It gets better

By Kurtofsky4eva

Summary: Set after 'On My Way' episode: David's words, Kurt's words and finding hope.

A/N: I think this was just bursting to come out and I couldn't hold it back. Read and review, please!

Disclaimer: I do not nor will ever own anything Glee; you know who does.

Journal Entry:

One more time my shoulder made contact and I hurt at the thought that I was causing him pain. His slighter body hit the locker and the sound was louder than I expected. I saw the outrage on his beautiful face and I knew my own frown must have been pretty fierce.

I don't want to want him; I don't want to love him, but I do. Maybe if I make him hate me then I can hate him.

He slid down the front of the locker and when his butt hit the floor I couldn't control a slight wince and I hoped the other guys didn't see it.

I hate myself. I didn't start out this way, hurting the boy I love just because I hurt.

I remember a time, before he grew so freaking gorgeous, that I could see him without my heart hurting. I could pass him in the school hallways or see him in the cafeteria and not know this shameful pain. He was just another kid and I was just another kid, caught up in our own little worlds of schoolwork, homework, after-school stuff and cackling friends.

Then, one day he was just different. I had known for a while that I was different, that things had changed for me. I used to laugh and make tasteless jokes with the other guys about girls and what was inside their blouses or under their skirts and what we would do with them, if they gave us half a chance.

Gradually, that changed for me and I became uncomfortable in my own body, feeling things I didn't want to feel when the other jocks changed in front of me after football practice. I would get these strange feelings in my stomach that would slide further down and I hated those feelings even if a part of me relished them.

Things changed even more for me when he changed; one day he just seemed taller, slimmer, his hair was shinier, his face glowed even brighter and I couldn't stop looking at him. It was even worse when he started wearing those fancy designer things that hugged his body and drew my eyes to a part of him that just taunted me with its sheer perfection.

He was just bright and beautiful and so stunning he made my heart clench – and my stomach, too. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me, if he even looked at me. When I realized that I was falling in love with him I grew angry. It hurt to know this beautiful boy would never look at me and see anything but one of a number of lumbering, sweating, loud-mouthed idiots who weren't fit to breathe the air he breathed.

I hated him. I loved him. No, I love him; even when I high-fived my closest friend and could feel the heat of his glare for the hurt I caused him with that shoulder check, I still loved him.

I looked back over my shoulder, just a quick glance, but our eyes met and I wished I could rewind my life. I wished I could go back to that first day when I realized Kurt Hummel was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen.

Then maybe, if I had been smarter, I would have found a way to sit beside him in classes, share jokes about the clueless teachers and complaints about the amount of homework assigned us. Then, maybe, we could have become friends and maybe I wouldn't have turned into this lumbering, sweating, loud-mouthed idiot who had to resort to locker slams and slushie facials just to have him look at me and see me, Dave Karofsky.

Maybe Kurt Hummel and Dave Karofsky could have become more than friends by the time our junior year came around and pain wouldn't be the only thing connecting us.

Yeah, I love a boy and he hates me… but not more than I hate myself.

End Journal Entry

Paul Karofsky stood up from the bed, the dark blue, leather-covered journal held loosely in one hand. That hand was shaking; his face was pale and drawn and his eyes were sunken, staring off into the middle distance.

He had had no idea his son had been feeling all these things, thinking all these thoughts, and he didn't know whether to be sad or angry. He was numb but beneath that numbness was a yawning despair that made him wonder: was this my fault?

He bit his lip to hold back the threatening tears as he thought of his son, struggling for years with growing feelings for another boy and being unable to say anything to him, his father. Was he, the clueless father, just as much to blame as those homophobic jerks for his son's decision to end his life?

No! His mind screamed so suddenly it almost startled him. His soul rejected the thought outright. I didn't know, he never said anything.

'You knew something was wrong, though,' a voice came out of nowhere, surfacing from some unknown area of his mind; 'you knew when you had to be called to the school about the bullying. You knew something was wrong because that wasn't the bright, well-balanced kid you'd raised. You can't say now you didn't know!'

A sob tore itself from Paul Karofsky's throat, a raw, painful sound that hurt just to be heard. The dam broke and tears he'd thought he'd finished shedding welled up anew. My boy, my Davey, I'm so sorry!

Hard, wracking sobs echoed around his son's bedroom but he couldn't stop them. It was almost as if he were standing outside of his body, watching this old-looking man double over, clutching that journal as if he were clutching the boy who right now was lying in a hospital bed. He was almost ashamed of that man who was powerless beneath the force of tears that shook him, that would have embarrassed him had the pain been any less intense.

Oh, Davey, Davey!

The truth is that no parent should have to find their child like he'd found David that day. His mind recoiled in horror at the thought that he could have been too late. He wailed at the thought that he could have been making funeral arrangements now rather than sorting out clothes for his son to wear home from that same hospital. Paul Karofsky fairly twisted with the agony of his thoughts and the nausea that threatened to unman him.

My poor boy, my poor sweet boy, I'm so sorry.

Slender arms came around him and it took him seconds to realize it was Denise; she must have entered while he was out of his mind or he would have heard her.

"Shh, shhhh, hush, he's going to be okay. Hush now, sweetheart, it's going to be alright." Her gentle voice, her sweet words cooled the heat of his pain in soft, slow waves. Gradually he calmed, his breathing slowed and he unclenched from around the journal.

When his swollen eyelids parted and his eyes fell on the blue leather, his lips tightened and twisted together. "I, I gave him this, you know… I thought maybe it would help. He used to seem so sad sometimes, you know?"

She nodded; he knew she was humoring him but he appreciated it. After all, she had helped him pick it out for his 15th birthday; that shade blue was his favorite, she had pointed out. Now she just held him and patted him, comforting him in silence as they thought about their poor, hurting son lying in a hospital bed, waiting for them to come for him.

Finally he could stand and, putting back the journal on the bed, he took up the bag with his son's clothes and looked at his wife. He nodded once and headed out the door, hearing her following him and was grateful that she was still silent.

Downstairs he got into the car on the passenger side; he was still too distraught to drive. He hoped by the time they got to the hospital all traces of his emotional collapse would have dissipated. He knew he would still look wan but he hoped Davey wouldn't notice. He had to appear strong for his boy, strong and supportive and accepting.

The drive to the hospital was made mostly in silence, the few questions and even fewer answers serving only to highlight the unnatural quiet in the car. His wife, he knew, was not as accepting about Dave's sexual orientation as he but he was too worn out to try and change her thinking. It would have to wait until both he and Dave were past this horrible point and on firmer ground. Denise's rigidity would have to take a backseat to seeing that their son was on the road to recovery.

They headed up to their son's room in relatively companionable silence; they were both occupied with wondering in what mood they would find him.

As they approached the door of the private room, their footsteps slowed unconsciously and Paul eventually came to a stop. He turned to Denise to ask her to wait and let him go in first when he heard voices. Their heads turned towards the sound, realizing that David had a visitor, and when he realized who was in there with their son, his eyes widened.

Raising one hand in a gesture to wait, he turned towards the door and looked in through the gap, his heart clenching at the sight.

There, sitting in the visitor's chair and talking urgently with David was Kurt Hummel. The boy's unusually soft but firm voice was slightly tearful as he spoke and Paul's mind reeled as he listened to what he was telling his son.

"It isn't going to be easy and there will be some days when life just sucks! But you're gonna get through this 'cause I'm gonna help you, and so is everyone else who loves you and accepts you for who you are – and if they can't accept that, then screw 'em!"

Paul just barely held in his gasp as the boy's hands reached out and clung together. He could see only a part of Kurt's face, the angle prevented him from seeing his son's but from the smile blossoming on that fair face, he knew David was smiling too.

He drew back and turned to his wife, tears once again threatening to overflow, and smiled. "It's going to be alright, sweetheart." He drew her into a tight hug, his face buried in her neck, and he sighed.

"It's going to get better."

The End … or is it?

A/N: So, hate it or love it, just don't hold back; even negative responses can be insightful.