One.

His chest felt tight as he kept his arms locked around his knees, his shoulders feeling cold as he tried to breathe in the dark. He lay curled on his side beneath his bed, his cheek pressed against the floor and his fingers curled into his pajama pants, nails digging into his legs. His heartbeat made everything else seem quiet.

Two.

The underside of the bed over his head didn't provide much comfort, but at least he felt a little bit protected underneath. A little.

Three.

help me

Why weren't his mom and dad there? He wanted his mom to hold him to her chest and hum until he fell asleep. He wanted his dad to smile and promise to take him out for ice cream. He wanted to stop being so confused.

Four.

He wanted his body to stop hurting. It didn't feel the same as the time he'd tripped in the driveway and skinned his knees and hands; it was inside and outside and inside all at once.

Five.

please

Inexplicably, Finn drifted out of his usual deadened sleep much earlier than he thought was necessary on Saturday morning, despite the fact that he had to be at school by noon to meet up with the rest of the club (they had to be in Chicago that evening for the competition tomorrow). It was barely five-thirty, the sky outside just beginning to lighten, and Finn rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head to go back to sleep. Sleep seemed to be done with him, though, and he remained wide awake as the numbers on his clock ticked by and the room gradually grew lighter. At six, the sky outside his window had brightened to a pale rosy blue, and Finn grumbled to himself as he pulled his body out of bed.

Raking his fingers through his hair until it stuck up in all directions, Finn yawned and left his bedroom, heading down the hall with the intent of finding some breakfast downstairs, but stopped short outside Kurt's door. There had been an odd-sounding thump from inside.

Finn swallowed, knocking lightly on the door. "Kurt?" he called softly. "You awake?" There was no answer, and Finn wondered if he'd just been hearing things.

After a moment or two, Finn shrugged to himself and moved back toward the stairs, only to stop when there was another thump from behind Kurt's door.

Damn it. "Kurt," Finn called a little louder, knocking on his door a second time. Again, there was no response. Finn sighed, his stomach clenching as he turned the door handle and pushed it open, ready to pull it quickly shut in case Red was waiting inside the room.

Kurt was asleep.

Finn frowned in confusion. Kurt was sprawled with the blankets tangled around his legs and one arm dangling almost to the floor. Other than the fact that he looked like he'd been tossing and turning, he was dead asleep.

Shaking his head and blaming his still-slightly-sleep-addled brain, Finn turned to continue downstairs only to stop short yet again when Kurt's leg abruptly twitched, jerking to kick the footboard of his bed. Thump.

Well, that explained the noise, at least.

An odd, choked-off muffled sound came from Kurt's chest, his fingers digging into the mattress and then curling into fists.

"Kurt?" Finn said, not entirely sure if Kurt was just having some kind of nightmare or if one of the alters was waking up.

Kurt's only response was to twist onto his stomach, his back arching slightly and his hands curling and uncurling. He groaned into the pillow again, and Finn realized that Kurt's breathing was starting to sound hitched and uneven, like he was having trouble filling his lungs.

How the hell was he still asleep?

When Kurt's foot kicked the bed again, Finn finally went over and put a hand on Kurt's shoulder, gently shaking him. "Kurt," he said. "Come on, dude, wake up."

Kurt grunted and his arm flailed up to punch the headboard, making Finn flinch back. The muscles in Kurt's back went taut underneath his shirt, his shoulder blades shifting position like tectonic plates.

"Kurt!" Finn repeated, louder this time as he grabbed Kurt's shoulder again. "Wake up!"

Kurt's eyes snapped wide open, his entire body jolting as he sucked in a gasp of air, almost elbowing Finn sharply in the nose.

"Kurt!" Finn yelped. "Kurt, calm down."

Chest heaving, Kurt seemed to collapse back into mattress, his eyes still wide and shaded with confusion. "Sorry," he said.

"Are you okay?"

Kurt rubbed a hand over his face, nodding with his eyes closed.

"You don't look it," Finn remarked, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, Finn, I just had a bad dream."

Finn didn't say anything, studying Kurt closely. The anchor tattoo on Kurt's neck had gradually healed up over the past two days, but after the physical exertion of fighting Kurt's night terrors it was back to looking red and puffy around the edges.

"Are you sure?" Finn asked, scratching behind his ear.

"Everyone has bad dreams, Finn. It happens. I'm okay."

"All right," Finn said, knowing better than to push Kurt too far. "Well, I'm going to make some breakfast. You hungry?"

Kurt let out a weary huff, staring at the ceiling. "No, thanks. I think I'm just going to try to sleep some more."

Kurt pulled the blankets back into place and Finn left the room, shutting the door behind him. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know what had been going on in Kurt's head to cause him to act like he was being physically attacked, but with Burt still in Washington the responsibility of keeping Kurt safe weighed more heavily on Finn's shoulders.

Fortunately, the last couple days since Burt had left had been remarkably uneventful, aside from Finn's (minor) freakout when he'd come home from school on Thursday to find Kurt with an anchor inked onto his neck. Until this morning, Kurt hadn't seemed at all tense or irritable and none of the alters had shown up, a refreshing change from the past couple of months, but one that Finn wasn't ready to believe would last.

Two hours later, Finn was sitting on a stool at the counter island in the kitchen, reading one of Burt's NASCAR magazines and working his way through his fourth bowl of cereal. Carole was down in the basement doing laundry, Burt was scheduled to get back home that afternoon, Finn had nowhere to be until he met up with the rest of New Directions at noon, and so far it was shaping up to be a quiet morning.

At least… it was until Kurt strode into the kitchen and slapped Finn lightly on the ass.

"Hiya, hot stuff." Kurt grinned over his shoulder, making a beeline for the refrigerator.

Finn jumped, every muscle in his body tightening. "Don't—" he started, feeling abruptly nauseous. "Don't do that."

Kurt pulled the orange juice out of the fridge, rolling his eyes as he took a swig straight from the carton. "What's got you so fucking tense?" he asked, sounding like he didn't give a crap about whatever Finn's response would be.

"Gee, I wonder," Finn retorted flatly, very purposefully keeping his gaze on the pages of his magazine, though now it was impossible to concentrate.

"You know," Kurt said thoughtfully a few moments later. "I was kind of pissed at Kurt for getting a tattoo without me, considering that tattoos are my thing and all, but I actually like this one."

Finn glanced up to see Kurt brushing his fingers over the anchor's outline, studying his transparent reflection in the windowpane above the sink. After a minute or so, Kurt seemed to grow bored and turn around, reaching for a banana in the fruit bowl on the counter island.

"So where's Hummel Senior?"

"Washington," Finn answered tightly. "He'll be back today."

Kurt ripped the peel away from the banana, looking mildly irritated.

Finn almost snorted. "Are you scared of him?"

Kurt's eyes snapped up to narrow at Finn. "Burt's still a little pissed off that I killed his kid—"

"Tried to kill," Finn corrected. "You tried."

A tendon in Kurt's neck twitched. "Don't interrupt me," he said lowly. "Burt's still a little pissed off at me, so I'd rather not deal with his bullshit, all right? That's it."

Finn's eyebrows shot up. "I think 'a little pissed' is an understatement."

"Whatever," Kurt snapped, biting off the tip of the banana and slamming the peel into the trash. "Hey, is that girlfriend of yours coming over today?"

Finn bristled, the pit of his stomach going cold. "What?"

"I said—"

"I heard you. How the hell did you meet Rachel?"

Kurt shrugged pointedly, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You stay away from her."

"Or what?"

Finn's jaw clenched. He knew he didn't have much of a choice for how to respond. He couldn't physically attack Truman without injuring Kurt, and if he locked Kurt up in his room, Truman was bound to figure out some way of abusing Kurt while he had the chance.

"Don't you have anyone else to harass?" he snapped lamely.

"Nope," Kurt said. "Just you."

Kurt finished his snack (and Finn tried to ignore how it looked like Kurt was purposefully trying to deepthroat it in front of him) and then lit up a cigarette, much to Finn's annoyance. He leaned back against the counter, tapping the ashes into the sink. The smoke blew from his lungs across the counter to Finn's face.

"Ugh!" Finn grimaced, waving the smoke away from his nose. "Can't you do that somewhere else?"

Kurt shrugged again.

Finn rolled his eyes, knowing Truman was just there to bother him. Lucky for him, though, Carole had apparently finished her chores in the basement and walked into the kitchen then, immediately spotting the cigarette in Kurt's hand.

"Ohh, no!" she barked, marching straight up to him without batting an eye. "No, no, no! You do not smoke in this house! Out!" She pointed a furious finger toward the front door.

Kurt's lip curled at her. "The fuck is your problem?"

"Truman, you know exactly what my problem is. Out!"

Kurt drew himself up to his full height, towering at least a good six inches over Carole as he glared down at her. Finn couldn't help but feel a small wave of pride in his mother as Carole refused to back down, her finger still pointing to the door. After a long, tense moment, Kurt finally blew a billow of smoke directly into Carole's face, then turned and stomped out to the porch.

Carole coughed, her eyes watering slightly as she reached up to open the window over the sink.

"You okay, Mom?"

"I'm fine," she said, forcing a smile. "You?"

"Yeah."

Burt was exhausted, but for the first time in a very long while the exhaustion stemmed only from his job, and it was a nice change. He was looking forward to spending the next couple of days on his own with just Kurt (Finn and Carole would both be in Chicago for the Nationals competition) and getting some much-needed father-son time. He and Kurt hadn't really spent any time together just for the heck of it in far too long, and Burt wasn't about to let this opportunity go to waste.

The taxi finally pulled to a stop in front of the house and he quickly paid the driver and stepped out with his bags, already fantasizing about climbing out of his suit and tie and changing into clothes that didn't make him look like a white-collar stiff (even if he really was).

"I'm home!" he called as the front door closed behind him, setting his suitcase and briefcase on the counter. "Hello?"

Carole came into the kitchen to greet him as he was hanging up his coat, smiling and asking him how his trip was.

Burt shrugged. "Same as always," he said, giving her a kiss. "Where's Kurt?"

Carole tucked her hair behind her ear anxiously. "Well, um—"

She was cut off by a sharp cry of "Take that, fucking cocksuckers!" quickly followed the by familiar sound of videogame gunfire from the PlayStation in the living room, and Burt's heart twisted between his lungs.

He sighed, running his palm over his head. "How long has Truman been out?"

"Almost all morning," Carole answered, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Finn said Kurt was here at first but he had some kind of nightmare that might have triggered the switch."

Burt nodded in understanding, fighting the urge to throw up. "Okay," he said. "Finn still here?"

"No, he already left for Chicago."

"You could have taken the same flight, you know."

Carole shook her head. "He wanted to go with his friends, and either way the train was cheaper. I do have to leave pretty soon, though." She glanced at the clock on the wall above the kitchen table.

"Okay."

"Fuck you, Al Qaeda!" Kurt shouted at the TV in the living room.

Carole was quiet for a second. "Burt, I can stay with you," she said. "I can cancel the train ticket."

He frowned. "Why?"

"I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Burt swallowed. "Carole, I managed this for a long time on my own. It's just a couple of days, and either way Finn needs you in Chicago. You should go."

"Only if you're sure."

"We'll be fine," he promised. "Did anything happen while I was gone?"

"No, he was okay up until this morning," Carole said, worriedly glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the living room. "But, um… Burt, I want you to be careful. Truman seemed… unusually confrontational this morning."

Burt wasn't really sure how to react to that. Truman had always been an aggressive personality; Burt hated to think what 'unusually confrontational' could entail.

Carole checked her watch. "Okay, I should get ready to leave," she said. "If anything happens while I'm in Chicago, I want you to call me. Day or night; I don't care."

Burt nodded, tugging at the knot in his tie. "No news is good news."

Carole planted a kiss on his cheek, saying a quick "I love you" before heading upstairs, presumably to finish packing. Burt let out a heavy breath, ripping the tie away from his neck and suddenly feeling doubly exhausted. He steeled his nerves, clenching his fists for a moment before forcing himself to walk into the living room.

Burt spent the afternoon keeping an eye on Kurt from a distance, making sure that Truman wasn't left to his own devices for too long without supervision. He unpacked his bags and ended up sitting in the dining room, reviewing bills and revising drafts for work until after the sun had set and drinking three beers in the process. With a mild buzz in the back of his skull (from fatigue or alcohol, he wasn't sure), Burt yawned and rubbed a palm over his face, the paragraphs upon pages upon more pages beginning to swim in front of his eyes. He wasn't anywhere near drunk, but he'd reached a point where he could no longer focus on anything so tedious as work, so he packed up his files and shoved them back into his briefcase.

He leaned into the living room to check up on Kurt, frowning when he saw Kurt leaning over the coffee table, doodling on a deck of playing cards with a Sharpie. "What are you doing?"

"Playing Solitaire," Kurt replied without looking up.

Burt quirked an eyebrow. "Really," he said disbelievingly.

Kurt flipped up a card to show off his artwork. "I thought the queens would look better with big tits." He shrugged. "And the kings too."

Burt huffed in irritation, already moving toward the stairs. "I'm going to take a shower. Throw that deck away when you're done."

"Hey, don't bash my creativity, old man," Kurt called over his shoulder as Burt climbed upstairs.

I'm not old; I'm not even fifty, Burt thought bitterly.

After spacing out in the shower for half an hour, Burt redressed in a pair of sweatpants and a too-big t-shirt and went back downstairs to find something to make for dinner. Passing back through the living room, he stopped short.

Kurt was still drawing, but he was no longer defacing the royal characters in a card deck and instead had retrained his Sharpie on several pieces of plain printer paper, which he must have stolen from Burt's desk in the next room and were now scattered across the coffee table. He'd moved to sit on the floor with his legs crossed under the table, his shoulders hunched and his back curled.

"…Truman?" Burt started, edging around the couch.

Kurt flinched, keeping his head down.

The air left Burt's lungs in a heavy breath as he saw what Kurt was drawing – sloppy and smudged Chinese symbols, over and over and over. There were stray blots of black ink smeared on Kurt's hands and fingers, and in some places the ink had bled through the paper to stain the table.

Burt sank to his knees next to Kurt, his chest tightening. "Zack…" he started. "Zack, look at me."

Kurt glanced at him for only half a second.

Burt sighed. That wasn't going to work. He scooted forward on the floor, noticing how Kurt's body clenched up the closer Burt got. Burt tentatively reached forward, tapping the table next to the symbols on one page. "Zack, do you remember what these mean?"

Kurt didn't respond, purposefully avoiding Burt's gaze as he continued to draw.

"You don't have to do this, Zack," Burt said quietly, trying not to startle him. "We already found him. We found Franklin."

At that, Kurt froze, his knuckles going white around the marker as a black ink dot bled out from its tip.

Burt placed his hand over Kurt's wrist. "You don't have to do this any more. He can't hurt you."

"Where is he?" Kurt's voice was small and hoarse, almost a whisper.

"He's gone," Burt promised. "He won't hurt you again."

Kurt's face contorted slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Yes, he will." His hand went back to drawing, the side of his palm dragging through the fresh ink and smearing it into his skin.

Burt shook his head. "No, no, Zack—" he tried, reaching over again to still Kurt's arm. "Stop—"

Kurt yanked away from Burt's touch. "Don't touch me!"

Burt swallowed, grabbing Kurt's arm before he could try to draw again. Kurt shrieked, his hands hitting Burt in the torso as Burt pulled him away from the coffee table.

"Let go!" Kurt cried, his knees slamming into the underside of the table as he kicked, trying to get away. "Let GO!"

Burt clamped his jaw shut as he dragged Kurt close, pinning his arms to his chest so that Kurt couldn't hit him again. Kurt was hyperventilating now, shaking and shuddering as Burt held him tight, trying not to crush him but not allowing any room for Kurt to pull away. It was almost shocking how big Kurt was now, how much space he took up in Burt's grasp even as he tried to curl into himself.

Kurt pushed against Burt's chest again, but the attempt was weaker than before and Kurt's breaths were choked off by sobs now, muffled by Burt's shirt. "Shh, shh," Burt tried to soothe him, a hand on the back of Kurt's head. His other arm was locked around Kurt's shoulders.

And eventually, Kurt stopped fighting.