A/N: Hello, everyone! First off, I just wanted to say I've been working on this story for a little while and I'm excited! I got the idea after reading TFIOS. This is not going to be like TFIOS. It's not a cancer!fic. The only thing I took from TFIOS is the idea of a support group over the summer. I created the idea for Kurt meeting Blaine at a support group for kids with depression, self-harm tendencies, and suicidal thoughts. I'm going to go ahead and place an overall warning here that this story will contain these themes, so please read at your own risk. As much as I love seeing people reading and enjoying anything I write, I don't want to trigger anyone. That being said, if there's any bigger type of trigger for the chapter, I'll post that in the author's note as well.
I really, really hope you guys enjoy this story. You can find my Tumblr I recently opened on my profile, so if you have any questions or prompts for me, or anything just to say about the story, you can send that to me either here, via my PMs or reviews, or to my Tumblr!
I do like and accept constructive criticism, but I ask that you please don't post anything blatantly rude. I'm not forcing you to read my story, so if there's something you don't like, please just click off of my work.
One more thing to say. I'm sorry. I'm rambling. Lastly, I just wanted to make you guys aware that this chapter changes POVs. It's all written in third person, but both Kurt and Burt's POVs are included in this chapter to make it work.
So, now, I'm going to end this rambling authors note here and get into the chapter. I hope you guys enjoy, and please review and let me know what you think. It is greatly appreciated!
Everyday was the same. He rolled out of bed, took a shower and pulled on his clothes, created the perfect coif in his hair that he hit with nearly half a can of hairspray and grabbed a granola bar, making his way to school. He'd go along with his daily schedule, dragging his feet along with the rest of his body as he faced slushies, locker slams, dumpster dives, and anything else. He made his way through all the classes, weakly sang his way through glee practice and finally made it home where he fixed dinner, ate quickly and used the excuse of "too much homework" or "working on a glee club song" as an excuse to escape into his bedroom. He'd immediately change into his navy blue pajamas, fall into bed and go to sleep, waking up the next morning to completely the process all over again.
It didn't take an expert to know there was something wrong with Kurt. That he wasn't the go-lucky boy he'd been before his sophomore year. Once school was over, Kurt nearly cried with relief. On the last day, he came home and once again excused himself from dinner, telling his father that he was exhausted from their glee club party and needed sleep to start the summer on a good note. It wasn't a complete lie - it just wasn't the full truth.
Burt was concerned, to say the least. Kurt hadn't been acting like his normal self. He saw the boy go from the Kurt that spent the weekends singing along happily in his room to his favorite musicals to the Kurt that spent most of his time sleeping and trying to find excuses to stay locked up in his room. He knew that school for Kurt probably wasn't the easiest, but his son made it absolutely impossible to find out anything. He never mentioned anything other than homework and glee club, and there was no details. It was either "I have too much homework and need to make sure to get it done" or "I'm working on a new glee song and have to perfect it."
While Burt had been a teenager once, he and Kurt differed in many ways, and it wasn't just their sexuality. Burt had many more friends and enjoyed sports, while Kurt liked singing and music. Burt was very accepting of his son, but he was concerned that everything going on at school that Kurt refused to talk about was effecting him in a bad way, and he had no idea what to do about it.
He kept the thoughts of Kurt's symptoms in his mind, loading up the internet one night and typing Kurt's symptoms into the search box.
Loss of appetite. Kurt hadn't been cooking nearly as much, and even his favorite dishes were pushed around the plate, only a few bites being taken. Burt knew Kurt thought he didn't notice, or he at least hid it well. The boy couldn't have been more wrong.
Tiredness or Fatigue. Kurt was always sleeping or resting or locked up in his room, and Burt never heard the sounds of his favorite songs drifting through the house.
Anger or Irritability. Burt had noticed this more often through the second semester of Kurt's sophomore year. He'd come home and be angry sometimes. He would either blow it off, or he'd get caught to nearly raising his voice, slamming doors, or just sulking off to his room.
He took a deep breath, running a hand over his head and hitting enter on the computer, squinting as he scrolled through the results.
And there it was. Written in black, bold letters. Depression.
Burt tilted his head slightly to the side, thinking for a few moments. He thought back to how hopeless Kurt looked sometimes. He could see the gears turning in his mind. He found his son trying to hold back tears sometimes. He knew Kurt tried to hide it, but the truth was he couldn't.
The first day of summer, Kurt woke up to the bright sunlight shining through his curtains. He rolled out of bed, rubbing his hands over his face and quickly making his way into the bathroom. He stares into the mirror at his pale skin and the bags under his eyes that stood out even more than normal. He glances over at his moisturizer, reaching to grab it but quickly stopping his hand. He just didn't feel like it today.
He exits the bathroom, throwing on a pair of jeans that had been hanging in his closet, pulling a t-shirt on and sitting on the edge of his bed with a soft sigh, running his fingers through his hair. He really just wanted to stay in bed and sleep all day. The only real close friend he had was Mercedes, and her family had left that morning on vacation. Kurt had absolutely nothing to look forward to this summer. He trudged up the stairs, peeking into the kitchen where his dad was dressed in his work clothes, nursing a mug of coffee, the big red letters of "World's Greatest Dad" staring back at him. He doesn't even smile, instead making his way over to the cabinet to grab one of his favorite granola bars, chewing slowly. It tasted like cardboard.
He looked up, startled as he found Burt staring at him.
"..Dad-?" He starts, automatically cut off by Burt's voice cutting through the air.
"Any plans, kiddo? I have to work until three today. It would have been two, but someone called in needing a part, so I'll have to spend a little time working on that today."
Kurt shakes his head. "No. Mercedes and her family left for a trip this morning. I'll probably just put on a movie or something." He shrugs, taking another bite of the granola bar. He could barely get it down, but did for his father's sake.
"Why don't you call someone else from glee? Like.. that Tina girl? I thought you two were friends."
"Asian camp with Mike Chang." Kurt quickly cuts off, sighing. "Really, dad. I'll be fine. I'll watch a movie. Mercedes gets back in two weeks, and then maybe I could plan a big celebratory upcoming junior year mall trip with her. I have been eying a new Alexander McQueen jacket that would go perfect with a shirt hanging in my closet."
Kurt could see his father start to open his mouth but stopping himself and nodding. "Sure, son. Just don't get too bored stuck in the house, okay?"
Kurt looked just as surprised that Burt had stopped himself but nodded, giving his dad a weak smile. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, Dad."
"No problem, kiddo. I'll see you at three." He feels his dad ruffle his hair before dumping out the remaining coffee, leaving the dirty cup in the sink and grabbing his keys, walking out the door. Kurt sighs, making his way slowly to the trash can and throwing away the other half of the granola bar he hadn't been able to get down. He trudged back up to his room, laying down and staring at the ceiling, closing his eyes and allowing himself to drift to sleep.