And then he’s up.  Instead of holding him down the wind flows over him, around him, lifting and pulling him where he needs to go.  Faster and higher he climbs, aching to reach, touch, taste everything he can while he still has time here.  Home is miles, hours, days from here...and it’s so strange because this could be home if he wanted it to be, he thinks; if he could let go of “home” and just kept flying-

Kurt wakes with a jolt, knocking his pillow off the bed and resisting the urge to reach around and feel his shoulder blades where they pinch and burn.

He knows he needs to tell his father.

He knew it yesterday.  And the day before.  And before that.  This is the fourth time in so many days that he has had this particular dream.  In another time or another place one would just think that Kurt Hummel is feeling freed from some burden or needs to let go of some kind of baggage and move on and his unconscious mind has been not-so-subtly berating him.

But this is now and here and in this life dreams such as these mean only one thing.

Kurt stays in bed, turning to his side and resting his hands as if in prayer under his cheek, supporting his head.  He closes his eyes and dips into the memory he has been reliving in his mind over and over these past few days.

She lays on his bed on her stomach, elbows bent and digging into the comforter as he points to pictures in the book they are reading.  Her laugh, high and tinkling like far-off chimes, chases his around and out of the room, following it down the hall. Book forgotten, he stretches his 6-year-old arms wide to cuddle his mother’s back, so downy and soft.  She settles into the mattress, letting his weight push pleasantly down on her as she turns her head and smiles.  He knows the feathers there are covered in some substance- a thin film that is so soft to the touch  He’s heard his mom and dad talking about it before.  He remembers a time - not too long ago, actually, when his mother covered her wings with thin cotton sacks that pulled tight and knotted where the cascading feathers became one with her back.  Now, though, he gets to see them all the time, run his fingers through them and snuggle close into the down as she sings him a lullaby and hums deep in her throat.  

They always makes him feel so safe.

This time he pulls his nose from her back and finally asks what he’s been wanting to know.

“Mama?”

“Yes Kurt?” comes her reply, her mouth barely visible over the crest of her left wing.

He runs his fingers over the smooth muscle underneath the thin, smooth feathers at the top of her wings, feeling it flex and shift under his fingertips.

“Why do you have wings and Daddy doesn’t” he whispers, wondering if this is okay to ask.

His mother lifts up on her elbows and pushes up to a sitting position, knocking Kurt off and he giggles as he climbs into her lap, incandescent brown wings with their dappled golden strains shimmering much like her hair, settling around them like a soft lair of protection.

“Well, Kurt.  I’m so very lucky, you see.  Fortune has...” she pauses and stares thoughtfully at his bedroom wall, the ghost of a frown on her face, “...smiled upon me.  I am what they call “chosen”.  I have been blessed with the gift of flight.  It’s...it’s a funny blessing, Kurt, because having wings many, many years ago was looked upon as a holy thing...a religious thing.”

“What’s religious, mama?” he asks, tasting the word in his mouth, feeling it on his lips.

“It’s when people believe in something greater than themselves, baby.  When they believe there is someone or something that is watching over them who created them.” she replies, holding him tight.

“Are you religious, mama?” he had asked, craning his head up to look into her eyes so like his.

She looks down at him, pondering a moment, before answering.

“No, Kurt.  We are not.”

“Why, mama?  What are we, then?” he had wondered aloud, a little scared and a whole lot confused at the turn the conversation has taken.

His mother sighs and releases her grip slightly as she began to rub his back.

“Kurt. That is another question for another time, my love.  First let us answer your initial question.  Mama has wings because she was chosen by genetics - shh, we’ll talk of that later, too - and fate to have them.  Your daddy was not but that does not make him any less wondrous or special.  He loves me, Kurt.  He loves us.  And he protects me - and you - from the dangers in this world.  We are so very, very lucky that we have him.  He keeps us together and helps keep us strong.”

Kurt had a feeling, even at six, that when his mother had said “us” that day she had really meant “me”.

Kurt ponders this a moment and asks the other question that has been burning his tongue for what seems like years.

“Will-” he begins, biting his lip and deciding that no, this isn’t the time.

And he feels his mother’s wingtips on his chin, pushing his face gently up to reach her gaze as she her eyes search his.

“Maybe, Kurt.  Maybe.  We never know, my dear.  Before me it was your great-great grandfather.  Who’s to know?  Some say it’s because we are most “worthy”.  Some say it’s because a higher power chose us.  There is no rhyme or reason that we can prove, Kurt.  Whatever it is it will happen when you are older.  For now, though, let’s finish this book.”

And now that he knows - knows of the dangers that lurk and bite those who have been “chosen”, knows of the pain and despair some go through, the fear and molestation that they must face because of their kind. He knows now that his mother had told him the truth when she said they had no god.

Because his mother had stopped believing long before he had come along.

He now knows the arguments his parents had in deciding to give birth to him.  His mother’s anxious fear that he would be cursed with her “blessing”.  His father’s insistence that he would keep them safe - all of them safe - if he could create life with her.  Kurt doesn’t know what his father ended up doing or saying that had forced her hand but she had conceded and Kurt had been born.

Kurt sighed and flipped onto his stomach, sighing angrily into the sheets and huffing out his frustration.

In the end it was not his father’s fault or Kurt’s fault or even his mother’s “chosen” status that had robbed her of life.  In the end the cancer had done that, her feathers falling one by one, each like a silent symbol of her deteriorating health.  They watched as she would pick them up, delicately stroking each in turn, and store them away, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.  Then one day, a sunny, glorious day in May, the last feather had fallen, the membranes connecting her back and the sinewy muscles that controlled their flight shrunken and disfigured.  She had cried, her sobs swallowed by his father’s woolen sweater as he carried her to the backyard and Kurt poured them all - thousands of them of varying sizes and shapes, their gold now winking mockingly at him as they tumbled into the burn pit.  She lifted her gaze to him as tears tracked down his face and he doused them all with the lighter fluid his father had given him.  At 10 years old he knew how to strike a match from the box.  He knew how to do it but he couldn’t...he couldn’t bear to do this.  To destroy what was once his comfort and now his mother’s shame.  She had seen it, the stutter in his fingertips, the hitch in his breath as he brought the match to the box.

“Kurt, please.  It’s what I want done.  I don’t want someone coming to try and take them from you...there are some that are still misguided - still think they can cure things and...” her voice had trailed off as she reached around to stroke what wasn’t there and another sob had caught in her throat as he pulled strength from the bottom of his toes and struck the match before flinging it into the pit, symbolically consuming what comfort his mother could provide him.

Three days later they had buried her.

Now, today, his shoulders throbbing and his mind frantic with fear of knowing, truly knowing that this was to happen to him, he had to face reality and go downstairs.  Break the news to his father.  And hope to a god they didn’t believe in that Burt would not have to endure such pain again.

***
“Well, Jim, it looks like that’s all we’ve got today over in sports, back to you!”

“Why thanks, Paula!  Sounds like those cubs are going straight for the world series this year!  And now, our top story...police in Columbus today raided a warehouse on the outskirts of the city where a sign proclaiming it “Club Ornithos” revealed it to be holding a large number of the winged sect against their will, trafficking in “Carnal Ornithology” or the sexual study of birds.  The “birds” in question, of course, are humans of Aligerian descent and thus all principal operators and owners of the club were booked and detained pending bail.  The Committee for Aligerian Protection has been notified and Dr. Aristas Flax is expected to arrive later on in the week to begin a full investigation.  Dr. Flax, as you may recall...”

His father pressed the button on the remote, silencing the television with a sigh as he finished of the remains of his coffee and has just pulled himself from his seat to retrieve another cup when he notices Kurt and smiles.

“Morning there, kiddo.  How’d ya sleep?  I thought I heard you in there I was passing by this morning.”

Kurt tries to smile, he does, but he knows that in a matter of moments this cheerful banter will be gone and he will be a source of worry and dread for his father...and he doesn’t want that.  He’s never wanted that but...he knows that without telling his dad this will be ten thousand times harder.  He doesn’t even know what to expect - and without his mom to guide him through the process he doesn’t even know what kind of time he has until the changes begin.

He leans against the counter and crosses his right arm in front of him, gripping his left elbow as he takes a deep breath and lets it out, eyebrows threading together, betraying his worry.  His dad notices, of course, and crosses the kitchen to snake his hand behind Kurt’s back and lay it on his shoulder blade, an action he’s done a million times before today and it had never mattered.  Never caused Kurt to tense up and spring back as his skin prickled and shouted at the touch.

His dad’s eyes widened and then fell, his mouth an ‘O’ of surprise and then a tight line of...anger?  Sadness?  Disappointment?  Kurt couldn’t tell but he pressed forward with his plan anyway.

“Dad.  I’ve had the dream four times now.  And...it’s not going away.  And I feel...I feel it.  It’s going to happen.  I- Dad...Daddy, I need your help.”

His dad stared at him a moment, his eyes brimming and his face contorting with emotions that didn’t matter - couldn’t because he had to help his son through this, had to make the world outside obey the command that his son was no one’s to take or abuse.  

He opened his arms and Kurt fell into them, his sobs a stabbing cadence drowning out the sound of toaster signaling it’s completion on the counter.