Work Text:
He finally breaks down in Blaine's car, on the way home from the train station. One moment he's looking out the window, at a blur of corn and soy and trucks and billboards, and the next he's doubled over and sobbing into his hands, great ugly noisy sobs that feel like they're ripping him apart. They end up curled together in the back seat with the car parked across three spaces at a strip mall, Blaine rubbing his back and saying over and over, "It's OK, it's gonna be OK," while Kurt lets waves of grief and rage and horror wash over him.
He's been dealing with it, of course. He cried to his dad, when he and Finn got home after opening their letters, and his dad was ready with a plan. "So you'll apply next year," he said. "You'll help me get the books in order in the car shop, get some savings going, and next year you'll apply to every damn theater school in the country. I've never seen you give up on anything, Kurt. You're not going to start here." And Kurt nodded and thanked him because how could he say no to that?
And then he and Finn put on "Toy Story" and worked their way through two large pizzas, and with the green plastic soldiers running around on screen, Finn started talking about the army, and that was huge enough that Kurt stopped thinking about his own future for a while.
It's not until Rachel's train is speeding toward New York, and Kurt's crawling back to Lima, that the weight of it hits him, like an anchor dropping in his chest. He didn't make it. He's not getting out. And it's just too much.
**
The next week or so he's frozen, mostly. He stays in his room. He leaves the door unlocked, for his dad's sake. He's vaguely aware of Blaine's presence, offering quiet support. He eats, or maybe he doesn't, he doesn't notice.
His DVD collection is a minefield (music and show business, is that really all there is to him?), so he ends up watching the trashiest reality TV. He's not paying attention anyway.
It's really, really not OK.
**
Time passes. He starts moving again. He helps Mercedes prepare for her big move to L.A. He redecorates.
Now that he's graduated (and maybe out of sympathy), he's allowed to close the door when Blaine comes over, and they get increasingly brazen, enjoying the thrill of it, comfort sex or just sex sex, in the middle of the day with the curtains drawn and the A/C blasting.
Blaine should be happy; he can stop worrying about losing Kurt in New York. But Blaine is sweet and wonderful and not at all relieved that Kurt's stuck in Lima with him.
Blaine has ideas - schools and cities and connections, so many alternate universes - but he doesn't push. He's just there. Wonderful and there. And slowly, haltingly, painfully, Kurt starts to think about the future again.
**
It's into July when Kurt remembers the Post-it. It's stuck in his scrapbook from fall semester, next to a Hummel for Congress bumper sticker and some pieces of confetti from election night. He's done so much reorganizing that it takes him a minute to remember where the book is; the previous month is kind of a blur, but he distinctly remembers a day when it seemed like a good idea to purge all traces of school from his room; Carole intervened and said all the right things, and they compromised on piling everything from McKinley into file boxes, Carole whisking them away somewhere safe. She tracks them down for him, after he promises not to throw anything away; he just wants to look at something.
The Post-it has a name and a phone number on it, with a 202 area code.
He thought it was funny at the time. Flattering, for sure. But not a serious possibility; not his thing. He was so unbelievably cocky, he realizes now - applying to NYADA without a real thought to a back-up plan, even after losing the race for class president and the lead in West Side Story. He just couldn't picture a non-NYADA future at all. And now he has nothing.
Except ... he doesn't.
He hesitates before pressing "call," and then thinks, what on earth does he have to lose?
A female voice answers immediately. "Josh Lyman's office."
"- Hi," Kurt says, his mouth suddenly dry. "This is Kurt Hummel. I ... managed Burt Hummel's campaign for Congress last year, in Ohio - the 4th Congressional District. Um. Mr. Lyman said to call if I was interested in, uh, working with him. Or talking about working with him."
"What did you say your name was?"
"Kurt Hummel."
"From the Ohio 4th?"
"Yes." There's a pause at the other end of the line, and the faint sound of typing. Hesitantly, Kurt adds, "I'm the ... kid. He might remember me that way. Kid who ran his dad's campaign."
There's another brief pause, and then the voice comes back. "Great. Kurt, can you hold for just a moment?"
"Sure," he says. He swallows down his nerves and is just starting to think about what to say when a familiar voice comes on the line. "Kid from the Ohio 4th! Musicals, right?"
And, ouch, but what can he say? "That's right," Kurt says. "Thank you for taking my call. I'm - impressed that you remembered me."
"Course I remember you," Josh says. "You caught me at a good time. The President's out on the trail; Congress is doing its usual nothing; nothing's blowing up. What can I do for you?"
"Well." Kurt realizes he's got his phone in a death grip; he makes himself relax. "When we spoke after the election, you said if the musical theater thing didn't work out, I should give you a call. So. I'm calling."