Don't really know where this came from. I just have too many ideas swirling around in my head for stories and had to get some of them out.
The first time Kurt saw his father cry, he had been spying. Hoping to gain some insight on why his parents had dropped him off at the neighbor's earlier in the day, leaving him there for hours with nothing fun to do, only to wordlessly pick him up hours later, he sat at the top of the steps, hidden by the banister. His mom leaned against the kitchen counter, hand over her face, while his dad said words his eight-year-old mind understood only enough to realize that they were bad. When his dad buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and his mother rushed over to hold him to her, Kurt realized what he was witnessing.
Slowly, silently, he crept back into his bedroom, words like cancer, terminal, and untreatable bouncing around in his head.
When they sat him down the next day, somber looks on their faces, his face screwed up and he began crying before either of them had said a word. They shared a look and wrapped their arms around their son.
Months passed, and Kurt watched his mother grow weaker until the doctor's wouldn't let her leave the hospital anymore. They visited her every day, she held Kurt every day as he cried at the injustice of it all. He didn't see his father cry again until Kurt literally begged his mother not to leave them. Tears ran down her face as he pleaded, and when Burt placed a gentle hand on Kurt's shoulder, he rounded on his dad, anger in his eyes. He yelled, accused him of not caring enough. Kurt felt like he had been crying for years, why didn't his dad even seem sad? For you, his dad had said to him, shaking. It was for you.
Kurt sat still, unshed tears in his eyes. His dad leaned his head back, facing the ceiling, his eyes closed. Kurt stared, and when tears leaked from the corners of his dad's eyes, Kurt climbed onto the bed, carefully pushed himself up until he was standing and launched himself at his dad. He wound his little arms tight around his neck and cried his apologies into his shirt collar. Burt wrapped Kurt up in a tight hug, still shaking, crying into his son's hair. Kurt felt a hand lightly squeeze his calf and peeked through his tears down at his mom, who had a sort of watery smile on her face.
When the phone rang in the middle of the night, Kurt grumbled and pulled his comforter over his head. He heard his dad's muffled voice down the hall, followed by footsteps and, he didn't want to think about why, but his heart began pounding. His room light came on and he slowly pushed down his blanket. His eyes met his dad's; he didn't have to say anything, Kurt saw it all in his eyes. He mutely dressed himself and followed his dad to the car.
He hardly remembers the day of the funeral, just remembers his tears, his dad's tears, and the smell of dirt. He gets through the day on autopilot, blinders on to everything except his dad, and when his dad reaches down and takes his hand, little fingers anchored tightly to the strength of all that is left of his family, Kurt silently vows to be strong for his dad. When they get home after what Kurt thinks must have been the longest day of his young life, his dad tiredly falls onto the couch, burying his face in the cushions. Kurt climbs onto his back and wraps himself around him. Their breathing falls into sync and they fall asleep together.
When they wake up the next morning, they look at each other but their tears are spent. They simultaneously take deep breaths and Burt smiles down at Kurt before pulling him into a hug. As Kurt leans into his father's embrace, he thinks they might be alright after all. They are allowed to be sad, he realizes, but it's much better without the tears.
