A/N:

I publishes this already too as a multi-chapter while working on it, but it has always been intended as part of this collection.

Inspired by the lovely review and prompt by ChrisColferLovesYouBack. You Rock! And I hope this is what you were hoping for.

Most of all I hope Burt and Kurt come across as believable for you guys in this.

I have something that I wanna say …

02: After Midnight

'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.

What Burt is most afraid of is that his son won't believe him, won't be able to believe him should Burt just come out with it, just say, 'I overheard you last night and, Kurt, I love you just the same. And more Kurt, so much more, for being yourself, for being that brave.'

"Will Kurt believe that?" Burt murmurs to himself anxiously, himself back under his bedcovers now, placing the still half-filled waterglass on his bedside table.

It is not like Burt had not suspected for a long time this talk might come one day. But he had said nothing, not wanting to make Kurt uncomfortable in any way.

Burt had always figured they would be able to work it out, when something came up.

But that had all been in theory, and Burt realizes now somewhat naive and irresponsible.

Because in reality Burt is terrified Kurt might not be even able to take in anything now, as terrified as he sounded tonight. And "... we need to talk." Burt had switched of his light there and then, resolve in his chest.

It had not done him much good though. He had lain awake for hours more last night, thinking, trying to think of something that will help Kurt trust his father's words to be true, sincere. 'He must have heard, read so many horror stories online about what happens to some kids.' Sometimes Burt hates the internet. It makes it so much harder to know what your kid is exposed to, and to protect them from things that just are too much for a younger mind.

It is almost 3:30am when Burt finally has an idea that brings him some perspective, and hope, hope that there is actually a right way to do this, '...maybe,' that he has found the right way for him and Kurt to do this, to talk and hear each other clearly, '...hopefully.'

Burt cannot stand the thought of leaving Kurt alone with his sadness and fear a day more, so he comes home early from work the next day, to make sure they will talk right away, "Today."

The boxes he first goes through, kept piled up in the far back of his wardrobe for years, have gathered some dust, the smaller box he takes from his wife's old dresser and places carefully on his bedside table has not.

Burt is still sitting on his bedroom floor surrounded by what looks like a frenzy of papers and pictures when he hears the front door open and close. "Kurt," Burt murmurs softly to himself, taking a deep breath before getting up.

Kurt first realizes something must be up when his father is not only home early, which just happens from time to time, 'Like the day I had Britt and Tina over to dance,' Kurt thinks swallowing hard, but offers to cook one of Kurt's favourite healthy dinners together. "You sure, Dad?" he has to ask.

"Yeah," his father answers with an easy smile. But Burt can still see the fear in his son's eyes, and the circles under them, from all the crying last night, despite the light make-up Kurt had applied this morning.

'Is he really that afraid of me?' The thought tears at Burt, and his voice is rougher than usual, Kurt flinching instantly as he brings out, "Of course, Kiddo." Kurt does not look too reassured at all. 'We really need to talk.'

As they chop the vegetables for their meal Burt broods over the question of timing, 'Before or after dinner?', while Kurt, after being initially all too fidgety to cut anything, slowly eases into the comfort of the familiar movements.

It might have done Burt some good too to notice that much, but the father is all too lost in his thoughts, a frown on his forehead that Kurt, once he notices, puts down to his dad being not at all that familiar with the possible ways to cut up and cook an eggplant.

Kurt feels an unexpected jolt of happiness though watching his dad trying '... for me.'

Time flies with both of them busy and the radio on, playing a station both of them - they had found out immersed in work involving way more grease than today's food one day at the garage when Kurt was eleven - love to listen to.

Kurt does most of the final assembling of the ingredients in pots and pans, and before they know it they are sitting at the table, dishes all emptied.

"That was amazin', Kiddo."

"Thanks, Dad," Kurt replies with a warm but still a little shy smile.

"Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I show you something? I mean, I had planned to get it all in better order first ... but ..."

"But?" Kurt asks, eyes wide and somewhat worried now, heart beating faster already in his chest. 'Please don't be about my dancing. Please!' Kurt pleads inwardly, feeling his own nerves beginning to flutter again, as he briefly closes his eyes to try and calm himself down.

Kurt lets out a yelp when he feels his father's hand on his.

It had not gone unnoticed by Burt how heavily Kurt's left hand, resting on the table still, while the other is balled up in Kurt's lap, had suddenly begun to shake.

When he opens his eyes back up his dad's hand is still there holding his own reassuringly with a soft squeeze. Kurt's voice is shaky, "Dad?"

"Please don't worry. Please? It's nothing bad, I swear," Burt says softly. "Just some ...," Burt is lost for words to explain for a moment, "Just gimme a second, I'll go get it from upstairs, okay?"

Kurt nods after a moment of hesitation, wordlessly, still swallowing hard, then croaks out a small sounding, "...okay."

Burt gives Kurt's hand one more gentle squeeze, tries to smile at him, but Kurt's eyes are already cast down onto the table, before Burt gets a chance to. So he reluctantly lets go of his son's hand, gets up and heads for the staircase.

As Kurt watches him disappear upstairs his nerves only grow more tense, his stomach churning as he keeps whispering to himself repeatedly, "It's okay, it's nothing bad. It's okay." Kurt wants it to be true, so bad, but he also knows his father and he do not always speak the same language. With that thought, suddenly only panic is left in the wake of the previously forcefully in its place kept calm.

When Burt comes back down the stairs some minutes later, his arms full with a box stuffed to the brim with what Burt hopes to be of help, ... Kurt has disappeared from his place at the table.

"Kurt? Kiddo?" Burt's voice can be heard throughout all of the ground floor, full of worry.

Burt puts down the box at the foot of the stairs before heavy-heartedly taking the first steps towards Kurt's bedroom door. He knocks twice, but after not getting any kind of answer either time and worried out of his mind he tries the handle, which to his surprise does give way, the door opening with a small creaking sound, "Kurt? Kiddo? You in there?"

There is no one sitting at the foot of the stairs this time.

Burt only sees Kurt when he is already half-way down the stairs, and looking hard for any sign of life in the room, spotting him, from the slightly higher ground of the stairs, cowering on the opposite side of his bed, on the floor, only the back of his head visible to Burt, face buried in what looks like a huge pillow.

Burt is afraid to scare his son, but '...what else is there to do?' So he slowly walks over, around the bed, to find his son, back pressed against the bed frame, sitting on the floor, curled around a huge pillow, sobbing into it.

"I love you, Kurt." It is the only thing Burt can think to say right now.

Kurt winces at the unexpected sound, his head flying up, Burt finding his son's eyes cried red, still full of tears and fear, staring at him incredulously for a second, then he forgets all about the pillow, bringing his hands and arms up to bury his head in. Kurt is almost shouting when he answers, having lost all sense of self in his tear muddled brain, "But you won't, you won't anymore. You'll hate me, just like everyone else does. The other kids, the teachers."

Even before Kurt's last words are out Burt is already on the floor with him, pulling a still protesting Kurt into his arms.

"You don't want to hold me. You will never want to see me, let alone touch me again."

"Kurt. Kurt! Listen to me, I know ..."

"You know nothing, Dad. Nothing!" Kurt shouts, still struggling against his father's hug.

Kurt freezes in sudden shock when Burt lets go of him, gets up and walks away.

"Dad?" he whispers in sudden fear, scrambling on shaky legs out from his hiding spot. Is that it? Has he already lost him? Did he just realize what Kurt has been too afraid to say and will be back in a moment with a time-limit and a too small suitcase to take anything much with him? 'Like it happened to that kid in Westerville ...,' he had read about in a blog just yesterday. 'Where does that boy live now again? Where will I live?'

"You wouldn't listen," Kurt suddenly hears his father's voice. And there he is again, his dad, carrying a big box down the stairs, placing it in front of Kurt a moment later. To Kurt's surprise it is not empty. "So I'll try to show you, Kurt. Please, sit."

And Kurt does not know why, maybe the confusion at the sight of this '... cardboard box?' is what does the trick, either way Kurt sits back down on the floor.

All Burt knows is, he is relieved Kurt has finally stopped panicking, for the most part at least.

Without another word Burt, sitting down himself on the floor, reaches into the box, handing Kurt a colourful bunch of old pictures in the next moment.

"I wanted to sort those out a bit more for you first, but it'll have to do like this for now."

At first glance it looks like a bunch of ordinary pictures, his dad and mom holding hands, kissing, walking in a park Kurt recognizes as one in Cleveland he knows he has been to as a child himself with his dad, for weekend trips. "What is this?" Kurt hiccups when he suddenly finds pictures of other people he has never seen before, and then group shots of his mom and dad with them, and pictures of hundreds of people in what looks like a march of some kind.

The signs people are holding in the pictures are too small and blurry for Kurt to be able to read them. But then there is one where they are not, one from a different year, he can tell by his mom's hairstyle and the different baseball cap his dad is wearing. But, forget the signs. His dad's cap, the cap of the man proudly pushing a baby buggy in front of him, it says 1994 Cleveland Pride.

Kurt drops the more than a dozen pictures to the floor as he looks up to find his dad's eyes.

Burt is smiling wide at him, "Yes, that is you in that buggy. I ... your mom, she was big on campaigning for, well, equal rights for everyone, her parents had been big on that too, and she wanted you to grow up with that same sense of pride in standing up for yourself and others. So the first thing she did after we bought our, this house here in 1989, she went through all the local newspapers of Ohio's bigger cities and looked for ways to get involved. And among many other things she found that Cleveland activists were starting an annual pride parade. So we went to the first one in 1990, and the second one a year later, and the one after that. We missed the fourth one in 1993, because ..."

"You just had me," Kurt says, looking still utterly dumbstruck.

"Yeah," Burt replies, grinning like the happiest fool in the world. "And then in 1994, you were there too."

"I was ..., I marched in a pride parade?"

"Well, technically I pushed you most of the way."And Burt looks so proud, at the incredulous smile that slowly spreads on Kurt's face, that he cannot help feeling, 'There will be no better time.' "Kurt, your mom loved you so much. I love you so much. We always have and we always will. Your mom was so special in the way she cared, just could not help caring, and you got that same special spark, and it does not matter to me who you love, but that you love. Yourself and others too. I hate that this is so hard for you, that we have come such a little way in our country since your mom and I and you took part in this march, but I love you, gay or straight. I could never even be so much as upset with you for loving someone, boy or girl. All that matters to me, all that ever mattered to your mom was that you would know love and would allow yourself to feel it, no matter who for."

Kurt has been crying again almost from the moment his dad started talking again, and as Burt keeps talking Kurt moves over to the side of the box Burt has been sitting on and finally allows for his dad to take him into his arms and just hold his little boy close.

"Kurt, I am so proud of you, of who you are, and you should be too. And those students and teachers have it coming when they think they can push you around."

Kurt lets out a small tearful snort at his dad's half-threat.

"I mean it."

"Dad?"

"Mmh?"

"I feel like I need to say it."

"Go ahead."

"I'm gay, Dad."

"Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you just the same. And more Kurt, so much more, for being yourself, for being that brave."

Kurt buries himself deeper in his dad's warm hug, "I was so scared I'd lose you too."

Burt just squeezes Kurt tighter, "You're not goin' to lose me, Kiddo."

"It just, ... it's so much to lose. You are so much to lose."

"I ain't goin' anywhere anytime soon."

The next night at dinner Burt rushes upstairs again with an "Oh, I almost forgot."

Kurt is still chewing his vegetarian lasagne when Burt comes back down with a white box, about half the usual size of a shoe-box. He takes a quick sip of his lemonade before he asks, "What's that?"

Burt, smiling wide, just pushes it over to Kurt. "Go ahead, open it."

Kurt carefully lifts of the lid, "Oh, wow!"

"I saw you wearing that hippopotamus brooch the other day around the house, and I thought you might like these. I know some are a little tacky with the writing and all ..."

Burt's breath is knocked out off him by his son's hug midsentence. "Thanks, Dad. Thank you so much."

"They were all your mom's. Though for the marches she occasionally pinned some to you and me as well."

Kurt knows he could get lost for hours in the collection of dozens of brooches and pins that were once his mom's, Burt knows it too. But there will be enough time for that later. Right now he just wants to stand here for a while longer, hugging his dad who loves him too tight, in the middle of dinner. "I love you, Dad."

A/N: So this feels different than my other writing. I wonder why? Also, I am so tempted now to write more about the boy from Westerville. Damn those compelling story ideas, I need longer days to write more. Alternate Klaine stories I find so hard to resist.

Thank you for investing your time in reading my story.

Phew! Longest piece of writing I have done in quite some time. Gosh I missed writing like this!

M