Chapter One: Collide

Kurt Hummel turned the steering wheel of his sleek, silver coupe sharply, swinging perfectly into a parking spot.  He cut the engine and sat there for a moment, trying to clear his head, and then turned to stare up at the imposing facility in front of him.  McKinley Prison.  Not exactly what he had in mind through all those long years imagining his first real job.  But he was only 23, fresh out of college, and beggars can’t be choosers.

He had been told during his interview that the inmates housed here had all committed non-violent crimes—theft, drugs, a few cases of treason.  That kind of thing.  Nothing to be scared about, really.  But then, it had never been the threat of personal harm that he feared (he had endured plenty of that in high school, despite a great amount of effort spent attempting to be invisible.)  Rather, it was the monotony of the job that made him mentally cringe.  Music Counselor.  He pondered his fate while fingering the words written on his shiny new id badge.

Kurt had wanted to be a Broadway star, had dreamed all his life of belting out the classics of Patti LuPone and Bernadette Peters while spotlighted on stage.  He longed to bask in the rush of energy that accompanied a crowd’s standing ovation, to wrench with feeling while crooning a lover’s ballad.  Instead, he had settled for a degree in music therapy with a minor in performance.  It was a unique but still respectable choice for someone who couldn’t afford to appear to the world any more feminine than he already looked and in some ways, innately acted. 

So here he was.  About to [attempt to] instill some miniscule appreciation for music into a bunch of prisoners, most of whom would never find use for it anyways.

Not that Kurt wasn’t grateful.  Giving up Broadway was a small sacrifice in light of what his life could have been, where and what he could be now.  He would never forget about Dave Karofsky, the quiet, burly boy who had been the brunt of so many fat jokes throughout their elementary years.  Dave had disappeared in the middle of seventh grade and hadn’t reappeared for two years.  When he showed up one day in 9th grade English class, Dave’s former best friend, Jacob Ben Israel, had attempted an old joke to break the ice.  It had been the last time Jacob had spoken to him, the last time anyone would joke.  Karofsky was mean.  He had wasted no time proving himself by joining the football team, befriending each and every jock quickly by force of sheer fear, and making everyone else’s life, including Kurt’s, a living hell.

Then there was Santana Lopez, whom Kurt remembered both sadly and fondly.  She had moved to town the summer before their first year of high school, and the two had slowly built up a friendship over the next four years.  Santana didn’t have a mark, and she wasn’t afraid to advertise that, choosing to bare her palm for all to see like some kind of trophy won for conquering adversity.   Santana never cared what anyone thought of her.  She had been a cheerleader, Queen Bitch of the school, and determined to one day be Queen Bitch of the world.  There had been rumors from time to time that she slept around, but such a thing was so shameful that few of the boys would own up to it.  She had certainly never tried anything with Kurt.

Kurt hadn’t heard from Santana since his junior year of college, the letters and emails tapering off in the typical way that contact between old friends often does.  He had, however, seen her on the evening news recently.  Twenty-three years old, same as Kurt, and already she was climbing the political ladder.  At least someone’s dreams were coming true.

Sighing dramatically, Kurt grabbed his bag and stepped out of the car.  It was going to be a long day.

*******

“Some of us eat lunch here.  The food’s not too terrible, really, but I would avoid it on Thursdays.  There’s a vending machine, refrigerator, and microwave in the break room too, if you prefer.  I’ll show that to you later.”  The curly-haired man grinned at him when he finished speaking, but his expression soon dulled in enthusiasm. Perhaps he realized it had been quite some time since Kurt had given him his full attention.

“I’ll probably bring my lunch most days, Mr. Shuester, but thank you for the rundown,” Kurt said, feeling slightly ashamed as he followed the man in front of him.  After a few hours of paperwork and other technicalities, a tour had sounded refreshing, but he had soon grown exhausted, not realizing how big the prison truly was.  He was eagerly awaiting a chance to return to the music room and small office he had been assigned earlier.  They hadn’t even seen the main living quarters of the inmates yet, so Kurt feared it would still be quite some time.

He tried to hide his relief as he was finally led down a long corridor lined with small rooms crowded side by side to his right.  They seemed to go on endlessly.  Each was tiny, crammed with a small cot, a simple sink, and a toilet.  Currently, they were all empty.  Kurt wondered where all the prisoners might be.  Maybe Mr. Shuester had mentioned that, he thought, and tried to focus on what the man was saying—something about which unit they were on.

They soon left the corridor and entered a much larger room, furnished with several chairs, tables, and couches along with a television and a few game tables.  There were windows here, he noticed, though they were covered over with bars.  Everywhere he looked were men, all dressed similarly in white t-shirts and simple brown pants.  The noise level was jarring after the near-silence of the past hour, and Kurt fought the urge to cover his ears or, even worse, turn around and flee.

“This is the day room for the men,” Mr. Shuester was saying.  “As you can see, the inmates spend a good deal of time in here.” 

As his guide stepped aside for a minute to speak with one of several guards positioned around the room, Kurt took some time to study the prisoners.  Most ignored his gaze as it passed over their faces, but a few made eye contact.  One was a big, burly man with a crew cut whose face darkened into a scowl when their eyes met, and Kurt quickly looked away.  There was a tall, skinny and admittedly attractive boy—he looked almost too young to be here—leaning up against the wall; he winked and looked him up and down with a smug expression on his face.  Kurt offered him a slight smile in return, though his scrutiny made Kurt feel decidedly uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t fully place.  A black man who was crouching in the corner, fiddling with a pair of dice, outright stared at him as though hungry for something to rip apart.

A beautiful man (he shouldn’t think like that) with dark, curly hair caught his attention after a moment.  Sitting across the table from him was a second man sporting a Mohawk, and between them was a nerdy-looking man in a wheelchair, who reached up to adjust the glasses perched awkwardly on his nose every few seconds.  The three appeared to be engaged in a game of cards, laughing easily together, until Dreamy (Curly? No, that sounded even more stupid) seemed to finally feel the weight of Kurt’s stare and looked up, meeting his gaze.  Kurt couldn’t discern the color of his eyes from this distance, but he was suddenly struck with the strangest sensation of melting.  He began to take a step forward when Mr. Shuester’s voice jarred him out of the moment.

“Any questions, Kurt?  Are you ready to move ahead?”

Forcing his eyes away from the alluring inmate, Kurt once again directed his attention to his tour guide.  “No, Mr. Shuester.  I mean, yes, we can continue.”

Mr. Shuester chuckled understandingly.  “This place is a bit overwhelming at first, I’m sure.  And please, call me Will.  I know there’s quite the age gap between us, but you are taking over my position here and that should at least make us equals.”  He was already walking towards the door, and Kurt hastened to follow.

“Why are you leaving, if you don’t mind my asking?”  Kurt hoped it had nothing to do with hating the job.

“Of course not, that’s fine.  It’s quite a good reason, actually.  A few weeks ago my soulmate, Emma Pillsbury, took a job here as a therapist.  It’s how we met.” Mr. Shu… Will was blushing and stuttering now, and despite the fact that the man was clearly upwards of thirty, Kurt couldn’t help but find it endearing.  “The prison has a strict policy on soulmates working in the same facility, though, so one of us had to leave.  I’ve been here over ten years now, so I figured it was time for a change.”

“Congratulations on finding each other,” Kurt offered, trying to ignore the stab of pain that shot through him.  He didn’t begrudge others their happiness, truly he didn’t.  It was just, well, Blaine.  Blaine who he endlessly ached to hold close and forget.  Blaine who filled his thoughts and dreams every day and night, whom Kurt tried hard not to think about at all.

“Thanks!  She’s so great, you know, especially after waiting so long.  I’ll have to introduce the two of you later.”

“Do you have another job lined up yet?” Kurt inquired, hoping to change the subject.

“Actually, I’ve accepted a position at a local school….”

Will continued to talk happily about his new job and Emma for the remainder of the tour, which consisted of the gym, a few more offices and women’s quarters that were similar to the men’s. As promised, Kurt did indeed get to meet the woman of Will’s fixation, who turned out to be an attractive, petite redhead with a pleasantly sweet disposition.  They chatted for a bit about the government’s ability to manage and discourage criminal activity which, they both agreed, was handled pretty well, although the crime rate had been climbing ever-so-slightly and inexplicably over past decades.  Kurt thought that he would like working with Emma very much.

Over an hour later, Kurt gratefully sunk into his new office chair, exhausted, and began to make plans for the week ahead.  Mostly, his plans consisted of sitting in on the groups and sessions that he would soon be taking over.  They most certainly did not include learning Dreamy’s real name, or any attempt at contact with him whatsoever.

*******

As luck would have it, however, Dreamy appeared again the very next day, apparently a partaker in the therapeutic music group Kurt would soon be leading.  Mohawk and Glasses (Wheels had come to mind first, but Kurt had decided that would be rude, even if only in his head) were there also, along with over a dozen others, male and female both.  A lone guard stood solemnly by the doorway.

Kurt sat next to Will in one of numerous chairs that formed a large circle around the room.  He vaguely remembered something from one of his classes about how sitting made those you were helping feel that you were less threatening and more of an equal.  While that may be true, it certainly didn’t encourage a feeling of comfort in Kurt, especially given that the majority of those sharing the room with him were criminals.  He nervously side-eyed one particularly vicious looking blonde woman, who was glaring at him while twirling a sharp pencil round and round in a threatening manner.

Will cleared his throat loudly, and after only a few moments the conversation in the room dwindled to an end.  Well, at least they’re all attentive, Kurt thought to himself, hoping he would be able to command a similar level of respect on his own the following week.

“Guys, I hope you’re all doing well this week,” Will began.  “As you know, I’ll be leaving you shortly due to my new relationship with Miss Pillsbury.”  A few snorts and chuckles were heard at this (Mohawk called out “Way to go Shuester!”) and Kurt wondered if there was more of a story there than he’d been informed of.  “This is Kurt Hummel.“  He gestured to Kurt, who forced a smile.  “He’ll be taking over for me next week.”

Looking around the room, Kurt tried to weigh the reactions of those around him.  Blondie was no longer glaring at him but instead looked bored.  A few people were studying him suspiciously.  A few more were nodding slowly, and a couple actually smiled.

And then there was Dreamy.  Kurt couldn’t quite place the expression on his face.  His mouth had dropped open a little as though in shock, and his eyes were widened similarly, but the mysterious quality that had felt like melting the day before was still there.  Their eyes met only briefly this time before Dreamy turned his head away.  Interesting.

Kurt continued his visual trip around the circle before glancing back at Will, who indicated with a sweep of his hand that it was now Kurt’s turn to speak.

“Well, guys, it’s nice to meet you all,” Kurt began awkwardly.  “I hope you’ll be patient with me through this transition, and we can figure things out together.  If you don’t mind, I’d like to start by going around the circle and having each of you introduce yourself.  In addition to your name, I’d like to know why you chose to participate in this group, what type of music you like best and which instruments you play, if any.

I’ll go first.  As Mr. Shuester said, my name is Kurt Hummel.  You can call me Mr. Hummel or just Kurt, whatever you feel most comfortable with.  I prefer Broadway and big band music, but also enjoy your standard top 40.  I play the piano, the guitar, and the flute.  I also sing.”

Kurt looked at the woman next to him expectantly, listening as she talked about playing the clarinet in her high school band and her love of jazz.  He tried to stay attentive as each person continued in turn but found himself frequently distracted by Dreamy, who appeared to have recovered from whatever surprise he had experienced and had resumed his visual digestion of Kurt with a new intensity, and if Kurt wasn’t mistaken, determination in his eyes.  Kurt resisted the urge to shrink back into his chair, feeling increasingly nervous as the man’s turn to speak grew closer with each passing moment.

Mohawk’s turn came just before Dreamy’s.  “The name is Puck,” he announced cockily, offering no more than that.  Will, who seemed to have expected this, was already leaning closer to Kurt to whisper “Noah Puckerman” into his ear.  “I’m in this group because it’s not as lame as chess club and not as prissy as art.  I used to play guitar, and I guess I like rock music.”  Puck punctuated this last part with a glare at the blonde man a few chairs down, who had a minute before been the first in the group to admit to liking country western.

Realizing the man would say no more, Kurt slid his gaze slowly over to Dreamy, only to be met again with the stunning intensity of his eyes.  They were light brown, he suddenly realized.  The color of honey. 

They bore into him for what seemed to be forever before Dreamy finally began to speak.

“Kurt,” he said, no, commanded.  “My name is Blaine Anderson.”

In that moment, Kurt Hummel felt the entirety of the world melting away into a puddle at his feet.