fabfemmeboy
Jan. 22, 2012, 6:24 p.m.
Immutability and Other Sins
Prologue (1987)
They lived a lifetime of history in moments, in fleeting glances, in stolen kisses and passive-aggressive postcards and infrequent phone calls, waiting for a day that neither one of them really believed anymore would really arrive: a day they could be who they'd known they were at 16.
T - Words: 802 - Last Updated: Jan 22, 2012 1,506 0 2 6 Categories: Angst, AU, Drama, Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel,
Author's Notes: First, I have to acknowledge the story that kind of inspired this. I was reading the absolutely incredible Sickness by heroesandcons and was struck by the overwhelming response that it needed to have a happy ending. "It can't," I kept muttering at the screen until I felt like a complete nutjob. After about twenty minutes, that softened to "Not yet, at least." And then, as luck would have it, Forrest Gump was on. And my partner - helpful jerk that he is - wanted a gay version of that, which somehow became the chocolate to the story's peanut butter, and so it all began. This is an AU that spans from the late 1950s to just shy of modern-day. With the exception of the prologue, it goes in order (this isn't Lost). It begins in the fall of 1959 at Dalton Academy and follows the trajectory of the American gay experience through our not-always-so-happy couple. While the central story series is Klaine, there will be a lot of genfic stories on the side, set in the same universe and timeframe. Mostly because, as I planned out the main story, I kept coming back to all the ways in which the members of New Directions would be different 50 years ago, how many ways their worlds would be unfamiliar or more limited than we think of today. For all politicians seem to talk about what a great time the 1950s were, they weren't for a lot of people. This is a oneshot ficlet that serves as the prologue to the series itself, not to a particular fic.
Blaine pulled his jacket more tightly around him against the crisp October air. The sun was bright but hardly warm, and he was used to California weather. It wasn't actually that cold, not for this time of year in Washington, but it was chillier than he was used to feeling mid-day.
Slowly he walked along the path, treading carefully between the stitched-together 3'x6' panels. An entire generation, lost; so much progress, gone. So much had been on the verge of happening when it all started, and now... The march had been a success, he could never have predicted so many people would come, but he wasn't optimistic. It wasn't going to change anything. Not with Reagan in the White House, not when so many people they needed in order to effect change thought they were all just disease-carriers now.
Nine years ago had felt hopeless. Nine years ago had felt like the end of something with so much potential. It felt like the bottom. He'd had no idea then; none of them had. He could never have imagined...
All these people. All these rectangles, these people, laid out on the National Mall like a rainbow of graves. Satin was more colourful than granite but no warmer; appliqued flowers were hardly more comfort than cut ones laid by a headstone.
The path ahead was crowded and he turned sideways to squeeze past a group of burly men circled around one panel and weeping - they'd known him, the person whose entire life was summed up and contained in that grave-sized field of cotton. He could only imagine how that must feel. He hadn't spent the last year sewing squares the way some people had. Head bowed, he excused himself quietly, but they didn't notice. He lifted his head as he passed-
And then there he was.
Blaine swore he was seeing a ghost at first. A ghost with pale white skin and clothes too simple to suit the wearer - layers on layers of black, as though he was adorned for a funeral instead of a public rally. His hair was as thick as ever, though grey was finally starting to peek through at the crown. He was thinner than the last time Blaine had seen him and looked as though he'd aged a hundred years. It hadn't been that long, had it? It hadn't even been five.
Blaine checked quickly - no purple. Thank god. Nothing marring his beautiful complexion - and his skin had always changed colour more quickly than most, shown marks so easily; Blaine blushed and smiled at the memory of the first series of hickeys he'd left all down the soft skin of his neck once, not realizing how dark they would appear on the porcelain skin. Today the only colour against the stark black, white, and brown, was the telltale pink of his cheeks, teartracks visible even at this distance as he walked slowly - oh so slowly - down the row, occasionally whispering a name to himself as he passed a panel. He knelt once to flick away a crumb of dirt, and the stiffness when he stood unnerved Blaine. The boy had always been so lithe, so graceful even in his most spastic moments.
He wasn't a boy anymore, Blaine reminded himself. Neither of them were.
He quickened his pace and called out "Kurt!" It came out much more quietly than he intended, but the brown-haired man turned, his entire body stiffening as he regarded him. He looked...confused, almost like he was trying to figure out if anything was really happening. Mostly what Blaine could see was the aching sadness in his bloodshot blue-green eyes.
But Kurt was still beautiful. All these years and Kurt was still the most stunning creature he'd ever seen - and that was saying something.
He tried to remember why it hadn't worked out the last time. Had last time been his fault? Or was he thinking of the time before that? How long had it even been? What could he have possibly decided was worth giving up those beautiful eyes, the light when Kurt walked into a room, the way he could look graceful and intentioned even when he danced like the least coordinated person on earth? He couldn't recall. He wasn't sure he wanted to, not in that moment.
That light was gone now. Kurt seemed distant, empty, vacant, as though he had turned so deeply within himself that it was hard for him to find his way out long enough to hold a conversation. He reached to take Kurt's hand; it was rougher than he remembered and just a bit broader. But when their eyes met for a moment, he could pretend they weren't all that old, not so far away from the day they'd met on the staircase.
He had been beautiful then, too.
Slowly he walked along the path, treading carefully between the stitched-together 3'x6' panels. An entire generation, lost; so much progress, gone. So much had been on the verge of happening when it all started, and now... The march had been a success, he could never have predicted so many people would come, but he wasn't optimistic. It wasn't going to change anything. Not with Reagan in the White House, not when so many people they needed in order to effect change thought they were all just disease-carriers now.
Nine years ago had felt hopeless. Nine years ago had felt like the end of something with so much potential. It felt like the bottom. He'd had no idea then; none of them had. He could never have imagined...
All these people. All these rectangles, these people, laid out on the National Mall like a rainbow of graves. Satin was more colourful than granite but no warmer; appliqued flowers were hardly more comfort than cut ones laid by a headstone.
The path ahead was crowded and he turned sideways to squeeze past a group of burly men circled around one panel and weeping - they'd known him, the person whose entire life was summed up and contained in that grave-sized field of cotton. He could only imagine how that must feel. He hadn't spent the last year sewing squares the way some people had. Head bowed, he excused himself quietly, but they didn't notice. He lifted his head as he passed-
And then there he was.
Blaine swore he was seeing a ghost at first. A ghost with pale white skin and clothes too simple to suit the wearer - layers on layers of black, as though he was adorned for a funeral instead of a public rally. His hair was as thick as ever, though grey was finally starting to peek through at the crown. He was thinner than the last time Blaine had seen him and looked as though he'd aged a hundred years. It hadn't been that long, had it? It hadn't even been five.
Blaine checked quickly - no purple. Thank god. Nothing marring his beautiful complexion - and his skin had always changed colour more quickly than most, shown marks so easily; Blaine blushed and smiled at the memory of the first series of hickeys he'd left all down the soft skin of his neck once, not realizing how dark they would appear on the porcelain skin. Today the only colour against the stark black, white, and brown, was the telltale pink of his cheeks, teartracks visible even at this distance as he walked slowly - oh so slowly - down the row, occasionally whispering a name to himself as he passed a panel. He knelt once to flick away a crumb of dirt, and the stiffness when he stood unnerved Blaine. The boy had always been so lithe, so graceful even in his most spastic moments.
He wasn't a boy anymore, Blaine reminded himself. Neither of them were.
He quickened his pace and called out "Kurt!" It came out much more quietly than he intended, but the brown-haired man turned, his entire body stiffening as he regarded him. He looked...confused, almost like he was trying to figure out if anything was really happening. Mostly what Blaine could see was the aching sadness in his bloodshot blue-green eyes.
But Kurt was still beautiful. All these years and Kurt was still the most stunning creature he'd ever seen - and that was saying something.
He tried to remember why it hadn't worked out the last time. Had last time been his fault? Or was he thinking of the time before that? How long had it even been? What could he have possibly decided was worth giving up those beautiful eyes, the light when Kurt walked into a room, the way he could look graceful and intentioned even when he danced like the least coordinated person on earth? He couldn't recall. He wasn't sure he wanted to, not in that moment.
That light was gone now. Kurt seemed distant, empty, vacant, as though he had turned so deeply within himself that it was hard for him to find his way out long enough to hold a conversation. He reached to take Kurt's hand; it was rougher than he remembered and just a bit broader. But when their eyes met for a moment, he could pretend they weren't all that old, not so far away from the day they'd met on the staircase.
He had been beautiful then, too.
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Thank you.
so i just realized this is the first installment of the story after reading a little of the greek one (sorry forgot the name) and im going to read them in order now.