Disclaimer: Still don't own Glee;)

A/N:

This will eventually be part of my one-shot series I have something that I wanna say…, but I thought while I am writing it, I give it to you as a multichapter so you don't have to wait too long for a new update of mine, hope that is alright by you too, because I am loving it.

Inspired by the lovely review and prompt ChrisColferLovesYouBack left me on above mentioned story. You Rock! And I hope this is what you were hoping for.


After Midnight

Chapter 1

'It's those damn crackers.' "I really shouldn't have eaten them so late," Burt mumbles to himself as he reluctantly gets out from under his soft, warm covers – the alarm clock's fluorescent shine letting him know it is only quarter past midnight. He makes for the stairs to go get himself a glass, or two, of water from the kitchen.

It is when he has taken his first steps on the ground floor that he hears the sounds first, distant and muffled. They are like howls broken, brutally snapped in half.

Worst of all, they are familiar in a way Burt wishes he would not have to understand, but does all too well. "The last time you sounded like this …," had been right after Kurt's mother had died.

And Burt's heart, beating with pain and wishes to know how, '… just how can I fix this?', pulls him to the room that is unmistakably his son's.

The door stands open in a crack, it is when Burt raises his right hand to give it a gentle knock that he can first make out more than sobs. "I can't tell him. What if he'll hate me? Kids get kicked out. I have nowhere to go."

Burt's eyes flicker from the white of the door, through the crack, to the boy sitting with a journal, pen still in hand, curled against the wall at the bottom of his staircase.

Looking so unnaturally, '… painfully …,' twisted in on himself, the sight alone, of his son like this, has everything in Burt's chest tighten, his thirst completely forgotten now, and replaced with a hunger, a hunger to help, '... reach out and….'

The ink still wet on the page, wetter still, mixed with tears, spells it all out, all he just heard, Burt has no doubt, and so much more he feels desperate to know, so he can, ' … so I can make this right for you, Kiddo. I need to make it right, whatever it is.' And Burt has this suspicion settling deep in his … every fibre.

Burt had always thought superheroes were silly, but boy does he wish now he had a zoom option available for his eyes.

Turns out, he does not need it after all. Kurt splutters and sobs to himself as he starts writing again, "Why did I have to let him see me like this? He … he hates me. He cannot hate me. I have no one else, but, but if, if he ever finds out. I cannot lose you, Dad. Oh gosh, does he know now? And I, but … but it hurts so bad, I can't keep it inside anymore, it hurts so so bad. I am gay, Dad. GAY! Your son is …, nothing you ever wanted. I wish I could tell you. I told Mercedes last week, but, she is the only one who knows and hiding hurts so bad. I know it sounds terrible, but … I want someone who counts to know. I want someone who has known me all my life to tell me that there is nothing wrong with being who I am, never has been. I want you to know me, Dad. There is only you, there will only ever be you to make me feel safe in that way. I need me, I need to be me. But I need you too. I need you to love me for who I am, not just for what you choose to take me for. I need you to see and love me. I need you," Kurt hunches over and buries his face in his arms, folded over the book on his knees. And then the sobs turn deeper, slower, almost as if they are lasting out each other, falling over each other in Kurt's chest, struggling for release, paining Kurt deep inside.

Burt is still standing in the doorway twenty-three minutes later, crying himself, when Kurt's sobs have died down and the boy has fallen into a sleep of exhaustion, still leaning hunched over against the cellar wall, the journal cocooned into his tiny, pyjama clad form.

Burt is not one to tiptoe …, tonight he does.

When he reaches Kurt he wraps him up in his arms, carries him over to his bed, and, placing the journal, still open, without looking, onto his son's nightstand, carefully helps his body, moving with a dream, glide under the covers. And for minutes he simply watches Kurt settle between the sheets. Burt watches the frown slowly slip of his son's features, smudged ink, blue, still striking Kurt's cheek. Burt does not dare to even try and wipe it away.

"I have to do something." It's not about the ink.