ginnyshu
Dec. 27, 2012, 4:59 p.m.
People Like Us
People Like Us
Klaine AU, Blaine POV, 1960s, photographer Kurt and law student Blaine go away for a weekend to celebrate their anniversary but reality rears its ugly head.
T - Words: 695 - Last Updated: Dec 27, 2012 756 0 0 1 Categories: Angst, AU, Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel, Tags: established relationship,
“Stop looking away from me!” Kurt laughs as he takes another picture of the side of my face.
“Kurt, we have to be careful. I know that you’re an artist and your friends are a bit more… liberal than mine—” I sit on the sand and stare out at the ocean. We were hours away from New York, my parents, and my law school classmates and this town was known to be a haven for… people like us, but you can never be too careful. “I don’t want anything to take you away from me,” I mutter.
Over the sound of the wind and the crashing waves, he still hears me and sits beside me, his prized camera resting in his lap. He draws a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offers me one but I decline. He places one between his lips and lights it expertly, watching the waves.
“Blaine, do you know why I like to take pictures of you?” he asks. The few inches between our hips feels like miles when you know how it feels when they are pressed together, bare.
“My amazing bone structure?” I joke. That was how this all started. He needed a model and I needed the $20 for a new bike after mine was stolen. A year later, here we were. On a weekend getaway to the Cape to celebrate our anniversary.
He chuckles, bumping his shoulder against my own. “No. Although, your bone structure is excellent.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “Because my camera gets to look at you in public the way I only can in private. I can take pictures of you and let all my love for you pour out in to the image and it’s thought of daring and capturing something within you. But it’s really me. It’s my love that I am taking and showing to people without fear of repercussion. I get to show people how I see you and not feel afraid or—”
“Ashamed?” I finish. I curl my legs in front of me, a knee barely grazing his thigh.
“No, Blaine. Not ashamed. Never ashamed,” he rushes to reassure me. “There is nothing more that I want than to let everyone we know know how much I love you. But I am afraid of losing you. And I know that the day will come where you tell me that your mother has set you up with a nice girl from Wellesley or Vassar or Sarah Lawrence and I’ll be that weird friend at your wedding that your parents try to explain away to your new in-laws. I’ll be stuck clinging to rushed hours when your wife,” he almost spit the word, “is out of town or staying with a friend for the evening. And it’s fine, Blaine. It really is—”
“Kurt—” I interrupt but he raises a hand to silence me.
“Let me finish, please.” He takes a deep breath of the sea air, tilting his face up to the sun. “I’m not delusional. I know that we aren’t ever going to be more than what we are and that I will become—am—a dirty little secret you are desperate for no one to learn about. People like us can’t hope for anything more than that. But I love you, Blaine, and I always will. So please, let me take your picture and actually look at me when I release the shutter.”
I say nothing, mentally trying to ignore the truth of his words and not wanting to admit the date I have next week with a mother-approved girl from Vassar named Quinn. Instead, I stand up and offer him my hand. With his cigarette between his lips and camera in hand, I lead him below the nearby pier and lean against one of the wooden support beams. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and raises the viewfinder to his eye. I watch the light play across the sinuous muscles of his forearms, his strong but delicate hands and gorgeous hair as he takes my picture for the thousandth time.
“Perfect,” he breathes, taking another photograph.
“Perfect,” I reply, a small smile forming on my lips.
“Kurt, we have to be careful. I know that you’re an artist and your friends are a bit more… liberal than mine—” I sit on the sand and stare out at the ocean. We were hours away from New York, my parents, and my law school classmates and this town was known to be a haven for… people like us, but you can never be too careful. “I don’t want anything to take you away from me,” I mutter.
Over the sound of the wind and the crashing waves, he still hears me and sits beside me, his prized camera resting in his lap. He draws a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offers me one but I decline. He places one between his lips and lights it expertly, watching the waves.
“Blaine, do you know why I like to take pictures of you?” he asks. The few inches between our hips feels like miles when you know how it feels when they are pressed together, bare.
“My amazing bone structure?” I joke. That was how this all started. He needed a model and I needed the $20 for a new bike after mine was stolen. A year later, here we were. On a weekend getaway to the Cape to celebrate our anniversary.
He chuckles, bumping his shoulder against my own. “No. Although, your bone structure is excellent.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “Because my camera gets to look at you in public the way I only can in private. I can take pictures of you and let all my love for you pour out in to the image and it’s thought of daring and capturing something within you. But it’s really me. It’s my love that I am taking and showing to people without fear of repercussion. I get to show people how I see you and not feel afraid or—”
“Ashamed?” I finish. I curl my legs in front of me, a knee barely grazing his thigh.
“No, Blaine. Not ashamed. Never ashamed,” he rushes to reassure me. “There is nothing more that I want than to let everyone we know know how much I love you. But I am afraid of losing you. And I know that the day will come where you tell me that your mother has set you up with a nice girl from Wellesley or Vassar or Sarah Lawrence and I’ll be that weird friend at your wedding that your parents try to explain away to your new in-laws. I’ll be stuck clinging to rushed hours when your wife,” he almost spit the word, “is out of town or staying with a friend for the evening. And it’s fine, Blaine. It really is—”
“Kurt—” I interrupt but he raises a hand to silence me.
“Let me finish, please.” He takes a deep breath of the sea air, tilting his face up to the sun. “I’m not delusional. I know that we aren’t ever going to be more than what we are and that I will become—am—a dirty little secret you are desperate for no one to learn about. People like us can’t hope for anything more than that. But I love you, Blaine, and I always will. So please, let me take your picture and actually look at me when I release the shutter.”
I say nothing, mentally trying to ignore the truth of his words and not wanting to admit the date I have next week with a mother-approved girl from Vassar named Quinn. Instead, I stand up and offer him my hand. With his cigarette between his lips and camera in hand, I lead him below the nearby pier and lean against one of the wooden support beams. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and raises the viewfinder to his eye. I watch the light play across the sinuous muscles of his forearms, his strong but delicate hands and gorgeous hair as he takes my picture for the thousandth time.
“Perfect,” he breathes, taking another photograph.
“Perfect,” I reply, a small smile forming on my lips.