Lunch period on Friday found Finn in the choir room rather than the cafeteria with the rest of the student body. Thankfully, Mr. Schue had already retreated to the faculty lounge by the time Finn walked in, thus saving him from whatever concerned questions Mr. Schue would have tried to assault him with. Normally, Finn would have just sucked it up and gone to lunch, but since Kurt was going to be home by dinnertime he wasn't sure how much solitude he'd get over the next two days.

So, rather than sit and listen to the tedious exchanges of gossip at the lunch table, Finn picked up a pair of beaten sticks from the shelf behind the piano and took his frustration out on the drum set. Allowing the rhythmic beating to deaden his eardrums and reverberate up his bones into his shoulders, Finn pushed his anxiety to the back of his head, ignoring it for as long as he could.

It wasn't until one of the drumsticks finally snapped in two, half of it spinning off the drum and clattering across the floor, that Finn realized Blaine had entered the room and was standing by the piano.

"Oh," Finn said lamely. "Hey, dude. I didn't see you come in."

Blaine's expression was hard to read, falling somewhere between nervous apprehension and genuine concern. "I was getting my books… I heard you drumming and— What are you doing?"

Finn shrugged, getting up to retrieve the broken stick. "Cheap therapy, I guess," he replied.

"…Oh." Blaine frowned, then glanced at the door over his shoulder. "I can leave if you want."

For a brief moment Finn considered telling Blaine he wanted to be by himself, but he figured that Blaine was probably just as frustrated as him and probably wouldn't try to push him too hard for anything Finn didn't want to share. "Nah, it's okay," he said.

"Are you not eating lunch?"

Finn shrugged again. "Not really hungry." He dropped the broken stick into the trash.

"What's going on?" The crease in Blaine's forehead deepened slightly as he leaned against the piano, gently prodding but ready to pull back.

Finn exhaled slowly, not meeting Blaine's eye. "Kurt's coming home tonight," he said. "Just for the weekend, but still."

Blaine didn't respond for a few seconds. "And… that's bad?"

"No."

"You don't seem to think it's good either."

Finn sighed, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "I don't know if it's good or bad," he confessed. "That's why I'm worried."

Blaine nodded, seeming at a loss for how to react. "You worry about him a lot, don't you?" he asked quietly.

Finn's stomach clenched, his abdomen aching. "All the time."

The corners of Blaine's mouth twitched. "Yeah, me too."

Carole made pancakes for dinner. Finn wasn't sure if it was intentional this time, but she'd always made pancakes for him whenever he'd needed cheering up as a kid, so it wasn't surprising that she was doing the same for Kurt. Finn ate slowly while Burt talked about what he'd done in DC during the week (it was obvious no one really cared – at least besides Carole – but silence was worse than small talk).

Kurt was eating even more slowly than Finn, looking almost sick with every swallow and his eyes remaining downcast. Finn thought Kurt was probably just eating to make Carole feel better. Trying not to be too obvious, Finn watched Kurt as closely as he could. All of his stepbrother's movements seemed weighted, as if it took ten times the effort as usual just to lift his arm or blink. Overall, Kurt just seemed… defeated.

"Kurt and I will clean up," Burt offered quickly once Carole started to clear the table. He gave her a pointed nod in Finn's direction, which immediately made Finn's joints tense up. Clapping Kurt on the shoulder, Burt collected the stacked plates and pulled Kurt into the kitchen.

"What's going on?" Finn asked, his hands in his lap.

Carole bit her lip, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Sweetie, we need to keep an extra close eye on Kurt this weekend," she said, pulling her chair closer to him. "Dr. McManus said that he's been throwing up his medication."

Finn blinked. "…But they're trying to make him better; why would he—"

Carole shook her head, cutting him off. "No, it's not Kurt who's been doing it. He didn't know it was happening."

The muscles in Finn's gut tightened around his stomach. "Then who—"

"We don't know."

Finn let out a huff of breath, already feeling slightly crushed by this new addition to the pile. He swallowed, raking his fingers through his hair. "Do you think Kurt's going to make it?" he asked.

Carole reached over to squeeze Finn's forearm. "Finn, Kurt's one of the strongest kids I've ever met. If anyone can survive this, it's him."

"Doesn't seem like it," Finn mumbled. "He just looks tired." Like he's losing.

"That's the medication," Carole said. "He hasn't been on it for a couple of weeks at least, so his body has to readjust. It'll just take some time."

Finn kept his mouth shut, fighting the urge to reply that it had already taken too much time.

As Burt and Kurt went about cleaning up the dishes and pots and pans, Carole's kitchen radio played quietly from the corner, filling the voids in their conversation. Burt felt worse now than he had since the day Dr. Goldberg had delivered the official diagnosis. Kurt wasn't ignoring Burt, wasn't refusing to talk or acknowledge him, wasn't even trying to make excuses to go up to his room and be alone. But he wasn't looking Burt (or Finn or Carole) in the eye, and his responses to any questions or conversation starters were flat and short and not seeking further interaction. He wasn't even moving the way he had been a week ago.

He just… was not.

"They've been playing this song on this station a lot," Burt said lamely, nodding at the radio as he filled the dishwasher. "Didn't you sing it with your club once?"

Kurt glanced at the radio for only half a second, as if he hadn't noticed it was playing. "Maybe," he said. "I don't remember."

"It's seven o'clock; you should take your meds."

Burt almost wanted Kurt to fight, argue, to snap that he didn't need reminding… anything other than the deserted look in his eyes. But instead Kurt only put down the sponge he'd been using to wipe down the sink and pulled the bottle containing the weekend's dosage from the outer pocket of his duffel bag, which was still resting on the table from when they'd gotten back two hours ago. He shook two pills out into his palm.

Then, in a gesture that startled Burt enough to make his heart skip, Kurt turned around to face him and popped the pills into his mouth, swallowing and opening his jaw wide so that Burt could see all the way to the back of his throat. He lifted his tongue, showing that the pills were not stashed out of sight, then closed his mouth and wordlessly replaced the cap on the pill bottle. He set it on the counter by the toaster.

Burt coughed, not sure if he was supposed to acknowledge the behavior. "You want some water?" he said.

Kurt shook his head. "I'm fine." He picked up the sponge again, finishing up the sink as Burt started the dishwasher, then went back to sit at the table.

Burt frowned. "You want to take your stuff up to your room?"

"I have to stay with someone for forty-five minutes," Kurt replied flatly, making Burt feel like crap for momentarily forgetting the restriction Dr. McManus had imposed.

"…Right." Burt swallowed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Do you want some tea or something?"

"I'm fine," Kurt repeated, fingering the edge of the notebook resting next to his duffel. He'd brought the notebook back with him from the hospital, but Burt had never seen it before.

"What's that?" he asked.

Kurt stiffened slightly, pulling the notebook closer. "Nothing."

Burt sighed, sinking into the chair opposite Kurt. He pushed the duffel to the side so there was nothing solid between them. "Kurt, why aren't you talking to me?" he asked.

"I am," Kurt responded, studying the skin on the backs of his knuckles.

"No, you're not."

Burt waited for nearly half a minute before Kurt (at long last) looked him directly in the eye.

"Dad, I really… really don't want to talk," he said, his voice just as flat as it had been for the entire evening. "About anything."

Burt's teeth gritted of their own accord, his fingertips going cold. "Do you mean with anyone? Or just with me?"

Kurt sighed, his mouth pursing almost imperceptibly. "Both," he said.

Burt didn't press any further after that, and the two of them ended up in the living room for the next hour, watching the ESPN recaps of a baseball game involving teams Burt didn't care enough about to mention. Kurt remained quiet, not even complaining about the players' stirrup pants.

In the middle of the night, Burt woke from a restless sleep with the sheets tangled around his legs. His muscles were tense from his neck down into his legs, and the air felt too thin as it passed slowly through his lungs.

Next to him, Carole shifted closer to him. "You okay, Burt?" she mumbled, half-asleep.

"I'm okay," he said, pushing the covers back. "Be right back."

Leaving Carole in bed, Burt closed the door behind him as quietly as he could, yawning as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. Splashing water on his face made him feel better, if for only a few seconds. He rubbed exhaustedly at his eyes before shutting the light off and heading back to bed.

Halfway down the hall, Burt stopped short, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end. He held his breath, turning to put his ear to Kurt's door, then felt his heart screech to a stop.

"Kurt?" Burt opened the door without knocking, striding quickly around the foot of the bed. Kurt was lying on his side, his fingers digging into the mattress and his mouth open. He was gasping, the air hitching unevenly in his chest.

A touch of panic slipped into Burt's voice as he sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping his hands around Kurt's shoulders. "Kurt. Kurt, what's wrong?" he demanded.

Kurt's whole body was shaking as he tried to inhale, Burt's hand on his back. His eyes were wide and Burt couldn't tell if Kurt knew he was there.

"What's wrong?" Burt repeated, praying that Kurt would respond. "If you can't talk, blink twice so I know you can hear me."

The air halted in Kurt's lungs, a groan forced out of his throat as his fingers twisted into the blankets. "C-Can't— can't br-breathe," he choked, his ribs shuddering.

"Okay, come on," Burt said, gripping Kurt's shoulder and winding his other hand around Kurt's. "You can do this. Hold my hand. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Come on."

Kurt squeezed Burt's fingers for only a second, as if he didn't have the energy to spare. The air was clogging his lungs, his torso shuddering as he struggled to exhale. Burt took their clasped hands and pressed them to Kurt's chest, feeling Kurt's heart beating at an alarmingly rapid and unsteady pace.

"Come on, Kurt," Burt said. "Let the air out."

"I c-can't—" Kurt gasped.

"Yes, you can. Let it out; I've got you."

Kurt's mouth opened and closed, the muscles in his chest clenching around his ribs, tensing and releasing beneath Burt's fingers. Burt gently pressed on Kurt's breastbone, making Kurt momentarily choke.

Then, with a hoarse cough, the air rushed out of Kurt's lungs. He sucked in a fresh breath, hissing through his teeth, and held it for several seconds before letting it out as evenly as he could. Burt could feel Kurt's heart slowing.

"Better?" Burt said, running his fingers through Kurt's hair, his other hand still held to Kurt's chest.

Kurt didn't reply, his body still shaking. There were tears beginning to blot the pillow under his cheek.

"What can I do, Kurt?" Burt asked softly, his tone almost desperate. "Tell me what you need."

A sob wrenched out of Kurt's throat, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

"Kurt—"

"C-Can you—?" Kurt started, pulling his hand out of Burt's to gesture vaguely towards his still-packed duffel resting on the floor next to his bureau. He was crying and seemed unable to complete his sentence, so Burt got up and unzipped the bag, not sure what he was looking for.

Raleigh was lying on top.

His heart splitting in two, Burt held up the elephant. "This?"

Kurt nodded, and Burt returned to the bed. Kurt tucked Raleigh against his chest, his arms trembling as he tried to steady his breathing.

Burt's fingers ran through Kurt's hair again. "Kurt, what's going on? Please talk to me."

Kurt said something too quiet for Burt to hear.

"What?"

"Please don't send me back," he repeated, his voice cracking.

Burt frowned, not sure if he understood fully.

"Don't send me back, Dad, please."

"To the hospital? Kurt, they're helping you."

Kurt's face contorted, a fresh stream of tears running from his eyes to the tip of his nose. His arms tightened around Raleigh. "I can't breathe," he whispered.

Burt had no idea what to do. He was just… useless, and it was enough to make him want to scream.

Kurt let out an odd sort of sigh, making the hairs on Burt's arms prickle, and Raleigh fell abandoned to the floor.

"Kurt?" Burt ventured, but Kurt's eyes had gone cold. He wasn't crying any more. Burt's throat constricted as he recognized Schism behind his son's face.

It was silent in the room now, but Burt could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears. He wanted to talk, to beg Kurt to look him in the eye and tell him what the hell was going on in his head. But Schism wasn't about to acknowledge him, let alone hold a conversation, so Burt was left sitting helplessly on the edge of the bed, hoping that Kurt would come back.

The minutes ticked by, and finally Burt pulled himself to his feet. He'd have to talk to Kurt in the morning – or at least try. As he turned to leave, however, the notebook resting on Kurt's desk caught his eye. Glancing once at Kurt, who was staring blankly back at him, Burt wondered if Kurt would remember any of this, then picked up the notebook. He wasn't sure why it felt heavier than it probably should have.

Burt leaned over and pressed a kiss to Kurt's head, then took the notebook and shut Kurt's bedroom door behind him.

Logically, Burt knew he shouldn't have taken it. He knew that whatever it was, Kurt wanted to keep it private. But if Kurt wanted to get better, he couldn't keep everything private, and he wasn't talking to Burt, so really what was Burt supposed to do?

In his home office down the hall, Burt switched on his desk lamp and sat down. The cover of the notebook was marked with three names – Kurt in blue, Eleanor in red, and Zack in green. His heart thudding from his chest to his toes, Burt opened to the first page and began to read.

There were only a handful of used pages, and most of the content was in Kurt's penmanship. It was almost worse that what Kurt was writing about – wanting to scream and being sick of feeling trapped and helpless – was nothing new to Burt. He'd known this was exactly what Kurt was feeling and yet they still couldn't talk about it.

There were a couple of pages of nonsensical doodles from Zack, and a few lines from Eleanor splintered through Kurt's handwriting.

WATCH OUT FOR TRUMAN HE'S COMING

Burt swallowed, flipping through the pages until he reached one that made him flinch. Across the spread of two full pages were only three large letters, the lines written over and over so thick that they bled through to the surrounding pages.

R E D

His blood pounding in his ears, Burt flipped through the rest of the notebook. There was nothing else written after those three letters.

"Red," he said aloud, as if the word held some sort of magical ability to suddenly become understood once heard. It didn't, though, and he was left in confusion.

Eventually, he gave up as the sky outside began to gradually lighten from black to grey to pale blue. With RED glaring at him from the back of his head, Burt closed the notebook and returned to Kurt's room to quietly put it back.

Schism had apparently retreated into the back of Kurt's head, allowing Kurt to fall into deep sleep. Burt's chest tightened – even asleep, Kurt looked drained and too big for his bones. Raleigh had been retrieved from the floor and was tucked tightly into Kurt's arms, and Burt had no idea if Tyler had shown up or if it was an indication of how unsafe Kurt felt even at home.

Burt carefully put the notebook where he'd found it, then tiptoed downstairs to make coffee and wait for Kurt to wake up.