Burt knew his son was different from the age of three. He wanted sensible heels and ballet classes instead of football tryouts and baseball mitts. His son being gay he realized quite soon, his son’s other tendencies didn’t come till much later. Kurt was always organized, almost too organized. His clothing was always in its place, every spot had a reason. Burt remembers moving his clothing once when they were moving; the fallout was something he’d never forget. Lamps were thrown, screams heard by the entire neighborhood, Finn had to literally hold him down near the end of it. At that point, he knew.
Rachel Berry understood the need to be perfect more than anyone else. Every day she would strive and often fail to be perfect. It wasn’t until she started living with her best friend that she learned her need to be perfect was trumped tenfold by one Kurt Hummel. Every hair on his head had to be in place, every bowtie and cravat and ascot had a separate hanger; always color-coded. Kurt had…well the only way she could explain it would be to call it a ritual. Every night he would do a 30 minute skin care routine (how can that many products be good for anyone’s face? Her own was only ten minutes long), then he would fold and refold his pajamas until they were folded in multiple different creases, then he would put on his shirt, left arm going in twice before putting it in fully (okay she might have peeked at him changing once or twice-he’s hot okay?) doing the same with each piece of clothing; left arm twice, right arm once, head once, and smooth over three times. It was a bit crazy but she eventually got used to it.
Sex with Kurt was awesome. Always perfect, even when it technically meant nothing to the other party (don’t think about it don’t think about it). Blaine had his own issues of course, he tried to make everyone happy before himself, he sometimes skipped lunch just to feel the hunger, okay he had some issues, but none of them were brought into the bedroom. Kurt was always intricate with sex, he never did anything that he didn’t mean to do. Every moan, every thrust was measured. He didn’t notice Kurt was tapping at his shoulder in patterns until their third time; he ignored it, he was having sex with Kurt and it was awesome and perfect and he wasn’t in a position to mention it when they were doing it, and after it just seemed rude. He was sure it was just a nervous tick or a habit. It was nothing to worry about.
Ever since marrying Burt Carole had gained so much; namely a new son. Kurt was a joy, really; he was more than a son to her in many ways. There was something…off about him though. Carole would never mention it to Burt, or god forbid Kurt, but she noticed. Kurt, every day would have rituals, she knew what that meant. She knew that it wasn’t normal; she had seen it before. Usually, he was fine but sometimes, when he was truly under stress, she would see it. He would fold his clothing into little balls, unfold them again, and start over. He would organize sugar packets and splenda packets into little rows and then do it all again. He would color coordinate his wardrobe for certain days and tests. It wasn’t normal, it wasn’t okay, but she didn’t dare say what it was.
When Santana moved in with Hummel and Berry she expected some crazy. What she didn’t expect though, was that the gold star twink himself would be the real nut of the house. Every day she would have to wait literal hours before she could get into the washroom because Lady Hummel was organizing his toothbrushes, or doing his hair. She could tell his hair was dead by all the product he put in it the second she moved in, why hadn’t he noticed? She, of course tried to break the cycle, unlike Rachel who just let it go on, but was met with a wrath even she couldn’t be prepared for. Not all of Lima Heights could prepare her for Hummel fucking trying to scratch her eyes out after she went through his stuff and organized it wrong, the second after Moulin Rouge was over he went through his stuff, and flipped out. Adam had to restrain him, and got a black eye out of it, no wonder Doctor Who hadn’t called him in a week. He apologized after, helping her dab her cuts with peroxide, but then she knew that Kurt Hummel was not okay.
Kurt Hummel was perfectly normal. Sometimes he arranged his outfits according to date, mood, and political influence, but he was normal. Looking at the prescription in his hand though, he didn’t feel normal. He felt wrong. Just because his food couldn’t touch didn’t mean he had-he couldn’t say it, not yet. He didn’t have it though, he was sure he was going to throw out the prescription the second he got it. He was already on enough ambien to tranquilize a horse, he didn’t need to be more medicated. He didn’t need the white pills, and he wasn’t going to take them.
He tried to throw out the pills, he really did, but then he saw Santana’s face. He saw his messages to Adam that were still left unseen by the blonde man, or at least unreplied to. He remembered Finn restraining him against attacking his father when they moved to the new house. He remembered not being to ever truly enjoy sex with Blaine without having to count the number of breaths he took, tapping in patterns to keep the voices away. He remembered grade six when he almost stabbed Lily Daniels with a pencil for messing up his desk’s organization system. He remembers fainting in booty camp from not eating enough because he had to count the calories he was eating to keep the monsters away. He remembers the feeling of the monster creeping up again.
He takes the pills, not knowing if they’ll fix him, god knows they might not even work. He thinks about how his life might be different if he had been free from the nagging thoughts he refused to entertain until he had to, to be able to think clearly without the folding and organizing and tapping and counting. He imagined a world where maybe his life would be different. He imagined hope.