warble_on
Feb. 6, 2012, 3:46 p.m.
To Love You Is To Need You Everywhere
Blaine needs Kurt: a discovery reflected upon in Kurt's arms. Blaine's inner monologues on love and necessity and people who save you.
K - Words: 747 - Last Updated: Feb 06, 2012 835 0 0 3 Categories: Romance, Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel, Tags: hurt/comfort,
Author's Notes: A/N: A little freewrite, in which I try out new things like almost no dialogue and second person, that I wrote surreptitiously in class sometime in the last week. Student of the year.
He stays with you, lies with you and feels your heartbeat like he has a thousand times, over cardigans and button-downs rather than a hospital gown. After the surgery, he creeps into the rickety reclining bed to read to you when the nurse leaves and you wonder how he would feel to know that you need him—whether he would fight it. He doesn’t like being dependent or depended on.
When he’s close to you like this, with your back pressed to his chest and his breath making the hairs on the back of your neck rise, one thought makes you laugh: how he can wear head-to-toe leather and make you want to taste the skin of his neck, grab his wicked hips and bite at his bones, scratch your nails on the notch on his sternum that you’ve come to love so much, and how he can be like this, this humanized warmth, and make you want to wrap your arms tight around him and just keep close to him underneath the covers.
You marvel at how much of him makes its way onto you: you always wear a little of his scent even when you don’t mean to, you feel him woven between your heartbeats and the notches of your vertebrae. He is with you even when he is not, and your bedsheets still manage to smell like him (nothing like these hospital ones that smell of disinfectant, the horrible kind of clean). Sometimes you roll over to his side of your bed to breathe him in, and then think it may kill you if you don’t marry this boy. You will never find a boy like him again and you don’t want to. You need him. You needed him when you didn’t even know he was there.
You need him and you don’t know what you’re going to do next year. You don’t know what you’re going to do with him across the country—might as well be across the world. You will be without his kiss (sometimes fire and sometimes silk and always, always him), without his smile so close to yours, without his arms around your neck and his hand to hold. You try to stop thinking about the future, but it’s so hard when it’s unfolding into a terrifying, beautiful map in front of you, glinting with dirty pavements and Broadway lights, and the most important person in your world is so close to what he’s wanted his whole life.
There are some extra plastic champagne flutes on your bedside table and you remember toasting to him: the pride spilling out of your chest in golden bursts and his kaleidoscope smile making you smile even bigger—you keep on saying you can never love this boy more and then you just do. You’re still brimming with it, how proud you are of him—and you’re still making yourself sick when you think about yourself next year. Goddamn it, don’t be so selfish.
You love him. And you’re so damn happy for him. And it hurts so, so much.
With his arm slung over your stomach, he finds your hand and fits it into his, slots his fingers into yours the closest they can get, squeezes so hard it makes your own fingers rise up. You were the first boy to hold his hand. And holding his hand still makes you smile too hard and sometimes want to cry. When he tangles your fingers together, when he snakes his fingers over and under yours in some lattice weave of skin and bone, it only reminds you how real this boy is. And you wonder—sometimes when things are so good and all you want to do is love him, but mostly when you’re so done-in that nothing makes you happy except for him—where in the hell you would be if he’d tapped a different shoulder on a November day.
Every time you think about it, really think about it, you regret it, because the thought makes your head start to throb and your stomach twist up terrible and your throat close up thick.
He murmurs it into your hair while you’re pressed up against the one constant thing in your life—this constant, beautiful creature after those thousand terrible cretins: “I’m going to stay here, okay, Blaine? I’m going to stay here until you’re out and I’ll stay when you’re home and I’ll just…I’ll stay with you, okay?”
You hope he doesn’t just mean for the surgery.
When he’s close to you like this, with your back pressed to his chest and his breath making the hairs on the back of your neck rise, one thought makes you laugh: how he can wear head-to-toe leather and make you want to taste the skin of his neck, grab his wicked hips and bite at his bones, scratch your nails on the notch on his sternum that you’ve come to love so much, and how he can be like this, this humanized warmth, and make you want to wrap your arms tight around him and just keep close to him underneath the covers.
You marvel at how much of him makes its way onto you: you always wear a little of his scent even when you don’t mean to, you feel him woven between your heartbeats and the notches of your vertebrae. He is with you even when he is not, and your bedsheets still manage to smell like him (nothing like these hospital ones that smell of disinfectant, the horrible kind of clean). Sometimes you roll over to his side of your bed to breathe him in, and then think it may kill you if you don’t marry this boy. You will never find a boy like him again and you don’t want to. You need him. You needed him when you didn’t even know he was there.
You need him and you don’t know what you’re going to do next year. You don’t know what you’re going to do with him across the country—might as well be across the world. You will be without his kiss (sometimes fire and sometimes silk and always, always him), without his smile so close to yours, without his arms around your neck and his hand to hold. You try to stop thinking about the future, but it’s so hard when it’s unfolding into a terrifying, beautiful map in front of you, glinting with dirty pavements and Broadway lights, and the most important person in your world is so close to what he’s wanted his whole life.
There are some extra plastic champagne flutes on your bedside table and you remember toasting to him: the pride spilling out of your chest in golden bursts and his kaleidoscope smile making you smile even bigger—you keep on saying you can never love this boy more and then you just do. You’re still brimming with it, how proud you are of him—and you’re still making yourself sick when you think about yourself next year. Goddamn it, don’t be so selfish.
You love him. And you’re so damn happy for him. And it hurts so, so much.
With his arm slung over your stomach, he finds your hand and fits it into his, slots his fingers into yours the closest they can get, squeezes so hard it makes your own fingers rise up. You were the first boy to hold his hand. And holding his hand still makes you smile too hard and sometimes want to cry. When he tangles your fingers together, when he snakes his fingers over and under yours in some lattice weave of skin and bone, it only reminds you how real this boy is. And you wonder—sometimes when things are so good and all you want to do is love him, but mostly when you’re so done-in that nothing makes you happy except for him—where in the hell you would be if he’d tapped a different shoulder on a November day.
Every time you think about it, really think about it, you regret it, because the thought makes your head start to throb and your stomach twist up terrible and your throat close up thick.
He murmurs it into your hair while you’re pressed up against the one constant thing in your life—this constant, beautiful creature after those thousand terrible cretins: “I’m going to stay here, okay, Blaine? I’m going to stay here until you’re out and I’ll stay when you’re home and I’ll just…I’ll stay with you, okay?”
You hope he doesn’t just mean for the surgery.