She shut the door and was gone before any gears in Kurt’s mind could lurch into motion. The woman had looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Kurt stood next to the bed contemplating his gray pinstripe pajamas. Something was weird about this place, and he knew he couldn’t figure it out by staying put in the bedroom.

Kurt was surely not going to face whatever was outside the room wearing only a thin layer of cotton, so he quickly surveyed the clothing options in the closet. Appraising the bland selection of plain jeans and slacks, white undershirts, short-sleeve button-ups, and occasional sweater vest, it suddenly struck him what was off: there was nothing colorful in there. Glancing around the room, he noticed there was nothing colorful anywhere. No, Kurt corrected himself, not just nothing colorful, but literally no colors at all – only shades of gray.

Looking down at his own hands, he gasped as he realized the familiar hue missing from his flesh. Kurt ran to the mirror over the dresser and examined his face.

“Oh my god, I’m pasty!”

-

Deciding that perhaps something was wrong with his eyes and he was in a hospital for treatment, Kurt succumbed to making the best of his limited wardrobe. He dressed in a pair of cuffed jeans that, although not terribly fashion-forward, were at least quite flattering. As he buttoned up the most interesting plaid shirt he could find over his undershirt, the woman’s voice called out his name again.

He tied up his Oxfords, pulled in a deep breath through his nose, and opened the bedroom door. Kurt stepped out into hallway and moved toward the stairs, finding nothing unusual or alarming, although the smell of bacon began to rouse his nostrils. At the bottom of the steps, he made his way toward the murmur of voices and found himself in a modest kitchen, where two men sat at a round table and the woman from earlier was carrying a platter stacked with dozens of pancakes.

“Kurt, your breakfast is getting cold,” she said brightly to him when she noticed his presence. At this, the men turned to him and said cheery good mornings. Kurt’s jaw dropped when he recognized the younger guy and the identity of the other two clicked into place a moment later. These people were from the television show he had watched with Rachel.

The older man admonished him lightly. “Son, you can’t go off to school without a hot breakfast inside of you. Come, sit down.”

Kurt dazedly took the empty chair next to the boy his own age, who was enthusiastically digging into a plate piled high with pancakes, sausage, bacon, and ham. The woman immediately began transferring food onto his plate. He stopped her at three pancakes and two slices of bacon, and proceeded to eat on autopilot while his mind churned.

It seemed like these people were playing characters from that show and they were acting like he was part of their family. He distantly remembered that the character who shared his name was the brother of Allen, the lead male glee clubber who was currently sitting next to him. He idly wondered if recreating the show around him was some sort of practical joke or cruel trick. However, Kurt reasoned with himself that the show had been filmed in the late 1950s and the Allen presently stuffing ham in his mouth looked exactly like the actor on the show had, and not like he had aged fifty years or was someone else made up to look like the character. Plus, there was the worrying matter of nothing being in color. Kurt decided that it must be a weird dream brought on by too much chemical-laden fake butter. Until he woke up, he would just play along with the idea.