A/N: This story is on Fanfiction.net and AO3 as well under the same username! Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

*This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.

Chapter warnings: mentions of suicide and depression.

Chapter 1 – This Feels Like Home

(Kurt & Blaine, August 2010 – March 2011) 

“When sadness was the sea, you were the one that taught me to swim.” – Iain S. Thomas, I Wrote This For You

August, 2010 - Blaine

"Excuse me? Um, hi, can I ask you a question? I'm – I'm new here."

            When I turned around, intent on mumbling a quiet response about how I was supposed to be somewhere (because I had never been one for social interaction), I stopped mid-step, closing my mouth.

            The first thing I noticed about the boy was his eyes, such a beautiful shade of clear blue with dashes of green. They were captivating – dazzling, really – but there was something… missing. They weren't bright like you would expect, or sparkling with a profound enthusiasm for the world around him. Wasn't that how these things worked? You accidentally bumped into someone on the street – or, for the sake of this situation, on a staircase – and you met a person, someone the complete opposite of you, that made you realize everything you were missing out on by being a shy, introverted, lonely person content on floating through his years unnoticed.

            But it took me less than three seconds to realize that this wasn't one of those overly-dramatic and unrealistic movie scenes. Which led me to the second thing I noticed about him: the fact that he seemed lost. Not just physically, actually confused about where he was going, but detached. There was a disconnection, it seemed, from this boy and the life he was living.

            "My names Blaine," I said, putting my hand out before I even knew what I was doing. He flinched slightly, sucking in a quiet breath that wasn't meant for me to hear, and hesitantly slipped his own hand into mine.

            "Kurt," he piped quietly, slightly distracted by the commotion going on around us. He waited a moment before asking, "So what exactly is going on here?" His eyes darted around to the people rushing down the stairs in groups, all seemingly in a hurry to get to the same place.

                        "The Warblers," I told him immediately, shocked that I had responded. "Every now and then, they throw an impromptu performance in the senior commons. Tends to shut the school down for a while."

            "Wait, so the Glee club here is kind of cool?"

            "The Warblers are like rock stars." The boy, Kurt, raised his eyebrows. "Come on, I know a shortcut." I gripped his fingers again, but if you'd asked me why I did it, I wouldn't have been able to tell you. Why was I comfortable around him when we had just met? Why did he cause all of my personal and social boundaries to fall to the ground? Why did I feel the need to take him with me and protect him, to sit with him and ask him, Are you okay? Is there anything I can do? Again, I didn't know.

            He stared down, mouth falling open when I closed my grasp around his. I ignored it, tucking his stunned expression of surprise away for later, and led him down an empty corridor.

            "I stick out like a sore thumb," Kurt said when we stopped at the doors to another room. I let go of his hand and watch as he glance around at the dozens of blazer-clad boys filling the small space.

            "Just don't forget your jacket next time,” I murmured, giving him a sympathetic look. “You'll be alright.”

**

The very first time I saw Kurt smile was when the Warblers were singing Teenage Dream by Katy Perry. I was sitting in the back, mouthing along with the words, and his gaze wandered over to mine shyly. I got a burst of courage and held his stare as I sang along with the line, “I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece/Im complete.” His eyes had lit up, the aqua-colored flecks finally, finally sparkling like they were supposed to. His face crinkled as his lips curved upwards into one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, but then he looked back down timidly. He let out a sigh and softly shook his head.

            Somehow, I knew that Kurt hadn't smiled in a long, long time; the faces of shock and disbelief he made whenever I touched him were not lost on me. It wasn't hard to fill in the blanks when I had gone through the exact same thing. Kurt was sad, I realized. Lonely – an introvert, maybe, like me – and he had probably been hurt by the world in so many ways that it just became easier for him to shut down.

            I wanted to see him smile again.

**

Afterwards, when the performance was over, we found ourselves sitting in the common room with two of my fellow students, Wes and David.

            "Its very civilized of you to invite me out for coffee before you beat me up for spying,” Kurt said, with a hint of spite. There was a sarcasm in his words that he'd likely used as a shield, and I knew that there was a thick brick wall built around him a mile high. He was nervous, scared, and I detected it instantly. Its one of the reasons that led me to believe that Kurt wasnt an actual student at my school. I'd never seen someone so utterly and completely lost before, not at Dalton. Not since myself. People here were very confident and self-assured, and they conveyed it through the way they walked and carried themselves. They were bold and secure in who they were, sometimes so much so that they could be a bit presumptuous or down-right cocky. And then there was me. I was shy and quiet, preferring to keep to myself for fear of history repeating. Things had happened to me at my old school that I didn't want happening here, so I'd opted to stay out of everybody's way.

            "We are not going to beat you up," Wes cut in immediately, before I got a chance to say anything.

            "You were such a terrible spy we thought it was sort of… endearing," David explained.

            "Which made me think spying on us isnt really the reason you came." My words were quiet as I set my coffee down and looked at Kurt, who tried to smile. It faltered for a moment and he cast his eyes down before he glanced to me.

            "Can I ask you guys a question?” When we didn't object, he continued very hesitantly. “Are you guys all gay?"  He spoke timidly, and when Wes and David laughed, I watched as hurt and embarrassment passed through him at the same time. It's not a question any of us had ever been asked before, and I knew they weren't laughing at him, but at the fact that he thought they could be gay. While I very much was, Wes and David definitely weren't. I didn't laugh and answered his question seriously, because I knew he was honestly confused and I already saw him reverting back into himself.

            "No. I mean, I am, but these two have girlfriends."

            "This is not a gay school. We just have a zero tolerance harassment policy.”

            "Everybody gets treated the same. No matter what they are. Its pretty simple." Kurt froze, lips parting slightly. He looked around slightly and he breathed in sharply, staring at the table. His eyebrows furrowed and I could feel the emotions coming off of him –astonishment, skepticism, bewilderment.

            "Can you guys excuse us?” I asked, turning to them.

            “Take it easy, Kurt,” Wes said, and then they were both gone, leaving me alone with him.

            “I – are you having trouble? At school?” It was the only thing I could think to say, and I never would have asked if I didn't think I was right. As an introverted person myself, I knew the signs of withdrawal, and I saw that Kurt was acting the same way I did. He was tentative, so tentative, because he didn't want to do or say the wrong thing. He was quiet and reserved, doing everything he could to try and blend into the background because it was just easier that way. He had detached himself from the things around him, life and people and feeling, so that he was removed and isolated – something that was uncomplicated.

            "I'm the only person out of the closet at my school,” he began, voice already thick. “And I – I tried to stay strong about it, but theres this Neanderthal whos made it his mission to make my life a living hell. And nobody seems to notice."

            For a fleeting instant, I recognized myself in him. Eyes full of fear and pain looked into mine sadly, the blue-green pigments dull and heartbroken. I knew then exactly why this boy was the way he was. After years and years of screaming to be heard, of trying to get the smallest bit of love or attention from anyone, you eventually just give up. With every scrape and taunt and bruise from the hands of a vicious bully, you lose yourself. In the beginning, you fight it. You tell people, you get angry, you resist. Then teachers say they'll do something about it and you feel victorious, but only for a moment because they never do anything. The bullies get worse and their words start to hurt more than their fists, and crying becomes something that's just there inside of you, ready at a moment's notice. You eventually learn that things won't change and that people can't help you. You know you're alone in this, that nobody cares at all, and it hurts. You can deal with the cuts but not the muffled shouts of faggot, and you start to find other ways to deal with the pain. You take it out on yourself because you can't take it out on them, and that's when you start to give up. You become a wallflower – hidden away, silent, out of view. You try not to feel anything and tell yourself that you're not worth very much, and then you start to believe it.

            “I get it. I really… I understand.”

            “Do you?” he spit out angrily, and I wonder how many people have said that to him before.

            “Yes,” I said, my voice quiet, “because I've got a scar to prove it.” It's not what I meant to say, not at all, but the effect on him is instantaneous. He froze, sucking in another sharp breath, and he must have known what I meant because his eyes flicked to my covered wrist for a split second.

            “I – I'm sorry,” he whispered softly, meeting my eyes. “I didn't realize.”

            “It's okay.”

            “It's not,” he muttered, looking to his lap. “I shouldn't have said that, I just –”

            “I know you think that every person you come into contact with is trying to hurt you, but I'm not like that.”

            “What? You don't even –”

            “I understand more than you think I do.” I gave him a sad smile, and he looked absolutely terrified. “Things are… they're hard. People are reclusive for a reason, and well, we're more similar than you'd expect.”

            “You don't know anything about me. I'm fine.” He was able to change gears so quickly, flitting from sad to guilty to defensive in the span of ten seconds. It was probably a mechanism he used to cover up the things he didn't want people to know, and because he knew that I understood the truth of his situation, he got scared. I did the exact same thing so it was easy to recognize.

            “You don't have to pretend with me, okay? I know you aren't fine and I know there are bruises under your shirt and I know that you've been hurt and disappointed and ignored by people, and I just – I get it.”

            “No,” he argued, shaking his head quickly as he tried to backtrack. “You're wrong. I'm not pretending and there's nothing under my clothes that I'm hiding. You just met me and you don't have the right to go around assuming anything.”

            “A person's eyes and the way they talk and carry themselves says a lot about them,” I stated. “You are me. If you were fine, you wouldn't be here. There's a reason I came to Dalton. I know it's the same for you.”

            “I should go.”

            “Prejudice is just ignorance, Kurt,” I told him, desperate to make him understand.

            He bit his lip, and he looked away as ears gathered in his eyes and began to slip down his cheeks. I put my hand on top of his and he jumped, looking at me with distress. I don't know why I decided to do that, or why I said what I did, but I'm glad I did it.

            “You can trust me. Okay?” I tighten my hold on his hand, determined to show him how much I really meant with my words.“I know we just met, but I also know how you feel. I wish that I'd had someone there for me when I really needed it, but I didn't, and I don't want you going down the same path that I did. Let me help you. Just having someone to talk to will make you feel better. I promise, Kurt.” 

            “I – I –” he stuttered, blinking rapidly. He sniffled and pulled his fingers away to furiously wipe under his eyes. With each tear he rubbed, a new one dripped to take its place. “You don't even know me,” he repeated, his voice cracking. “Why are you doing this? Most people would – would be afraid to – to… touch me freely, to comfort me, to make – to make eye contact with me.”

            “You just… you look like you could use a friend,” I murmured. A friend, I told myself, and nothing more than that. “It's going to be okay, Kurt.”

            “It won't,” he told me thickly. “It won't ever be okay.”

            “Look at me.” When he didn't, I put my hand under his chin and guided it up softly. His eyes were red and his cheeks were wet, but he was so beautiful. “I promise,” I said again, staring into blue-green, “that things will get better. I'm gonna help you, okay? You don't have to be alone.”

            “Okay,” he choked out, nodding his head as he squeezed his eyes shut.

**

I still don't know exactly why I grabbed his hand on that staircase or told him about my scar or felt an overwhelming need to comfort him. I don't know why I trusted him so quickly and so immediately or why I was desperate to help him. He was broken, but he was brave in a way that I wasn't. I knew he would never say anything to anyone because of his pride, which is why he hid everything away, tucked it under a defensive exterior of sass and wit and sarcasm. He needed a friend, someone who would let him come undone and be nothing more than a small, terrified boy buried beneath his armor. He needed to finally breathe, to let out all of the air that he'd been holding in his lungs.

            I knew that I would do anything to see that wonderful smile again, to be able to be there for him like he so desperately needed, regardless of the fact that I'd just met him. I knew that I would tell him things that I had never told anybody, because I felt safe with him, for reasons I didn't quite understand. And I don't know why he decided to trust me, or why he let me take his hand when we were strangers, or why he didn't get up and leave after I kept pushing.

            I guess fate just has a funny way of bringing people together.

**

December, 2010 – Kurt

When I'd met Blaine, everything had changed. Though I was still damaged beyond repair, reaching for that blade that was so damn determined to be used, I was starting to feel things that I never imagined I'd feel: happiness, and warmth, and something so, so good.

            I'd only known him for five months, but he was the best friend I'd ever had. Honestly, other than Rachel, he was probably my only friend. I could talk to her and I told her a lot, but with Blaine, it was just so easy. I knew he understood. From the moment we met, he just knew. When we talked later that night, he opened up to me about his past, and after that, I slowly learned to trust him. Even so, I never told him that I cut and I didn't plan on it, because I didn't want it to ruin the one good thing I had in my life. My scars followed me around, infecting everything I touched, contaminating any chance or scrap of joy that I‘d manage to find. When I was with him, it was nice to pretend, for just a little while, that I was okay. That I was normal and happy and more than likely falling for a boy that I would never deserve to have.

            I didn't think he'd ever realize how much he meant to me.

            Before him, nobody paid attention to the things I did, nor did they make any attempts to ask why I would do something like wear long sleeves in the middle of August. It was all too easy to just… fade into the background, content with the quiet stinging of my blade and the soft dripdrip of my blood in the sink. My classmates were too wrapped up in their own drama to pull themselves away, even for a second, to just look at me and realize that I was nothing but a glass doll, cracking and breaking apart and only a few steps away from completely shattering. My father was busy with his new girlfriend, Carole, but we had never been close. After my mom died, we didn't know how to be around each other, so we drifted apart. If he wasn't quite able to learn how to handle having a gay son, how would he take to having a depressed son that spent his time in his room, slicing up skin? Our relationship never stood a chance.

            I felt trivial, and so… insignificant. Nobody needed me. If I was to have died on that very same day he met me, everything would have kept moving. People would have continued with their daily routine of school or work, just like they did on any other given second. Parents would have picked up their children from daycare, or taken their pets on walks, or paid the bills. There were things to be done, routines and charades to keep up, deadlines to be met. The world didn't stop spinning just because someone had died. I was simply a blip – a tiny, inconsequential dot on the map of life. There were seven billion people on the planet; I didn't dare think I had the audacity to matter.

            But then I met Blaine and my entire way of thinking was turned inside out. He made me feel important, like I mattered, and he made me see that maybe, just maybe, there was a point to me. Like there was a reason I was here, barely alive and so sick of living and crying and hurting. He listened to me, and for the first time in my miserable life, I thought that there was one person on this planet that actually cared about me. He was so wonderful and so free in his attempts at comfort – whether that be wiping the tears from my cheeks or pulling me close against his chest and tucking me under his chin. I had never been one for physical contact, but I was drawn to the warmth of his body like a moth to a flame. It felt natural to me, and though I knew I didn't deserve it, didn't deserve him, I let myself close my eyes and just breathe.

            And I liked him – much, much more than I was willing to admit to myself. I couldn't explain why I suddenly felt sparks in my veins, a kind of heat that was thawing the constant frost that had made its home under my skin. In all my years, the only thing I had ever been surrounded in was a frozen numbness, so the way he made me feel was such an entirely foreign concept. He made me smile, melted away the gray in my life and replaced it with the kinds of greens and reds and yellows that I never could have imagined. When I was with him, I was removed from the cold and the pain and the dull, dreary monotony. And, even if it was only for a second, I could imagine what it felt like to be loved.

            He saved my life, and for that, I'll always be grateful.

**

January 2nd, 2011 – Blaine's Journal

I found a razor blade in Kurt's bathroom today. I was looking for a band aid and he wasn't in the room and I just… found it.

I've had a sinking feeling in my gut for the last couple of weeks because something was just off about Kurt. Honestly, I had an inkling the day we met that he could have been a cutter, but I didn't want to make any rash judgments. I thought that he would eventually tell me if he was, but it never came up. He was upfront about his unhappiness from the beginning; he'd told me about the bullying and his mom dying and I knew that he was more than likely depressed. I tried my best to be there for him and let him know that he could always come to me, for anything. And I thought he was making progress, because he started smiling a lot more and he just seemed happier in general, but then one day he was just… somber. He was very quiet and I could tell that he'd been crying because his eyes were red. He was especially conscious of his arms that day, though they're always covered by a long-sleeved shirt or a jacket, even if it's warm. I never said anything and hoped that I was reading too much into it.

But then I found the razor and I realized that I had been right all along. I felt so, so guilty because I should have known sooner, should have realized right away. I know what a cutter looks like, how they act and how they dress. And god, Kurt fits into all of the boxes I did. It broke my heart to know that Kurt was hurting himself like that, digging into his flesh and slicing away the parts of his body that he didn't want to keep anymore. I knew I should have told him that I used to cut, but because it's not something I like to talk about, I just kept my goddamn mouth shut when I could've said something and helped him. I think he knew because I said I had a scar when I met him, but it had been so long I didn't even know if he still remembered that.

I care about him so much and I know I shouldn't feel the things I do, but I can't help it. He's beautiful, and he's strong, and he's more than he'll ever know. I knew that I had to say something, had to help him – no matter what happened in the end, because I couldn't let him crumble and fade like I did.

So I pulled him aside and said that I had found it. He panicked and tried to deny it, saying that it was just an extra one he used to shave with, but I knew he didn't have facial hair yet so he had no need for razor blades. I told him that I knew and that it was okay and that I was going to help him. When he started to cry, I pulled him into my arms and he said, “Please don't leave me”. And if I needed proof that I loved Kurt, the fragile but brave boy that had accidentally stumbled into my life, it was the way I felt in that moment. I know I don't deserve him, know that he should have someone so much better than me, because I'm a train wreck. I destroy everything in my path, ruin it beyond repair, and my past is littered with the proof of that: friends and grandparents and aunts and cousins that had thought I was somehow wrong, that couldn't look past the fact that I loved music and Rent and bowties; hospital bills from Sadie Hawkins dances and suicide attempts gone wrong; screaming matches in the middle of the night over my grades, not good enough, and that boy, me, not trying hard enough, and “you, John, not doing enough to make him more of a man.” I've been blamed for every torn relationship and broken bone and bruise for my entire life, and there is some truth to that.

But I love him – and of that, I'm sure. I fell so fast and so hard, and it's not something I can take back or change. I wouldn't want to even if I could. I know I should be running as far away from him as I can so I don't shatter his world to pieces, either. But why can't I be the one to help pick them up? Why can't I be there for him the way no one was for me?

I'll do it all for him, my father and his vicious words and all the scars on my arms be damned. I'll be better for him. I have to.

I held him while he cried, and when his tears ran out, I sat him down on his bed. He looked exhausted and drained, but I needed him to talk to me and explain why he did it even though I knew. I asked and he glanced away, letting his head fall. He probably felt ashamed, because that's how I felt whenever I did it, so I looked him in the eyes and said that I wouldn't judge him. I tried to tell him that he was brave and strong for having to endure so much, but he replied with, “All it means is that I'm too weak to actually kill myself.”

“You know you saved my life too you know,” I whispered in response, pulling him to my chest. “I used to cut.”

“You don't now?” he asked, voice thick and eyes wet.

I shook my head. “I don't need to anymore. But I did before you. A lot.”

I rolled up my sleeve, a few smaller raised marks brought to attention by the fluorescent lighting. Because I'd taken care of the cuts, most of them had healed without any permanent damage – on my arm, anyways. The nastier ones were on the inside of my thigh where I knew no one would ever find them. But then there was a single scar, about six inches long, running along the length of most of my forearm. It was jagged and harsh, filled with the memories that I'd tried to drain out of me.

“That,” I began unsteadily, quietly, “was from when I tried to commit suicide. I was fourteen.”

“That's the one from Dalton.”

I nodded. He choked back a breath, a stuttered “why?” falling from between his lips.

“I came out and my parents couldn't handle it. So I couldn't handle it.”

I left it at that, sitting with him for a few quiet moments. I rocked him, murmuring into his ear and rubbing my hand against his back, as I often did to get him to calm down. Eventually, he told me, in a thick and heartbroken voice, that he thought he had been feeling better lately, so I asked him why he felt that way.

“I met you,” he said, shaking his head as tears dripped down his cheeks. “And everything changed.”

He doesn't understand how beautiful he really is.

**

Kurt

When Blaine found out about my cutting, I was terrified. Absolutely and utterly horrified, because I'd kept it a secret for a reason. I was certain that he'd be as disgusted as I was with myself and that he would think I was weak. I didn't know if he would continue to be my friend, because even though I knew he had cut in the past, it was just… different. It was me. I was pathetic and he, well, wasn't.

            But as always, he surprised me. He didn't leave and he didn't judge me for even a second. He listened and held me and promised that everything would be okay, and for a moment, I believed him. He stayed, and that's more than I could've ever asked for.

            He told me I saved his life and he let me see his scar. It was a long one, very deep, and it had needed twenty-three stitches. It was one aimed to kill, he said, because right after his parents had found out about him being gay, everything had fallen apart. I could sense there was something he wasn't telling me, that there was more to the story, but I let it go. Maybe it wasn't meant for me to know. But I did know one thing: He did the only logical thing he could think of at the time. He ran into the arms of the blade, got caught up in the rush, and let the blood nearly empty from his veins in one single cut. It's something I'd imagined doing for years, something I'd tried but never been able to get quite right, and I was jealous.

            And when I started crying, he held me and told me that he was there and that he wasn't leaving, and I felt safe. So I told him everything. It was scary and I cried through all of it, but it was like a weight had been lifted off my chest when I was done because I'd never said most of those things out loud before. When I was finished, he murmured in my ear that I was worth so much more than what I thought of myself. “You are strong, and brave, and beautiful,” he whispered, and then he paused for a moment before he pressed his lips to mine, softly and gently. He took my face in his hands and he kissed me. And I kissed him back.

            I had never been kissed before.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

**

March, 2011 – Blaine

Because Kurt and I had been dating for a few months, I hoped that somehow it would be easier for me to help him. I thought that if he finally realized that he mattered, to me and to others, it would've given him the motivation he needed to try and get better. But I needed him to get better for him, not because I wanted him to. Rather than trying to “fix” him, I was just there when he needed me most, to offer a pair of ears or arms or comforting words.

            Now, I knew that us being together wasn't magically going to make Kurt's problems go away. I wasn't that naïve. I knew that he was still hurting and we ended many nights with me having to come over and hold him and clean up his arms because he'd relapsed. Sometimes he'd call me after he cut, broken down in tears because he didn't mean to do it, and other times he wouldn't tell me and I'd have to find out on my own. I felt like we were right back at square one whenever that happened, because all it took was one scar to open the door to his self-hatred and disgust. He had good days and he had bad days, just as everyone else does. He would go a week or two without harming himself, but then one thing could trigger him and he'd end up with dozens of red marks littering his arms and legs.

            I didn't know what to do, and eventually realized that I needed to find him professional help because everything I did wasn't working. So one day, I brought up the idea of therapy, and he didn't react well.

            “No,” he replied immediately after I'd asked, tensing. He turned his back to me, gripping the counter.

            “Kurt, it might help –”

            “I'm not going.”

            “You really hurt yourself last night –”

            “I said I'm not going!” He whirled around, his hands in the air and his face full of anxiety.

            “Hey, hey, I'm sorry. I'm just...” I walked up, pulling him into my arms, and he melted into my embrace, eyes falling shut as he let out a long, shuddering breath. “You need help that I can't give you, Kurt.”

            “I'm fine.”

            “Then what happened last night?” I let my hand lightly slide over the top of his left wrist, pressing my thumb softly against the bandage as I felt the rhythmic thump of his pulse.

            He paused, silent for a moment. “I don't – I don't know, it was just a slip up,” he said quietly.

            “Just a slip up? Honey, there were ten of them.” I kissed his hair. “I can't watch you do this to yourself. It hurts me.”

            “I know it does, and I want – I want to get better,” he told me, pulling back with tears shining in his eyes. “You make me want to get better. I just – it's so hard sometimes, and I can't – I can't –”

            “Shh, don't cry,” I murmured, and when he wrapped his arms around me, I ran my hands up and down his back. “It's okay. You can do this, Kurt. I'll always be here, but there are just some things that I can't do for you.”

            “I can't tell some – some c-complete stranger about my problems,” he cried, shaking his head into my chest. “Please don't make me.”

            “You know I would never force you to do anything.” I held him tighter and swayed us a little, doing my best to soothe him.

            “I can – I can talk to you more,” he said fervently, looking up at me with wet cheeks. “I'll try not to cut and I'll –”

            “Shh, calm down.” I swiped my thumb over his tears, resting my forehead against his. I pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “Here, come with me.”

            I took his hand and led him to the couch, and when we sat down, he put his head in my lap. I ran my fingers through his hair as he stared at the ceiling, quiet except for the occasional sniffle.

            “Okay, what about this,” I started after a few minutes of silence. He sat up and I took the opportunity to completely dry his eyes with my fingers. I kept one hand on his jaw and the other tangled with his. “Go on anti-depressants. No therapy, just medication.”

            “… I could – I could try that.”

            “And keep a journal.” I pulled him closer, kissing his temple.

            “You really –you think that – that it'll help?”

            “It helps me,” I told him. “There's just something about written word that's so… free. You can control what you write. You can say on paper what's too hard to say out loud. And a journal won't judge you or think that you're weak, no matter what you write. It's private, and physically writing it all down, actually admitting to yourself the things that you don't want to accept, can help you work through and process all of those emotions. I think it's worth a shot.”

            “What do you write about?” he asked quietly, lying back down in my lap.

            “Everything,” I said. “I've kept a journal since I was thirteen. I wrote about coming out and how hard it was. After that, it was Cooper and my father… and what he – what he did to me. Then it was Dalton and adjusting to life without my parents. Now it's mostly about you.”

            He was still for a long time, probably thinking my words over in his head. I thought he was going to ask my more about my past, which he only knew a fraction of, but he didn't. Eventually he let out a breath and then nodded, looking back up at the ceiling. “Okay.”

            The corners of my mouth twitched hopefully. “Okay?”

            “Okay,” he repeated, but his voice was thick. “I want to get better, I really do. And after last night… I just, I don't want to go back there. And if this helps, then I'm – I'm willing to try.”

            “Good,” I told him, grabbing his other fingers and linking mine with his. “I promise, it will help you feel so much better, okay? Instead of taking your anger out on yourself, you can take it out on the paper.”

            “I guess.”

            “Hey, look at me.” His head turned and his eyes shifted to meet mine. He let out a shuddery breath, tears shining in his eyes, so I bent down and kissed his forehead, running my thumb over his knuckles. “It's going to be okay.”

            “God, I'm so sick of crying,” he said in frustration as the drops started to drip down his skin, removing his hand from mine and angrily wiping his cheeks.

            “Crying doesn't make you weak, you know,” I murmured.

            “Yes it does,” he argued, spitting the words out bitterly.

            “Come ‘ere.” I opened my arms and he sat up from my lap, scooting so that his head was on my chest. He wrapped himself around my middle, burying his head in my neck as the warm tears continued to fall. “Everything will be alright,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say. I grazed my fingers up and down his back, tightening my hold on him. “You wanna know why?” I was at his ear, breath warm against his skin.

            He pulled away and he had the heartbroken look of a person that was falling apart on the inside and spiraling out of control without a way to help himself. His eyes met mine.

            “Because you are strong,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to his lips, and then punctuated each sentence with another. “And brave. And kind. And loving. And important.” I searched his face to make sure he understood just how much I meant my words. “You aren't alone, Kurt. And I'm so proud of you and how far you've come.”

            “You make me want to be better,” he said simply, sniffling. So I took the opportunity to say what I'd wanted to say since that very first day I'd kissed him, and I knew he felt the same way.

            “I am so in love with you,” I breathed out, resting my head against his. I stared into his blue-green eyes, and for a moment everything was frozen and neither of us moved or blinked or stopped to take in air. It was just me and him and my words, and then a heartbeat, and then his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat before he broke out into a smile.

            “I love you, too,” he told me, and then he leaned in and covered my mouth with his.

            His cheeks were still wet and his hair was rumpled, but when I looked at him, he was the most beautiful person in the world to me.

            It didn't matter that I'd only known him for eight months and that we'd only been dating for three. I knew how I felt. I thought that with our love, we could do anything. That he would get better and we'd get married and live happily ever after. I'd met him and suddenly, my life was flipped on its head and everything was moving so fast because I fell before I had a chance to realize what was happening. We were forever – infinite, living without an expiration date – and nothing else in the world mattered more to me than him.

            I thought he felt the same, and maybe that's why it hurt so much when he left.

**