In the morning, Kurt was woken up by the pungent stench of cigarette smoke stinging the inside of his nose and mouth. Coughing, he jerked up and out of bed, only to have the smell cling to his clothes and follow him. Grimacing, he yanked off the wife beater he couldn't remember putting on (or even getting, for God's sake – where the hell had Truman gotten his hands on it?) and tossed it into the corner in revulsion. Unfortunately, the odor had also seeped into his pores while he'd slept and he was stuck with the disgusting feeling of having Truman embedded in his skin, making his flesh crawl underneath.

Trying to ignore how the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were standing on end, Kurt pulled off the boxers he'd been sleeping in and rummaged through his closet for a towel. He was desperate for a shower, and as he headed to the bathroom he was relieved to find that it was unoccupied. He turned the water up to where it was slightly hotter than what he could comfortably stand, and then stood under the showerhead and let the water scald his skin until it was an angry red and all traces of Truman had been scrubbed away.

After shutting the water off, Kurt stepped out of the tub and wrapped his towel around his waist, breathing in as deeply as he could the steam clogging the air. The taste of smoke still lingered on the back of his tongue, so he brushed his teeth, wiping the mist off the mirror with his palm and glaring at the burn scars scattered across his chest as he did. He hated having a physical and permanent reminder of his own ability to inflict damage without even trying to stop it. Actually, 'hate' was probably nowhere near a strong enough word.

He headed back to his room and got dressed, stopping in the hallway before going downstairs as he heard humming coming from Burt and Carole's room. Walking back down the hall, he found his dad packing a small suitcase and singing an Arlo Guthrie song absentmindedly.

"I don't think I've ever heard you sing," Kurt said, leaning against the door frame.

Burt stopped humming, dropping a pair of folded shirts into the case. "I'm offended by that," he replied jokingly. "I used to sing to you all the time when you were a baby."

Kurt made a face. "I was a baby, Dad."

Burt shrugged. "I sang to you a lot after your mom died, too," he said. "You didn't like the quiet."

Kurt swallowed, glancing at the floor before changing the subject. "When's your flight?" he asked.

"I've got to be at the airport by two-thirty, then the plane takes off at four," Burt answered.

"I'm going to miss you, Dad."

Burt smiled. "Hey, I'll be back on Saturday," he said. "But I'm going to miss you too, kiddo. It's nice having you home." He zipped the suitcase shut. "You coming to the airport to see me off?"

Kurt nodded. "Absolutely. I think I'm going to go for a walk first, though."

Burt frowned slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Kurt assured him. "Just want some fresh air is all; I'm kind of restless right now. I'll probably head up to Schoonover again."

"Okay," Burt shrugged. "So long as you take your phone with you."

"I'll be back by one," Kurt promised, leaving Burt to finish the last of his packing.

Schoonover Park turned out to be further from the house than Kurt anticipated, and by the time he got there he was already tired. He sat on a bench overlooking the lake to rest, huddling in his coat even though logically, he knew it wasn't cold. After all, it was nearing the end of May; it was practically summer. It just… didn't really feel like it.

He watched a couple down by the lake walking their golden retriever, and a little ways down the walkway at another bench was an old man feeding a small flock of birds. It was oddly peaceful, though Kurt wasn't sure why it should be odd at all. Maybe he'd just grown so adjusted to the chaos in his body that he'd forgotten what clarity felt like.

He suddenly wished that Blaine were here, sitting on the bench next to him. Not for anything romantic, surprisingly, but just for the sake of having something familiar. They'd probably be making up stories about the other people in the park, pretending that the couple and their dog were the family from Marley & Me, that the old man feeding the birds was about to tie a thousand balloons to his house and fly to South America. Kurt might be able to just forget for a while.

Kurt pulled his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through the contacts until he found Blaine's name, his thumb hovering over the call button. He knew Blaine was currently in class, but Kurt was relatively sure that Blaine wouldn't mind skipping. Relatively.

You can always call me, he remembered Blaine saying. I'll always pick up.

Kurt lightly chewed on his tongue, stuck in indecision. Even if Blaine did want to come, even if he hadn't just been saying that to be nice, Kurt couldn't be sure that their time wouldn't be completely ruined by Eleanor or Tyler or – God forbid – Truman showing up.

He swallowed, letting the phone drop into his lap, and then, as if on cue, a voice snapped from the back of his head, You are absolutely fucking terrified of me, aren't you?

Kurt's chest tightened. No. He was not going to give Truman the satisfaction of a response.

Go on, call your boyfriend. I want to meet him.

At that, the fear clogging Kurt's heart was abruptly replaced by a flood of rage as Truman solidified exactly why Kurt couldn't call Blaine. His jaw clenched, and he picked up the phone again, searching his contacts until he found the name he was looking for, and – this time without hesitating – pressed the call button.

"Screw you, Truman."

Puck had all but given up on even trying to concentrate on the math textbook in front of him, instead blankly staring at the jumbled equations and nonsensical theorems as the teacher droned on and on. He wasn't going to use this stuff in real life anyways; he didn't get why they insisted on teaching it to anyone who didn't want to be an accountant. And he definitely didn't want to be an accountant.

He was so zoned out that he almost didn't notice his phone buzzing in his pocket, but he managed to grab it before whoever was calling hung up.

Call from: Kurt Hummel.

Puck blinked, half startled and half confused. Why the hell would Kurt want to call him in the first place?

The screen went dark again as the call was cut off on the other end.

"Mr. Puckerman, is there something more pressing occupying your time?" the teacher drawled in annoyance, glaring at him over the rims of her glasses.

Puck's jaw twitched. "Actually, yeah," he said, standing up and heading for the door.

"Excuse me—!" she protested, puffing up her chest.

"It's an emergency," he snapped, something about his tone making her stop in her tracks. He turned and strode out of the room, already re-dialing Kurt's number.

"Hello?"

"Kurt, are you okay?" Puck leaned back against the wall of lockers.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Why'd you call?" If Puck had just run out of class for a butt-dial, he was going to be pissed.

"I, uh… I wanted a favor."

Puck shrugged. "Okay, shoot." So, not a butt-dial, but still a little weird.

"I want to get a tattoo."

Puck nearly choked on nothing. "You what?"

"I want a tattoo," Kurt repeated.

"You serious?" Puck had to ask.

"Yes."

"But… why?"

"Do I need a reason?" was Kurt's unperturbed response. Puck was starting to worry a little that this wasn't Kurt talking and instead he'd been phoned by one of the alters (or whatever they were called). "I'm eighteen; it's not against the law."

"Well, no, but…" Puck hesitated. "I don't know, you just don't seem like the type."

"I didn't seem like the type to be crazy, either, and that didn't stop me," Kurt replied flatly.

Puck stopped short. Was he supposed to react to that?

"So, do you know any good artists?"

Puck clamped his teeth onto the inside of his cheek for a second. He was probably going to hell for this. "Yeah, I've got a couple," he said. "You want me to go with you?"

The offer was out of Puck's mouth before he realized he'd said it, and he wasn't sure why exactly he wanted to. Maybe he was still not a hundred percent sure he was currently talking to Kurt and, if that were the case, someone had to be there to talk him out of it.

"That… would actually be great, Puck," Kurt said, sounding surprised. "Thanks."

Puck picked Kurt up from Schoonover Park in his truck, then drove halfway across town to Eternal Ink.

"This isn't where Quinn got her Ryan Seacrest tattoo done, is it?" Kurt remarked as he jumped down out of the cab.

Puck snorted. "No, she went to White Wizard." He let Kurt go into the shop ahead of him, still studying Kurt closely and trying to figure out what the hell was going on in Kurt's head to prompt this.

"Be with you in a minute," said the muscled guy with the ponytail sitting behind the counter.

Kurt browsed the photographs and patterns of choices decorating the wall, and it was starting to freak Puck out just how calm Kurt was acting.

"So… what are you thinking?" he asked, feeling uneasiness claw at his stomach.

"I'm not sure," Kurt replied thoughtfully, his arms crossed.

"Well, I'm not going to protect you from your dad if you get a giant portrait of Lady Gaga tattooed on your back," Puck remarked, scratching at the base of his mohawk.

Kurt laughed. "As if I'd actually do that."

Puck let out a huff of breath. "Seriously, Kurt, why are you doing this?" he forced himself to say.

Kurt didn't turn around. "Why are you acting like it's a big deal?"

"I've known you for, like, ages," Puck insisted. "You're not a tattoo kind of guy."

Kurt actually seemed irritated by the statement. "Puck, you have no idea what kind of guy I am," he said tightly. "I know you don't, because I have no idea either. But regardless of who I am, I still have control over my own body and what I do with it. So please stop questioning it."

Puck fell quiet, wondering if he should call Finn or Kurt's dad. He had a feeling that that would only piss Kurt off, though, and he didn't seem like he was about to have a freakout, so Puck just wasn't sure.

Kurt sighed. "What?" he prompted, probably able to hear the gears in Puck's head spinning from where he was.

"Dude, I just don't want you to make a mistake if that's what this is," Puck said.

"I make mistakes all the time, Puck," Kurt replied evenly. "The problem is that I never have any say in them. It's time for a change."

Puck blinked, not really getting what Kurt was saying. Before he could ask for clarification, though, the guy behind the desk asked Kurt if he'd made a decision.

Kurt pointed to a picture on the wall. "This one."

"Where do you want it?"

Kurt moved to take a seat in the artist's chair. "On the side of my neck."

Puck's eyes widened. "Whoa, really?"

"I want to be able to see it in the mirror, no matter what," Kurt explained smoothly.

"You're going to look like a total badass."

Kurt leaned his head to the side to give the artist easier access to his neck. "Here's hoping."

Burt was in the living room double-checking his files to make sure he had all of the paperwork he needed to bring to D.C. with him when he heard the front door open and shut. He glanced at the clock; good, Kurt was home half an hour early.

"Hi, honey, how was your walk?" he heard Carole say in the kitchen, then abruptly exclaim, "Oh my God!"

Burt frowned. That couldn't be good.

He quickly left his files where they were on the coffee table and walked to the kitchen, not sure what to expect. Horrible scenarios flashed through his head – Kurt switching while he was out on his own and getting into a fight, Truman making him walk in front of a moving car or burning him with more cigarettes, and a hundred other things. Burt's stomach twisted in his gut as he walked in to find Carole staring at Kurt open-mouthed, looking more confused than anything else.

Burt blinked. Kurt was shifting uncomfortably in place, and there was a square of clear plastic taped to the right side of Kurt's neck, covering an oddly shaped black stain on his skin.

"Is that—?" Burt started. "Kurt, you went out for a walk and came back with a tattoo?"

Kurt paused. "…Yes?"

Burt glanced at Carole; neither of them knew how they were supposed to react. Burt was more than a little surprised to realize that he… wasn't mad. "Why?" he asked.

Kurt shrugged with one shoulder, moving over to the sink to pull off the plastic, revealing the shape of a black anchor roughly the size of Kurt's palm, the skin surrounding the fresh ink reddened and slightly irritated. "Because screw the alters, that's why," Kurt said calmly.

A chuckle jumped from Burt's mouth. "Okay, then," he said, unable to repress a grin.

Burt knew that he should be at the very least annoyed that Kurt hadn't asked for permission or even given a warning, but Kurt was legally an adult, and either way Burt was having a difficult time feeling anything but goddamn proud.