AmyTheWicked
Nov. 16, 2011, 10:25 a.m.
Quicksand
Klaine!futurefic, years after moving to NYC. Kurt seen through the eyes of his partner...
K - Words: 1,416 - Last Updated: Nov 16, 2011 987 0 0 1 Categories: Angst, Characters: Kurt Hummel, Tags: futurefic,
Author's Notes: This story has been first written in Polish and translated into English by myself. Big big THANK YOU goes to Mal and Bri, my two amazing beta-readers.
Kurt left.
Kurt always collected tickets from the shows he attended. They have had two boxes full of them in the closet. The first ones, from Ohio, were crumpled and frayed because of too frequent touching. Even when Kurt was still in high school, he liked going through them, remembering and recounting, evaluating the acting, the songs and the accompaniment. Then, for the Broadway-starstruck young artist, the tickets became the proof that New York really happened, that it wasn’t just a dream, though it seemed just as frail and fragile. But the time was passing and the musical night outs became common, like daily bread, especially since Kurt started to write reviews for one of New York’s top magazines. But the tradition remained. Until the flow of tickets in the box decorated with shiny tissue paper and beautiful ornaments changed into a bitter reminder of a failure. Maybe that’s why he left them in the apartment when he was going away.
Kurt didn’t take a lot of things with him. The whole closet full of his best, designer clothes stayed. He asked for them to be given away to those in need. He packed only one suitcase and just left. His silky black pajamas still hung on the backrest of a chair in the bedroom, favorite scarf lay on the armchair in the living room, a hat, bought only the day before, stood on the shelf, unpacked from its protective foil. Books and magazines remained in their place; he only took “Dangerous Liaisons” and “The Picture of Dorian Gray”. They weren’t even his favorite novels. He packed the first things he could find. He even forgot his toothbrush.
Kurt didn’t look back from the door. His lips were pursed into a thin line while he was letting his words slip deliberately slowly, one by one, in the way they were hitting the heart spot-on. There was nothing to be done anymore. There was no way to stop him. Was it even worth it? Did anything matter at all? When they first came to New York, they were full of dreams and ambitions; they wanted to conquer the world. But they were cautious, they’ve heard so much about broken aspirations, about falling from the top. They didn’t want to be another reincarnation of April Rhodes. They were careful, they took baby steps and were getting more and more accustomed to the life, they were slipping into the shadows. No one ever told them you could fall from the top silently and barely noticeable. Their meeting with reality was delicate, slow, mounting. Like quicksand, the reality pulled them in imperceptibly, and then they couldn’t get free. So what if they were looking for a way out, any way out? Together, they were only slipping in deeper. They needed someone from outside, someone who would give them a hand and pull them out of the abyss.
Kurt always got what he wanted. He drew himself a goal and pursued it. He didn't mind the collateral damage. It was his nature, he couldn’t be blamed for it. Kurt never hesitated, he never chose between love and career. Kurt knew that if the love didn’t fall back into the background, it wouldn’t have a place in his life at all. He always played va banque. You just needed to accept that and follow him, holding his hand and supporting him when he lacked the strength. You had to put away your own career and ambitions to fulfill his. You had to swallow the regret and just be with him, for him. Was it worth it? It seemed obvious once.
Kurt had a temperament. Somewhere in the corners of the apartment, maybe in the gaps under the furniture, still lie the pieces of smashed glasses and vases. They seldom fought, but when they did, Kurt really showed what he was capable of. He threw objects, yelled and slammed the door. A real drama queen. Calm and cool replies only made him madder. Sometimes it was worth it. Sometimes he’d come back late at night bringing flowers, tea roses. Kurt couldn’t stand roses, but he’d bring them anyway. Sometimes he’d come back without flowers. Then sex would be the best, full of unspoken, but intense emotions. In the morning they’d drink coffee and make pancakes. The smell of maple syrup would hang in the air in the kitchen for hours after that.
Kurt never had anyone, that’s what he said when he was leaving. Softly, calmly, matter-of-factly. Terrifyingly. You were the only one, he said. But it wasn’t true. Kurt never lied, but it wasn’t true. Kurt just understood love differently. For Kurt, love wasn’t sex. For Kurt, sex was only sex. Kurt couldn’t grasp how you could be mad because of sex. They agreed on that a long time ago, right? Kurt recounted “the talk” he once had with his father, while still in high school. He was laughing pretty hard. Dad was so na�ve, he said then. I loved you, he said when he was leaving.
Kurt changed. His once light blue eyes faded, became entirely gray. His features got more rigid, sharper. He still wore his hair dapperly coiffed; it wasn’t as healthy or soft, though. The repeated dying ruined it. Delicate creases started to appear in the corners of his eyes and mouth, from smiling with that awful, odious show smile that had nothing to do with the honesty and openness of Kurt from when they met for the first time. He had two moles on his left arm, one next to another, and a shallow scar on the calf, just under the knee, the souvenir from their vacations on the Lake Michigan. Every inch of his body, for years learnt by heart, again and again, was precious and loved. When did it start to be just not enough?
Kurt always looked deeply in the eyes. Until he stopped. It didn’t happen suddenly; like everything in their life, it began with small things and then grew bigger and bigger, until they couldn't look at each other at all. Until even when he was saying “I love you”, he was looking away.
Kurt always closed his eyes when they kissed.
Kurt wasn’t only a part of life. He was the entire life, the entire world, every thought, every word, every breath. And like the entire life, Kurt became common. Kurt became an early morning and a fight over the precedence in the bathroom. Kurt became the smell of coffee and the taste of maple syrup. Kurt became a photo on the desk at work and an “I’ll be late” text. Kurt became a late dinner at the apartment and a call to Ohio. Kurt became a movie at night and a shattered plate, and a painting bought on an auction for money they didn’t have, and a review in a magazine, and a sticking spring on the couch, masked with a costly pillow, and a tap that hasn’t been entirely turned off, and a night out together to watch a new successful play starring Rachel Berry for which they always got free tickets, and a hair spray on the mirror, and a cat they had to give away because of an allergy, and some postcards on the corkboard from places they visited, and an engagement ring, and a broken promise, and a birthday present, and a glass of wine ending a long day, and a jagged cup, and a spot of blood on the tablecloth from a finger injured with a knife, and a blown light bulb from a lamp on the desk, and some half-melted scented candles put around the bathtub, and every object left behind, every memory, every tiny sign that he was once there. Kurt became the only constant in the swiftness of the world, the core of the atom around which everything twirled, the gray day-to-day, the life.
Kurt didn’t look back when he was leaving. Kurt didn’t say “goodbye” or “farewell”. I loved you, he said. Kurt never lied. Kurt didn’t look back and he left, and the door didn’t slam; it closed slowly, quietly. Kurt faded into the shadow, into the grayness of the daybreak, into the reality. Kurt didn’t say “farewell”, or “goodbye”. I loved you, he said. And he looked, for the first time in years he looked into the eyes, and his eyes, although still gray, not blue, no, not blue, they were suddenly honest and open again, they were suddenly beautiful. Kurt didn’t look back from the door.
Kurt left.
Kurt always collected tickets from the shows he attended. They have had two boxes full of them in the closet. The first ones, from Ohio, were crumpled and frayed because of too frequent touching. Even when Kurt was still in high school, he liked going through them, remembering and recounting, evaluating the acting, the songs and the accompaniment. Then, for the Broadway-starstruck young artist, the tickets became the proof that New York really happened, that it wasn’t just a dream, though it seemed just as frail and fragile. But the time was passing and the musical night outs became common, like daily bread, especially since Kurt started to write reviews for one of New York’s top magazines. But the tradition remained. Until the flow of tickets in the box decorated with shiny tissue paper and beautiful ornaments changed into a bitter reminder of a failure. Maybe that’s why he left them in the apartment when he was going away.
Kurt didn’t take a lot of things with him. The whole closet full of his best, designer clothes stayed. He asked for them to be given away to those in need. He packed only one suitcase and just left. His silky black pajamas still hung on the backrest of a chair in the bedroom, favorite scarf lay on the armchair in the living room, a hat, bought only the day before, stood on the shelf, unpacked from its protective foil. Books and magazines remained in their place; he only took “Dangerous Liaisons” and “The Picture of Dorian Gray”. They weren’t even his favorite novels. He packed the first things he could find. He even forgot his toothbrush.
Kurt didn’t look back from the door. His lips were pursed into a thin line while he was letting his words slip deliberately slowly, one by one, in the way they were hitting the heart spot-on. There was nothing to be done anymore. There was no way to stop him. Was it even worth it? Did anything matter at all? When they first came to New York, they were full of dreams and ambitions; they wanted to conquer the world. But they were cautious, they’ve heard so much about broken aspirations, about falling from the top. They didn’t want to be another reincarnation of April Rhodes. They were careful, they took baby steps and were getting more and more accustomed to the life, they were slipping into the shadows. No one ever told them you could fall from the top silently and barely noticeable. Their meeting with reality was delicate, slow, mounting. Like quicksand, the reality pulled them in imperceptibly, and then they couldn’t get free. So what if they were looking for a way out, any way out? Together, they were only slipping in deeper. They needed someone from outside, someone who would give them a hand and pull them out of the abyss.
Kurt always got what he wanted. He drew himself a goal and pursued it. He didn't mind the collateral damage. It was his nature, he couldn’t be blamed for it. Kurt never hesitated, he never chose between love and career. Kurt knew that if the love didn’t fall back into the background, it wouldn’t have a place in his life at all. He always played va banque. You just needed to accept that and follow him, holding his hand and supporting him when he lacked the strength. You had to put away your own career and ambitions to fulfill his. You had to swallow the regret and just be with him, for him. Was it worth it? It seemed obvious once.
Kurt had a temperament. Somewhere in the corners of the apartment, maybe in the gaps under the furniture, still lie the pieces of smashed glasses and vases. They seldom fought, but when they did, Kurt really showed what he was capable of. He threw objects, yelled and slammed the door. A real drama queen. Calm and cool replies only made him madder. Sometimes it was worth it. Sometimes he’d come back late at night bringing flowers, tea roses. Kurt couldn’t stand roses, but he’d bring them anyway. Sometimes he’d come back without flowers. Then sex would be the best, full of unspoken, but intense emotions. In the morning they’d drink coffee and make pancakes. The smell of maple syrup would hang in the air in the kitchen for hours after that.
Kurt never had anyone, that’s what he said when he was leaving. Softly, calmly, matter-of-factly. Terrifyingly. You were the only one, he said. But it wasn’t true. Kurt never lied, but it wasn’t true. Kurt just understood love differently. For Kurt, love wasn’t sex. For Kurt, sex was only sex. Kurt couldn’t grasp how you could be mad because of sex. They agreed on that a long time ago, right? Kurt recounted “the talk” he once had with his father, while still in high school. He was laughing pretty hard. Dad was so na�ve, he said then. I loved you, he said when he was leaving.
Kurt changed. His once light blue eyes faded, became entirely gray. His features got more rigid, sharper. He still wore his hair dapperly coiffed; it wasn’t as healthy or soft, though. The repeated dying ruined it. Delicate creases started to appear in the corners of his eyes and mouth, from smiling with that awful, odious show smile that had nothing to do with the honesty and openness of Kurt from when they met for the first time. He had two moles on his left arm, one next to another, and a shallow scar on the calf, just under the knee, the souvenir from their vacations on the Lake Michigan. Every inch of his body, for years learnt by heart, again and again, was precious and loved. When did it start to be just not enough?
Kurt always looked deeply in the eyes. Until he stopped. It didn’t happen suddenly; like everything in their life, it began with small things and then grew bigger and bigger, until they couldn't look at each other at all. Until even when he was saying “I love you”, he was looking away.
Kurt always closed his eyes when they kissed.
Kurt wasn’t only a part of life. He was the entire life, the entire world, every thought, every word, every breath. And like the entire life, Kurt became common. Kurt became an early morning and a fight over the precedence in the bathroom. Kurt became the smell of coffee and the taste of maple syrup. Kurt became a photo on the desk at work and an “I’ll be late” text. Kurt became a late dinner at the apartment and a call to Ohio. Kurt became a movie at night and a shattered plate, and a painting bought on an auction for money they didn’t have, and a review in a magazine, and a sticking spring on the couch, masked with a costly pillow, and a tap that hasn’t been entirely turned off, and a night out together to watch a new successful play starring Rachel Berry for which they always got free tickets, and a hair spray on the mirror, and a cat they had to give away because of an allergy, and some postcards on the corkboard from places they visited, and an engagement ring, and a broken promise, and a birthday present, and a glass of wine ending a long day, and a jagged cup, and a spot of blood on the tablecloth from a finger injured with a knife, and a blown light bulb from a lamp on the desk, and some half-melted scented candles put around the bathtub, and every object left behind, every memory, every tiny sign that he was once there. Kurt became the only constant in the swiftness of the world, the core of the atom around which everything twirled, the gray day-to-day, the life.
Kurt didn’t look back when he was leaving. Kurt didn’t say “goodbye” or “farewell”. I loved you, he said. Kurt never lied. Kurt didn’t look back and he left, and the door didn’t slam; it closed slowly, quietly. Kurt faded into the shadow, into the grayness of the daybreak, into the reality. Kurt didn’t say “farewell”, or “goodbye”. I loved you, he said. And he looked, for the first time in years he looked into the eyes, and his eyes, although still gray, not blue, no, not blue, they were suddenly honest and open again, they were suddenly beautiful. Kurt didn’t look back from the door.
Kurt left.