It hit him like… well, like a half-solid, half-liquid wall of freezing cold red.

Kurt could hear their cackles as they disappear down the hall. Slowly, he lifted his hands to wipe the icy sludge away. His eyes stung a little from the dye but that wass nothing compared to the pressure-like pain pulsing in his head.

Ugh, brain freeze, Kurt thought, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes in an attempt to push away the pain. What is it you’re supposed to do? Push your tongue to the roof of your mouth? But that was for the other kind of brain freeze, the one that didn’t involve taking a slushie to the face.

It was in his hair, on his face and clothes and a sliver of ice was caught in his ear. As he grabbed the last books from his locker and threw them into his bag, he could feel something slide out of his hair and down the back of his shirt collar. His shoulders tensed, hitching up around his neck and the muscles in his back clenched as he braces the cold semi-liquid slid down his back at a torturously slow pace.  He shook out his head, trying to regain control of his body temperature but all he achieved is the raining down of little red droplets on the linoleum floor of the corridor.

Kurt made his way out, glad he had stayed behind in the choir room to practise his song for tomorrow because it meant the parking lot is next to empty. He slid into his car, careful not to lean on the seat. His clothes were ruined, he didn’t want to have to worry about the upholstery too. He eased off his jacket, careful not to shed any of the still unmelted ice.

Kurt drove home, taking care not to stare at the jacket on his passenger seat, or the red marks that were already beginning to stain. Tears threatened him but he pushed them back. It’s just a reaction from the dye, he thought in a failing effort to convince himself.

The shop was open late on Thursdays so his dad wouldn't be home for a while. Kurt took the jacket and went down to his basement bedroom, mournfully grabbing the pre-treatment cleaning supplies from under the sink as he passed the kitchen. It was only a minute or two after he begins to inspect the damage before he realised the jacket was unsalvageable. He dropped it to the ground in a heap, because who needed to worry about wrinkles on ruined jacket?

Kurt showered, scrubbing hard to get the artificial gunk out of his hair and off his skin. When he got out, he could still feel the ghost of the sticky drink on him, haunting him with the reminder that this will happen again, just like it has before. He unclenched his jaw when he noticed he had been all but crushing his teeth together in frustration. He hated this, hated how this made him feel, how they could do this so often and get away with it so easily. A slow burning anger started to seep through him, he could feel it burning up in him like fire...

But maybe that was just his body circulating the heat from the shower around him.

In his room he saw the jacket. It was an ivory cream, tailored, double breasted jacket, with ornamented buttons and matching belt. In its crumpled state Kurt could see the red that blossomed across it, like a blush on pale skin. At that very moment, he despised it. He stalked over to it, snatching it up from where it lay.

"I hate you!" Kurt yelled at it, shaking the jacket. He was angry again, frustration and pain merging together, sending a raging heat coursing through him. "I hate you! I hate it! All of it! All of them! It's not fair!" He had never been this angry before, it was buzzing through him. There was a tingly feeling in his arms and legs and his hands felt like they have red hot pins and needles. "Why do you get to do this? Why do you get to torture people's lives every day and get away scot free!? It's not fair! It's not! It's not, it's not, it's not, it's not, it's not!!"

Something bright and white hot flared up in from of him suddenly. His left hand, the one not holding the jacket, shot up to shield his eyes. His right hand felt abnormally hot, like it should have been painful but it just wasn't. Slowly, Kurt lowered his arm.

There, in his hand, was his jacket... or at least what was left of it. All around his fingers was charred fabric. He stared at it, mouth gaping, watching the tiny licks of flame that hang like a barrier between the good, undamaged material and the charcoal black waste. Kurt shook his jacket to put out the flames. Something in the back of his mind told him that that would only fan the fire and make it worse but they just disappeared, as though without protest.

Kurt's eyes traveled to his hand, the one holding the jacket. He could still feel the burning pins and needles on his skin but it wasn't painful.

Realisation hit him like a slushie to the face.

Kurt flung the jacket away from him with an undignified, "AARGH!!" and stumbled back against a wall. He felt his back collide with it at the same time his knees buckled and he slid down ungracefully. His chest was rising and falling too hard and too fast and he could feel it seem to shake with the force of his heartbeat. His pulse was everywhere - his neck, his head, his hands, he could even hear it in his ears. His mouth formed and reformed around one word, nothing coming out but unintelligible whispers until-

"M-mutant."

Kurt stared at his hand, not sure exactly what he wanted it do. Did he want it to spout fire and deem him a freak for the rest of his life? Or did he want it to be a figment of his imagination and go back to being a lonely, bullied, gay boy in Ohio? Jackets could spontaneously combust, right?  I mean, sure, it wasn't all that warm and there wasn't enough static electricity in the air to cause a spark and his jacket wasn't exactly dry thanks to all the slushie but still there is... maybe... possibly a chance this could have happened?

Kurt's hand looked completely normal, though it felt a little unnaturally warm. He focused all his concentration on it, staring at his palm, willing it to ignite. "Come on, come on," he chanted in desperation, "just light!"

With his last word, he gave his hand a little shake and then there, floating on his hand, was a tiny flame. It blossomed up from his palm like a little flower, orange-red and dancing. Kurt stared at it, couldn't take his eyes off it. It was terrifying and mesmerising all at the same time, like a terrible beauty. He gace his hand another shake and the flame vanished, no evidence to say it had been there at all.

"Whoa," Kurt breathed, his heart rate had calmed down when he saw the fire, it was almost soothing to him, but now the flame was gone he's becoming anxious again. "I'm... I'm a mutant. I'm a... a..."

If he wasn't already sitting, his legs would have given out from under him again. He stared back at him palm, giving it a shake to spurt a lick of flame and then another to make it vanish, repeating this over and over.  He kept the flame in his hand once, rolling it around, letting it dance over and tickle his fingers. He was grinning despite himself, somehow elated by this tiny flame.

He became adventurous, as Kurt Hummel does, and bounced it in his hand once or twice. When he started getting more confident, he tossed it up and over, catching it in his other hand. He did it again and again, watching the tail of the fire as it moves, like the tail of a comet.

His phone buzzed by the bed and the flame fell from his hand and Kurt's broken concentration meant it disappeared before it reaches the ground. He watched the spot for a moment, before pushing himself up and walking to the bedside table.

It was just a text from Rachel, asking how his song practise had gone earlier. He sent back a short reply, hoping she would read it as he didn't want to talk. He was itching to get back to playing with his newfound talent but a look at the time told him his dad will be home soon. A little disappointed, he trudged up stairs to make dinner but froze as he reaches the top step.

What would he say to his father? Could he tell him? Would he tell him? And what would he say if he did? Sure, Burt was an understanding man, he had been when Kurt had told him he was gay, but this was different. This was mutant. Where gays were avoided, mutants were completely outcast in Ohio. Kurt could feel his stomach churn, but he did his best to push it aside.

Dinner was a hassle. Four times Kurt sprout spontaneous fire without meaning to and he almost burnt the chicken twice because of it. When the food was made, he left without eating any, scurrying back to his room. He hid under the covers until he heard his dad's truck rumble to a stop and then a moment later the front door opened and his father's familiar footsteps moved across the house. The door to his room opened and Burt's voice filled the room.

"Dinner looks great, Kurt," he said and Kurt could hear the smile. "You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

"No," he called back, burying himself deeper into his comforter cocoon. His dad knew him so well, what if he noticed something different about him?

"Well, come on! We'll eat together!"

"I can't, Dad, I feel sick." It wasn't even that much of a lie. His stomach was squirming at the thought of what his father's reaction may be.

"You okay, kid?" he said, in his gentle giant's voice. He took a step or two down the stairs but Kurt stoped him.

"No, no! Don't come down here," he insisted, barely emerging from the sheets. "I-I think I might be contagious. I don't want you getting sick."

"Kurt, I'm your dad, it's my job to-"

"I know, I know, but please," he pleaded, "I think I just need some sleep."

His dad was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out if Kurt was playing the hero or if he just genuinely needed some rest. When he spoke, his voice was annoyed but still caring.

"Okay, you just- just call me if you need anything, alright?" he grumbled. "Promise, Kurt?"

"I promise, Dad."

Burt came back in the morning and Kurt told him he still wasn't well. He can't go to school, what would happen if he lit up in front of everyone? His dad let him stay home and turned from his place at the top of the stairs - Kurt still wouldn't let him come down - to disappear back into the house.

Half an hour later, just before he left for work, he quietly cracked the door open and whispered, "Kurt?" He pretended to be asleep and a second later his heard his dad try to shuffle quietly down the stairs. Something was placed on his bedside table and he felt a hand brush against his hair.

"You know, kid," his dad said quietly, obviously not intended to be heard by his ‘sleeping’ son, "you spend all your time looking after me, but it's okay to be cared for once and a while. I'm always open for the job! I am always going to love you, sick or not, and there is very little that can be done to change that."

He left then, bumbling up the stairs in his very Burt way. Kurt opened his eyes, staring at the glass of water and the plate of crackers his father had left.

"Oh, dad," he whispers, "I've become the one thing that probably will make you stop loving me." He buries his head into the pillows and feels the tears spill over.

He didn't stay in bed long for two reasons: one, he couldn't deny the urge to play with fire again and two, he was determined to get this thing under control. He didn't want to burden his dad with this, and he was too scared to think about what would actually happen if he knew. He wasn’t sure where to start but he tried mainly to just control when he ignites.

It was harder than yesterday. He was so full of emotion then, anger at the bullies and then excitement when he discovered the truth. Now though, the feeling was dulled by the reminder that this was abnormal and wrong. The first few times he tried, nothing happened and he almost gave up. But then he imagined what his father's face would look like if this happens accidentally and it spurred him on.

By the time he had to go get dinner ready, Kurt had pretty much complete control over starting the flames, and when he didn't, he could recognise the tell-tale heat building up in his hands and try to weaken it so he can disperse it without it being noticeable.

He hid in his room again, sitting on the bed until he heard his dad come home. Footsteps bypassed the kitchen and headed straight for Kurt’s door. He didn’t bother trying to come down this time, just stood on the top step.

“You going to come up for dinner today?” his dad asked and Kurt shook his head, giving the same ‘contagious’ excuse. Burt sighed but shrugged. “Okay, but you have to make up for missing Friday night dinner.”

“I’ll have dinner with you tomorrow, dad,” Kurt promised and he smiled, turning to leave. “Dad?” Burt stopped, twisting slightly to see his son. “Thanks for the crackers and the water.”

“Anytime, kid,” he grinned.

Kurt watched the spot he vanished through and sighed, leaning back on his bed. His phone buzzed with a message from Tina, concerned about where he was today. It hit him that no one is going to want to have anything to do with him once this gets out. No matter how talented Kurt is, even he wasn’t capable for hiding something like this for long. Maybe if he could last until the end of the year, he could save up the money from working in his dad’s shop and leave at the end of the summer, or before that if he has enough to get by. He could run to New York, find a way to live in peace. The loneliness starts to set in on him and he knew that this was the beginning of change, and this change mightn’t be for the better.

He got up, dropping his phone on the bed and climbed the stairs. His dad was in the living room now, watching some football game on the TV and Kurt watched him for a minute before walking over to sit beside him on the couch.

“Hey, kiddo, you want to watch something?” he asked, offering him the remote but Kurt just shook his head, curling his legs up underneath him.  He leant forward, resting his head on his dad’s chest and he could feel him chuckle underneath him. “Whoa, Kurt, what happened to being contagious?”

“I think your immune system can handle it for one night,” Kurt retorted, smiling when he feels his dad’s arm wrap around him. They sat in silence other than for the commentator’s reports on the TV and Kurt felt all the stress leave him as he watched the tiny athletes on the screen.

“I don’t think we’ve done anything like this since you were seven or eight,” Burt hummed and Kurt smiled at the vibration of his chest as he talked. He gave Kurt a squeeze. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he whispered, not daring to move.

“For what?”

“For always being there for me, even when I didn’t ask you to be. It’s nice to have someone to care for you.” There was kiss to the top of his head and his father hummed an “Always, kiddo,” as he rubbed his arm.

Kurt didn’t respond. He just wanted to be able to experience this one last time. He didn’t know when this thing was going to turn his life upside down but it was in no doubt inevitable. He just wanted to hold on to this feeling, of being loved and cared for, for as long as he can before it had to be ripped away from him.

Monday morning, Kurt got up early to make them both breakfast. I can do this, he thought, flipping the omelette. Everything is going to be fine. I can control this, I know I can. I’ve practised. I have to do this. For Dad.

And he did. He kissed his dad on the cheek and left for school and everything was… normal. And very not mutant.

~~~

Kurt made it two months without any incident - other than that time when he almost burned Rachel Berry's face off for stealing his solo again - and he was quite proud. It was hard at the start, with the constant being knocked into walls and the occasional slushie facial. There were scorch marks on the inside of his locker that he would probably be asked to explain at some point but for now he had them covered with a Wicked musical poster.

As scared as he was that someone will find out, Kurt loved what he can do. He practised at home, going from the tiny sparks on his palm to holding a tennis ball size fire between his hands. He didn't have a lot of space in his room though, so his practice was limited. He didn't dare try anything big in the rest of the house.

He was studying one night at his desk, his world history book open in front of him, snapping his fingers to make a small flame and snapping them again to make it disappear. One snap for each fact and the flame was getting a little bit bigger each time.

Snap. A flame appeared. Snap. The flame was gone. Snap. World War Two lasted from 1st September 1939 until 2nd September 1945. Snap. The Nazis murdered approximately 12 million people. Snap. Pearl Harbor was bombed on 7 December 1941. Snap. America officially declared war on 8 December 1941. Snap. The Invasion of Normandy on D-Day took place on the 6th of June-

"Kurt?"

Kurt turned to look at his dad standing at the bottom of the stairs but he wasn't looking back, at least not directly. There was an odd look on his face and Kurt followed his gaze down to his own hand-

-where a three inch long, gold-yellow flame danced up from his fingers.

Instantly, he gave his hand a shake, extinguishing the flame but it was too late. His father knew.

"Kurt, what the hell-" he began but his voice gets lost in his throat. Kurt got up slowly from his desk chair. He could read his father's face like a book as emotion after emotion passed over it, not one of them favourable to Kurt. They didn't say anything, and Kurt could feel himself drowning in the silence. It was terrifying, overwhelming and suffocating.

"Dad?"

His voice was so quiet but it seemed amplified in the silence. His own breathing was erratic and his hands were shaking. He clenched them tight to stop them but as he squeezed he could feel the steady heat building up until he let go, only to repeat the process. He felt so lost, he just wanted his dad to take his hand, hug him and tell him everything was going to be alright.

But he wasn't going to. Kurt could see that. Burt's jaw was tense, his eyes narrowed and when Kurt looks in them he fely as though he would be seeing his dinner again very soon because of what was hidden there.

Fear

"Dad? Dad, please. Please, say something."

He didn't, just stared. His own hands clenched and unclenched, just as Kurt's were doing, though obviously not for the same reason. His stomach gave another twist.

Using all the courage he had left, he took a step towards his dad, but froze when he saw him flinch automatically.

"Dad, please, you have to understand!" He could feel the tears already starting to swell in his eyes and tried to keep them in. "Please! I didn't ask for this! I don't-"

"Kurt, stop."

Kurt's mouth dried up. His father's voice was strained, forced and measured. He had looked away from him, to a point a little left and down from Kurt's face. He's so repulsed by me he can't even LOOK at me!

"I think you should go to bed, Kurt," his father sais finally, his voice hoarse, still training his eyes on that unimportant spot. "We'll deal with this in the morning."

He turned to leave and Kurt surged forward. "Dad! Dad, I-" He was only a foot away when his father turned and he could see his face in detail. It was tired and sad, though there was still that element of fear in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was stern and formal and so unlike his usual self.

"Go to bed, Kurt," he repeated and then he was gone.

Kurt was alone. Totally alone. The one person who he had counted on to look after him and be there for him was too terrified and disgusted to be in the same room as him. He felt his resolve collapse, the foundations he had been standing on crumbled away and he was left with nothing.  His breathing was shaking, getting caught in his throat rather painfully, causing him to hiccup. His head hurt, his stomach hurt, his chest hurt. He took an unconscious step back, then another, until he felt his legs give out. He slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was crouched on the ground, staring at the side of his bookshelf. Tears streamed down his face as he heaves and hiccups and he just wished he could leave. Leave this, leave his body, fall into a deep sleep or a coma and never wake up. He just wanted to never have to feel this way again.

But most of all, he just wanted his father back.