hummel made a decision, more often than not, for better or for worse, that was that. There was no more to it. So, he'd made a choice to come back, made a choice to get up here in front of all these people, some known and some not, and he'd see it through. His eyes caught those of his fiancé in the front row and he focused there a moment, allowing the knowledge that he had a support system all drawn out and watching and there for him to boost his confidence, along with his voice.

"I know. No-one was really expecting me. The minister who was going to be speaking first heard I'd agreed to come and immediately signed over the position. She was convinced this introduction needed to come from me, for your sake and for mine. I don't know about that, but for those who don't know me, my name is Kurt Hummel. And I survived the McKinley shooting. But there's a lot more to me being up here in front of you today than that."

The scream of sirens hadn't left Kurt's ears in twenty-four hours now, and he was beginning to suspect it never would.

Kurt turned over in the hospital bed silently, eyes opening again at the lack of solace closing them had provided. He could still feel the weight of David falling forward onto him, could still smell the blood that was suddenly even more everywhere all at once than it already had been. In his head, David's eyes were open and dull and watching, losing what was left of their life again and again as if on repeat.

And all he wanted was to be sleeping, but he couldn't seem to remember how.

Instead, he continued to watch and rewatch the moving of the gun, the slow slide of it toward his mouth, the knocking against his lips until they opened, the swirl of the metal on his tongue as he stared hollowly.

He felt again as the gun was abruptly yanked out and pressed instead into Karofsky's mouth, mingling their saliva a final time as the trigger was pressed and blood and other matter exploded out onto him.

His mouth and eyes flinched open and he stared into the darkness of the room for a stretch of inhaleexhaleinhaleexhale before forcing himself up from the bed and going to the light on the wall, bringing it up slowly. Light filled the room and he blinked into it once, his breath steadying out as he took in the clean white of the walls and linens.

Kurt moved back to the bed and fell back asleep with the lights on and the monsters only barely pushed back, sirens washed down to a dull intimation of warning in the back of his head, faded- but there nonetheless.

From the doorway, Burt Hummel peered in, taking in the room ensconced in a cocoon of white light and the disturbed blankets he'd been keeping smooth and took a deep drink of his coffee before moving slowly back to his son's bedside and reaching again for his hand, swallowing the scalding liquid right along with his heart.

He knew better than to turn the lights back off right now. Maybe someday- his son was strong- but not now. His fingers tightened around Kurt's, rubbing over his knuckles tenderly, and he closed his eyes, letting his head come forward and rest against the blankets. Exhausted, he fell into a shallow, short sleep and dreamt of the joyful, five-year old Kurt that hadn't known this kind of pain, and had held no legitimate reason to fear the dark.

Burt, Finn, Kurt, and Carole all went home the next day, their family still technically whole, but they retired to different rooms and all kept their doors open and lights on. And though they were all getting by, at the end of the month the electricity bill was twenty dollars higher than it had been before and their things were piled high in boxes.

Finn hesitated outside of a hospital door, eyes on the floor, fingernails on his right hand scratching absentmindedly over the bandage wrapping his left forearm.

He drew a breath and grimaced, forcing himself to land a quick knock against the side of the doorway.

Quinn's eyes didn't move from the wall they were traced on, excluding the smallest of flickers.

Finn swallowed convulsively, then forced himself into the room and dropped quickly into the seat next to her. His eyes moved over the wires and machines and tubes and bandages, then settled on the cotton sleeve of her hospital gown.

"Hi Quinn."

He paused, as if expecting a reply back, then winced slightly in realization.

"Sorry. I didn't mean that to sound like I… You know. I'm sorry I didn't visit you sooner. Between Kurt and Rachel, and just Glee period… They had Brittany's funeral yesterday. I thought you'd want to go, and I felt bad you couldn't. There was a ton of people there though. They're doing this big memorial thing in two weeks too, and it's going to be like for all the lives lost or something. It's weird, but I think we're supposed to be really grateful or whatever. I don't know."

He watched her for a long moment, then pursed his lips and swallowed again.

"I hate that he took your voice, but I'm really glad it wasn't your life, Quinn. I just had to say that. I'm sorry. I wish there was more I could have done."

Quinn jerked a notebook from the blanket covering her and took the pen abruptly in her trembling hand, writing 'GET OUT' in all angry, dark capital letters.

Finn swallowed, scratching at his bandaging harder.

"The other day I tried to play a video game to distract myself, but there was blood, and I threw up. And then I thought, before I would have sung, and that would work, but then all I hear in my head is Karofsky asking if we wanted to sing now. And then I just want to throw up more. But I thought, that's so bad. Because he messed up singing for me maybe a bit, but if I can get past his voice I still can. And you… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

In reply, Quinn just jerked the pen again, severely underlining her previous words again and again.

This time, he got the message, and in the middle of her sixth scratch the door softly clicked behind him, leaving her back to silence.

She turned on her side and closed her eyes and reached over to hit the nurse's button, showing them another sign when they came in to see what they could do.

All it said was 'too much pain'.

They filled up her IV with meds and within the hour she was out, somewhere in another world where anything else had been taken from her, anything that wasn't her voice. A world where her music could be untouched.

Finn had been wrong- she hadn't wanted to go to that funeral. And she didn't want to go to the upcoming memorial. She just wanted to sleep.

And maybe never wake up.

But, she reminded herself always, there had to be a reason she was still around. A reason she somehow hadn't been killed.

She just had to find out for sure why that was, and whether it was a curse or a miracle.

In the meantime, though, she was in too much pain, so sleep it was.

"Santana? You have a visitor."

Santana didn't look up.

"Tell them to go away."

"Please don't," Blaine spoke up quietly, and Santana's eyes flickered for a moment before growing stationary and cold once more.

"Long time no see, Betty."

"I know… Santana, I'm…"

"Save it," she spat at the table in front of her.

He flinched and stared down.

Silence reigned for several minutes, before Blaine awkwardly cleared his throat and tentatively stepped just ever so slightly deeper into the room, looking around himself, and then, when that only seemed to make everything worse, attempted not to look anywhere at all.

Santana rolled her eyes at this, but stared down at the table either way.

Blaine hesitated, glancing back behind himself, then took a deep breath and walked in all the way anyway, his gait stiff and overly formal, locked with clear tension.

He faltered again next to the couch Santana was slouched on before slowly opting instead for sitting rigidly in an armchair across the way. His eyes were glued to her knees, the skin there raw-looking. Her calves bore burn marks, and he knew she had twin pair on her palms and over her forearms. Most of her hair was gone, buzzed off like that of a chemo patient. He kept his eyes glued to her damaged knees, still, as the silence stretched out a gulf between them.

He'd gone over what he'd say again and again. Rehearsed it all.

But now that he was here his head was mostly just blank.

All he could see were the burns and worn, scratched flesh, and the guilt was already more than eating him alive.

If he'd only convinced them to come to the library with him…

Blaine cleared his throat, eyes flitting to her closed down face.

"You missed the funeral."

"And you missed everything," she snapped back scathingly, face twisting briefly before smoothing back out. "If you came to try and make me feel bad, I'm telling you now that I will break you first, Boop. You have no right…"

Blaine paused, then agreed quietly to this.

"I don't."

If he'd only gone with them in the first place…

"Then why are you here?"

He had no answer at first.

Not one she wouldn't tear him to shreds for anyway.

But then, since when had that stopped him before?

Blaine wasn't the best with words, and he knew it. He mostly just mixed together common clichés with little finesse, but a lot of charm- the latter how he got away with it. Mostly his earnestness distracted from the jumble of probably too saccharine sentiments he'd spewed. But Santana wasn't that big a fan of earnest on her best days. On her worst, it may be the catalyst to a very major blow up.

Or it might just get through to her.

Ever the optimist (even if it was mostly forced right now), Blaine took that hope and plowed on.

"I want to help."

Right away, he realized his phrasing had been wrong.

Her face contorted horrendously again, and she gave him a look like he was a particularly nasty breed of slug.

"Help? You want to help? Well, bravo, how sickeningly noble of you. Do you want a medal?"

"Santana-"

"No. You know when your help might have actually been wanted?"

Her voice cracked about half-way through, and he opened his mouth to answer, despite it being clear to them both that he wasn't meant to. Not that it mattered; Santana's voice picked right back up and kept on, the acid in it building.

"How about last week, when I got admitted to this place? Or the week before, when the cops were doing all those rounds, and the media was being a bitch, and everyone started talking about how Brit and I were bullies and people started saying maybe we'd deserved it. Or, hey, how about the weekend before that, when all I could do was sleep and sometimes wake up and just remember and have to scream and scream and take out my pocketknife and try to count all the reasons I had not to just stab myself with it? I still can't make it to two hands worth. And most of all, where were you that day? Any of that day? When Britt was in the hall and she wasn't moving and I couldn't find a heartbeat? When I was forced to let go of her and get dragged off and know that she was probably being covered in some sheet and I couldn't do anything? When they said her name on the news with the list of all the other kids that were dead? Where was your help then?"

Blaine just sat a few moments, and Santana did too, all the questions and the anger and the seething, bleeding hurt, all exposed and hanging in the air. Then, his head began to shake, and he drew a shuddering breath.

"I was just so scared. And angry. I thought once, when I was attacked a few years ago, that I could never be angrier with the world or with just the people around me, or with myself. But this was like all of that again and magnified, and, worse, I wasn't even hurt. I wasn't around for any of it. I had a minor asthma attack from smoke inhalation, meanwhile my friends are shot, or saw someone they cared about shot, or something. And what right do I have to feel that way when I wasn't even there? And I hate myself for not being there in the first place, for being one of the lucky ones, if there is any such thing here. I didn't know what I could say, and I knew you were going to hate me, Santana. I knew everyone would. And I always talk about courage, but I just didn't have any. Not with this. I didn't want to face you hating me, when I already hate myself, and especially over something I have no power to change or make better. But I'm here now, and it's just because it hit me earlier, like, what bullshit is that. I don't get to stop being a good friend when my friends need me most just because they might resent me, or because I'm also upset. So, here I am. I just wanted you to know that. I wasn't there for a lot of things I wish I could have been, but I'm here now, and for whatever might come up."

Santana's fingernails slowly lifted from her palm, leaving red indents, and for the first time that day she looked him in the eye.

"I can't deal with you right now."

Blaine nodded.

"That's fine. I'll leave if you do want that."

"But…" Santana paused, grappling with words, then let them loose in a rush. "I'll call you. I get phone calls here. Short ones, but you can get approved and put on the list, and I might call you. Psych places aren't as bad as I thought they'd be, and most of the people here make me look really sane, which is a plus, but it still really sucks. I'll probably be out in a couple more weeks. And then I'll just be doing out patient Dr. Phil junk. You owe me one thing though, alright?"

"Whatever you need."

Santana's nails folded back into her palms.

Her nostrils flared a moment, then she gritted her teeth and forced onward.

"Will you put flowers on her grave for me?"

Blaine nodded slowly, and exhaled shakily just the same.

"Of course."

He stood, nothing more seeming to need said, and moved to the door, hesitating only when his hand wrapped around the knob.

"Any specific kind?" he asked the wood finally.

Santana's eyes fell to her lap then closed hard, her nails biting her skin with increasing force.

"Her favorites are pink roses, dandelions, and sunflowers."

The use of the present tense didn't go unnoticed, but wasn't commented on. Instead, Blaine just nodded again.

"I will. I'll see you again soon."

Santana rolled her eyes at that.

"Just get out of here, dreamboat. I didn't say you could linger."

At that, he gave a snort of laughter, and so did she, even if the sensation of it felt strange, and as the door opened and closed she unconsciously let her nails leave her hand and instead just wove her fingers together, almost feeling for a moment that the hand clasping hers might not just be her own.

But then that was gone, and so was Brittany, and even with a friend's hand ready for whenever she needed it, it just wasn't the same. So, Santana left the room and retreated back to sleep, where everything that mattered didn't get taken from her, and she didn't have to notice the difference between 'is' and 'was'.

It turned out that no-one had needed to out Karofsky, or Kurt for that matter, to the police. Before anyone who had been aware of the goings-on between Dave and Kurt had any chance to inform any authorities, the search on Dave's room yielded enough that it was figured out quickly enough. The data collection on his computer picked up even more.

Searches on blackmail. On rape. On rape pornography. Videos that got more and more realistic. Sites he'd gone on anonymously to talk about his "sick urges". Advice he'd asked for on dealing with the boy he'd blackmailed into becoming his outlet. Connecting the dots got easier and easier with every three w's, and they started construction of a timeline when, inevitably, they did get reports.

Kurt had to come in to Finn's session of panic and let him off the hook about keeping his promise when the other boy literally started hyperventilating after the detectives tried asking him about a possible connection between Karofsky and his step-brother.

Puck, thankfully, saw Kurt before going in and made a point of saying bluntly: "I'm not keeping secrets for you, Hummel. Forget it." And then just going past before Kurt could say a word about how he understood that, or how he was sorry.

There were a lot of things, though, that they all left unspoken these days.

Sam, Kurt didn't see and didn't want to, but Finn passed along the message that they were done hiding things, and told Kurt that the message had been received. Kurt couldn't be sure if he was relieved or not.

Three weeks after the shooting, Kurt and Finn were set to go back to school, and did, if only technically.

Kurt saw a red jacket over bulky shoulders in the hall and promptly lost his breath and couldn't get it back for another forty-two minutes.

Finn saw the door into the Vocal Adrenaline choir room close and threw up.

The brothers each cut their first class at Carmel, where all the students from McKinley had been assigned to finish out the year while neighborhoods were rezoned and a new school started construction, holing up in a corner of the bleachers. The pair didn't really talk, but somehow came to the understanding anyway that they wouldn't be going to any more classes at Carmel that day, or the next.

Or any after that.

In the time they would have spent in their last three periods of the day, they both began looking up houses on their phones, googling cities and real estate costs and everything they could think of to look up.

When they got home, Burt was on the computer too, with Carole in a chair she'd pulled from the dining room next to him, and they were doing just the same.

In three days' time, the Hummel-Hudson clan was settled on New Jersey, and was getting a house under the works, and looking up the cost for extended-stay hotel rooms, and almost their entire house was in boxes.

By the end of the month, despite both hell and high water, they would be on their way to a new home, and a new school, and even if it didn't actually change all that much, they'd all find the change in surrounding felt necessary, and they'd be stuck in a hotel for three months, then in a house smaller than what they'd been in, but the electric bill would go down either way when they did eventually move in, until the levels were just slightly above what had once been normal.

They would find a new beginning, and, as Hummel-Hudsons did, which Kurt was one, survive.

But survival was a fight every day, and in the here and now, surrounded by boxes and with his guilt mounting along with the cardboard compilation of their lives, fighting was the last thing Kurt wanted to do.

Which was why it only figured that Puck's voice would announce behind him:

"You can't be serious."

Kurt sucked in his lips and drew his arms firmly over his chest.

"Go away Puckerman."

"Fuck you, Hummel. You're running then?"

"I told my dad and Carole and Finn all not to let you up here if they had you come over."

"That's what Finn said," Puck affirmed nonchalantly. Then, with more anger saturating his voice, "Where are you going to go Kurt?"

"Finn didn't tell you?" Kurt asked back, tone noncommittal, eyes refusing to meet Puck's.

Puck snorted.

"Don't you dare blow me off after all the shit I did for you. And I know where you're going. Just like you know that's not what I mean."

"Go away, Noah," Kurt bit out. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Shouldn't you?" Puck retorted darkly. "I'm sure there are other closeted jocks at Carmel for you to…"

He stopped himself too late, as always. Kurt pulled in a lip, his hands twisting against the fabric of his pockets.

"You should say it, Noah."

"I wasn't saying anything," Puck said immediately, tone exasperated. His good arm rose to fist through his Mohawk.

"Yes you were."

Kurt's voice was quiet, his face strangely blank.

"It's okay. I won't start crying or anything. You're right. It was my fault it went that far. It's my fault they're dead."

Puck blew out a breath and started a step forward before taking two back instead.

"Shut up."

Kurt inhaled deeply and allowed his eyes to fall shut, his arms' position over his chest tightening even more.

"I can't stay here, Puck," his voice was hollow, along with his eyes. Not really there. But how long had it been since he really was?

Puck was silent for a beat before words clawed their way up his throat, if only to regain some comfort with the presence of sound.

"What about glee club?"

It sounded dumb, and Puck knew it, but he was far beyond his ability to care, and, as far as he figured, used to it anyway.

"Glee is about opening yourself up to joy," Kurt recited mechanically, eyes blank on a box a few feet away. Then, they flicked to Puck abruptly. "I don't know about you, but I don't think I can really do joy right at this moment. A few weeks ago, I might have maybe been able to pull it off. Even then it would have been a stretch. But right now? Puck, I don't think I could do it even if Alexander McQueen was alive again and using me in a fashion shoot and calling out in the background 'give me glee!'. Glee burned. The choir room is rubble. 'Give me glee'? Give me a break."

Puck winced and drew further back.

"Do you remember what you always used to say?" he asked, anger seeping with fear into his voice.

Kurt wasn't looking at him again.

"You'll have to be more specific, Puckerman," he replied, and his voice now was just tired.

"One day," Puck quoted quietly, "you'll all work for me." Then: "You seemed unbreakable, you know? We threw you in with the garbage every day, slushied you, tortured-"

"And how do I seem now?" Kurt asked, cutting him short, tone still utterly lackadaisical.

Puck didn't even have to think about it.

"Broken."

This earned him no answer, not even really an acknowledgement.

There was no real need for one.

"Will you ever come back?" Puck asked finally.

Kurt closed his eyes.

He didn't have an answer for that really either.

Puck swallowed, dragging his hand through his Mohawk and fisting it forcefully.

"Fine. If you need to leave and not, whatever, that's your choice. I get it."

Kurt looked to Puck sideways, his glasz eyes inscrutable but focused, unwavering on the boy next to him.

"But," Puck's voice again became hard under Kurt's increased scrutiny, "you can't just shut the rest of us out until you're gone."

"I can do what I want," Kurt interjected, voice suddenly fierce.

Puck's eyes seared him in return, and he tensed, glaring.

"I can," he added forcefully.

"Let me talk," Puck retorted, tone dark and determined.

"You're right, and you can do whatever the fuck you need to do for you. But you shouldn't do that. Not after all we did for you. Do you even realize how fucked that is? You realize Sam's family lost their house because they had to be able to pay his medical bills? They're stuck up in a hotel now. Everything's gone to shit. And even if no-one can blame you guys for wanting to jump ship, because really it's what we all want to do, it's still not fair for you to desert us all completely. Not after this, Kurt. Even if we all weren't around as much as we should have been… And we should have noticed…."

Puck's voice was bitter, the words spat like something sour, but his gaze was sure, and his brow contrite.

"We should have. We all could have stopped it, but don't for a second think you can take blame, if we can't. And we won't. Because at the end of the day, it was Karofsky who pulled the damn trigger, every time. It was him who set the fire. And anyway, point is, when he… when he did pull it-"

Puck took in a deep breath and came toward Kurt, steps forced but unfaltering.

"No-one abandoned you to it, did we? None of us would have, not for a second. So… So, don't leave us completely. Not when there's still a fucking gun on all of us, man. That won't do anything good, not for us, and not for you."

Puck swallowed then retreated, eyes turning to the ground.

"I can't say anything else. And I'm pretty sure it doesn't really matter to you, anymore. But that's screwed, because it should. And if there's any part of you that's still who you were once… Well, the Kurt Hummel I once knew would care. He cared about things. He'd care about this, anyway. I hope you're still enough him to at least know that. Come on, dude."

Puck fell silent once more, frowning deeply.

Kurt was unresponsive still, eyes set on his shoes.

At last, Puck sighed, pushing his hand through his Mohawk once more, and reached out abruptly, pulling Kurt into a hard hug, both surprised and not when the other didn't move to get away.

"You can't let that dickhead win, Hummel. Prove us all wrong, that you're still you and that you'll never really be broken. We need that, if nothing else. …Please."

Puck smiled grimly, looking strangely like a soldier come back from the front lines of war, and at last left.

Alone again, Kurt swallowed and squeezed his eyes closed, willing himself to not hear Puck's words repeating in his head.

The effort, though, was in vain.

Teeth gritted and feeling sick, Kurt sat down heavily on a box packed full with books, tugging his phone reluctantly free from his pocket when he could no longer suppress the urge.

He stared at it, as if not quite sure what to do with it, then numbly scrolled to his messaging and opened up a blank text, addressing it even more slowly to everyone in New Directions, the dead and the alive all the same, and then as if in an afterthought, to his dad and Carole, too.

Looking at all those names, all the people he'd sometimes hated and always loved, the words came to the surface like they'd been waiting to all along, somehow becoming the easiest thing in all this.

The only thing easier, though he couldn't say why, was hitting send.

The motion was thoughtless, just like the words, and when they were gone, he was slammed by exhaustion, as though he'd been expending effort to stop himself doing this before without realizing it, and now that he'd let it go-

Well, he might actually be able to get some sleep.

In fact, he definitely could.

Kurt stood, then, and looked around the room.

Night was just beginning to fall, and shadows draped themselves in eerie languidness over the stark room, making themselves at home.

Kurt sighed, and went to his bed, sliding in.

He turned the light on, of course, moments before sleep took him.

But, strangely, the action was more an obligatory one than anything else.

It was almost like healing.

Almost.

That night, Kurt had no nightmares, but he also had no dreams.

Numbly, Noah Puckerman flexed his fingers around his phone.

He glanced at his bedside table. At the gun he'd spent the last several days considering, and the last half-hour very considering. Then back to his phone.

One new text from Kurt Hummel.

He was almost afraid to open it.

No.

Who was he kidding anymore?

The idea that he was any kind of a bad ass was long gone. Had been the second Karofsky had come into the choir room. Definitely when Quinn… when the mother of his daughter was hurt. And he didn't do a damn thing to stop it.

When his friends were attacked, and his teacher was killed.

When he pissed his pants in terror.

When he yelled at his little sister for closing her door too loudly, or his mom for banging a pot against the counter when she was cooking him some "Jewish healing" in the form of mazoball soup.

He wasn't kidding anyone.

He was terrified.

Puck swallowed thickly, reaching for the gun.

He wrapped his fingers around the metal and lay back on his bed, legs over the side, chest hardly moving.

His other hand brought up the phone again, and again he stared at the message alert.

Puck sighed.

Might as well, if it was over anyway, right?

He was being stupid about this.

He thumbed open the message, and stared at it.

It was short and to the point. Barely a message at all, but all the same more than enough of one.

"I'm still here. I'll be moving, but I'm not going anywhere. We'll make it somehow."

Puck nodded to himself, once then again, and then rolled out of bed.

He tossed the gun into his trashcan, heart suddenly thundering, then opened his door and hurried downstairs. His mom was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when he spoke, voice cracking.

"Ma…"

"Noah?"

She turned and he rushed her immediately, arms going around her and holding on for dear life as his breath picked up pace and tears welled.

"I need help."

His mom stroked fingers through his hair after a moment of hesitation, sighing against his ear.

"Baby, right now we all do. But we're fighters, okay? Yesh Tikvah. It's in our blood to survive, Noah. Alright? We'll get you help. I'm glad you asked."

And he was, too.

Bad ass or not.

Quinn stared at the message then shuddered, shoving her phone away.

Even Kurt was talking now, preaching hope or whatever.

How could he?

She'd thought that if nothing else she could count on Kurt at least to be more messed up in all this than her.

Next he'd start believing in God or something.

It only figured he would now, just when she was starting to think she may see his point.

She blinked back tears and pressed the call button next to her bed.

She needed help.

Help only more pain meds could give.

Soon the nurse was there, plugging a new drip into her IV, pity in her eyes. It made Quinn feel sick and revolting.

Thankfully, in no time she'd be fast asleep, and not able to feel anything.

But not Thank God, she remembered, drifting off.

He had forsaken her, if he even existed, and she was done with everything. Her hands itched to go to her throat, to rub over the bandages until they were gone and she was free to bleed out, or something. Anything.

At least Kurt had mentioned moving, which meant he'd probably be taking her brain dead asshole of an exboyfriend with him. Good. She hoped they all left. Maybe then she'd finally be alone, like she deserved.

Hatred twisting her insides still, Quinn fell into a restless, drug-induced sleep.

At her bedside, only now that she was asleep, Artie Abrams allowed himself to roll forward and take her hand in his, eyes closing as he murmured prayers he'd not said since his own accident and opening as he whispered stories of when he too had thought himself beyond real help.

Maybe someday he'd tell them when she was awake, but he didn't think either of them were ready quite yet, especially when this was just as much if not more about helping himself feel better. He needed to feel like he was doing something, after a choir room where he'd been stuck watching while the people he cared about fell.

He'd gotten the text, of course, too, and could only guess what Quinn must have thought of it. She had to feel as helpless and angry as he had, at least. And knowing that, and knowing that Finn and Kurt were both doing their part in leaving, Artie felt he could stop his own helplessness if he could assuage the loneliness of hers, and the others.

He'd been visiting everyone since two days after the shooting.

It was the only way he could get any sleep, himself.

He stroked a thumb over the top of Quinn's bruised hand and kept quietly talking, noting the way she tensed when he got too quiet, relaxed when his voice rose, as if he was speaking somehow for the both of them, taking both of their loads off with the slow winding of his tales.

He'd talk as long as that kept up.

He'd talk forever if it meant helping someone.

Maybe especially if it meant helping himself and this particular someone.

After all, he'd spent so long having himself spoken for. Taking care of the words for someone else was something new, something special.

Amazing, he considered, and "Amazing," he said both to and for her. "Maybe something good can come out of even this." If anyone could unearth the green from beneath this burnt soil, Artie was pretty sure it would be his Glee club.

And in the meantime, he'd just keep talking.

"Kurt? Are you sure you can handle this?"

Ten years later, though not quite to the day, hands curled in the space over his shoulder, waiting for the blades to rise and greet them, assuring them in the gesture it was okay to touch, and moving slowly and tenderly when after a beat they did so.

"Not completely."

"What did Dr. Wineberg say?"

Kurt grimaced and sighed.

"He said if I have any doubt I really shouldn't push myself," Kurt grumbled. "Of course. But I couldn't just drop out now. I owe everyone that much."

"You don't owe anyone anything," the voice in his ear rebuked that immediately. "I hate when you talk like that, Kurt..."

Kurt sighed, turning and leaning into his fiancé's chest, burying his head in the other man's shoulder as he shook it.

"Liam, don't start with that again please. It's an ugly truth," he murmured. "And I'm not claiming to take all the fault. But both of us know that if I'd just said something way back when it all started, a huge amount of hurt could have been avoided. I had a role in the way it all played out, and even if I shouldn't part of me will always feel responsible. But I think maybe, I'm hoping, if I can go out there and at least do this, that part might just get a little bit smaller and a little less painful."

A nod and a kiss to his head was his answer, quickly followed by ones to his forehead and cheeks and lips. Kurt kissed back quietly, trying to push back the melancholy settling over him. He was so much more whole now, and he was himself, but there was still this awful, agonizing wound inside of him, and he felt like he was just pouring alcohol into it with this latest decision. The pain was tripling and he hated it, but he knew the damage would be lesser for it. He just had to get through.

He always did.

No matter what he'd once thought, he was Kurt Hummel, and nothing and nobody pushed the Hummels around. It was nice, though, that this time he didn't have to go through it alone.

Or didn't feel like he had to.

A knock on the door had them both turning and Blaine smiled awkwardly at them from the doorway, the expression shifting quickly back down.

"Sorry to interrupt. Kurt… Liam. It's good to see you two again."

"Yeah, you too," Liam spoke up. "Should I give you two some space? …I know we need coffee."

"That'd be great, sweetie," Kurt murmured. "You know my order."

"Still the same as it was?" Blaine spoke up, an eyebrow raised and a smirk touching at his lips.

"I know what I want," Kurt replied easily and Liam laughed as he left, whispering conspiratorially to Blaine, "His caffeine and his stubbornness are probably the only things about him that will never change."

"You're telling me."

There was a brief silence following the close of the door and then Blaine stepped forward quickly and pulled Kurt in for a tight hug.

"It's been too long."

"Yeah," Kurt sighed. "I wish the reunion with everyone could be happier, but…"

Blaine shrugged, pulling back and smiling slightly, if painfully.

"Are you ready for it?"

"Not really."

Blaine paused again, then sighed.

"No-one is saying you have to go through with it, you know? There's a reason most of us didn't volunteer to speak Kurt. And almost no-one expected you to. Of all of us, you probably have the most reason not to…"

Kurt scowled slightly, despite himself.

"Why does everyone keep trying to talk as if I shouldn't be doing this? First Finn, then Liam, then Sam, then Tina, then Dr. Wineberg, and then more Liam, since he won't let anything rest, and now you. I'm fine. I have to do this."

Blaine straightened at the steel in his old friend's voice and sucked in his lips a moment, expression tight.

"That's the thing, though. You don't have to-"

"Yes," Kurt bit out. "I really do. And it's not just for you guys or for the media attention and the causes or for everyone that died in part because of my lack of a voice. It's also for me. To give me just a little of the peace that I need about this. So if you can not mother-hen me for just like a minute here I'd really appreciate it. You of all people should understand that I can take care of myself. You and Liam, both, actually. I'm twenty-seven years old now, for God's sake. I'm not a stupid teenager anymore that's too caught up in my own head to know what I can and can't handle. It's unnecessary for anyone to be so worried."

"That may be. As your friend, though, I think I'm kind of obligated. And with Liam being your fiancé, he's got even more right than I do," Blaine said lowly, then rubbed his neck and smiled at Kurt a little. "I still feel weird saying that."

Kurt stared at him a moment, then sunk back onto the hotel room's bed.

"Have any advice for me? You were always the fortune cookie."

"Does courage work?"

Kurt eyed his hands.

"I don't know, Blaine. It's one-thirty, and at four I'm supposed to stand at the memorial and talk about everything in a way that doesn't sound completely demented and bitter, so I don't know. Does it? Did it then? Will it now? Is courage somehow meant to be enough?"

"I don't know about enough. But I know that then and now, as far as I can tell, courage has always helped."

"I guess we'll find out," Kurt said after a moment, and his voice was weary and distant, but still hard. "Because one way or another, I'm getting up there. I have to. And I want to."

Blaine squeezed his shoulder and moved toward the door.

"That's good, Kurt. I'll see you at four then. I just wanted to say hi and wish you luck. And courage. I'll let Quinn know you're still good for the speech."

Kurt nodded and smiled vaguely in his direction.

"As if I could let down the great reverend Fabray. I have to at least try to get the crowd warmed up before she talks. You know… as horrible and stunting as it was, we grew up didn't we?"

"Yeah. I guess we did…"

And then Blaine left and Kurt frowned at the door for a moment before swallowing and reaching for his pen and his index cards. He scanned what he had in terms of notes and a speech, then reached for a stack of blank of cards and somberly started to write.

This chapter dedicated to those lost and left behind by the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. Here's hoping someday we learn, and that gun violence in our schools can be diminished to a point of nonexistence. The massacres in real life and the one in this story are tragedies that shouldn't, by any accounts, happen, and yet, when they do, a note that life ultimately returns and triumphs. No matter how far any story, be it fiction or not, ventures into darkness, there will always be some sprig of hope and some return to light. May all those taken too soon, whether it be in this most recent shooting, or in any of those prior, or in any incident of school violence at all, rest at peace and in a better place. Hope is never gone no matter what it looks like, and in the worst tragedies, it is love and it is life that truly thrive.

"Look at how a single candle can both defy and define the darkness."

- Anne Frank

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

Thank you all for your support last chapter. I didn't take down the note, because A) I wasn't sure if it would send out the notification to everyone about the chapter being up; and B) I was touched by all the feedback I did receive, and from there unsure if taking down that note would then wipe out the responses. Either way, I'm going to make a note on the heading of it that it can be skipped, and just leave it, at least for now.

As an aside, I don't know how Quartie found its way into this, as I'm not particularly a shipper, and it wasn't exactly planned. But I think I was drawing parallels between this Quinn and the one that popped up after the accident in 'On My Way', and her and Artie's connection in the aftermath of the accident apparently decided it was Meant to Be after this incident as well. I hope it wasn't too pairing-y for anyone or anything.

On a final note, I hope I did this chapter justice. It's a sticky subject, and the wrap up is definitely the hardest part, but we've just got the afterward from here, so... Thank you all again for your support.

Lots of Love,

LunalitSol.