ringerxo
Oct. 12, 2011, 2:10 a.m.
You Found Me
I found God On the corner of First and Armistad... (The Fray) Kurt never thought he'd survive... but he did. After five years of pain, he found his sunlight again.
T - Words: 6,574 - Last Updated: Oct 12, 2011 1,257 0 6 4 Categories: Angst, Cotton Candy Fluff, Tragedy, Characters: Blaine Anderson, David Martinez, Finn Hudson, Kurt Hummel, Mr. Anderson (Blaine's Father), Rachel Berry, Tags: character death, futurefic, OMG CREYS, hurt/comfort,
Author's Notes: This will be my first Glee fanfic. Hope you like it! Gift for colfer-shrine (now effieiam-tiyyyaaahd) on tumblr upon me becoming her 500th follower. Kind of late. Kind of really, really, OMFG WHERE IS IT late. But what can I say, you can't rush perfection. ;) My wonderful, wonderful, amazing and lovely BETA, Kae (1967chevytardis), is directly responsible for this actually seeing the light of the internet. If it wasn't for her, I would not have finished this. I hope you enjoy, and if you have any questions, you can find me on Tumblr, or send me a PM! Enjoy =)
And with that, it was over. The door slammed, the aftershock echoing through the building like the beginning of an earthquake. He opened his eyes and stared at the floor, trying to will the specks of dust to settle back down; after all, if he wasn't moving, they shouldn't move either. But they swirled around his feet tauntingly, as if reprimanding him for stationing himself in the middle of his - not theirs anymore - living room.
�
"Alone," he spoke, and he didn't speak another word for the next five years.
*
"KURT!" There was a screech, and Kurt Hummel turned around, to be accosted by a short girl with brown hair and an impossibly wide smile. She jumped a bit when she reached him, so she could properly wrap her arms around his neck and give him a hug befitting three years of not seeing each other.
"How've you been?" she gasped, once she had let go of him. He smiled at her, grasping her shoulders and marveling at the smile on her face and stars in her eyes. They seemed to shine as strong as they did in high school, although her skin seemed a bit lighter... and not in a good way.
"I've been good." He shrugged a bit and grinned. "I'm in FIT. You?"
She fiddled with the buttons on her coat (Kurt noted how no matter what city she was in, Rachel Berry managed to retain her unique lack of fashion sense; he resolved to change that as soon as she would let him), and the grin completely slid off Kurt's face as she told him.
*
He designed clothing. Pieces of cloth, stitched in different shapes and sizes, to appeal to the public. From his small studio apartment, couriers were sent every two months to the largest names of the time, and every fashion house accepted his designs. You were made, if a young man wearing a pearl grey vest, trimmed in light green ribbon and accentuated with a gardenia in the buttonhole, knocked on your door to drop off design boards and cloth requirements. At the two-month mark, there would be an air of bated breath, everywhere from Bergdorf's to Tom Ford. Even Gap got some designs; though they were clearly orchestrated to mock the chain's proletarian reputation, they produced them, to surprising success.
There was never a personal letter, never any sort of personal contact. Conspiracies have been voiced - could it be that he was a she? Maybe it was designs stolen from a college database? They were so perfect, maybe they were computer-generated? - but all these were proven to be wrong.
Every 'care package', as some bitter, jobless designers started calling them, came with a business card, containing the e-mail address and phone number of the invisible designer's agent. The proceeds from the sales were usually directed alternately to homeless outreach programs and cancer research funds; a small percentage was kept back for the agent's fee and for the designer himself.
No one knew who Kurt Hummel was, no one knew where he came from, and no one knew why he was so strict about his privacy. But no one cared, as long as he continued producing such hauntingly captivating designs.
*
A few weeks later, Rachel moved in with Kurt. The small apartment that held easels and lots of cloth swatches, soon learned to awkwardly house a sort of hodgepodge recording studio, complete with bedazzled microphones, Rachel's signature onstage accessory.
The empty bedroom, housing a few half-heartedly clothed mannequins, became Rachel's bedroom. She had a view to the back alley, where every few days there would be another homeless man building up a castle out of empty milk jugs and discarded aluminum fast-food containers. Kurt preferred that she had that view; his was of the adjoining alley, where every other day there would be a different couple making out. Sometimes one of the parties was paid, sometimes not; when he got really bored or drunk, Kurt would play the guessing game. He was usually wrong.
Since her dads couldn't afford to pay her tuition, as well as for her own apartment, and now for the treatments, she had to find a roommate. A few weeks ago, when she bumped into Kurt, she hadn't thought that he would have room - after all, he and Blaine were living the dream in New York together, right?
When she voiced that question to Kurt, she saw his face harden into what Santana used to call 'Hummel's bitch face'. It meant that you should either step away carefully and then run, or take cover from soon-to-be flying shrapnel.
"He didn't follow me to New York," Kurt said shortly, taking a sip of his medium drip. He looked down at the scratched surface of the Starbucks table. "His father wouldn't let him, and he wasn't ready to pay his own way through college."
Rachel shook her head, abandoning her green tea as she peered at Kurt, trying to find the answer to her painful question without involving him. Finally, she gave up, and dithered for a few seconds before stuttering out, "Th-that's it?"
He raised his gaze to hers, and, with what looked like immeasurable effort, raised a single eyebrow. "What do you mean, that's it?" he questioned, sardonic bitterness lacing his voice. "This isn't a forties comic book, Rachel. Some stories aren't 'to be continued next week'. There's no more to tell."
"But you two were perfect for each other, you were the couple at McKinley--"
"Hmmm. Did Karofsky think so too?" Kurt injected, but Rachel was on one of her famous rants.
"--and I thought you guys would be together forever," Rachel finished, her voice wilting.
"Well, apparently, forever is shorter than you may think." Sighing, he opened his cup of coffee and closed it again, apparently a nervous habit as he pried the lid off again. "He tried contacting me by e-mail - he's at UPenn now, pre-law. He tries calling me a few times a week, but I... I don't want to talk to him."
His hands shook a bit, then he took a steadying breath and they stilled. "Look, Rachel, I don't want to drop this on your shoulders now. It's a bit too heavy, considering all you have going. So, let's go to my place, and you can help me move my mannequins out of your new bedroom." A ghost of his familiar smile flitted across his face. "It's there, and it's paid for, so... it's on me."
Her mouth dropping, Rachel hurried to follow Kurt out of the crowded coffee shop. She was so busy thanking him profusely, that she didn't notice Kurt open the lid of his coffee cup and pour the dark liquid onto the sidewalk, then throwing the cup and cover into the nearest trashcan.
*
He had taken up smoking. It was a nasty habit, certainly no good for the complexion, but he didn't mind the increase in face care products, just as long as he could calm his nerves without seeing a professional.
Because with a psychologist, he'd have to talk.
Sighing, he signed into his email on his creaking laptop and tapped his cigarette over a glass ashtray on the floor next to the ancient computer. His design boards were on the floor as well, as was his mattress, the radio, the TV, and the hotplate he kept near. The only real piece of furniture was the wooden closet in the corner. The hinges had rusted over; it hadn’t been opened in over four years.
It was time for him to send in the next package. He just had a few things to finish for it.
This was his second package for Gap, and he sincerely hoped they wouldn't accept it this time. The previous one was sent as a joke; something dead inside him had breathed inspiration to his fingers as he drew up plans, and the final product looked as sarcastic as he used to be. So he sent it. And they accepted it.
This one would be a bit more obvious with the mockery. He wasn't sure how he'd pull it off, but he'd find a way. Meanwhile, he was running out of cigarettes.
*
It was on his way to the train station - Gosh, he hoped the subway would work this time, he couldn't bear to muss his clothing by walking all the way - when he got a phone call from Rachel. Sliding his thumb across the screen to answer, he put the phone to his ear and heard her coughing.
"Rachel, are you okay?"he immediately asked, the rather brisk air turning ice cold as he feared the worst. The doctors said that the treatments were working, but Kurt had an inherent fear of doctors ever since his dad's heart attack when he was in junior year. He raised his head up and squinted at the grayish fa�ade of the buildings looming over him, nearly matching the shade of the sky.
“Yeah,” she gasped out when she managed to stop coughing. “Sorry, I just inhaled my water too fast, I think it’s from the shock.”
“What happened? What’s so shocking?” Kurt stopped against a lamppost and sighed internally, preparing himself for another Rachel fit. For some reason, this didn’t sound as dire as he thought it would.
He heard her sigh, and then she cleared her throat and rushed through the next sentence.
“I just saw Blaine.”
And yes, apparently it WAS dire.
Good thing he was leaning against something, otherwise Kurt would have fallen into oncoming traffic.
“Since I know you’re on your way to visit me, and I saw him nearby, I’ll skip over your incoherent babbling and just tell you what I saw and where I saw it,” Rachel continued in an urgent voice. “I was next to John Jay, when I saw an all-too-familiar gelled head walk into a nearby coffee shop. I crossed the street, just to peek into the window, and he was sitting right there, Kurt! Right in front of the window!”� Rachel paused to take a breath, and continued. “He was wearing that black peacoat of his, and jeans, and he looked kind of sad, but I could tell it was him—“
Beyond the shock numbing his body, and the confused fury pounding through his veins (a foreign concept to him; he could be a bitch, but he was not very prone to rage – it created wrinkles, see), Kurt could feel a tap on his shoulder. Standing up straight with difficulty, seeing as his center had been thrown off by the last piece of news he expected to hear on that blustery morning, he said into the phone, “Rachel, hold on” and turned around, arranging his face into the indifferent New Yorker expression he knew too well.
But that face was meant for strangers that he bumped into by accident, learning after the couple of first times that you don’t say hello to random people on the street unless you want to endanger your wallet or the cleanliness of your outfit.
That face was meant for his teachers, or the classmates that he didn’t particularly like.
That face was meant for his not-so-kindly old landlord, who felt that his personal life was her business and only stopped letting herself in for ‘a friendly chat’ when he recorded the audio from a gay porn film and left the disc on repeat when he went out.
The mask of indifference was meant for those he wanted to keep away.
For some reason, the one person that he wanted to stay away from the most managed to melt that mask without even trying.
Blaine was standing right behind him, one hand shoving itself back into his pocket. With one sweeping glance, Kurt's discerning designer eye managed to pick out the standard-issue jeans, slightly frayed at the cuff; shiny Italian loafers; the infamous aforementioned peacoat - but he stopped at Blaine's collar, stuck on the five-o-clock shadow. Beyond the whirlwind of emotion he was experiencing, he felt a long-suppressed feeling starting to rise. With well-practiced ease, Kurt shoved the desire back into submission and exhaled, a little puff forming between the two estranged men and vaporizing far faster than any of their issues will ever dissipate.
Kurt raised the phone to his ear, staring at Blaine’s shoulder, not wanting to chance those eyes. “I’ll call you back,” he murmured into the phone; right before he hung up, he could hear Rachel screech, “Is he there? LET ME SPEAK TO HIM, KURT, I WON’T LET HIM GET AWAY WITH IT—“ but then Kurt hung up, dropped the phone unceremoniously into his pocket, and just stood there, staring.
Blaine hunched forwards and shuffled his feet, then looked at Kurt.
Those eyes. Kurt stared, momentarily forgetting that he hadn’t spoken to Blaine for over two years. He felt himself falling into that gaze, that hazel maelstrom of colors and emotions. Falling into the gaze, falling back in time… but then a taxicab passed by, splashing them with water from a curbside puddle, and he was pulled back into the cold and wet world where he wasn’t in Lima, Ohio anymore, but in New York, where a fashionista shouldn’t stand by the curb if he or she valued their clothing.
A flickering smile played around the edges of Blaine’s lips, but before he could even offer a napkin to help with cleanup, Kurt had turned on his heel and fled down the sidewalk.
*
He had a cellphone - of course he had one. He didn't have a landline, and his decrepit laptop was constantly failing on him. He just never spoke, he only texted, and those that had this number knew that he would never answer calls.
Shoving the Blackberry into the pocket of his sweatshirt, he pulled a long, light brown shawl off the coat hanger and draped it across himself to hide the red school's logo. The last thing that he needed was for someone to recognize his origins and start a conversation with him.
He was searching the entrance table for his keys, when his phone vibrated. Pulling it out, he saw a text from Finn. Just the weekly checkup. Are you alive and fed?
Kurt sighed. He took his wallet from the pocket of his trench coat, slid it into his back pocket, picked up the keys off the floor where they had fell, and typed back a response: Yes and yes. Send my love to B and C, and don't you dare, Finn.
But his brother dared anyways. He was on the street already when the phone buzzed again; instead of agonizing over the content of the text, Kurt just opened it.
His parents haven't seen him for over half a year, but he's still enrolled at John Jay. They're not paying his tuition anymore, though.
A shiver ran through Kurt as he read the words. Instead of ignoring the text, as he usually did ignore the bi-monthly Blaine updates from Finn (who fancied himself a CIA agent; every 2 months, collecting another tidbit of info about his brother's ex-boyfriend), he typed back, hands shaking so hard that he had to rewrite some words several times: How do you know?
He waited, hardly daring to breathe, shivering slightly in the cold air; around him, New York was just shaking off the night and grudgingly letting in the next day. Since 5 years ago, Kurt hadn't held a normal sleep schedule; he slept when he was tired, and didn't when he felt awake.
His phone buzzed again. Wes just came into the garage. He's interning at Anderson Senior's law firm. Then another text, this one almost hesitant, voicing Kurt's concerns and rudimentary knowledge of the cost of tuition and living quarters in New York: How do you think he's paying for it all?
*
From the door, a trail of clothing lead to the sofa. In any other dimension, one would think that at the end of the Burberry Peacoat Road there would be a couple entwined, in flagrante delicto; the closer eye would discern how the impossibly clean white Converse high tops were lined up next to the couch -- the scarf was draped rather fashionably over a lamp -- the aforementioned coat was folded carefully and placed on the coffee table -- and there was only one person on the couch, and he certainly didn't look mid-coitus.
Kurt had been curled up in the fetal position, in the same place, for the past half hour, silently repeating in his head: He can't find me here. He can't find me here.
And he didn't want him to find him. He was at peace with his life, as hard as it was to believe. He had built up a new and improved Kurt, and he worked very hard to keep himself together. But now, because of one chance glimpse, his fa�ade might just fall apart.
He shook his head as a tear slipped out of his wide-open eyes. The only one since seeing Blaine, surprisingly enough. But New Kurt didn't cry as easily as Old Kurt. New Kurt could display emotions - but he chose to keep them hidden, safe and secret, away from people who could play around with them.
The collective shock - seeing Blaine, not talking to him, and running back home - may have chinked his armor a bit. After some retail therapy, a few heart to heart sessions with Rachel, and maybe even a song, he'd be as good as new.
Who was he kidding? All he needed was some time. He was Kurt Hummel, the kid who didn't give a damn. He was--
"Kurt," Rachel's muffled voice came through the door, "let me in, I forgot my keys."
Kurt sighed and carefully uncurled his legs from under him, clearing his throat gently. "How did you forget them this time, Rachel?" he asked, his voice only cracking at the end. He coughed to cover it up and cracked his knuckles, wincing a bit. He was ready for whatever Rachel had to throw his way.
He opened the door and froze.
Everything except this.
Because Blaine was standing there behind Rachel, with his ridiculous hopeful eyes, and Rachel was staring at her feet, mumbling - Mumbling! Rachel Berry! The girl whose whispers were well enunciated! - and Kurt was so close to slamming the door, but he couldn't because Rachel lived there too. And all he could look at was Blaine, whose eyes started pleading. Kurt's hand was grasping the doorknob tightly, its jerky movements pushing and pulling the door back and forth, making it creak.
Blaine nudged Rachel and she started, looking up at Kurt with wide eyes. Then, she noticed the spasming door and - Kurt almost wanted to laugh at her audacity - rolled her eyes.
"Let go, Kurt," she huffed, and pushed his arm out of the way, marching into the apartment with Blaine in tow. "It's time for you two to talk."
Kurt, who was still standing next to the door, turned to her and raised an eyebrow, the only movement in his stony expression. She sighed, and poked Blaine, making him jump.
"Then he'll tell you everything he just told me. And may I just add, Kurt Hummel, that his reasons are worth listening to." She flounced away to the kitchen, calling behind her, "I'm making coffee. If you're not talking by the time I come back, I'll slushie you." A pause, and then, "Actually, just throw ice cubes at you, since we don't have slushies here."
Blaine snorted, and sat down on the couch Kurt had vacated a few minutes beforehand. Kurt, shaking himself out of his shock, moved over to the nearest chair, dragged it over, and sat in front of Blaine, crossing his legs. Picking at the knee of his jeans, he stared at it blankly and said in a small voice, "I'm listening."
"I came here, first of all, for school," Blaine opened, his voice hesitant but gaining surety. "My dad... he wants me to be a criminal lawyer. And he didn't want... well, you know." Blaine gestured lamely towards the space between him and Kurt, and an icy flash rushed through the countertenor as he remembered the email that he got from Blaine right after he had settled into the apartment that they were supposed to share in the Lower East Side. He had never read anything colder or final in his life.
"So he forced me into UPenn, because it has one of the best criminal law programs in the country.
"But then I found out that one of my classmates was from my old school. I managed to field my fears for a while, until he got wind of me and... well, I pity any girl who he goes out with, I'll tell you that. Passive-aggressive doesn't begin to cover his modus operandi.
"When I told my dad, he threw up his hands, because there's just so far his influence can go. So I suggested that I transfer to Jon Jay. He let me, and now I only go back home on holidays."
"So?" Kurt shot at him, stormy blue-green eyes rising to meet resolute hazel.
"Kurt," and here Blaine rose from the sofa and kneeled in front of the chair, "I came here for you." He placed his hands on Kurt's knees and slowly raised his eyes until he met Kurt's gaze; Blaine's eyes were brimming over with tears. "My father... he wrote that email and forced me to send it. It was his condition for not disowning me. I could barely function for weeks afterwards, and I couldn't call you or contact you at all. But now..." he stopped, drew in a shaky breath, and continued, letting the tears slip down his face, "now I'm here, and I'm still in love with you, Kurt, I can't imagine going on without you. I can't, I--" Choking, he dropped his forehead onto the valley between Kurt's knees and shook violently, tears wetting the picked-at knees of Kurt's jeans. "I was such an idiot," his muffled voice came through; Kurt, meanwhile, was looking around the apartment wildly, trying to find some sort of anchor to pull him down from the hurricane of feelings running through him at the moment.
And then he saw it. Rachel's bedazzled microphone winked at him from the stand, but Kurt shook his head. He didn't need a mouthpiece, and he certainly didn't want to hide behind anything this time.
Placing his fingers gently under Blaine's forehead and trying desperately to ignore the warm shiver that ran up his arm at the touch), Kurt raised the crying boy's head until they were gazing into each other's eyes again; slowly, and slightly awkwardly, Kurt pushed the chair back and sank down to his knees, leveling with Blaine, whose features were rearranging themselves into the very picture of hope.
"Blaine," Kurt whispered, because he couldn't speak any louder, he just couldn't, "you're here, and so am I. And things..." he swallowed thickly. "Things will be different now." He looked down to his hand, that had moved to grasp Blaine's. "They'll be harder, that's for sure."
Kurt could hear a sigh, and then a forehead pressing against his head as they leaned on each other - no, balanced. Because if one would move back, they would both fall.
And beyond the emotions spilling out of him, Kurt sang.
I can't let you slide through my hands...
Wild horses
Couldn't drag me away...
*
"Wild horses..."
Kurt scowled at the other side of the street, where the song came from. He couldn't stand the Rolling Stones, not anymore. Crossing the street, he walked to the corner and stepped into the kiosk, holding up his notepad.
"You again," grunted the elderly man; he was a Hasidic Jew who owned the kiosk since as long as Kurt could remember - which was an accomplishment for the man, since it was a kiosk in New York. "How many packs this time?"
Kurt held up four fingers. The man grunted again, pulled out the packs from behind the counter - but before he could hand over change for the twenty dollar bill, the young, mute man had grabbed the packs and fled.
Staring after him, the shop owner sighed and shook his head. Shame, he thought to himself. For once, someone's playing something kind of good around the corner. He stood still for a moment, concentrating, and the sounds of a guitar came through the open shop door, accompanied by a clear voice.
Smile, though your heart is aching
Smile, even though it's breaking...
*
"When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by
If you smile through your pain and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through
For you..."
It wasn't even raining. It was fucking snowing.
Kurt stood by the window, staring out at the street blindly. Blaine had left for Lima already; he was accompanying the casket to the funeral, since Kurt had refused to go back.
He was there during her dying moments. He held her hand, saw the flatline, moved back when the doctors converged on her bed. But the moment they declared time of death, he was out of there like a shot. When he got to the apartment, he very carefully closed the door behind him, grabbed the microphone, then calmly went to Rachel's room and curled up in her bed.
That's when the shaking started.
His body was wracked with horrible spasms. No tears, no sobs. Just a shaking, as if a fault was opening up inside him, and the earthquake went on, and even if he could stop it, he didn't want to. He clutched at the microphone until the cheap rhinestones dug into his palm and left their marks; he shook for hours, eyes wide open, until Blaine slammed into the apartment and flew to her room.
Wasting no time, Blaine stepped towards the bed and laid a hesitant hand on Kurt's shoulder. The shaking didn't stop, but Kurt finally let out a sob, such a wrangled sound that it ripped at Blaine's heart. The gasping moans continued into the night, until Kurt passed out from exhaustion, Blaine cradling him.
Needless to say, Kurt couldn't go back to Lima like this. Blaine made all the arrangements, all while keeping a worried eye on Kurt, who moved and breathed and spoke when spoken to, but other than that didn't do much.
And now, standing in the window, Kurt knew what he had to do.
Hearing the door click open, Kurt stiffened. A few moments later, he could hear Blaine shuffling around in the apartment, settling back into New York. Then, he heard him move into the living room and felt him draw closer.
"No, Blaine," he said, voice raspy from disuse. "Don't."
A pause, and a sigh. "I understand, it's too soon--"
"No," Kurt said, turning around - because there was just so much of this that he could do without facing him. "Don't... get any closer."
The confusion was evident, but more than that, Kurt was horrified and glad to see acceptance. "Space. I--"
"Leave, Blaine. Please. I can't stay with you, or anyone." Kurt coughed and hugged himself. "I can't depend on anyone but myself from now on."
"Can't, or won't?" Blaine's loud and angry retort seemed so out of place in the mourning apartment, Kurt almost laughed.
"Both. I can't, I won't, I shouldn't. There's no point in arguing, I won't listen. So leave." Blaine opened his mouth, but Kurt cut in firmly. "Don't give me crap about Rachel wanting me to live a good life, or you never leaving. I can't trust anyone, or anything, or any reused saying anymore. From now on, I'm my own person."
Blaine's jaw set, he pushed Kurt's chin up forcefully and looked into his eyes, his own blazing. "Are you sure?"
Those eyes, again. Kurt could barely see anything beyond the blur, but Blaine's eyes stood out, like angry, whispering embers of a fire lit long ago, in the oak-paneled hallways of Dalton Academy. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded, nearly closing his eyes at the sensation of two fingers pressing a bit deeper into his chin - and then releasing. He finally closed his eyes, letting out a shaky sob; beyond the sound of his heart stuttering, he could hear Blaine trudge towards the door and lift his backpack.
"I'm leaving." No emotion, meaning lots of it, too much to convey in words. Kurt wouldn't open his eyes, he couldn't.
"But I'm not leaving New York." A pause, then a shuffle, and then, muffled, "I'll wait." The air stood still, as if waiting along with Blaine.
And with that, it was over. The door slammed, the aftershock echoing through the building like the beginning of an earthquake. He opened his eyes and stared at the floor, trying to will the specks of dust to settle back down; after all, if he wasn't moving, they shouldn't move either. But they swirled around his feet tauntingly, as if reprimanding him for stationing himself in the middle of his - not theirs anymore - living room.
�
"Alone," he spoke, and he didn't speak another word for the next five years.
*
Lighting up a cigarette, Kurt inhaled shakily. That song had debased him more than he thought it would. Shoving the rest of the packs into the pocket of his sweatshirt with difficulty, he took another drag and blinked at the rising sun. It's high time I get some fresh air, he thought to himself. So he stepped lightly, hesitantly, around the corner.
And across the street, he saw hell and heaven collide.
He was there, and he looked horrible. His pink RayBans seemed so out of place on a person whose only clothing was a filthy denim jacket, a pair of torn sweatpants, and a red shirt underneath. He was shivering; his hair was curly, unkempt. And he had his guitar. In front of him lay the case, containing a few coins and a beer bottle cap someone had evidently thrown in as a joke.
Kurt could only stare. He was dimly aware of the cigarette burning the tips of his fingers; dropping it to the ground, he nearly held his breath as he watched Blaine's fingers gently, lovingly adjust the tuning knobs.
He's starving, Kurt realized. That kind of shaking didn't just come from the cold. Blaine was shivering with an intensity, but in short bursts. Which is why by the time he propped up his guitar and cleared his throat, Kurt had slowly moved to stand next to the stop sign, waiting.
In plain sight.
After five years.
Why was he doing this to himself?
Before he could leave, however, Blaine strummed� across the strings, and it was as if the notes uncurled themselves and chained Kurt to his place.
Well, I heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
�Was he dead? Beyond the tears clouding his eyes, Kurt could see a flash of green light, and for one ludicrous moment, he thought Voldemort had fallen out of the Harry Potter books and killed him. Then he saw that it was 'WALK' flashing at him, as if daring him to do so. To walk, towards Blaine. To cross the street.
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah...
And he did. Walking briskly, he continued, a bit past, so he could lean his back against the wall, around the corner from Blaine, and break down.
Your faith was strong, but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the 'Hallelujah'
Kurt could hear Blaine's voice break on the 'Hallelujah'; his heart, on the other hand, felt whole. Like it hadn't felt in five years.
Baby, I've been here before
I've seen this room, I've walked this floor
You know, I used to live alone before I knew you
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
He felt like he could breathe - and he did, gasping in great lungfuls of air as he clutched his chest. He had no idea why he felt like this. He didn't know. He thought that if he ever saw Blaine again, he would just walk past him, never look back. But now, and here, he understands.
Understands that he needs Blaine, to breathe. Understands that he can't go on like this without him. And, with a roiling, clenching feeling in his gut, understands what a stupid mistake he made, with that clean, painful-as-all-hell amputation, cutting Blaine out of his life like that.
So he stood straight, back against the wall, and breathed in again. Nervously wringing his hands, he waited for the right verse.
As Blaine sang, doubts started seeping into Kurt's mind. Closing his eyes, he shook his head, dispelling them. Wringing his hands harder.
And then he heard it. Before Blaine could start on the next line, Kurt cleared his voice and sang.
Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Is how to shoot at somebody who outdrew you
Moving his feet, suddenly as rusty as his voice, he rounded the corner and stood in front of Blaine, whose voice had crashed to a stop, but his fingers were still playing; they were shaking so much they were nearly vibrating, giving the music a crying, yearning quality.
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Five years ago, the time stood still. Now, it was the same.
The rays of sun illuminated everything from the dust, to the shine of the sunglasses Blaine was slowly pulling off, to the dull sheen of the guitar he was carefully putting aside. Rising to his feet, he stared up at Kurt. His eyes looked just like they did, five years and two months ago, when they were just the picture of hope. But this time, they shone tenfold stronger.
Abandoning pretense, they both reached out at the same time. Blaine preempted Kurt by a slight moment and grabbed him, pulling him into his embrace. Kurt buried his face in the crook of Blaine's neck, gripping Blaine’s shoulders and mumbling incoherently.
They stood like that forever, or so it seemed; when a car sped by and blared its horn, they slowly disengaged, but didn’t quite let go of each other. Blaine was still grasping Kurt’s waist, while Kurt’s hands framed Blaine’s face, now streaked with tears and sunshine.
Kurt laughed, the happiness galloping out of him like—well, like wild horses. Blaine half-smiled, half-sobbed, as he grabbed Kurt in for another visor hug.
�Now we can talk.
*
“You really did stay,” Kurt said with wonder, as the sun slanted across his living room floor. Blaine hadn’t said anything when he saw the bare living room; all he did was grab a few lengths of cloth, lay them down in the middle of the floor, and pulled Kurt down with him. They were facing each other now, gazing, trying to drink each other in amidst clouds of silk and linen.
“I did.” Blaine stretched out his hand to touch Kurt’s shoulder; for the past 5 minutes, every few seconds he’d reach out to gently touch a part of Kurt—from cheek to arm to shoulder. It was as if he was assuring himself that yes, it was Kurt, and no, he wasn’t dreaming.
“I spent all my money on tuition,” Blaine said softly, this time keeping his finger on Kurt’s shoulder, tracing lazy patterns on the navy blue sweatshirt. “No one would let me live with them without paying rent, and I couldn’t work because I spent all my free time looking for you. I’m failing my classes, which is why I’m still enrolled… third year junior.”
“You always were a class younger than me,” Kurt joked; Blaine smiled briefly.
“So I started playing. Like that proverbial Script song, I was the man who can’t be moved, unless the cop is scary enough. I kept on going back to the corner of the street you used to live on, but you never showed.
“So I came here. And… well, luck was one hell of a lady, wasn’t she?” Blaine smiled now, soft but bright. Sitting up, he motioned for Kurt to do the same; all the while, they were looking at each other, unable to shake the others’ gaze—or maybe not wanting to.
“I’m so glad I haven’t given up,” Blaine breathed, cupping Kurt’s face. Kurt laid his palm over Blaine’s, closed his eyes, and leaned in.
Their lips met; when Blaine made that noise and angled in closer, cupping Kurt’s face, Kurt threaded his fingers through Blaine’s hair and held on, giving it a playful tug to angle Blaine’s head back a bit a deepen the kiss.
When they pulled apart, all they could see was light.
Some would say that it was the timing, with the sun and the window and the angle. But as Kurt and Blaine leaned their foreheads against one another and smiled, they knew that it was timing, with a dash of a dream long overdue.
And it was a glorious dream.
FIN.
�
End Notes: Songs mentioned/quoted: 1) Rolling Stones - Wild Horses 2) Charlie Chaplin - Smile 3) Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah A few more points: a) This story was prompted as Klaine, with You Found Me by The Fray being the song that I was supposed to use. My mind took it to the literal meaning of the lyrics, and from there I couldn't really control the characters. b) Kurt learns in FIT - Fashion Institute of Technology, part of CUNY - City University of New York.Rachel goes to NYADA. Not Juilliard, obviously... they don't have a musical theater department, didn't you know that? XDBlaine goes to John Jay College, one of the best schools in the country for criminal justice, criminology - anything that has to do with that area. It's a well-known fact that you better your chances of getting into NYPD Police Academy if you go to John Jay first. It used to be a part of Columbia, but it broke away and now it's pretty much independent. c) On my profile, you can find a list of the songs that I listened to when I was writing this. d) Review - it would mean SO MUCH to me. This is my first Glee fic, and I need to know if I did the characters justice in everyone's eyes.Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you liked it! P.S. A playlist of what I listened to while writing this can be found on my profile on ff.net, under ringerxo.
Comments
You must be logged in to add a comment. Log in here.
Totally not what I was expecting... Which is exactly why I liked it. I really like guarded Kurt, so full of turmoil, but a stone wall on the outside. I could definitely see him falling into that mode under the right circumstances. Very well done. :)
When kurt joined in singing with him, i lost it. i was bawling. absolutely stunning beautiful one question, what illness did rachel have?
I'm not quite sure. The reason I didn't pick one was because it wasn't that important to the story. Anything terminal would fit in, really. If I would have chose an illness, I would have had to extend the story into a multi-chapter. And I can't write angsty multi-chapters, they drain me emotionally. This one alone did a number on me. Thanks so much for the compliments! They mean so much to me. <3
Beautiful ... I had to pull that song up and the first thing my daughter said was "I can hear Darren singing this"
I'm crying, I'm sobbing. Seriously. I promised myself that I'd stay professional on my responses on this site, but I just can't. Tell your daughter from me that she has a blessedly amazing imagination and I love her. You have no idea how much this means to me, that others can see what I see. Thank you so much. <3
Totally not what I was expecting... Which is exactly why I liked it. I really like guarded Kurt, so full of turmoil, but a stone wall on the outside. I could definitely see him falling into that mode under the right circumstances. Very well done. :)