A/N -- I do not own the characters from Glee or BtVS. They belong to their own owners. Enjoy!
Kurt finds out by accident, and he can’t tell a soul.
He’s not used to hiding from his family, so he avoids looking his father in the eye and picks a fight with Finn over something absurd and stomps angrily to his room to sulk in private. The entire time the same thought keeps running through his head: only two more days, only two more days, only two more days,
and Kurt’s scared and frightened and all he really wants to do is crawl into his father’s arms and let his dad hold him close and rock him, like when he was little.
Kurt doesn’t come down for dinner.
Carole’s nice enough to leave a tray outside his room, and Kurt picks at the food a little helplessly because only two more days, only two more days, only two more days
but he also doesn’t want to spend those two days hungry and weak.
Kurt apologizes to Finn the next morning at breakfast, and offers to help his dad in the shop that weekend in case things get backed up. He isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to do.
Before he goes to school he hugs his father close and says I love you
over and over again. It feels too much like goodbye, but his dad just ruffles his hair and says love you too, kiddo,
before sending him on his way.
Santana corner’s him before second period. “You’d better not have said a word, porcelain,” she sneers and Kurt’s blinded momentarily because he thinks he understands why Santana’s been such a bitch for such a long time and he wishes she didn’t have to be so strong.
“Can’t, remember?” He snarks back and its odd because yesterday the world had been normal and magic was just something out of Harry Potter novels.
“Keep it that way,” she flounces off and Brittany looks at Kurt a little apologetically before following Santana towards the math wing.
Kurt normally loves Glee, loves hanging out with his friends and texting Blaine surreptitiously while Mr. Shue isn’t looking and Rachel’s screeching away at whatever that week’s assignment is. He thumbs the keypad thoughtfully and tries tapping out something, a warning or message and he dabbles a bit with code (like in the spy movies he’s never allowed himself to watch), but every time he looks away the letters rearrange themselves and all the screen says is miss you. or love you. and Kurt doesn’t want the first time he tells Blaine that he loves him to be by text message or over the phone. The voice in his head is saying Saturday, Saturday, Saturday,
though, and he isn’t sure he’ll even see
Blaine before then, so he hits send before he can talk himself out of it.
Kurt makes sure to kick Santana’s chair extra hard when it’s his turn to perform. Bitch
he thinks, but for some reason it sounds a lot more like hero
then he’s comfortable admitting.
Kurt debates ditching school Friday to drive to Dalton, surprise Blaine, drag him away from the Warblers and the tests and the grades and the pressure until its just the two of them running. He doesn’t think it matters where they’d run to, though. He’s pretty sure that once the world ends its over everywhere and not just in Ohio.
Instead, he walks out his front door and into a solid body that he’s never seen before, and fashion atrocities aside, Kurt’s sure he would remember a designer eye patch.
“Kurt Hummel?” the man asks and Kurt nods reflexively. “You need to come with me.”
Kurt doesn’t try to hide, or run away. Instead he pats his pocket to make sure he has his cell and nods. The man puts a hand on Kurt’s shoulder and the world disappears and reappears in a matter of seconds. He’d ask himself how they did it but he knows the answer already. “Magic’s real, Hummel. Get over it, I have.”
Santana sounds like a bitch even in his head.
“It’s like the ark,” the pretty red-head babbles. Kurt thinks about it for a minute but can’t bring himself to ask any questions, can’t bring himself to say: “But I’m not Noah,” or “Rain of water, rain of fire--what’s the difference, really?” and it surprises him. He’s always counted his ability to snark and bitch as one of his highest prized commodities.
“You and Britt can keep each other company.” Kurt doesn’t ask why Santana won’t be there, can’t bring himself to think of where she’ll be, where Blaine and his father and Finn and Carole will be. He wants to say “no,” and “take me home,” but he doesn’t.
“I know it’s not perfect,” the red-head is talking again and Kurt forces himself to actually pay attention. “But we only have limited room.” And Kurt’s pretty sure that’s the nicest euphemism for mass extinction he’s ever heard.
“Are you scared, Kurt?” Brittany asks. The room is crowded with people and Kurt is sitting against the side of the contraption, Brittany’s hand pressed in his palm.
Kurt nods. “I wish I could say goodbye.”
“But I’m here!” Brittany says, but all Kurt can think is: but Blaine and my father and Finn and Carole and Mercedes and Rachel and Puck,
the names on endless repeat in his mind.
“I’m glad you’re here, Brittany.” Kurt whispers, squeezing her hand. He looks at everybody else in the capsule and closes his eyes.
Brittany squeezes his hand back and leans her head on his shoulder. “Where’s Santana?” she finally whispers and Kurt doesn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so he lets go of her hand and wraps his arm around her shoulder.
Afterwards, its different. Kurt and Brittany walk outside and stare at the blood-orange sky, look at the broken ground and the burnt earth.
The red-head comes around and starts talking about “mourning” and “remembering” and “rebuilding” but Kurt’s ears are fuzzy and Brittany hasn’t let go of his hand in nearly ten hours. He looks at the red-head and thinks: why couldn’t you have saved them?
He feels Brittany drop his hand before he hears her cry of “Santana!” and part of him resents it, resents that Brittany gets some version of a happily ever after while he gets a list of names that keep repeating in his head, over and over again, an endless diatribe of the people he couldn’t warn, didn’t even try to save.
A hand drops onto his shoulder and Kurt looks up. It’s the man with the eye patch only now its dirty and torn and twisted. Kurt’s finger’s ache to fix it because he never could stand an accessory not worn properly.
Neither of them say anything, just stand there and breath the acrid air. Kurt’s hair flutters in something that is masquerading as a breeze and he wishes, just for half-a-second, that he had hairspray to style it correctly.
Kurt’s cell is heavy in his pocket. He opens it and stares at the last text message received: love you too, silly :)
and his heart aches.