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Little Blue Boxes

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Kurt had told Mercedes first. Freshman year, soon after New Directions formed. She was the first person he'd ever talked about being transgendered with other than his Dad, and a therapist. It was during the time she'd belived he had been nursing a crush on her, a notion which he fully admits he probably hadn't done much to discourage--a brick through his windshield pretty much solidifying his realization that a.) she cared for him and deserved better, and b.) if he opened up to her, he might not spend his entire Ninth Grade year friendless and lonely. He'd admitted to being gay first. Mercedes smiled after he'd spilled, her sparking, lively eyes warm and caring. A few weeks of bonding, shopping trips, and covert boy-watching with her rewarded him with his first true confidente. After a couple of months being slammed into lockers, and tossed into smelly dumpsters--he'd needed to take his confessions one step further.

"Mercedes, can we...maybe meet after school? I've got to tell you something. It's something...pretty big." he'd said.

"Sure, Kurt. You'll buy me an iced mochalattechino-thingie--and we'll chit-chat. Lima Bean? Five o'clock?" Mercedes had replied.

Kurt wasn't exactly sure if "Hey, Mercedes...know how I told you I'm gay? Well, there's actually a teensy bit more to that story--I was born female, and this is the first year my Dad is letting me go to school as a guy. Ever wondered why I transferred IN to McKinley when it is turning out to be some Adolescent Nightmare Apocalypseland?" could qualify for a cool "chit-chat" label, but he'd gone. And talked. And, bless her heart--Mercedes had listened. His fears of her completely freaking out and refusing to even associate with him, completely unfounded.

Sure, she'd had questions--and he'd done his best to honestly fill her in. Part of the bullying driving him to distraction involved the fact that the cretinous bastards had to put their hands on him to heft him into trash containers, they needed to come in physical contact with him to smash him into his locker. (How the damned thing wasn't dented like some limping-along-on-its-last legs junk yard derby car--he'd NEVER understand. His shoulder had met with the cold steel more times than he could count.)

The first day of school, Kurt had clad himself in layers. Binder to flatten his breasts, tank top, t-shirt, and long-sleeved shirt on top of that. Then, there was a jacket completing the ensemble. His Dad had eyed him critically as he'd descended the stairs to head out for the day. "Kurt? Um, you think you got enough shirts on? There may be a couple you missed in the laundry or somethin'" Burt said.

"Hah, Dad. So funny, you are." Kurt retorted. He'd quickly hugged Burt goodbye, hoping that he could slip past him without the shaking of his limbs, or the quiver in his voice drawing attention. No such luck had been found.

"Hey...come back here. You sure you wanna do this, Kid?" his Dad asked. Kurt was ninty-nine percent sure he did, and one percent terrified out of his mind. "If I don't walk out that door, and be honest with myself Dad, I'm going to regret it. I NEED to. I...just...I NEED to, Dad. I need the layers so they can't see..." he trailed.

Burt Hummel didn't think he'd ever been so afraid for his kid as he was in that moment. "Katie...Kurt, sorry. Listen? You know I love and support you, yeah? I have to be honest--knowing that you have to hide bits of yourself to be safe? Doesn't feel very safe to me. What happens if they figure out..." 

He stopped talking-the ending of his sentence going unsaid, but looking Kurt in the eye--he knew they both understood the meaning behind the silence. 

"Dad? They might...figure it out. They might not. I have to be brave and try to...well, to be me."

And he had. Kurt walked into the school that morning with his head held high, heart thumping with a pride and new joy he couldn't name. The first time, "Kurt Hummel?" was uttered by a teacher taking attendance, Kurt felt as if his soul would shatter into a million pieces of pure delight. Yes, taunting and ribbing had followed soon after--but even insults hurled held an interesting thrill for him. The bullies called him, "he"---and though what they were saying was harsh and ignorant, they saw him as the boy he'd always felt like.

The touching crossed a major line. Kurt spent nights staring at the ceiling in his bedroom, replaying hands...roaming, groping. Careful layering seemed like such a flimsy barrier between being undetected and being called out. One thing Kurt refused to do was slouch. His mother had taught him to stand up straight, to carry himself with pride. Unfortunately, the annoying swellings on his chest (he didn't like to think "breasts", sort of juvenile--he knew) liked to be at their most noticable and perky with good posture. He needed to relieve some of the internal pressure and worry. So? Mercedes. 

"Okay, Kurt. So...tell me if this offensive, but you vagina?" she'd stumbled, nervously.

Trying his best to supress a shiver at the 'v' word, Kurt had nodded and tried to explain AND own his identity at the same time. "Um, yeah. I do. B..breasts, periods, the whole delightful kit and caboodle." Kurt responded.

Seriously? Who even says kit and caboodle? Am I channeling my grandmother? his brain had practically shouted at him.

"I told my Dad a couple of years ago, when I was thirteen. He's been, well, awesome, about it actually. I'm seeing a therapist, one who has treated other kids like me--ones who don't feel like their bodies match the identities they have in their heads. I have to wait a few months until I'm sixteen to start hormones, but I'm really excited to." he'd explained.

Funnily enough, Mercedes had no problem grasping the idea that Kurt was a boy in mind, and had female bits. She'd asked him about surgeries and side-effects about the testosterone shots he'd be getting--what she seemed stuck on was the idea that he menstruated.

"You get your period?, I'm saying "dude" you get your period. Like, we could go tampon shopping together?" she mused.

"Yeah, I'm not so sure that I'm going to get all excited for a "period shopping" excursion, 'Cedes. But, we could. We won't though. Some boundaries simply cannot be crossed." he smirked.

And, high school life as a transgendered teen had gone on. Glee club brought Kurt levels of happiness that you'd have to hold a gun to his head to get him to admit. As time passed, Kurt found himself cultivating a cool, vaguely detached air. It made feeling a bit of a freak easier to bear. He had homework, routines to practice, dance moves to memorize. Slowly, his cirlce of one increased. Rachel Berry, bless her fantastically self-involved, socially inept, Mary-Jane-And-Sweater-Set self--had been next to be trusted with Kurt's secret.

Well, trusted in that she'd overheard he and Mercedes murmuring in the hallway about cramps and had butted right in, loudly.

"Kurt? Wait! What did you just say?", she'd screech-whispered.

Thankfully, Mercedes had had the presence of mind to clamp a hand over her mouth instantly. Kurt had frozen in fear--incapable of anything besides deep blushing and gaping fish mouth lip movements.

Rachel made muffled protests as she was dragged into the Girl's Bathroom. Looking around quickly for anyone listening, and finding all stalls empty, Mercedes slid a metal garbage can in front of the door--blocking it from being opened as well as she could. Kurt experienced a quick moment of "Uh, the Girls Bathroom, not weird for me even at all", before he dared glance in Rachel's direction.

"I don't suppose I could interest you in a vast change of subject?" was the first comment Kurt made to her.

"What? No, Kurt? guys were talking about having cramps. As in both of you have cramps. I don't...what does that even mean? I know you two are practically bonded at the hip and all. Are you having some gay sympathy pain or something? I get how that could be possible--I mean, my Dads mention to me sometimes that my severe premenstrual symptoms can make them tetchy and crave ice cream and..."she blathered.

With a full-body sigh, and a prayer to a diety he was pretty sure he didn't actually believe in, Kurt cut her off. "Rachel, Rachel. RACHEL. No. I'm not having some gay sympathy thing." with a serious expression, he continued, "Rachel. If I tell you what I'm about to tell you--you seriously, honestly, have to swear not to tell. I'm not ashamed...really. I just need to be safe. The jock douchehats in this school already don't make it very safe, and I just can't deal with adding fuel to a fire that is already raging. 

Rachel simply nodded, blessedly silent for once--her wide brown eyes wider than he'd ever seen them.

"I was born female, Rachel. My name was Kathryn for the first thirteen years of my life. I transferred here to be able to start fresh, using the name I want--and living as the gender I feel inside." he said, holding her gaze.

In true Berry style, it only took her a moment before she snapped out of her stunned quiet. "Kurt! Oh, this must be sooooooooo hard for you. I just...were you called Katie? You sort of look like Katie would fit...oh, sweetie, your road must be so Dads know a guy who was born a girl too..."

"Rachel? If you EVER call me Katie? I will scratch your eyes out. And your vocal cords. I may be a guy, but I've got many emery boards and will sharpen the hell out of these nails." he warned her--only a tiny bit kidding.

"Yes, it's hard. But, I'm actually happier than I have been in a really long time. As much as school sucks so appallingly." Kurt admitted.

After a few more questions, and a hug between them that was far less awkward than Kurt imagined it might be, Mercedes and Rachel had unblocked the bathroom door, arms draped around his shoulders from both sides. They sauntered into the teeming hallway together, linked in a new, odd, and weirdly satisfying friendship. The three of them, feeling so young and ready to take on the world. Bullies and all.








Chapter Text

Gym. Physical education. Enforced daily exercise and "bonding" with smelly teenagers. Also known to Kurt Hummel as "Kill Me Now, I Hate My Life". Though he had needed to disclose his transgendered status to the Principal and the school guidance counsellor during his transfer process--somehow he and his Dad had neglected doing so to the Phys. Ed. Department. McKinley had joined so many U.S. schools in cutting gym classes due to budget issues, and it was only required for students to take it for one quarter each school year. So, it was with terror and trepidation Kurt found himself clutching his class schedule to his chest, and knocking timidly on the door of one Sue Sylvester, apparently "The Queen of Gym" the dreaded day his turn came about.

"Um, hello?" he said, peering into an office festooned with so many red McKinley High Pride banners that he felt fairly nauseated before even encountering the woman he'd already warned would be, in Rachel's words--"Fairly horrifying."

How much trouble would I get in if I just...left. Didn't go to gym, like, ever? he wondered to himself, heart racing faster with each second that ticked by with no evidence of the teacher appearing.

Stepping into the room, peering around a corner--he barely stopped himself from shouting in surprise. He had found himself with his head an inch away from sneakered feet--and could actually smell the scent of leather and canvas emanating from them. Attached to the feet, was a purple track suit wearing woman apparently doing some sort of Yoga pose--fully upside down, her eyes closed, face bright red--she didn't move a single muscle as he stopped short. Attached to her head were gigantic, red, headphones, sparkly headphones.

Bedazzled headphones? Who actually bedazzles headphones? Kurt thought--his desire to flee and never return increasing exponentially with each beat of tinny music reaching his ears.

Do I cough? Touch her feet? Bend down and, like, poke her? It was one of those times that no one gives you a Polite 101 talk about ever. Kurt resolutely settled on gently nudging her right foot.

"Gah!" shrieked the woman. Ducking out of the way of her suddenly spasming and kicking legs, Kurt pressed himself up against a bank of heaters--draped in one of the stupid banners.

The woman Kurt guessed was Coach Sylvester righted herself with a huff, and ripped the headphones off of her ears angrily. "Right? Who the hell are you, and why are you as silent as a Ninja--didn't your parents teach you to make noise before entering a room to avoid scaring the bejeezus of of a person!?" she blared at him.

Noting briefly that her notion of personal space was greatly different than his own, Kurt replied, "Coach Sylvester? I'm Kurt Hummel--Principal Figgins sent me. I, um, need to talk to you about some things related to me and gym class?"

Narrowing her eyes, and glaring at him critically, the woman replied, "Yeah, I'm Sue Sylvester. Who the hell else would you expect me to be? You CAN read, yeah? The sign on the door reads...." she prompted.

"Coach Sue Sylvester" Kurt responded, limply.

"Well done, there, Kurt. A+ for the Lima Literacy Initiative."

Striding over to a desk with more figurines and statues of cheerleaders that Kurt felt should be legal, she plunked herself in a high-backed, ergonomically designed office chair, and set her eyes on him. "Well, I don't have all the livelong day, and by the looks of you and your frail, so-pale-you're-practically-clear-complection, neither do you."

 "I, well...I'm supposed to be going to gym class. Right, actually. I need to discuss some sensitive things with you, and I need some support and..."

 Cutting Kurt off with a dismissive flick of her wrist, Sue jumped in with, "Yeah, you're a gay kid. Not news. You may think it is--but, I've got gaydar that is impeccable. Never fails. Hey, you might not even know who the hell you want to sleep with--I do. So, when you catch up with those "special dreams" you've had in a year or so--don't tell me I didn't warn you."

 "You worried about the whole, "can't look, don't wanna look, they might know" thing? Change in a stall. Avert your eyes. Deny. Deny. Deny. You'll be fine. Now, get out of my office and go do your required teenage rite of passage thing."

With a self-congratulatory smirk, Sue thunked her sneakers up on the desk and motioned for him to take his leave-clearly convinced that she'd pretty much summed up all of his issues in a neat, tidy, package.

Kurt felt his cheeks flaming, and a nasty sharp tang of a bitter, barely held back comment in the back of his throat as well. "Well, actually, Coach?" he calmly began, "I do happen to be gay, yes--but there is a bit more behind my situation than that."

Sliding himself into a chair in front of her, he continued before he could be interrupted. Sue's mouth was pursed and primed to retort any second. "I'm transgendered, and I need to be able to change and get ready for gym safely."

Before he could get his next sentence out, Sue held her hand out toward his face--her index finger waggling at him obnoxiously. "Wait, wait....wait? What are you even talking about Gay Kid? Trans...what? What is the situation under the layers you've got there? Dangly bits or not-so-dangly?"

Though he knew he was supposed to be afraid of the woman in front of him, something about the way she so casually, and almost cruelly said what she had--made him seethe with anger, not any semblance of fear. "If you could please lower your finger? I'm not your child, you are NOT my parent--and I don't appreciate you asking me such personal questions in that tone." he kept his gaze unwavering as he made his statement.

Sue slowly lowered her hand, placing both palms on the plastic wood grain of the desk. She returned his gaze with an equal intensity. Tension crackled in the air between them, and Kurt was sure then that it was not often--if ever, she'd been spoken to so plainly by a student. Judging by the slight gape of her mouth, and the unblinking glare in front of him, he was willing to bet he was right.

"Transgendered means that I was labeled as a certain gender when I was born, based on my internal and external sexual organs. However, I don't feel like that description fits me. I feel like there has been an error, and I am actually a boy--not a girl. Regardless of whether I've got "dangly bits" or not--I identify as a male."

Risking a quick beat to let what he'd said sink in--maybe give Coach Sylvester a moment to process--Kurt allowed himself to scrutinize her face for a reaction. Surprised to see her features actually relaxing a bit--rather than maintaining the stony, angry expression she'd worn just a moment before, he softened his tone, and continued, "I've got what is called Gender Identity Disorder. It's not a mental illness, it's a condition that is treated with counselling and transitioning from the gender you were labeled at birth, to the one which fits the one you identify with. My Dad is working with me and my therapist, and going to school here at McKinley is my first step in beginning to live my life as a boy."

Making a quick decision to not continue with his speech about "gender being complicated" and "not every person who identifies as transgendered feels like they need to be one or the other, and some feel more comfortable in a non-gendered role", Kurt silently reminded himself that, There's a damned good chance that she doesn't really seem to be at the level of awareness to learn about stuff like genderqueer and binaries and such yet...

As he thought about what he should say next, Kurt was taken aback-noticing Sue's features slackening even further, her eyes moving from narrowed slits, to a more relaxed open state. Leaning back in her chair, she moved her hands to her chest, clasping her hands together gently.

"Continue. I'm intrigued, what was your name...Kurt?" she said.

Flustered, feeling some of his indignation and fury abate, Kurt blinked at her for a second before adding, "Well, I can't change in full view of the other boys in class, because obvious physical differences. I don't want to be treated like a special snowflake, but I DO have to try to keep myself safe."

Coach Sylvester actually quirked her lips into a close approximation of a smile.

"Yeah, I get that. You just want to be treated like all of the other gangly, hormone-laden, germ machines who are your peers. Your Dad's on board with this whole thing?"

Reeling a bit from the "germ machine" bit mixed in with the surprising sort of understanding  she'd shown, Kurt replied softly, "Yes. Yes, he is. I haven't discussed my sexuality with him yet though. It's been hard enough figuring out how to talk about the "boy" part so far--I'm not really sure how to approach the "boy who likes boys" part too. Look, he is worried about me, I know that--but he also loves me and wants me to be able to be the person I am. Mostly inside, for now? But, that's going to change."

Sue nodded. "You have friends who know?"

"Yeah, two. Well, so far." Kurt replied.

"They the kinds of friends who can support you when kids invariably get mean and bastard-y? 'Cause they will, you know." she stated.

Momentarily shocked into silence by her acknowledgment that he was not only dealing with something difficult right then, but could pretty much be guaranteed to continue experiencing the difficulties for a long while to come--Kurt felt a tiny bit of affection, random and intense, rise in his chest for the plain speaking, enigma of a woman in front of him. Not many adults didn't try to sugar-coat things for him---his dad being a notable exception. Burt was as honest and forthright as he could possibly be. He and Kurt had discovered far too early that life could, quite simply, be a horrid, intense, and deeply sad thing sometimes. He liked to joke with Burt that he had a very, "rip off the band-aid and git 'er done" approach to dealing with the hard stuff as it came up. Sue seemed like she operated under the same approach.

"Look, kid. I don't really "get" this whole transgendered stuff. In fact, I'm gonna have to do a crap-ton of intense Googling whenever the hell you leave my office. What I DO "get" is just wanting to be like the rest of the "normal people", not that there is any such thing as normal in the first place--but, you get what I'm saying, yeah?" Sue said.

Nodding slowly, Kurt remained silent.

"I can't promise roses, sparkles and people serenading you with odes to your sheer excellence, but I CAN promise that I will do my damndest to make sure kids keep their grubby hands to themselves. We'll meet and figure out the particulars together tomorrow?"

Unable to stop himself, Kurt blurted, "Why are you so nice NOW? Like, five minutes ago you were a mean harpy. You basically called me a freak, well, or something similar. There's a reason kids are scared of you--and I think I had a pretty clear glimpse of why. Not that you could penetrate my forcefield." As the last word left his mouth, Kurt realised that, once again, his mouth had probably gotten him into a shit storm of trouble. Possessing a practically genetically-influenced inability to not call people out, and, well, coupled with his unique situation and the fact that Sue was, in theory AND practice, and adult authority figure--he silently calculated how many after school detentions he'd probably just earned.

"Against my better judgement, I like you, Kid. You've got one hell of a stubborn streak, and a pretty big mouth if you don't mind me saying so. You also remind me of this other person I know doesn't take people's crap lying down. Me. So, here's how it's gonna go down: get the hell out of here and go to Gym. I think there is a particularly spectacular game of Dodgeball going on currently. Wear those clothes, try not to get hit in the face, and come see me tomorrow, capiché?" Sue said.

Rising slowly from his chair, unable to believe that that could possibly be it, that they were, in fact, done for the day--Kurt gathered his belongings quickly. Striding quickly to the door, a beat passed as he hovered by the exit. Without giving it too much thought--lest he change his mind, Kurt found himself grasping Sue's right hand in his own, shaking it firmly.

"Coach Sylvester? It's been, well, not so much a pleasure, exactly-but very nice meeting you today. Thank you for your support. And, um, for not giving me a hundred detentions for my frank words."

With a wry grin twisting the sides of her mouth comically, Sue grasped his hand with a surprising amount of pressure-holding his grip for just a tiny moment longer than the standard hand-shaking etiquette time allotment, she softly replied, "Thank you too, kid."

Turning back toward the office door, Kurt moved to leave, fluttering his fingers in a small, "see ya" wave. As he began walking into the hallway, Sue called after him,

"Hey! Kid? Gonna have to call you something besides Kurt. Your name is far too "Sound Of Music" for my taste. How's Porcelain? Ya look like one of those weird dolls my older sister collects."

Smiling to himself, Kurt didn't answer--just kept on walking straight toward the Gym. As long as he could keep from getting whacked in the face with a red rubber ball--he figured he just might be ready for a little game of Dodgeball.



Chapter Text

It had been a spectacularly bad day. A bad day with a capitol "B" Bad day. Nothing had gone as planned, starting from the second Kurt opened his eyes--until the way his messenger bag had landed open-side-down as it fell off of the kitchen counter as he'd finally gotten home for the day. "Great. Super. Obviously", he sighed, picking up pencils, pens, and myriad papers from the linoleum floor.

His morning had started with sleeping through his alarm clock--which meant no time to adequately prepare a presentable school outfit. So, jeans and a long-sleeved Oxford shirt so pedestrian and unimaginative Kurt could barely deal became the ensemble of the day. Showering had been rushed, water mocking him with its sort-of, hot-ish--but not quite temperature. After stepping out of the shower, he'd been greeted with even more delights. Pulling on his underwear, he noticed a watery, pink, rivulet snaking its way down a thigh. "Fucking. Perfect. Perfect.", he snapped, wanting so badly to just crumble to the floor, and spend the next three days huddled on the damp bathmat. Instead, he grabbed a wad of toilet tissue, jammed it between his still-wet legs, and went on his monthly tampon hunt.

Kurt knew he should probably plan for this dreaded event more thoroughly, seeing as it DID come every four weeks or so--but he just couldn't wrap his brain fully around the fact that his body would betray him like that so often. Kurt's opinion on the entire menstruation matter remained resolute: It should be entirely an elective thing. You don't want a baby? Cool. No bloody mess necessary. Hell, you don't even want to claim ownership of a uterus in the first place? DOUBLY pointless. Thanks for asking, though--it's very kind of you Biology.

As he rustled through the cabinet underneath the bathroom sink, he decided that, perhaps a monthly survey--mailed the old fashioned way, maybe with a nice "Check yes or no" tick box would be a delightful way to circumvent the whole issue. At the back of the cabinet, Kurt found his target. Dragging it out by his fingertips, he was shocked to find--an empty box. The fucking little blue box was empty--save for the "here's how to not insert a tampon in an entirely stupid way, and, oh, NOT DIE OF TOXIC SHOCK SYNDROME" folded paper instructions. Kurt stared at it blankly as he held it in his hands. "Even more perfect". he said. Taking mental stock of just how late he was for school, he weighed his options. One? Drive to CVS, and recreate the ritual of walking around the feminine hygiene section, head down, intently scanning the shelves for "his kind" of blue box--grabbing one, and then finding five other NOT PERIOD RELATED things to cover the thing with as he awkwardly avoided any eye-contact with the cashier as he checked out. Fun. Two? Call Rachel or Mercedes and ask them if they could bring him some tampons before class started. "FML." he decided. Neither option sounded the least bit not mortifying.

The sort-of fun aspect of the girls knowing about his transgender status had worn off by now. He'd had to draw some kind of line in the sand when Rachel and Mercedes had tried to have him over for a "Girls...and Boy, Period Sleepover". He'd heard of the plans for weepy rom-coms, nail-painting, and boy gossip--and had needed to beg off. Yeah, he likes boys. And, truth be told? Weepy romantic comedies. He was on the fence regarding nail polish--but, he just couldn't bring himself to be fully enmeshed in a "Whoooo---we're having our period" club.


In the end, he swallowed about a gallon of his pride, and fired off a brief text to Rachel.

To Rachel B. : Rach? Can you bring some...tampons to school. It's magic time, and I'm out.

Kurt could practically hear her delight at the text he'd sent. Rachel was great about the whole "by the way, I'm biologically female" thing, but she had a tendency to be juuuuuuust a little more enthusiastically supportive than he actually wanted or needed her to at times. He was just about to step out the front door, still feeling vaguely irritated at the J. Crew-esqué outfit he was wearing, when his phone buzzed insistently.

Rachel B: Poopballs. Shark Week? No problem!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

"Jesus, the girl so loves her exclamation points and 'x' and 'o's", he muttered to himself. But, he felt a small beat of relief knowing that the current arrangement of the half roll of toilet paper nestled in the crotch of his underwear would be short-lived.

To Rachel B.: Thanks. Meet me in the parking lot with them? This sounds like a skeevy drug deal, by the way...

Striding down his front walk and tugging open the driver's side door of his Navigator, Kurt felt the next surprise of the day. Cramps. Fist-clenchingly bad cramps. Leaning his forehead against the cool window in front of him, Kurt wondered for perhaps the twentieth time--why his body seemed to hold off on the cramping until just after he'd seen the "evidence". It almost seemed like his brain and reproductive system were in cahoots. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do: we're going to let him forget about this whole gender thing for a few weeks. Then? When he's gotten nice and comfortable--we'll spring the bleeding, ouchie, moody, thing on him. No, the cramps? You guys down in the abdomen--hold off until he actually sees the blood. More of an impact that way."

Shitcrapshitcrapouch...Kurt thought furiously.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he sighed the world's deepest sigh, and texted Rachel once more.

To Rachel B.: Ibuprofen too? Like, fifty?

She fired back a reply so quickly, Kurt wondered if her phone ever even left her hands.

Rachel B.: Peppermint tea! I'll bring you tea!!!!!! And, a snuggly blanket. xoxoxoxoxoxox

"No. No. SO MANY LEVELS OF NO!" Kurt replied directly to his phone, as if she could hear.

To Rachel B.: You bring me tea and a blankie? I will drown you with the tea and choke you with the blanket.

Kurt turned off his phone after that. He needed a few minutes to and space out. His insides roiled, and if he hadn't known better--he'd have sworn there was an alien attempting to claw its way out of his insides. Pulling into the McKinley High parking lot ten minutes later--he gathered his wits and his school bag about himself, and stepped out of the car. Scanning the lot, he felt his anxiety levels rising instantly when a certain Rachel Berry was nowhere to be found.

Reaching into his coat pocket for his phone, he remembered he'd turned it all the way off. No, Kurt--you couldn't have just put it on vibrate, had to go with "power off". Nice, admonished the voice in his head. Turning the power on didn't change a damned thing. Time was ticking away, and Rachel was still not there. This day was going to go down in his list of Days Of Epic Suck, Kurt decided. After five minutes of intense scanning, he gave up and went into the school to face the day ahead.

French class was first. Kurt learned that it was very difficult to concentrate on verbs and conjugations when he could feel an agonisingly slow drip between his thighs. He momentarily considered asking Madame Cotton how to say, "I feel like I'm going to die. Does anyone have any ibuprofen or a tampon? A gun to put me out of my misery" in French, but decided against it. The fallout would be far too irritating to handle.

After French, he made his way to the first floor Boy's Bathroom, amused slightly for not-the-first time at the weirdness of the situation. He'd become quite the silent Ninja tampon-changer in his months at the school. Alas, today? He had gross toilet paper to contend with. Peering critically into the crotch of his underwear, Kurt was satisfied that "things" would hold. For now.

English class came next. Brett smelled especially piquant to Kurt, and he wondered if he had some strange trans-guy having a period special smell detector thing going on. He left the class at the end, knowing a sum total of zero about what they'd even learned that day. In the hallway, headed toward the cafeteria, Kurt checked his phone for the bajillionth time. Nothing. Nothing from Rachel. Nothing from...well, anyone. He wanted to eat about ten gallons of ice cream, but moped his way along the salad bar instead, picking out items with no enthusiasm. His intestines were still screaming at him, and he needed to fight an urge to crawl under a steam table to just lie on the floor.

Moving on to the daunting task of finding a seat, he was greatly relived to see Mercedes chatting animatedly at a nearby table with Artie. Kurt walked over and slid his tray of....meh, down next to her.

"Hey, Kurt! What's happening? Why do you look like shit on toast?" she asked.

"Shit. On toast? That's...disgusting. And, not true, I might add." he replied.

Artie chimed in, "Yeah, Kurt--you kind of do look sorta nasty. Like someone pooped in your cereal this morning, or something."

"Can we NOT with the poop? Just. Not poop. Please?" Kurt moaned.

Picking at his lettuce unenthusiastically, Kurt asked, "Has anyone heard from Rachel? She was supposed to meet me this morning in the parking lot...she's totally missing-in-action."

Mercedes thought for a moment before replying, "Huh. She was going over to Finn's house last time we talked, something about driving him to school or something."

Delightful. Kurt thought to himself. I've been blown off for Frankenteen. (Not that he hadn't had many sex dreams about Frankenteen or anything. Wild horses could not drag the information out of him about that, though. Trans, well, okay. Discussing sex dreams about Finn Hudson? Not. Ever.) When lunch period ended, Kurt realised that he was pretty much doomed to be on his period-having own for the rest of the day. There was no Glee today, only four more torturous classes (including Gym--whooo) left.

Kurt muddled through. He learned that toilet paper as menstrual pad left tiny little specks of pink fluff in his underwear, AND, was especially difficult (and disgusting) to wipe away. He also spent a goodly portion of Algebra counting down the minutes to when he'd turn sixteen and be able to start testosterone therapy.

Walking to his car after school let out, he had only one plan: buy some fucking tampons and ibuprofen, get home, get showered, and block the entire day out of his mind. Rachel Berry, however, totally screwed over those plans.

"Kurt! Hey Kurt! Wait! Hang on!" she shrieked across the parking lot. Her voice burrowed into Kurt's skull instantly like an expertly thrown spear. He turned to see her racing toward him. Not alone. She was dragging a lumbering Finn Hudson behind her.

This will probably not end well, Kurt's mind helpfully supplied.

"Hey, I'm here! I know I'm, eight hours late and all..." she huffed. "I stuff. Buuuuuut, I have to talk to you...." she attempted to stage-whisper.

Jesus. No. Oh, Jesus. Kurt thought, abjectly terrified.

"Yo, Kurt. What's up?" Finn broke in. "Dude, Rachel told me about the...uh, girl-bits part and stuff. It's cool. Well, kind of freaky and weird and all...but I, like, won't say anything...or anything. It's....exotic, I guess. Yeah, exotic." Finn beamed at him, clapping an arm around his back quickly.

Let. Me. Die. Kurt heard in his head--like a very damaged mantra.

Kurt gaped. And just could not deal. At all. With any more of the stupid dayl. Snatching a brown paper bag from Rachel's hand, he threw it into his messenger bag, turned without a sound, and got into his car. He could see Rachel's brown eyes--wide and questioning following his every move. Deciding that he might deign to talk to Rachel at some OTHER juncture in their lifetimes, he simply turned his key in the ignition, and pulled out of the parking lot--not looking back.

Arriving at his driveway in record speed, Kurt walked into the house on auto-pilot. The brown paper bag holding his precious "fucking period" treasures rustled with every shift of his messenger bag--the sound making Kurt want to poke his ears out with a spork. He practically threw the bag down on the counter, and was oddly not surprised to see (and hear) the contents fwap onto the floor.

"Best. Day. Ever." he said, as he slid to the ground--his head banging against a hard cupboard door on the way down.