It's Hard To Be The One Who Stays [Kurtbastian]

Staying On The Boat (May, 2012)

The sun had set by the time Kurt and his dad got to Dalton.

He's wearing his brightest clothes and the breezy scarf Sebastian bought him at a market in France over spring break, light gloves even though it's May. In a basket on his lap is a cake and a stolen bottle of champagne his dad turned a blind eye to.

His dad looks at him for a long time from across the stick shift, his hands tight on the steering wheel. Suddenly, he grabs him in a gruff hug.

"I love you," Dad says, and Kurt nods, ignoring the tears springing to his eyes.

Kurt checks himself back into the dorm with apologies to the RA, who looks torn between sympathy and curiosity, but doesn't bother going back to his room. Instead, he knocks on Sebastian's door.

Sebastian doesn't come.

He waits one minute, two, raps again.

Some of the boys, especially the underclassmen, are doing a bad job of pretending like they have business out in the hall, he thinks, after another 2 minutes.

He knocks again, harder. He can hear the whispers starting up behind him.

"Sebastian!" he says loudly after another minute. "I know you're in there. Practice or conditioning or whatever else athletes do end at 6, Warblers' rehearsal ends at 8, and you've got Chemistry tomorrow. There's no way you aren't in there glaring at your cold tables —"

The door flings open and crashes into the wall. Sebastian is on the other side glowering at him, and wow, he looks terrible. Kurt feels glad, in a small part of his brain, that he's not alone in looking like shit. Seb's eyes are red-rimmed and his hair is a mess. He looks like he had right after Karofsky's attempted suicide.

Kurt aches with longing

"It's fucking ICE tables, not cold tables," Seb spits out. "And will you stop yelling and go away, it's 9 PM in the middle of the week, you're going to get written up—"

"Then let me in, asshole," Kurt says, pushing his way past Sebastian and surveying the room. He was right, that's Sebastian's chemistry homework on his table. But judging by the balled-up papers, it's not going very well. Not to mention the smell.

"You should air the room out," he says, forced lightness, wrinkling his nose. He drops his basket and goes for the window.

"Don't touch that!" Sebastian says, pulling him back by the arm with more force than necessary. Kurt winces in pain, and Sebastian drops his grip immediately. Regret flashes over his face for a moment before anger resurfaces again.

"Don't touch my stuff, Kurt. What are you doing here?" Sebastian demands.

"I always could be, before," Kurt says, quietly, suddenly so tired. He stares up at Sebastian, who seems to... deflate, under Kurt's weary gaze.

"It's not before," Sebastian says at last, falling into his desk chair and looking away. Kurt sits down opposite him, on the bed. He wishes Sebastian would sit beside him, like they always do, so that he could at least feel his steady presence, take strength from it.

"I brought cake, from your favorite shop," Kurt finally settles on, as a reply. "And some sandwiches. I even snuck in champagne. I thought we could... celebrate. For my 18th birthday. Since we didn't on the day." He rises to show Sebastian, but is stopped by the incredulous look Sebastian is giving him.

"You want to celebrate. Your birthday. With me," Sebastian repeats.

"Of course," Kurt says. He grips his thighs, the pain grounding him and pulling back the tears starting to prickle at the corners. Not again. He has to have this conversation first. "It's still my birthday, regardless of what—of what else—and I want to celebrate it with my boyfriend and best friend."