Secrets

Kurt's POV

"Blaine?"

I pulled the pill bottle off the bed and closer to my face trying to read the rather complicated generic name written in a ridiculously tiny script.

"Are these...?"

One second he was at the foot of the bed, the next one he was right next to me and was reaching for the bottle. I was caught off guard and ended up losing grip of the orange plastic container to him. He took a couple of steps back, quickly hiding it in the side pocket of his black pants.

"It's nothing. A couple of pills I've been taking for years."

"I believe everyone knows what Prozac is and you've stopped taking them last year."

His hazel eyes gleamed with surprise.

"You get knackered after a bottle of beer. After two you start confessing." I said to answer his unsaid question. He showed me a similar container a year back after vomiting his guts out after a couple of drinks.

"I guess I've told you then, huh?"

"I guess so, after you proved that anti-depressants don't really work well with alcohol."

"Now I remember. You asked me to stop." He answered thoughtfully.

"Yes I did. You seemed fine after that."

"Depression is a chronic, relapsing condition. This.. this isn't the first time."

A stutter. Blaine never stutters. –and he was looking away too. He was avoiding my gaze on purpose. I watched the fingers of his right hand reach out to encircle on his opposite wrist, a gesture he does when he's nervous. His lower lip was caught between his teeth and he looked like he was in deep thought, probably gauging the next best thing to say.

"Is it because of me? "

"because of me, actually. Me being stupid and reckless and needy and... and.." he replied, lost in his own thoughts.

I raised an eyebrow, confused.

"Depression isn't something I can put into words, Kurt." He sounded frustrated. But I was just lost.

"If I were capable of pinpointing what hurts, I wouldn't be as fucked."

He was swearing. My Blaine never swore.

I watched him, pinned to my spot near the side lamp with my mouth partly hanging in confusion. He paced on the other end, repeatedly running a shaking hand through his hair as like he was about to pull a huge chunk of it off. At one point, he actually held a fistful of curls with his right hand and I, by reflex, took a small, clumsy step forward at the thought that he might just do it. He stopped at my movement, moving his hand down to clasp the other in front of him.

"It's not your fault. It's no one's fault I was born with an inability to cope with difficult situations."

Now it was my time to have a hard time finding my words.

"I.. I don't understand what you're saying, Blaine."

"Couples break up, people mess up, brothers fight, we don't always meet expectations. But normal people move on. I don't, Kurt. I'm not like most people."

We never really got deep enough into discussion about his pills last year. Our relationship was too young and we were just getting to know the good in each other. By the time I thought we were ready, he confessed into giving them up.

He bit on the nail of his right ring finger, another bad habit he rarely does before taking a seat at the edge of the mattress with his back to me. He ran both hands through his slightly disheveled hair before resting both near his nape with his head bowed low. He was quiet for a couple of minutes and I couldn't figure out a way to break the silence which was turning deafening.

"It started after the Sadie Hawkins thing. I was having nightmares, I was too afraid to go to sleep, I couldn't eat, I couldn't function. One day, the world felt too heavy for me to handle. I don't even remember taking the pain killers I had left after my injury. The next thing I can recall, I had a plastic tube with charcoal in my nose and restraints on all limbs."

"You tried committing suicide." I summarized for him.

"Apparently, I did." He said gloomily. His shoulders hunched impossibly lower and he kept his back to me by the kept talking.

"It wasn't the last time either. My parents took me home a week after with my first bottle of anti-depressants but they kept them in their room, fed me one a day. The way they looked at me told me everything I needed. I was a fucking disappointment, Kurt. For a couple of months after the attack I started smoking, drinking and at one point tried a couple of illicit drugs. I gave them no choice; they had to pull me out."

"I'm sure they understood what you were going through, Blaine." He just snorted.

"How do you think would they understand something I couldn't actually put into words? Everything just fucking hurts. I just feel so fucking tired. I couldn't think of a single fucking happy thought. I would be happier if I fucking died. Again, fucked up head, remember?" He said frustrated. He turned his trunk slightly to face me for a couple of seconds before once again, looking away. I cringed. I've never heard anyone so angry. No one.

"I had to drop out of school, go into therapy, live with my parents always at my back. It was so bad that they had to require I go to a bathroom with a private nurse just to be sure I won't be drowning myself in the bowl. It was ridiculous! I felt ridiculous! I was mad at them, but I was angrier at myself."

I had no answer. So I said nothing. Surprisingly, he kept talking.

"You know what dragged me out of that impending breakdown? -The thought of having even more people shaking their heads in disappointment behind me. So I agreed with the pills, with the therapy, with the stress relieving exercises, with thinking of happy thoughts. I had to be better. In the end, I learned how to ACT I was better. That's how I got to get back to school."

"You entered Dalton."

"Yes, I did. The environment felt safe enough. At least, now I only had the demons in my head to fight against."

The pain in his voice was unavoidable and I felt my chest tighten at the thought that he has been carrying this for too long.

"You were cutting yourself." I blurted out. It was a sudden realization. Months back, we were watching a documentary on an Oprah rerun regarding self-injurers and he flipped after I made a comment on how self-injurers do it to get attention.

"How did you...?"

"Oprah, remember? And the never ending arguments we have about keeping the lights on when fooling around."

"I never cut where it could be visible."

"That's why you cut your thighs. They are rough under my fingertips. I was stupid not to realize up until now!" I exclaimed mostly out of frustration towards my own insensitivity.

I took a deep breath, gathering the courage I need before taking the few steps towards his edge of the bed. I placed one hand on each of his shoulders and waited for him to look up and catch my gaze.

"I won't lie, I don't completely understand. But I could see, hear and feel your pain, Blaine. That makes it real enough."

He broke our eye contact but made no move to pull away from my touch.

"I've been having a bad couple of months. I'm sure it will pass. It always did." He said in a low voice but I wasn't convinced.

"You'll get help. I'll be right here for you. But for the most part, you'll have to help yourself too."

"I know." He placed both hands on his knees and pushed himself up to a standing position before walking towards the side table to grab his coat.

".. and Kurt?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you. For listening."