AN: Hi everyone! This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction. I've had this idea for a while now, and I've only gotten around to writing it. This chapter is an introduction of sorts, and I'm posting the second chapter along with this so you can tell me if it's any good. Let me know what you guys think and thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Also, English isn't my first language.
A body at rest remains at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. This is the law of inertia under Newton's laws of motion. And as true as it is for physics, and everything the naked eye can see, it is also undeniably true for a person's emotions.
A man stays the same, with the same ideologies and the same principles unless he experiences something life changing—something from the outside world that affects the way he views certain things. Without experiences, whether good or bad, a man is not dynamic, and remains stable and steady in the way he views the world. Without these forces, whether tangible or imaginary, everything in a man remains constant. Unchanged. Kurt Hummel is no exception.
Before death and tragedy, or rather, without death and tragedy, Kurt Hummel would have remained in an oblivious bubble, unknowledgeable about certain universal truths he probably could have been spared from for a couple more years. He could have lived in blissful oblivion, indifferent to the reality of pain and suffering, toil and heartache, especially that which entailed losing someone as vital and quintessential as a parent.
When Kurt finally understood how his mother had died, how a disease doctors knew little to cure had taken over her frail form and caused her to expire, Kurt knew he wanted to be a doctor, forcing him out of a bubble and indelibly altering the way he viewed the world. He knew he could make a change, a difference, his perseverance fueled by something entirely personal. He wanted to find a cure, the cause hitting so close to home that sometimes, thinking about all the people suffering from the disease, and the anguish it left their families in, made him physically ill. But he was Kurt Hummel, and if he could find that his hands were capable of one day alleviating the pain from many a family affected by the disease that took his mother away, he'd have been fulfilled.
Early on, when he'd understood the gravity of the situation, and the implication of losing his mother on his life, he vowed he'd pioneer rigorous research, finding a perpetual cure for it.
For most people—people who've never been remotely affected by a diagnosis of the nature, the idea is intangible. One can't quite grasp the reality of such an illness. It remains something people campaign for, lobby for, spend their lives barreling for awareness, but never really something that means something. The concept is foreign. And yes, people support it, but unless you've been affected so intimately by it, the concept remains a concept. The statistics remain statistics. And the disease, and the idea of being affected by it, remains so far fetched that it hardly matters how people survive through it.
Research has been underway for years. When Kurt's mother was inflicted by it, the research was raw and immature, the road to find a cure larval and heartbreakingly unpaved. The doctors could only do so much to prolong young Mrs. Hummel's life enough to have her only son understand a couple of things.
First was that she would always love him, and that she would always remain in his heart despite something as magnanimous as mortality. Second was that Kurt's father would not abandon him, and that life goes on despite hurt and pain and death. It didn't matter how loss hit a person; life continues and continues and does so until time has turned the pain into a dull ache. Third was that he was strong and was to remain strong, and that no amount of hate could ever take away his chance at happiness. He would have to keep afloat to stay on top of that happiness—happiness he would have to find, but it would be worth it. And finally, that no matter what the world said, no matter what the world thought, no matter what the world did, there was nothing wrong with him. He would go places because he was smart and sweet and levelheaded, capable of loving a great deal and compassionate and determined and infallible.
She made sure that he understood that different didn't necessarily mean wrong, and that even if people hated him for who he was, she and his father would love him unconditionally through everything. And that no matter what Kurt did, or ended up becoming, she would always, always be proud of him. He was meant for great things, she knew that early on.
Kurt didn't entirely comprehend what she meant by all of it until that day in freshman year, almost six years after her death, when he was shoved unceremoniously against a locker and hatefully called a fag by a Neanderthal from the football team. That was when he realized what he was, able to put a word to sum up the confusion he had been rallying through, and when his mother's words finally made sense to him after all these years.
He was gay. He accepted the fact almost as soon as he realized it for himself. But he quickly learned that the people around him weren't as accepting as he would have wanted them to be, and that hateful slurs and slushies and dumpster tosses were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to the way he was discriminated based on his sexuality. Coming out to his father had been a tremendous relief, knowing that he accepted him for who he was. But in school, where things were hard and unrelenting, no relief could be found.
The things he went through in high school had taught him to be strong. Every blow molded him into the person he was now—courageous, witty, sarcastic, but also a little cold of heart. He had turned into a cynic, only pressing hope on two things he deemed infallible: his family, which now included Carole and Finn Hudson, and the looming cure for cancer. But for everything else in the world, he was a pessimist.
Yes, he could find beauty in small things and appreciate them, but years of self-preservation had made his heart a little harder than most people his age. His only solace after a day of arduous research was music—something vital, even in high school when he joined glee club and gained some of his only friends. But for everything else? For the world being a little more accepting, or for the idea of ever finding true love and acceptance and ridding the world of hurtful ignorance? He was not hopeful. Not at all.
He'd always been on full speed ahead mode, his head wrapped so tightly around the idea of getting to a position where he could change things soon that it was reflected well in the way he graduated high school early, got into NYU for undergrad and finished top of his class, and then got into Columbia for medical school, again finishing top of his class. He didn't care much for being sociable. All he cared about was getting through each day until he was in a place to start doing. To start being productive. That said, he'd never been in a relationship—only quick flings that scratched his sexual itch once a while, and even that was so far gone. Romantic love was as just a foreign concept to him, as cancer was to people who've never been directly affected by it, or as homosexuality was to people who were ignorant and narrow-minded.
To the world, he was cold. And maybe he was. He was viewed as ambitious and determined, without care for developing any of the other aspects of his life save for his credentials. Only his family and his high school friends knew what he was working towards. Only they understood why he was the way he was. And quite frankly, that was all that mattered to him. The whole world didn't need to know his convictions, or how near and dear he held his research, or how personal the cause meant for him. They didn't need to know, and he didn't bother to elaborate any of it in an attempt to defend himself from people who called him almost inhuman.
So when days were extra hard, and his heart felt heavier than usual, he'd pop open a bottle of beer, put his show tunes play list on full blast, and plop down on the couch of his 5th avenue apartment, and repeat his mother's words of reassurance like a mantra.
He didn't need anybody else but himself.
But he was so, entirely wrong.
Thanks for reading!