Thank you to everyone for participating & supporting this weekend!
FIC:
The Blood Suckers by larkofthesky
Takes place in the The Secret of Kurt Hummel verse (the secret being that he’s a vampire). This is a little bit of Kurt’s story before he arrived at McKinley. All you really need to know is that it’s about a Vampire 80′s Rock Band, and it’s radical.
knew you were toil and trouble by boldmistakes
Elliott “Starchild” Gilbert made a quiet living as one of the many shop witches scattered throughout New York City. Then a cursed young man named Kurt Hummel walked through his doors asking for help, and everything went topsy-turvy.
Move in Time by mockanddee
Kurt can feel the connection between them, but knowing if he wants to try is much more complicated. Pamela Lansbury AU.
If you’re still working on something or didn’t get a chance to post over the weekend, I’m going to continue tracking the #kelliottappreciationweekend tag, and will reblog your work & update this post as needed. And please drop me a message if I missed anything! Thank you again! <3
Summary: Kurt can feel the connection between them, but knowing if he wants to try is much more complicated. Pamela Lansbury AU. (4k, PG-13)
Author’s Note: Written for Kelliott Appreciation Weekend. This is the second fic I started writing for this weekend, to take a break from my other when it started getting heavy, and I ended up finishing this first. This story is only loosely connected to Pamela Lansbury as we saw it in canon, and Kurt and Blaine aren’t back together here.
Also at AO3.
The cramped, tiny backstage area of the club is dusty-dark, and Kurt has Rachel’s back pressed to his front. His knuckles are pressed to the bare skin in the crook of her elbow, a grounding connection, and he feels the vibrations of the breath she takes, can feel the vibrations of the crowd just beyond, murmurs and the tension of a heartbeat as they wait.
A soft electric hum and buzz, and the yellow and orange stage lights come up, the spark lighting among the crowd as they start to make noise. Rachel steps away from him.
Kurt feels a warm palm settle low on his hip, and he glances up to Elliott’s face.
“It’s showtime,” Elliott says, dragging his hand along the waist of Kurt’s pants, before tugging a little on a belt loop. Kurt laughs, twists away from him, and right onto the stage.
The lights flash and Kurt finds his microphone, smiling into it as the music starts.
They’ve performed at this club before. It was one of their first regular gigs after they had finally managed to start booking places beyond Callbacks or places where Elliott knew the bartender or Dani had a friend of a friend of a girl that she absolutely never hooked-up with in her roller derby league (she totally did). Now they play here at least once a month, with a small crowd of familiar faces that have started to always show up and then buy them cocktails after, and Kurt thinks, something about the energy of the place, the way their songs sound in this space, it loosens his legs and hips and his jaw, and he just--sings.
The drinks tonight are very cold vodka gimlets, the lime electric on Kurt’s lips. He sits at one of the high chairs at the bar, foot hooked behind one of the legs. Dani is practically in his lap, with Santana on the other side of her in another chair, and Rachel and Elliott are chatting with some guys at the other end of the bar; Kurt can see the coy line of Rachel’s body from here.
Santana is relaxed and indulgent, staring at Dani, listening to the story she’s telling coming out in bursts and playfully sarcastic smiles. Kurt watches her reach over, wrap a finger around one of Dani’s bright blue streaks of hair. She lets it sit there, skin on hair, and he feels the quiet intimacy of it down to his diaphragm, filling his chest with a dull ache.
When the music changes, Dani breaks off her words with a noise, pulling on Santana and Kurt’s wrists, “I love this song. Time to dance, c’mon.”
They find an empty little space in the crowd and let the music guide them, and Kurt jumps around, bends his knees, shimmies his shoulders. He sees Dani wave to someone over his shoulder, and he knows even before he comes close that it’s Elliott. Kurt can feel his presence up against his side, the rumble of his laugh, as he joins in. He’s warm and Kurt can smell him, skin and just barely there cologne, and this time when Kurt twists, it isn’t away but towards, towards before he can he think of why not.
Kurt slides his hands up Elliott’s upper arms, curls them around his shoulders, and one of Elliott’s hands goes to Kurt’s waist and the other further around, to his lower back. He sees Dani press herself into Santana next to them, and the beat comes up through the floor as the song becomes faster, a little more bass-heavy. He feels the pull of his shirt across his back where it is tugging between Elliott’s fingers. He looks at Elliott, gorgeous smile and stubble along his jaw, and a look that is both a challenge and a welcome, and Kurt feels so vivid, too vivid, in his own skin.
They dance through the next song before Kurt is hot and thirsty and trying to ignore the warning bell that is starting to ring in his head, trying to ignore the pull on his limbs that wants to get closer.
He breaks away with an apologetic shrug at them and goes to hide out at the bar and drink deep on another ice-cold vodka gimlet, his heart beating too fast and sweat gathered on the back of his neck.
***
It’s after one when they get out of there but it doesn’t seem to matter, the street still mostly filled with people. They are in little knots in front of the clubs and bars in each direction, flowing down the sidewalk, with laughter and curls of smoke floating up. It’s always like going from one breathing, pulsing thing into another, from the dark into the bright of the night. The city was hard for Kurt to get used to at first, and there had been some moments of edging panic at the very beginning when he thought he never would, that maybe he’d hate it, have it pushing in and long for more space, more quiet, more something. Instead, it has settled into his marrow in a way that makes him feel like he can breathe.
Rachel hooks one of her arms through his, snuggles up to his side. “I’m exhausted.”
Kurt isn’t. His blood is pumping a little hard for that, the alcohol wearing off but leaving little shivers of almost-anxiety behind.
“Yeah, well, I need some food before I can even think about sleep,” he grins into hair. “And maybe some water for you?” She slaps her hand against his side and he isn’t sure if it’s her agreeing or admonishing him for pointing out that she’s drunk.
“I’m hungry too. We could hit that diner down the street?” Elliott says, and Rachel makes a groaning squeak. They reach the stairs to the subway station.
Santana lifts her head from where she was bent whispering into Dani’s ear. “All right, Berry, we're going back to the loft anyway. We’ll get you there. Kurt and Elliott can go eat.”
Kurt looks to him, and Elliott has his eyebrows up at him, you wanna?
And he nods, not ready to end this night, not ready to go lie down in the still of his bed.
Rachel untangles herself from him and goes to the girls, and it’s a little thing, but Kurt’s heart feels soft when he sees Dani let Rachel lean against her, and Santana takes a step ahead of them as they start down, just in case.
The place Kurt and Elliott end up at just off Bedford has tight blood-red vinyl booths and fake dark wood, sugars and condiments in a chrome caddy on the table, and menus laminated in plastic. Kurt orders a coffee and a grilled cheese, hoping the caffeine and the food soaking up whatever is left in his belly will help him feel even again.
They talk a little about the set that night--what sounded good and where they should mix things up, songs that didn't get the response they were hoping for. It's straight-forward and simple and Kurt keeps his hands around the warmth of his mug.
“I almost can’t believe how this is all happening,” Kurt says after they have been digging into their food for few quiet minutes. “I--I don’t know. Starting this band was almost like a whim, for me.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “Maybe that sounds bad.”
Elliott shakes his head. “No, not really. I mean, I have wondered, you seem pretty committed to the musical theater thing?”
“I still am,” Kurt says, unsure how to explain it. “I still want to do that, but there’s a part of me, that wanted to try other things, to sort of see where things can take me.”
“It’s really not that weird. Art isn’t exactly a linear progression; life isn’t.”
“No, I know,” Kurt runs a finger along the edge of the plate, leans in a little more. “Mostly, though, I’m having fun.”
Elliott smiles. “I think we’re starting to get some momentum too.”
“Well, we keep booking gigs, so--” Kurt says, and it’s amazing, after their rough start, after his insecurities, and his forced surety in what he had no idea how to do, the ways they scraped up against each other in the first few weeks. “No, but really, this has become really important to me.”
“Me too. I told you I came to New York to be in your band--”
Kurt laughs, shaking his head. “That was quite a line.”
“It was, but it kinda wasn’t. Because this is the most inspiring thing I’ve been a part of here, that I really do feel a part of. And that is why I came to New York.”
Elliott takes a sip of his own coffee, eyes on Kurt over the edge of the mug. Their knees brush under the table.
***
They sit and talk for close to an hour, until the idea of a long hot shower and his bed starts to sound so appealing to Kurt. The streets are a little emptier when they get out there.
“Here, I’ll make sure you get home okay,” Elliott says, and Kurt wants to argue, thinks he probably should, it’s a little bit out of the way from where Elliott lives in Greenpoint, but he doesn’t. Instead, they jump on the L train together to ride the few stops to Montrose.
When they get to Kurt’s building, he hesitates. “Look, everyone is probably all sleeping inside, so we can’t really--do you want to go up to roof for a bit?”
He isn’t sure what inspired him to ask, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the fact he’s so tired, or the fact that even with all the things that he hasn’t been able to stop feeling all night--they ebb and flow, and go dormant for a bit before waking up and shaking his insides--he feels the comfort of Elliott, of their friendship, and those moments of just talking that maybe he doesn’t want to say goodnight to, not yet.
“Sure,” Elliott says.
From up there at this time of night, Bushwick feels distant and quiet, the night broken up by the gold of street lights and from one of the windows in the boxy industrial-looking building across the street.
“You see that building there?” Kurt points. Elliott steps closer to him. “It’s lofts like ours on the upper floors, but the bottom floor is like some kind of metal-working studio. They open those big garage doors during the day and you can hear it from here. The sculptures that come out of there are sort of--gorgeous.”
And they are, sharp, sharp angles and lines of grace.
“That’s amazing,” Elliott says, puts his hands on the ledge next to Kurt’s.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Back at the diner, you said,” Kurt whispers. “That this band was something that you really felt a part of, what did you mean?”
Elliott angles his body towards Kurt, voice going lower and slower. “I spent a lot of time in the city when before I lived here, as much as I could really, remember I told you? So many train rides. I thought it was greatest place in the world, still do. But even with all of that, with feeling so ready, when I finally got here, it felt distant. I did so many things and met so many people, but still part of me expected to get back on the train at the end of the night.”
He pauses, and Kurt holds his breath.
“I was here, but not, really--a part of it.”
Kurt feels it in his chest, the echo of his own feelings with a different story, a different shape, not exact but familiar all the same. He thinks about the things he has been a part of, things he never felt like he was, things he wanted, things he felt so so sure he was a part of until he wasn’t. It tangles in his heart.
Elliott presses his shoulder to Kurt’s, and says and it’s a hushed secret and it’s warmth, “it got better, of course. Better than ever, now.” The sides of their palms meet on the cool concrete of the building and it shocks Kurt, and he has to resist the urge to turn his hand into it.
***
Kurt wakes up when Rachel crawls into bed with him. He squints his eyes open at her. “Morning, Rachel.”
She smiles and makes herself at home on one of his pillows. “Good morning. Did you have fun last night?” And her grin is a sleepy puzzle, and his brain is a sleepy sludge, and he just shakes his head.
“Um. What?”
“So, you and Elliott?”
He closes his eyes again. “No.”
“Kurt.”
He blinks. “We went out for food, hung out a little--that’s all.”
She tucks her hands under one cheek and stares at him. “He likes you.”
He doesn’t know what to say. There’s part of him that doesn’t want to deny it, that moment in the almost-morning quiet, what he felt and couldn’t be sure of it, couldn’t make words for. But then his brain, don’t, don’t do it.
“Look, even if,” Kurt says, holding up a hand when Rachel opens her mouth again, “Even if that were the case, you know it wouldn’t be a good idea. We’re bandmates. That needs to come first. It’d be like--it’d be like dating someone I work with.”
Rachel looks unimpressed. “You do realize people date people they work with all the time? Santana and Dani do just fine.”
Kurt groans into his pillow. “That’s--different." Because they were a them before they were a band, because if one of them had to walk away it would be okay, because he thinks he knows that their them is more than this band (he can see that blue lock of hair spun around Santana's finger), because there are so many thing he wants and his list is ever shifting, and he wouldn't know where this goes, because he knows how that can go.
“Oh my god,” Rachel laughs, rolling onto her back.
They both contemplate the ceiling for a minute.
“Okay, Kurt,” and she gets up. “Is this about Blaine?”
“Rachel,” He doesn’t know. “The band is, I just can't--”
She flicks the curtain aside and slips through it.
“Okay, Kurt,” and this time she sings it, holding the vowel of his name long long long, and he can tell she’s laughing at him.
***
They play Callbacks one more time, and then their next gig after that is in Philadelphia. They haven’t done many out of town performances yet, and Elliott borrows a van from a friend for the instruments and sound equipment they’ll need, white with a thick green stripe and the name of a floral delivery service painted in looping script on the side. When they open the back, there are smashed leaves and bits of ribbon on the floor, and it smells earthy and sweet and metallic all at the same time.
The plan is for everyone else to come down late afternoon on the bus, and because Kurt doesn’t have a diner shift that day, he volunteers to make the drive with Elliott earlier.
Kurt slips on his sunglasses just as they are driving over the Newark Bay Bridge, the sky finally spilling open from gray clouds to golden sun. The metal of the bridge towers overhead.
“Are we near Paramus?” Kurt asks Elliott.
Elliott laughs. “No, not really.”
Behind his dark lenses, Kurt feels a little less guilty about looking at the shape of Elliott’s wrists, the lines of his strong, inked forearms, his hands around the steering wheel.
“I don’t really know much about New Jersey,” Kurt admits.
“It’s okay,” Elliott says. “We’re going in the wrong direction, but one day I can take you out there.”
Elliott gives him a little side glance and a flash of white teeth, and Kurt sinks his own teeth into his bottom lip just seeing it. He can feel the heat in his face.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
Kurt rolls down his window a little bit, warm air and the whip of the wind against the side of the van, and Elliott turns up the Bowie playing on the stereo, and they start to fly down the New Jersey Turnpike.
***
Dani talks Kurt into letting her put a little eyeliner on him that night before they go on. This club has a couple of actual dressing room for them, this one with peeling black paint and posters and a green leather loveseat with gray duct tape covering one arm in the corner, and Santana bought them grapefruit shandies to drink while they dress and fuss over each other. Kurt isn’t drunk, not yet, but he’s loose and full of the excited nervy adrenaline of almost almost, and he doesn’t put up any fight. The lights set above the mirror are the brightest point in the room, and Dani gets him to sit on the built-in vanity to do it.
She wiggles into place between his spread knees, trying to not giggle into his face, and she tells him to close his eyes and no Kurt stay still c’mon, with Rachel standing over her shoulder watching with a careful pout to her mouth.
“The trick to this is getting the smudge just right. But I gotta get a good line first.” She waves the pencil in his face like a little weapon.
He looks at it, and then her, “This isn’t inspiring much confidence.”
She does, mostly, get it done. Kurt holds his breath at the brush of it under his eye.
He’s still sitting there when there’s a bang on the door and Elliott opens it, and sticks his head in. “Ready for this?”
“Let’s go,” Santana says. Kurt rubs his hands on the thighs on his black pants as the girls leave. Elliott’s standing there, leaning up against the door jam, and Kurt can feel the weight of his look.
Kurt braces his arms against the vanity top, shifts his weight back, and smiles at him. “So, what do you think?”
Elliott comes closer and Kurt’s pulse slams, and he can feel the flush going up the sides of his neck. He’s so aware of the expand of his chest around each breath, the tension in room nearly something he can touch, and he feels so--intentional. He knows what this is, and he feels like he’s purposefully flipping the circuit.
“Come here, I think you need--” Elliott raises his hand, leaves it hanging there by Kurt’s face, question and request and desire in that few inches. Kurt can say no, Kurt can ask why what are we doing, Kurt can--
He wets his lips and nods. Elliott bends just a little bit over his body, his fingertips skimming along Kurt’s jaw, whisper-soft, and up along his cheekbone. His eyes drop closed.
“I don’t know if--” and the words just barely make it out.
“Kurt, just,” Elliott breathes out a quiet laugh. Kurt can feel it on his face. “I’m right here, trust me, just--try.”
And then Elliott’s fingers are on the delicate-thin skin of his eyelids, and he’s smudging the eyeliner even more and it feels nothing like Dani’s hands to Kurt. He thinks he might be trembling and everywhere inside illuminates all at once.
Elliott pulls his touch away, steps back, and Kurt blinks his eyes open, and they stare at each other, Elliott’s eyes are so blue, and Kurt wants to kiss him so so badly. Instead, he jumps down, he can’t think right now, they have to perform, and does a little turn.
“Shall we?”
***
Things change after Philadelphia. They don’t talk about what is going on between them, what the sum of these moments and touches mean, but Kurt has a feeling Elliott isn’t in any hurry, not really, that this want and question and anticipation is part of what he is enjoying. But mostly, it seems like he just wants to spend time with Kurt.
They start texting more often, and the plans they make barely have the veneer of being about the band. They spend a Sunday walking the vendors of the Williamsburg Flea, and try on vintage velvet jackets and embroidered capes, and every other piece that catches their eye, so many wonderful and awful things, things they never knew they needed. And things they don’t need, that Kurt doesn’t even know what he would do with. Then they go back to Kurt’s place and start ripping things apart, and rebuild them on his dressmaker’s dummy.
Elliott invites Kurt over to his apartment. They eat Thai curry delivered in and drink hard cider and Kurt finds himself barefoot on Elliott's couch, a knit blanket over his legs, as Elliott plays record after record of things he loves, with a story for each one, and Kurt laughs and sings along and tucks his toes against Elliott's jean-clad thigh when they get too cold.
One day, when they are leaving Kurt's and the metal studio across the street has one of their sculptures on a pallet out on the sidewalk, and they watch as the artists hammer wooden pieces together on each side to form a crate. Elliott lays his hand on Kurt's, and they can still see the highest part of it sticking out of the top, a curve of bright silver catching the sun with a glare almost too bright to look at, when he says, "I see what you mean now."
***
They are back at that little club, back in that dusty-dark backstage area. It’s just Elliott and Kurt in this side of the wings, and they wait, wait for the lights, wait to begin.
Kurt is so aware of him, and he tries to breathe and he tries to focus, but his hands are shaking and this is the worst possible moment for this, he knows it is, but that doesn’t seem to be calming his heart or the fact he wants. He breathes and thinks about Elliott’s smile and that hush up on Kurt’s roof and that tender tender touch on such a vulnerable part of Kurt’s body. He thinks about wanting to go visit Paramus with Elliott, take that train ride that is a part of him in ways Kurt probably can’t ever understand. He breathes, and thinks about being a part of this.
He turns around, and looks at Elliott.
“Kurt? What--” Elliott starts, but it hangs there, his eyes widening, as Kurt reaches up, takes Elliott’s face in his hands.
“I’m right here. Just let me--try,” Kurt breathes out, and presses his mouth to Elliott’s. The kiss is gentle, a soft wet question, and when he pulls back, Elliott follows, kissing his top lip, the corner of his mouth.
There is a breath and a beat. “Oh god,” Elliott whispers. "I've wanted to do that for so long."
Then his hands are around Kurt’s waist, and Kurt grabs at him, and they end up with Kurt's back pressed to the wall, their kisses slick slides of lips and tongue and heat. It's lush and messy and Kurt wants to touch him everywhere, something inside of him coming loose at this, a wire broken and twisting wild, flickers of light and electricity. Elliott's hands anchor on his hips, press him further into the wall, and he sucks on Kurt's bottom lips until Kurt moans.
He can see the lights come on from the corner of his eyes, and he doesn't want to stop, and he knows the light has flooded into their corner, that the girls can see them from across the stage, because he can hear a shriek from Rachel and Dani.
He breaks away, flushed and panting. "Okay, okay, we have to--"
"Yeah," Elliott says, and takes Kurt's hand, pulling him out onto the stage, into the lights.
summary: Elliott "Starchild" Gilbert made a quiet living as one of the many shop witches scattered throughout New York City. Then a cursed young man named Kurt Hummel walked through his doors asking for help, and everything went topsy-turvy.
warnings: blood, self-injury (for magic, not self-harming), mention of marijuana use
notes: written for Kelliott Appreciation Weekend; ~13k; Read on A03
The bell above his shop's door rang.
Elliott, digging through a box of dried willow branches, emerged with a sigh. It was five minutes to closing and in his experience, no good came from customers at that time. Sometimes it was a long haggling session, or somebody who didn’t buy but still knocked everything askew; other times, it was somebody who wanted him dead. They were all equally annoying, as far as Elliott was concerned, and more trouble than he wanted.
Elliott Gilbert didn’t do trouble.
“Hello?”
“Coming.” Elliott brushed off his shirt, spat out a leaf, then came around to the front of the shop. Standing at the counter was a tall, slim figure dressed without an inch of skin of showing. From the tips of their glove-clad fingers to their boot-shod feet and deep hood they wore which fell around their face in soft folds, nothing was visible. It was a typical daytime vampire getup, which was odd since it was nearly ten p.m. outside. “Welcome to Starchild Supplies. How can I help?”
“You’re a -- a wizard, right?”
“I prefer warlock or witch, but yeah …” Elliott leaned against the counter. Probably newly turned -- baby vamps never knew what to do with themselves. The Undead Americans Association had a hell of a time organizing how-to seminars and pub crawls for them, since most were stuck on the Vampires are real? Magic is real? Is Elvis still alive? stage.
“I need a spell,” the stranger said firmly, then backtracked with, “Or -- a spell broken. I’m not sure how this works …”
Any hope Elliott had of retreating upstairs to his apartment anytime soon went out the window, and he suppressed an unprofessional sigh. “Let’s sit down. You can explain what happened, okay?”
“Okay.” He nodded -- Elliott was pretty sure -- and followed Elliott to the back of the store, around a corner, and into his consultation room. Black leather seats and chandelier for the proper witchy atmosphere, and chips and kale dip because he got hungry. His visitor took a seat and Elliott sat across from him, offering the dip, which was politely refused.
“Alright.” Elliott settled down comfortably. “I’m Elliott. I’m registered with Magical Neutrality Board, so don’t worry about that. They’re the guys who make sure I’m not prejudiced or too extreme in my works, so you won’t get a follow up about anything that happens here.”
“Okay …” A hesitant pause. “I’m Kurt. And I’m cursed.”
Elliott sat up at that. Curses weren’t something you joked about.
“Are you sure?”
Kurt nodded, his hands smoothing out the tablecloth. “Back in highschool, I had a gym coach and she cursed me. Which sounds insane, I know, but now …”
“Now?” Elliott prompted gently.
“Now … she turned me into a monster.” Kurt’s voice broke. “And it keeps getting worse. I can’t go anywhere. I can’t do anything. I can’t look anyone in the eye --” he couldn’t continue. He let out a muffled sound, one of his gloved hands slipping under the dramatic fall of his hood.
“How long has it been?” Elliott asked, still soft. To have no idea of magic, and then to live with that -- it couldn’t be easy. He wondered what kind of ‘monster’ Kurt was. (It was a term he used cautiously. Monster wasn’t really an accepted term in the supernatural community, unless you were reclaiming it. Elliott’s werewolf friend Dani was very adamant about that.) He seemed to be humanoid in shape, at least.
“Seven years this November,” Kurt said. Which placed him around twenty-one to twenty-five. “It was in my junior year.” Twenty-four then. Only a little younger than Elliott.
“That’s a long time. Am I the first witch you’ve seen?”
“Yes.” Kurt made a frustrated noise. “I don’t -- believe, in all of this. It’s ridiculous.”
“I think it’s time to start believing,” Elliott said dryly, then amended that with, “It’ll be easier if you do.”
“I know. That’s what my friend Santana said -- apparently she wasn’t kidding about her psychic Mexican third eye. When it opened I think I broke glass when I screamed.” A self-deprecating laugh, still tinged with heaviness. “So I’m here on her recommendation.”
“Wait, Santana Lopez?” Elliott snapped his fingers. “Yeah, she’s dating my friend Dani. I’ll have to thank her for pointing you my way.”
“So you can help?” Kurt’s voice lifted. “You can fix me?”
“Hopefully. First though …” Elliott gestured to the hood. “Love the get-up, but I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
Kurt froze, hands balling into tight fists on the table. “I can’t do that.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t,” Elliott said. “Look, this is a no judgement zone. The Denizens For Change always give me positive reviews. Nothing under there is going to surprise me.”
“I can’t!” Kurt pushed himself up to his feet in a screech of the chair. “This was a mistake. I have to go.”
“Kurt,” Elliott stood up too, reaching for Kurt as he spun on his heel and all but ran out, shoulders stiff and shaking. Elliott followed him, but he knew ultimately, there wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t cast anything on Kurt without his consent, not if he didn’t want to be an asshole or lose his license. He could only watch Kurt march out the shop with a chime of the bell, and hope that Kurt came back soon.
In the meantime, maybe he could do a little recon.
--
“It’s complicated,” was all Santana said, before Dani pulled her off to the dance floor.
Elliott Gilbert also didn’t do complicated.
--
Two days later, the bell rang again, just as Elliott was finishing up with the old seer crone Sveta who needed her favourite crystals defogged. She was a regular customer, and friend. Elliott had put extra effort into crystals and now he was wrapping them up in newspaper, clear as you could make old stones that had seen too much magic, while Sveta clung to her cane and told him about her son’s bakery.
“Rats!” Sveta clucked her tongue. “Not now, but I see. They’re coming. He doesn’t believe me.”
“Then he’s a fool.” Elliott added in a dramatic whisper, “And he’ll lose everything.”
Sveta cackled loudly. She often said Harry Potter had done more for pro-magic sentiment than any other campaigning. Elliott smiled fondly at her, keeping his expression even when he saw who had entered -- a familiar tall, slim figure covered head-to-toe. Kurt was obviously a fan of fashion -- even his hood was different today -- and Elliott wondered how much Kurt longed for the chance to explore other style avenues. “Mysterious cloaked figure” was a bit restrictive.
“Thank you, mishka.” Sveta accepted the bag of crystals.
“No problem. Have a good day.” Elliott waved goodbye, then considered Kurt, lurking in the Wax & Candles section. “Welcome back, Kurt.”
“Hi.” Kurt hovered by a large, golden candle which was already stylized with dripping wax, locked up securely in a glass case. “This is nice. How much?”
“Only a thousand,” Elliott told him. Kurt made a noise of disbelief.
“It’s a candle.”
“It is a Flame of Ever-Life. Light it when you die, and from that point on, every time your loved ones want to hear your voice, they just light it and listen.” Elliott grinned as Kurt stepped carefully away from the candle, then approached the counter. “So how can I help today?”
“It got worse,” Kurt abruptly said. “After I left here the other day. I can’t -- I can’t even look in the mirror myself. So ...”
Elliott waited patiently.
“Help me.” Kurt’s head shifted as if he was looking up, voice breaking. “I’ll show you. Just -- please, help me.”
“Whatever you need.” Elliott grabbed the part of the counter on hinges and lifted it up, allowing Kurt into the back again. “Wait for me in the consultation room. I’ll be right there.”
Kurt went (and Elliott’s nose, trained on herbs, caught a hint of his designer cologne) and Elliott went up front to hang a Be Back Soon sign in the door window. He really needed an assistant, but hadn’t found the time to handle the hiring process. It was so hard to screen for people who might want to eat freshly-torn out hearts or steal from the register.
In the back, Kurt was perched on the edge of his seat, hands twisting together. Elliott settled into his own chair, trying to look as reassuring as possible.
“Alright.” Elliott pointed to the door, which swung shut. Kurt jumped at the sound. “We’re alone. No one is around to see.”
“Or hear me scream?” Kurt asked drily. That startled a laugh out of Elliott.
“Sorry, I guess that did sound creepy.” Elliott leaned back, holding his hands up. “I just want you to know, your privacy is important to me.”
“Okay.” Kurt lifted his hands to his hood, tightly clutching the material. “Don’t -- scream or pass out.”
“I won’t.” Elliott waited with bated breath as Kurt slowly (and with certain dramatic flair) lifted up his hood. After a pause, the bottom of his chin visible -- and unmarked -- Kurt took a deep breath and then threw the hood back. Elliott gaped.
Kurt was --
“I know,” Kurt said stiffly, blue eyes flicking down. They were the kind of colour that hinted at star systems deep in space, artful oceans with flecks of the cosmos. “This is why I have to work at home.” A rough sound escaped his throat past perfect pink lips, so soft and sensuous, rose petals against the peaches-and-milk of his skin.
“You’re beautiful,” Elliott said. His eyes were starting to dry, but he couldn’t blink, couldn’t take his eyes off Kurt. His skin was smooth and pore-free like a sculptor’s perfect marble piece, hair a dark and elegant curve like a cresting wave despite the hood, and those eyes -- Elliott was starting to get lost in them. His ears ran in circles inside his head, the dizziness sweeping up on him, and he still. couldn’t. blink. And why would he want to? Why wouldn’t he spend the rest of his life admiring living art?
Abruptly, Kurt covered himself up with the hood again, and Elliott was finally able to close his eyes. He took a deep breath -- when had he stopped breathing? -- and started when a cup was pushed against his hand. Opening his eyes, he found Kurt must have left for the sink out back and come back with a glass of water. How much time had Elliott lost?
“So.” Elliott winced as his voice cracked, then took a sip of water to clear it. “I’m guessing when you say monster, you don’t mean fangs or excess hair.”
“I wish.” Kurt settled back down like a gloomy raincloud, shoulders hunching. “That would be normal. But I’ve never had normal, so instead …” he gestured vaguely.
“Unbearably attractive.”
“And nobody takes it seriously. They think I’m bragging, or --” Kurt hissed. “I’m happy to go back to being tickle-me-dough-face, honestly.”
“What?”
“One of my coach’s nicknames for me.”
This coach must have been seriously evil. Like, even moreso than most cheer coaches.
“What exactly did she say when she cursed you?”
“She said ... “ Kurt resettled himself, then quoted, “‘Your pathetic insecurities are adding extra weight to your hips, Porcelain. From now on, you’re going to live like your name: beautiful perfection, and everyone’s going to see it.’ Then she cut the head off a chicken and squeezed the blood out at me. I didn’t think anything of it at the time --” Elliott squinted “-- but a day later this cheerleader asked me out. Since I was the local punching bag gay kid, that was a tip off.”
“And it’s only gotten worse since then?”
“Yes.” Kurt sighed. “A little while later, this meathead jock kissed me out of the blue, when we were fighting. I stopped leaving the house, because people kept bothering me when I tried to walk down the street. I got through college because it was a performing arts school, so I was just being ‘eccentric’ when I wore baclavas in spring. If I was forced to take them off, people would injure themselves. Then I graduated, tried auditioning once, and the director didn’t even hear me sing because he was too busy staring. Record producers don’t want you if they can’t imagine you on an album cover. I couldn’t get any performing roles, so I got a job at Vogue.com, because they let me be eccentric too. Just last week, they tried to take a staff picture, and the camera broke.
“I can’t date,” Kurt said miserably. “Even if I find a guy who wants to go out without seeing my face, I show him even once, he stares so hard he walks into oncoming traffic. He never gets to appreciate me for me. Anybody into guys gets it the worst. Santana -- we were on the Cheerios together, we met again recently -- she’s gay so it has less effect, but even she can’t look at me. Except, apparently, with her third eye.”
“Have you tried fixing it before?”
“How?” Kurt asked. “I didn’t know about magic. I didn’t believe in magic. I went to the straightest plastic surgeon I could and asked to be uglier, and apparently when I was under anesthesia he zoned out with the scalpel and nearly cut my nose off. But it didn’t work.”
“Because the curse protected you,” Elliott said, thinking it over. “It probably distorts the air around you.”
“I guess that's why stage makeup doesn’t work either.”
“And this coach? Did you ask her to reverse it?”
“I didn’t get a chance to. By the time I realized something was seriously wrong, she’d gone into hiding because Interpol was after her.” Kurt turned his head towards Elliott, and said. “Please tell me you can break it. I’m tired of feeling like I need a ‘Don’t operate heavy machinery after contact’ warning. I want to put my face next to my designs. I want people to see me sing. I’m tired of -- hiding.”
“I’m going to try my best,” Elliott said kindly. “First, I’m going to do a little research about the curse. Then we’ll try some traditional methods of breaking it. We’ll get you back to living your life, Kurt.”
“And how much will that be?” Kurt asked. “I can pay. Not going out … ever … really helps you save up.”
“It’s free of charge.” Which was probably a little crazy, but he got the feeling Kurt needed some of that right now. “You got cursed as a kid. I’d be a jerk to make you pay.”
Kurt didn’t seem to be expecting that, voice soft as he said, “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Elliott got up. “Come back tomorrow around eight a.m. with a detailed account of exactly how the cursing went down, and everything you know about this coach of yours.”
Kurt agreed to do just that, and then Elliott saw him out. Then he cleaned up, closing up shop before retreating upstairs for the night. He grabbed his copy of Curse Me! The Compendium of Negative Spellwork Volume One and had it hover mid-air to read while he prepared a curry dinner. He ate slowly as he read, looking for anything that sounded like Kurt’s situation. Then he tried volumes two and three, skimming as his eyes grew tired and the sky started to get hints of dawn.
Curse Me! had a chapter called The Bad Penny Effect, which detailed how to take something seemingly good and turn it into an avoidable curse. There was even a subsection on Beauty To Take The Beholder’s Eye. The problem was, the spells there were to make a person see beauty where it wasn’t, or the ability to literally only see beauty, or to be beautiful themselves but only to those they least wanted to approach them. Nothing sounded exactly like Kurt’s situation, and while animal sacrifice was common to curses, most beauty and image related ones tended to use chameleons or peacocks or butterflies. Not chickens.
Still, Elliott wrote out a couple possible solutions, then finally crawled into bed, ready to meet Kurt early the next day.
--
His sleep was uneasy -- he kept jolting awake, feeling like those cosmic eyes were spinning, spinning, watching. By six a.m he gave up on sleep, and got ready with the distinct sense that only trouble awaited him in his day ahead. He sucked it up though, eating breakfast then going down to let Kurt in.
Today Kurt’s outfit was in a soft white and pastel rainbow colours, and he seemed lighter as he glided into the shop. Elliott watched his long legs then wondered if Kurt’s body had physically changed too. It seemed he covered up all skin to be safe, at least, and moved with the sort of preternatural grace normally found in incubi or vampires.
“Morning,” Kurt sang, heading towards the back and waving a sheet at Elliott. “I have all that information you wanted.”
Elliott accepted the sheet as he followed Kurt into his consultation room. The ritual seemed much the same to Kurt’s summary, albeit with more candles. Then he read the name of who cursed Kurt, and choked. “Sue Sylvester?” The name alone made fear trickle down his spine.
“You know her?” Kurt asked, turning around and nearly running into a wall. Elliott grabbed him quickly, noting that Kurt’s arm was a little cool beneath his touch. “Thanks,” Kurt said breathlessly.
“Yeah,” Elliott returned mindlessly, releasing Kurt. “Um, she’s centuries old. She hangs out in small towns, feeding off the fear of children to stay young.”
“Wow,” Kurt said. “I’m not at all surprised.”
They entered the room and sat down, Elliott setting the paper down next to his stack of Curse Me! volumes, the top of which Kurt seemed to be examining. “Is what she did to me in there?”
“No,” Elliott said. Kurt exhaled slowly. “But we’ll work on it.”
“So what’s up first? How do you break a curse?”
“Traditionally?” Elliott flipped volume one open to a page which showed a woodcut of a peasant begging on their knees to a horrific-looking witch, then another of the witch being burned. “You ask the caster to break it, or kill them. Curses normally have a lot of negative motivation, so it’s hard to break them without the caster’s help.”
“Which isn’t an option for us.” Kurt waved a hand. “Even if we could find her, I think trying to kill Sue might get us our internal organs removed.”
“Agreed.” Elliott valued his skin, and everyone knew that infamous supernatural creatures tended to not be fans of skin of people. He flicked to the next page, which had a picture of a stained glass window located in a German church, featuring a man raising his hands to the sky. “If the witch is weak, it might break after time, so you wait it out and call it a miracle.”
“But I’ve had this for seven years, and it’s only getting worse.”
“Which is why I’m thinking our best bet is …” Elliott turned the page to a painting of two women holding hands in a seated circle, a fire burning between them. “A stop spell.”
“Stop spell?” Kurt leaned forward and Elliott pushed the book towards him so he could see the illustration. “Does that cancel the curse?”
“Weaker ones, yes. I’m not sure if it’ll work here.” Elliott pointed to the opposite page, which had a diagram carefully explaining the magical properties of chicken innards. “I’m hoping to combine it with this one, because the whole, you know, bathed in chicken blood thing.”
“And what does the … chicken spell do?”
“It’s a blood spell. Basically, there’s nothing stronger than sacrificed blood, and it’ll cancel out the spell.”
“Let’s do it.” Kurt sat up. “You can dump a whole tub of blood on me if it fixes this.”
“Then let’s go outside,” Elliott said. “I got a bucket from the butcher.” Thankfully for those among magical communities who didn’t feel like wringing necks, the blood always counted as sacrificed no matter who did the killing.
“And he … didn’t question that?”
“Well, he’s a vampire and he knows me,” Elliott explained. Actually, said guy was his ex-boyfriend, emphasis on ex since vampires were notoriously anti-commitment with anyone who wasn’t at least two centuries old. It had torn Elliott up a bit, but then again, being able to eat garlic again was a huge relief. “He’s used to this sort of thing.”
“Vampire …” Kurt shook his head, amazement clear, then asked. “So you do this a lot? Throw blood on people? Are you sure this isn’t a front for PETA?”
“No,” Elliott laughed. “But we do use blood pretty often. Not to sound cliché, but it is thicker than water, and useful in magic.”
“Huh.” Kurt crossed his arms. “Guess it’s not just twiddling your fingers.”
“If that were true, everyone would be doing it.”
It was weird, that Kurt had been surrounded by magic yet had so little knowledge of it. Maybe there was a deliberate blindness sub-spell at work? Elliott made mental note, and then they got to work.
They tried out all of Elliott’s suggested ideas as the morning wore on. The only thing the stop spell did was make their noses tingle like they’d snorted a fistful of pepper, and they sneezed hackingly until Elliott used a high-class summoning spell just to get a kleenex box in hand. Then the magical fire wouldn’t go out, and Kurt stared at its hissing, writhing form and said, “It sounds like Coach counting off a cheer routine.”
“She’s a powerful witch.” Elliott hastily grabbed a garbage can by his back entrance and picked it up, turning it and placing it over the fire. “We’ll deal with that … later.”
Then there was the blood -- “Chicken,” Kurt insisted -- spell. Before they started, Elliott saw how Kurt was drawing his fingers carefully over his pastel wardrobe and eyeing the large bucket of blood Elliott was giving a stir to, mixing in some herbs and spices like a cannibal cook. “I could lend you something else to wear,” Elliott said.
“Thank you.” Kurt breathed in relief. “This is Vivienne Westwood.”
“I noticed.” Elliott grinned at Kurt’s startled sound. “I like fashion. Though I prefer making my own stuff. More opportunities for glitz glam.”
“Ooh, I’d love to see your work.”
“After,” Elliott promised. “Come on.” They ducked inside and quickly climbed up the stairs to his apartment, where he grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a worn hoodie and handed them to Kurt. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
A few minutes later Kurt returned, wearing the sweatpants and hoodie that were too-big on him, softly molding about his slim frame. Elliott exhaled slowly, then kept his gaze on Kurt’s socked feet, which made an oddly firm sound as he walked. That hadn’t been there before, had it?
“Ready.” Kurt’s voice was grim, and muffled by a scarf he had wound around his face. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but … dump that blood on me.”
There was a certain sense of anticipation as Elliott performed the spell, held the bucket above Kurt’s head, and, with a silent apology to his NYU sweatshirt, tipped the container. The blood gushed out in a deep red waterfall, soaking the worn grey of Kurt’s hooded head, crawling down to his shoulders, while Kurt gave a barely-perceptible shudder of disgust. The taste of copper was in the air and the hair on Elliott’s arms rose, feeling something bend, bubbling up against the blood which was flexing and pulsing around Kurt’s form, and then --
BOOM.
Elliott was thrown back, losing his grip on the bucket and slamming into the garbage can masking the magical fire, feeling flames coast along his back before he skidded to a stop across the hard cement ground. Groaning and staring dazedly up at the blue, blue sky, Elliott was reminded of exactly why he preferred the quiet life.
“Elliott?” That was Kurt, dropping next to Elliott.
“I’mkay …” Elliott slurred. Were those Kurt’s eyes, gentle and deep, drawing him in like syrupy hands --
Abruptly, Kurt leaned back, drawing his scarf further up and tugging his hood down. It took Elliott a second to register, brain restarting from the depths of space, but … Kurt was clean. Not a drop of blood on him. Kurt must have read Elliott’s expression, because he hunched his shoulders and muttered,
“It didn’t work.”
“Yeah.” Elliott sat up, rubbing at the back of his head. “It’s okay. These were just our first tries.”
Elliott couldn’t see Kurt’s face, but he could practically feel the doubt radiating off him. “But if these were our best bets, will anything else work?”
“We’ll find something,” Elliott promised. He didn’t much make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, but leaving Kurt so hunched and hopeless cut at him. “Here, let’s go get ice cream or something. I’ll get some more first-hand ideas of how the magic around you works.”
A pause, and then Kurt nodded. “Okay.”
Elliott stood up, Kurt offering a hand to the help, grip preternaturally firm. Once on his feet, Elliott took in his backyard. The magical fire was out, leaving a scorch mark, but the was barely worth noticing when the spot where Kurt had been sitting was a bare splotch in the middle of a wide spray of blood that painted the cement. It formed a perfect circle, as if an invisible dome had cut off the encroaching flood.
“Huh.” Elliott looked at it. Circles. That meant something, but he couldn’t quite puzzle it out with his head ringing. Perhaps a quick heal-spell was in order before ice cream. So he set circles aside, then looked to Kurt, who was toeing the blood like a cat with water, only to reveal it was dried through. “Don’t worry about it. You just get changed and then we’ll go.”
“Can I -- can I shower first?” Kurt wrinkled his nose. “I know I’m clean, but I can still feel it.”
“No problem.”
Despite his words, Elliott wondered if he was starting to lose his cool, because part of him felt a tiny, warmth-down-his-spine problem at the idea of Kurt naked and soapy in his shower. Maybe even using his loofah. Intimately.
Stop it, he told himself. He’s in trouble. You can’t even look at him without nearly dying. Relax.
Easier said than done, apparently.
--
They ended up getting some gelato, wandering down the midday streets of New York while gesticulating with their little plastic spoons. Kurt’s mood seemed to improve vastly as they walked together, until soon he was talking almost non-stop. About work, fashion, latest Facebook gossip of people Elliott didn’t know (but boy, did they sound needlessly dramatic), and he was fairly certain the words “nude erections” got tossed around once or twice. Elliott, content to listen, smiled and nodded and interjected the occasional “cool” or “no way” at appropriate moments, because it was well, refreshing to see Kurt almost bubbly. Not to say Elliott hadn’t enjoyed their company before, but it was also good to know that his failure that morning hadn’t put Kurt off permanently.
“Santana says spells can also have a key to unlock them,” Kurt said at one point, after they’d tossed their cups away and had, in silent agreement, started to wander toward the nearest park. Elliott wondered how Kurt didn’t heat up dressed head-to-toe like that in the summer sunshine, but when Elliott grabbed his arm to move him out of the way of a harried worker, he felt that Kurt was still cool to the touch. “Like a, if he gets love before the rose petal falls, everyone is free sort of thing.”
“Yeah,” Elliot said. “You see that in a lot of fairytales.”
“So does that mean it’s not true?”
“Not necessarily. It’s just … rare.” Elliott shrugged. “When people cast positive spells, they don’t often include clauses so they can be destroyed. So why would negative casters do the same?”
“So people who do black magic aren’t idiots. Got it.”
“Negative magic,” Elliott repeated. “There’s been a lot of effort in the magical community to get rid of the association between dark and evil.”
“Oh.” Kurt nodded. “Okay, got it. So people who do negative magic aren’t idiots. But it does happen sometimes?”
“Yeah.” Elliott leaned against a pole as they waited for the crosswalk light to change. “Mostly if the caster wants to teach a lesson. Same with positive spells with clauses -- if they give a gift that they think might be abused, they include one so a lesson can be taught by losing the gift. But it’s such a complicated form of magic. It’s like baking a cake with a muffin inside, but making it all at once. Or -- I don’t know, I’m not big on metaphors. Point is, why go to all that work unless you have a very good reason to?”
“Is there any way to check if there is one?”
“Not really.” Elliott shook his head as they started to walk again. “Magic is -- when you feel it, a spell that’s been cast on someone, it’s like feeling their skin. It’s part of them, and not easy to take apart.”
“So you can feel me?” Kurt asked, then added hastily, “The spell on me, I mean.”
Elliott closed his eyes, focusing. He knew that he was a strong witch. Still, doing this while walking down a busy street required focus. He felt Kurt’s hand land on his arm, directing him just as Elliott had done earlier, and Elliott let himself be steered. There was something about Kurt -- his energy, which flexed and prickled like a cat softening up a blanket -- and Elliott could have followed it further but he was caught by how protected everything felt. It was his grandma’s shrink-wrapped furniture, museum display cases, water rolling off an oiled-up Fire Island bodybuilder, a china cabinet with gilded handles …
“I feel it,” Elliott murmured, leaning into Kurt’s cool touch. “It’s like you’ve been laminated.”
“Laminated?”
“It must be the lens that everything’s being distorted through.” Elliott reluctantly opened his eyes, not sure why he was reluctant until it was followed by Kurt releasing him. Preservation. Protection. Circles. “Have you been aging?”
“Yes,” Kurt said. “I’m taller. My face has changed shape. And I know it might be hard to believe, but my voice is deeper. All since the curse.”
Well then. That couldn’t be it. And with how evil Sylvester was, she’d probably have just pickled Kurt in her basement if she wanted to preserve him.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m just … doing something wrong.” Frustration crept into Kurt’s voice as they finally made it to the park. “Coach Sylvester was a maniac but she liked me. She did this so I would be beautiful. How can that go wrong?”
“Kurt, you had no idea you’d had a spell put on you.” Elliott stopped them so Kurt would turn to face him, though how much he could see past the folds of his hood, Elliott didn’t know. “Me? I’m magic. I’ve been around it my whole life. And I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about this. So don’t worry about it, okay? You did everything right.”
Elliott wanted to add more, about how Kurt had managed to deal with this curse all by himself for years and years, and this was coming off of being the punching bag gay kid, and well, there was so much there to admire. But Kurt had a made a soft sound, almost an inhale that preceded tears, maybe, and ducked his head.
“You’re very reassuring,” Kurt said, voice a little huskier than usual. “Um. Thank you.”
“Trying my best.” Elliott smiled, and let go of Kurt so they could start walking again. “So. What are our opinions on ARTPOP?”
“Don’t even get me started!” Kurt said immediately, and still smiling, Elliott let Kurt launch into a long rant in Lady Gaga’s defense. It was an impassioned as everything else Kurt seemed to do, and the self-conscious layers seemed away as they walked.
Elliott knew right then that it wasn’t just a mindless promise -- he would do everything in his power to help Kurt.
--
Three days later, after not hearing from Kurt past a few scathing texts about this year’s batch of Project Runway contestants, Kurt turned up at Elliott’s with a laptop, a bag that was fit to burst with containing feathers and fabric swatches, and a large posterboard tucked under his arm.
“Hey.” Elliott, adjusting his display of skulls, stepped down from the rail-ladder that ran the edges of his shop to help Kurt. Taking the posterboard, he saw that it read FASHION WEEK. “Doing some vision boarding, huh?”
“I’m already behind,” Kurt groaned. “This whole magic thing has been distracting me. But I’ve decided to combine focus. See my main vision?” Elliott looked down at the board again, seeing that below the title was a suit, with empty spaces for the head and hands. “That’ll be me. Wearing something other than this, for once.” Kurt gestured to his cloaked form, as he set down the bag and his laptop on the counter.
“Well, we’ve got a few months, it’ll happen.” Elliott figuratively rolled up his sleeves, taking in the sight of Kurt seating behind the counter and booting up his laptop. “I’ve got some new things to try.”
“I hoped so.” Kurt tapped at something impatiently. “I’ve asked Isabela -- my boss -- if I could work half-days for the next little while. I thought I could come here in the afternoons, see if we can’t fix me.”
“Alright.” Elliott blinked. Kurt was definitely a force of nature. Weirdly enough, Elliott found it almost reassuring. Or maybe that was the wrong word. Invigorating? Challenging? Whatever it was, Elliott didn’t mind that Kurt had, in a few short minutes, turned his counter into a desk and completely interrupted his work day. “You can just sit there. I’ll tell you if I need your involvement.”
He wasn’t sure if Kurt was smiling, but it felt like it, so Elliott smiled back
--
The next few weeks saw Elliott becoming acquainted with what true frustration felt like.
It wasn’t having Kurt around -- that was nice. The more time they spent together, the more Elliott learned they had in common; he looked forward to afternoon when he would meet Kurt halfway between his place and Kurt’s work, so they could grab bagels or cinnamon buns or something else “carb-ridden, but delicious” (to quote Kurt) and then walk back to Elliott’s so he could open shop. They debated and joked and Kurt, with growing acceptance of the weird and wild, interrogated Elliott about everything in the magical world.
No, that was fun, and even though Elliott felt like his life had become an upended snowglobe in Kurt’s gloved hands, he came to appreciate the sensation of being buffeted. Like a ship at sea, content to go wherever the waves wanted. It was the magic that frustrated him, and that was unusual. He’d always been naturally inclined to the Arts, and when the singing variety had failed him and he’d been rejected from NYADA, he’d at least had the mystical kind to fall back on. And now -- now, it was like he was a first-time caster who didn’t know what to do with a rat’s tail.
While Kurt sat at the counter, Elliott would work around him, trying out the occasional spell on the curse. It was a narrow thread of hope his efforts rested on -- as Kurt had already noted, they’d used up their best shots. Now it was generic spell enders, things to shatter mirrors or glass, and even a curse of ugliness -- which had backfired, quite literally, turning Elliott’s Wax & Candles section into a scene from the crappy House of Wax remake and taken all day and night to clean up.
Elliott had even taken to the internet, asked around with some witch friends of his, and while some dropped by to try their own hand at cracking Kurt’s case, nothing worked. In fact, Elliott was just seeing out a witch he knew from a yoga retreat, who had to rush to a gallery opening, but told Elliott that they’d “Keep thinking about it.” After shutting the door behind them, Elliott heard Kurt sigh.
“What’s up?”
“Well, no offense to your friends, especially because they could probably turn me into a toad but ... I feel like a science experiment. Or a circus freak. Come one, come all, see the Beastly Beauty! Not exactly how I wanted to make my splash into celebrity.”
“I’ll stop inviting them if it bothers you,” Elliott offered, but Kurt shook his head, hands moving in frustration around each other.
“No, no, I know they’re only trying to help …” Kurt huffed. “I’m being difficult. It’s stupid.”
“It’s alright, Kurt.” Elliott led them back to the counter, and they leaned against it. “We’ll hang out with some of them more. Then it’ll feel more like friends helping, not like you’re an experiment.”
“You’ve got a solution for everything,” Kurt said gratefully.
“Not everything.” Elliott scratched beneath his beanie, annoyance and shame tugging at him. “I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t track down Sylvester.” The idea gave him sweats, but.
“Elliott.” Kurt turned to him, lightly grasping Elliott’s bicep. His hand felt firmer than usual. “Don’t put yourself in danger on my account.” Elliott looked away. “I’m not kidding, Sue might eat you.”
“I just wish I could do something.”
“You are doing something!” Kurt grabbed his other arm, so they were facing each other, Kurt’s voice sure and urging. “You don’t know what it’s like, how isolating. I … as pathetic as it is to admit, you’re the first real friend I’ve had in a long time.”
Elliott considered that quietly. His circumstances weren’t the same as Kurt’s, but standing there in his quiet little shop with Kurt gripping him securely, he realized his life had also been pretty lonely for a while now. When had he last had something to really inspire him?
“Yeah …” Kurt trailed off, head tilting up. His cloak shifted, grip tightening, and before Elliott knew what was happening too much fabric moved and he could see the sweet curve of Kurt’s chin, the slightly parted and terribly inviting pink mouth which seemed to be murmuring his name, drawing him in somewhere he wasn’t sure he could follow --
But he had to try, didn’t he? If he didn’t try he might --
“Elliott!” A hand made contact with his face, and he barely registered the sound before he felt the blossoming pain. It was like a frying pan had hit him, and his head snapped to the side. “Oh my god, sorry, but you weren’t breathing --!”
“I … uh …” Elliott tried to remember his whole life before wanting to kiss Kurt Hummel. It seemed he was having some trouble. “I saw your --” think think think “-- uh your chin.”
“Stupid,” Kurt hissed, then hastily added. “Not you. Me. I -- I don’t know what I was thinking.” He stepped away from Elliott, presence drawing away just as surely as he drew in the folds of his cloak around himself.
“Hey,” Elliott said immediately. “It’s okay. Nobody got hurt. Uh, too seriously.” Elliott rubbed at his chin. “You should consider tennis, with a swing like that.”
He meant it to defuse the tension -- he noted Kurt like to make little jokes in a similar way -- but it only seemed to make Kurt more upset. Kurt started to gather up his things, stuffing it all away as his shoulders almost rattled from tight-packed anxiety.
“I have to go,” Kurt said shortly. “I’m sorry Elliott. I’ll see you.”
Elliott, still a little dazed, only nodded, then changed his mind to shake his head, but Kurt was already gone, leaving the door to chime as he departed. Left alone, Elliott slumped back against the counter and sank down to collapse onto his ass. His jaw was aching and everything time he closed his eyes, he saw Kurt, all those haunting little pieces he had been able to glimpse, never able to comprehend the whole, just those dizzying eyes and the cold pressure on his arms --
Elliott reopened his eyes, trying for a breathing technique that wouldn’t seem to come. He’d gotten used to catching his breath around Kurt but this …
Double, double, toil and trouble.
--
“So you haven’t heard from him?” Elliott was at one of Dani’s roller derby matches, her team the Monster Mashers warming up by looping around each other and practising some showy moves. Santana sat next to him, tightening the laces on her skates.
“No.” Santana sat up, adjusting her bra with a wiggle. “He’s sulking in his apartment.”
“He’s a theatre kid,” Santana snorted. “Don’t worry. Once he’s finished his one man show of misery he’ll come crawling back so you can go back to co-owning the gayest little witch’s shop.”
“We don’t co-own.” Elliott and Santana’s personalities didn’t exactly mesh, though she was hard to dislike. Still, that didn’t mean he looked forward to whatever outrageous thing she’d say next.
“Are you sure? With the way you skip around, holding hands and batting lashes …” She fluttered her own. Elliott rolled his eyes.
“We don’t do that.”
“Oh, please. You want to get under his nun’s habit. It’s so obvious.” Santana tapped her forehead when Elliott stared at her in disbelief. “You can’t argue with my third eye.”
“You’re psychic, not a mindreader,” Elliott reminded her.
“And I bet you wish you knew what the future holds.” Santana stood up, smirking slowly. He didn’t want to admit it, but that caught his interest, which Santana must have known from how smug she looked.
“Do you see the curse being broken?”
“Hmm.” Santana shrugged. “I predict … rainy weather. Hope you have an umbrella.” Then, with a final look that was infuriating in how much it contained, she skated over to the rink and joined her girlfriend, grabbing Dani to quickly spin her around and dart a kiss to her cheek. Elliott, arms crossed and feeling like a baited bear, tried to reassure himself that she didn’t know a thing and was just messing with him. Then again … no.
He wouldn’t let her get to him.
--
The match was pretty brutal, even for a derby event, and Elliott cheered as Dani tore the rink up. Quite literally, since everyone in attendance was part of the supernatural community in some way and she could go wild with her wolf side, eyes flashing gold and fangs bared as she made it clear why she was an MVP. Elliott was so busy applauding a move she’d made that he barely noticed his vibrating phone, but when he did he hastily pulled it out to see Kurt was calling.
Determined to ignore the tha-THUMP his heart gave at seeing Kurt’s name -- between that and Santana’s accusations, he was starting to feel very high school -- and hit answer.
“Hey!” Oh god. Tone it down. “Uh. Hey.”
“Elliott?” Kurt’s voice was shaky. “Could you … come over?”
“What’s up?” Elliott leaned forward, worry creasing his brow. “Are you okay?”
“No … I … something’s happened.” Kurt made an odd clacking sound. “Please.”
“I’ll be right there,” Elliott promised.
Kurt hung up without answering, and Elliott shoved his phone away and rushed for the exit. He knew it would be polite to wait until there was a break in the action to tell Dani where he was going, but -- he couldn’t leave Kurt alone, sounding like that.
He stepped outside, half expecting rain, but it was a clear night. Running to the subway, he made it to Kurt’s apartment in record time. He hadn’t been inside very often, just to help Kurt drop things off after a afternoon of hanging out, a dinner out at a cheap restaurant with good food and wine as they laughed, feet brushing, wandering the streets after in the sweet summer nights and Elliott wondering just how often Kurt caught him glancing over ...
“Kurt?” Elliott pushed those thoughts away, instead speaking into the crackling intercom. “Can I come up?”
There was no response, but the door clicked, and Elliott let himself in and then took the elevator up. Once he reached the off-white door of Kurt’s apartment, he knocked, and as if Kurt had been waiting it was instantly thrown open. Kurt stood there, wearing worn sweats, a long-sleeved turtleneck, and a balaclava, scarf, winter gloves, sunglasses, and two different socks.
He looked lost.
“What’s the matter?” Elliott asked, stepping in past Kurt, whose mouth moved beneath the scarf, almost visible, but soundless. Elliott looked away, and saw that the only thing amiss in the small, stylish space was a large knife that was rammed into the floor. His eyes widened. Either Kurt had taken modern art to a whole new level, or something very bad had happened. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Kurt sounded distressed at the very idea, but at least he was finally speaking. He stalked gracefully over to the knife, pulled it free like it hadn’t been buried two inches deep, and then turned to face Elliott. His breathing was ragged. “Watch.”
Then he made to stab himself. Elliott lunged forward just as his heart lunged to his throat, but before he got there, the knife hit Kurt’s stomach and it made a harsh DINK -- wait. Dink? It was a resonant sound like two hard materials meeting each other, and the knife bounced away, leaving only a pinprick hole in Kurt’s shirt.
“What?” Elliott stared. “What?”
Yes, repeating it twice would do the trick.
“What?”
Again, sure. Elliott’s mental faculties had apparently abandoned him.
“I was making dinner, and the knife slipped. I thought I was about to be a finger short but it just ..” Kurt slid the knife across his gloved palm, and it skidded harmlessly over the flesh while the glove sliced. “I even tried the inside of my nose. It doesn’t cut anywhere.”
“Inside your nose.” Elliott shook himself. This was serious. “So your skin just … hardened?”
“Yes.” Kurt dropped the knife, not even flinching as it stabbed his foot before falling aside. “What’s happening to me?”
“I …” Elliott closed his eyes, and tried to think. Circles. Protection. Shields. A glass-front cabinet … Then it came to him, a memory from when Kurt had first explained his situation. Maybe not the first time they’d met, but not a day he’d ever forget either. “What did you say Sylvester called you?”
“Lady?” Kurt’s voice was drenched in confusion, and then realization hit. “Oh god. Porcelain.”
“That’s why you feel so …” Elliott gestured wordlessly. “It’s not just distorting how you appear to others. It’s physically transfiguring you.”
The apartment was silent when Kurt began to sob.
--
Elliott made him tea, finding some green tea and whipping it up while Kurt sat on the couch, a thick comforter around him and a tissue box at his side. Elliott keeping his distance wasn’t cruel, but a safety issue -- Kurt had to remove his balaclava in order to mop up his tears and blow his nose. Elliott took it as a good sign that Kurt still produced liquid, and if his story was anything to go by, still felt hunger -- it meant he was still squishy on the inside.
“Here.” Elliott came over, walking carefully with his eyes closed. Kurt accepted the cup with a quiet murmur of thanks, and then Elliott squinted to find the couch and sit down next to Kurt. He placed a hand on Kurt’s back, feeling the usual coolness.
Now he knew what it meant. He wasn’t sure that was a comfort.
After a few silent minutes, Kurt set the cup down, and tugged his coverings in place. “You can look,” he said dully, and Elliott finally allowed himself to look up from where he’d been examining the flaking polish on his free hand.
“Are you okay?”
“Am I?” Kurt hissed. “It’s so hard to tell.” Elliott rubbed his back in silent apology, and Kurt relaxed a fraction.
“At least we finally get the intent of the spell.”
“To …” Kurt gave a disbelieving laugh. “She’s turning me into a doll.”
“It helps,” Elliott reassured him. “Knowing this. I’ve been thinking it was a matter of perception only, since Santana was less affected, and you said you were aging normally, and it got worse over time. But now we know it’s based in a physical change.”
“What does that help? Do you know a spell to change me back?”
“Not exactly,” Elliott admitted, and Kurt looked away sharply. “But it gives us new options.”
“Will we get to explore those options before I die?”
Elliott felt like he’d missed a step, inhaling sharply.
“You’re not going to die, Kurt.”
Kurt made a dismissive sound, hands curling into fists.
“I’m turning into a walking talking plate,” Kurt spat. “What happens when it reaches my inside? My heart?”
“You can still move, blink,” Elliott said. Assumed, really. He’d never seen Kurt blink, but those spinning cosmos needed to rest sometimes. “It’s a magical transformation. If anything else you’ll be a living doll. But that’s the worst case scenario. We’re going to reverse it.”
“A living doll.” Kurt faced Elliott again, a tremble to his voice that he tried to power through. He didn’t seem like he believed Elliott, but he didn’t say so. He just weakly joked, “Like I don’t look enough like Pinocchio already.”
“It’s going to be okay.” Elliott moved his hand to Kurt’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Look. I’ll go home right now, do some serious researc--”
“No!” Kurt froze, and then held his hands up. “I don’t want … could you stay? Tonight? In case it gets worse?”
“Of course.” Elliott had never been much of a hugger, but impulsively he tugged Kurt into one, and Kurt seemed to relax but his body still felt like a statue in Elliott’s arms. Elliott pressed his cheek against Kurt’s cotton-covered one, and tried not to think about. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”
Kurt squeezed him tighter. Elliott, who still had a faint bruise on his cheek from Kurt’s slap, had to wonder if his ribs would colour from the almost too-tight pain, but he let Kurt have that moment.
“We can watch a movie,” Kurt eventually murmured, pulling away and clearing his throat. “Any suggestions?”
“Burlesque,” Elliott said immediately, which startled a laugh out of Kurt.
“A man of fine taste.” Kurt got up to put it in (Elliott being hardly surprised to see Kurt had it on DVD) and then they settled down together, pressed side-to-side and the rest of Kurt’s green tea sitting on the table, untouched. Whether because Kurt was done or because he didn’t have the throat for it anymore, well ...
He tried not to let it worry him.
--
Elliott woke to the sound of rain.
It was still very early out, judging by the orange glow of the streetlight trapped inside each of the scattered raindrops on the window. In the distance, thunder boomed then rolled, crawling along the thick underbelly of grey clouds he could barely glimpse. Elliott groaned, turning over onto his back, feeling the solid dip of the bed beside him. He didn’t look over. Kurt had slept without the balaclava, as Elliott had argued that it was dark enough, and he didn’t want Kurt to suffocate. He was regretting that a bit now. He’d gotten far too used to looking at Kurt whenever he could.
He isn’t your phone, Elliott tried to tell himself. Apparently being a sap on top of being a smartass, he added, He’s so much more and you know it.
Elliott groaned again, then quieted when Kurt shifted, making an adorable snuffling sound as he slept on. What had woken him up? Elliott was a man who liked his eight hours. Shutting his eyes, he tried to remember his dream. Fire? An ouroboros? Latin chanting? Which was very ominous or a sign he owned too many B-movies.
Wait. An ouroboros. Circles. He kept coming back to it, to the circle of blood in his backyard that he was unable to clean up, the ring drawn around Kurt. She liked me. Porcelain dolls, little girls, and the solid press of Kurt’s hand on his arm. Gradual. Tightening. Clauses, which brought you …
“Kurt!” Elliott shut his eyes and rolled over, landing on top of Kurt, who grunted in surprise. “Kurt, wake up!”
“Wha?” Kurt made a few unhappy noises, snuggling into Elliott, who was slowly (reluctantly) drawing away. “Go away.”
“Kurt,” Elliott hissed. “I think I know how to fix you.”
A pause, and then an arm flailed out, slamming into Elliott and leaving him wheezing. “Really?” Kurt asked excitedly, and then added, “Sorry! But? You can?”
“We need to leave,” Elliott said. “Right now.”
“Okay …” Kurt must have sat up, the weight of the bed shifting. “It’s weird, hearing you sound so antsy …” Kurt sounded painfully hopeful. “This is for real, isn’t it?”
“I hope so.” Elliott tried to pat Kurt’s thigh, though judging by the squeak Kurt made, he hadn’t been quite on the money. He hastily removed his hand. “Go get dressed.”
Kurt left to do that, feet pounding heavily on the ground, drawers slamming, and then the door to the bathroom down the hall. Once he was gone, Elliott reopened his eyes, and heart pounding in his ears he redressed in his clothes from yesterday and left sweats and shirt Kurt had leant him folded neatly on the bed. Then he was in the kitchen, placing a call. It ran a long time, and he nearly gave up, but then --
“Are you serious?” Dani hissed when she picked up, voice mugged with sleep. “I’m going to murder you. Turn your location on, right now.”
Dani’s days of internet fights were clearly getting to her.
“Sorry,” Elliott said. “We’re having a bit of an emergency situation with Kurt.”
“Is he okay?” Dani asked, worry replacing anger.
“He will be,” Elliott said. “But … I’m going to need to borrow your car.”
“My car?”
“Yeah.” Elliott looked up as Kurt entered the room, wearing a familiar black cloak, the pinnacle of style despite how little time he’d had to get dressed. Elliott spoke to him more than Dani. “We’re going on a road trip.”
--
As they were leaving, Kurt grabbed an umbrella. Elliott laughed, and when Kurt sent him an inquisitive look, he explained, “Santana.”
That was all the explanation anyone really needed, and Kurt nodded in understanding.
--
They stopped by Elliott’s shop to pick some things up, then swung by Dani’s, to find she’d brought her car out of its underground parking for them. It was her beloved possession, a sweet sixteen gift she’d had to sleep in after her parents had kicked her out. Now that she had her own money and lived with Santana, who worked some vague yet lucrative model/PR agent/dancer/singer career range, she kept it tucked away. He hated asking her to borrow it, but when you were a twenty-something in the city you didn’t know many people with a car.
“Have fun,” Dani said, to her car, then added to Elliott, “Don’t crash her.”
“We won’t,” Kurt said, before Elliott could say anything. He knew that Kurt’s dad was a mechanic, which must explain the confidence Kurt spoke with. “We’ll get her back to you in top condition.”
“Alright.” Dani then surprised Kurt with a hug, slapped Elliott on the arm, then tossed him the keys. “I’m going back to bed. Text me when you get there.”
“Will do.”
They were on the road and thankfully going opposite of the worst traffic before the sun had fully risen. Elliott drove first, taking the occasional directions from Kurt, who otherwise seemed content to look out the window and sing along quietly to whatever song came on the radio. It took an hour to drive away from the on-and-off rainstorms that seemed to be covering half the tri-state area, and Elliott kept both hands on the wheel and tried to limit the amount of duets he and Kurt shared.
They stopped for a quick breakfast, and then after a few more hours a late lunch and a gas up, at which point they switched. Kurt drove like he’d been born to it, and Elliott had to smile at this small thing, the surety of Kurt’s one-handed hold on the wheel, passing big trucks on the highways and switching lanes like it was nothing. The soon entered farmland, wide sweeping cornfields and the sky turning a bright blue to compliment it, the sun heating up the car as Kurt took them down backroads you could only know from living somewhere your whole life. Finally, they drove past a low stone sign that read
WELCOME TO THE LIMA COMMUNITY!
“It’s good to be home,” Kurt said, sarcasm clear.
“Trust me,” Elliott said. He understood why Kurt wouldn’t want to be back here, but he needed Kurt to know it was necessary.
Kurt looked over sharply, but his voice was soft when he replied,
“I do.”
--
Kurt took them down quiet streets while Elliott texted Dani, until they reached a William McKinley High School. It was the middle of summer but cars were still in the lot, and as Kurt parked neatly, he dryly explained to Elliott, “Summer classes have high attendance.”
“Were you ever in one?”
“God no.” Kurt shuddered. “Summer was the one time of year I didn’t have to worry about getting tossed into a dumpster. You wouldn’t catch me dead here if I didn’t have to be.”
“Well, I promise this will be the last time.” Elliott got out, and once Kurt joined him they walked over to the school and let themselves in through a small door held fractionally open with a dime.
“Some things never change,” Kurt told him. “This is where the skanks used to sneak out to have smoke breaks.” As they continued into the school, Kurt pointed out various landmarks, narrating each like a particularly downtrodden documentary guide. “That was my locker. It still has dents from my shoulders.” “I once saw a girl half my size tripped down those stairs.” “That’s where Santana once slushied me.” The only place that drew a positive comment was a classroom with risers, which they peeked into. “The choir room. Where we had our Glee club … I miss it. I miss them.” There was a lot of meaning layered in there, but Elliott didn’t ask, sensing Kurt wanted to move on.
They eventually found their way to the gymnasium. Kurt led them into the empty, echoing space, turning slowly as he considered it. “We had our first performance in front of an audience here. It was Push It.”
“You’re joking.” Elliott grinned. “That had to be something.”
“It pretty much started a sex riot,” Kurt said seriously.
“Sex riot,” Elliott repeated. “I’d like to see you in one of those.”
Perhaps a bit flirtier than he intended, and Kurt rewarded him with a breathless laugh. Elliott suddenly wondered if Kurt blushed. If this worked, maybe he’d get to learn.
“Alright.” Kurt looked around. “So what do we do now?”
“Show me where the curse was placed.”
Kurt led them through the gym and out the other side, ending up at an office. “In there.” Kurt tried the doorknob, then made a frustrated sound. “It’s locked.”
Elliott tapped a finger against his lips, then pointed to the lock, which released with a click. Kurt turned and made a disbelieving sound.
“No way.”
“Hmm.” Elliott smiled mysteriously, and then they entered the office, finding a simple coach’s office, a few trophies along the back, motivational posters on the wall. Kurt looked around, and Elliott noted that he didn’t place his back to the door. Elliott set the bag he’d brought down on the floor. “Candles.”
Kurt dove into the bag, coming out with a handful, and Elliott did the same, and they set all the candles up as Elliott directed, forming a circle around the room. Elliott concentrated for a second, muttering to himself, and the wicks all caught. The room developed a warm glow, and he adjusted his hat, turning to Kurt. This next part wouldn’t be so easy.
“Alright. I’m going to ask something a bit weird, but I promise, it’s necessary.”
“This is McKinley,” Kurt replied, gesturing to the candle-lit teacher’s office. “I’m used to weird here.”
“Then …” Elliott stepped away, to the doorway. “I’ll need you to strip. I won’t look,” he added, to Kurt’s stunned silence. “For my health and yours. But … you kind of need to be naked for this.”
“Oh god.” Kurt pressed his hands against his face. “The one porno I’ve watched in my life started just like this.”
“I promise, nobody’s getting bent over a desk,” Elliott said, and Kurt made a strangled sound. “Just -- this will work best with nothing in the way. It’s a purification thing.”
Kurt took a deep breath. “Only because I trust you,” Kurt emphasized, and then reached for the fastener of his cloak. Elliott shut his eyes and spun around, listening to the rustling sounds of Kurt undressing. It was subtly erotic, but Elliott was more concerned about the ritual he was about to perform. It wouldn’t be an easy one, and if he slipped up, the consequences would affect them both. Permanently.
“I’m -- ah -- ready,” Kurt choked out. “In the nude. Clothes free. Just … standing here.”
“Sit in the middle of the circle,” Elliott instructed. There was a faint clacking sound as Kurt did just that, and then Elliott finally turned, keeping his eyes shut. “I’m going to need you to tell me where I’m going.”
“Okay.”
“I need something from the bag …” Elliott stooped, fingers searching.
“To the left.” Kurt bit back a nervous giggle. “Sorry, this is just sort of …”
“Silly?” Elliott had to laugh, as he found the bag and searched inside until he found the familiar shape. He risked opening his eyes for a second, as he drew the blade out by its braided metal handle, its grooves marked with old blood. “Magic is like that.”
“What …” Kurt trailed off, then asked, stronger, “What’s that for?”
“It was made with blood, it needs to be ended with blood.” Elliott stood up, eyes closed again, and stepped closer. Kurt was silent as Elliott approached, and Elliott only knew he’d reached him by the feeling of Kurt’s energy, pulsing anxiously, and the tapping sound of his boot making contact with Kurt. He stepped back a bit, stopping only when Kurt placed a hand on his calf.
“You won’t get … hurt, will you?”
“It’ll hurt,” Elliott said grimly. It wasn’t an idea he relished. He couldn’t remember the last time he was in serious pain, barring the random incidents of Kurt-related head injuries. “But I’ll live.”
“We don’t have to --”
“We do.” Elliott smiled down at Kurt, as he carefully adjusted his arm over where he figured Kurt was. “I want to.”
“It’s your arm,” Kurt said reluctantly. “Just don’t bleed too much. God, I hope nobody walks in. I’ll never live it down.”
Elliott paused, and then the door behind them shut, lock clicking back in, blinds drawing over the glass wall and outer window. Kurt made a soft sound, voice curling with awe when he spoke.
“You don’t normally do this much magic.” It was true; Elliott liked to do things hands-on, so as not to develop bad habits that might make him slip up in front of the muggles. That was how you got burned at the stake or exposed in the National Inquirer.
“I’m warming up.” Elliott turned the knife over a few times, testing its weight. If someone had told him two months ago this is where he’d be now, he’d have laughed them out of his shop. Even if it was Santana herself, third eye blinking at him. “Like vocal exercises.”
“We should start a band,” Kurt said suddenly. Elliott made an inquisitive face. “If this works. I’ve always wanted to, and we sound good together. It would be … cool.”
“Yeah,” Elliott agreed. It had been a while since he seriously performed, but he’d get back into the swing of things for Kurt. “It would.”
“Alright.” Kurt sounded like he was bracing himself. “Let’s do this.”
“Let’s do this,” Elliott repeated, and then with a silent grimace he brought the knife down to his arm and started to cut.
Ow.
“Rescindo …” Elliott began, feeling the blood welling up, “Cruor pro mutare …”
“He speaks Latin,” Kurt muttered to himself, impressed.
“Per fas et nefas …” the blood started to drip down, and he knew it landed on Kurt from the soft inhale he heard, or perhaps more accurately the way the magic flowing through his body made contact with the smooth surface of the power cloaking Kurt, ripples in a pond which washed up against him. “Rescindo …” the ripples were turning into waves, small at first then getting bigger, lapping against, beating against, clawing against his legs as Kurt made a high-pitched sound of pain. Elliott ignored it, had to ignore it … “Rescindo penes sanguis …”
It was trying to draw him in, but Elliott pushed through it, wading up to his hips, his chest, the hair on his arms standing up where it wasn’t slicked down in hot blood, the pain of the gash almost nothing to the sucking sensation like a blown-open wound in his gut. Sweat curled down behind his ear and Elliott focused everything he had into forcing the magic out.
“Rescindo--!”
Suddenly, the warm glow of the candles was extinguished, and they were plunged into darkness.
--
“Well, well, well …”
Elliott spun around, unease spreading down his spine. Who --? Staring back out of the darkness were the whites of eyes, teeth set in a small grin, neither possessing the comfort of humanity. Oh shit. Elliott had accidentally summoned Satan.
“Looks like Porcelain found himself a slightly butcher Sabrina.”
“Coach!” Kurt said behind him, and slowly a few candles relit. It was a tall blonde woman in a blue tracksuit, smiling unnervingly at him, like he had wandered straight into her web. Elliott felt a rivulet of sweat go down his back. It was even worse than he’d thought.
He’d summoned Sue Sylvester.
“I keep wards up wherever I’ve stayed a long time,” Sue informed Elliott, giving him a dismissive once over. “In case any hunters get an idea. But you’re not a hunter, are you?”
“I’m a witch,” Elliott managed, quietly.
“Hence my insulting comment about Sabrina,” Sue said. “I don’t blame you for your lack of mental competence though, American education has honestly gone down the toilet the past few years … though I’m not sure how old you are, Philbin Junior. It is disgusting even thinking about you being in Porcelain’s bizarre, naked presence.”
“Leave him alone,” Kurt snapped, voice getting higher in a literal sense as he got to his feet, and in his anger. “He’s only trying to fix what you broke.”
“And he very nearly did.” Sue crossed her arms, then said to Elliott, “You’re good. I’m better, but you’re good.”
Elliott meant to ask her if she’d leave so he could continue, then. Or some other comment which showed how unafraid he was. But truth was -- he couldn’t find the words. Any words. Terror was creeping over him like the crawl of spiders and for the first time ever, Elliott Gilbert truly lost his cool.
“Then let us finish!” Kurt stepped closer, standing at Elliott’s elbow.
“Why should I?” Sue asked, gaze narrowing. “I’m hurt. I gave you a gift and now you’re throwing it back in my face.You should be thanking me, not breaking into your old high school like some sad, strange Will Schuester-esque pervert.”
“Gift?” Kurt’s outrage grew. Elliott continued to try and find his tongue, but all he could do was see the cold whites of Sue’s eyes. “It’s not a gift. I’m dying.”
“Dying!” Sue gave a crooked smile, shaking her head. “Porcelain, you’re living. Living forever, kid, and never having to be the pathetic mortal you left behind. Trust me, it’s the greatest gift you could ever have, and that’s counting the Easy Bake oven I’m assuming you received at a tender young age.”
Immortality. Elliott hadn’t considered that. Not many magics could offer you that without great sacrifice. Looking at Sue Sylvester, he realized she honestly believed what she was saying. She’d taken the choice of sacrifice away from Kurt, like Robocop, to make him better. Elliott bit back a surge of terrified laughter. He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded.
“I don’t want to live forever!” Kurt snapped. “Especially not like this.” He must have rapped a fist against himself, the sound echoing through the tiny office.
“I see no difference,” Sue said dismissively. “Still stiff and a pear-shaped and rosy-cheeked like a virgin sheepherder.”
“No,” Kurt snarled. “You don’t get to pretend you didn’t do this. You’re going to fix this.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Kurt stepped forward, but Elliott’s eyes had already drifted closed, coloured sparks flying behind his eyelids. “I’m telling you to.”
“Ungrateful,” Sue snarled right back. “Little!” Energy was growing in the room again. “Child!”
“Please,” Elliott finally managed to croak out, but they ignored him, the air turning razor-sharp around them all as Sue gathered her power. “Don’t --”
“Fix me!” Kurt yelled back. “I’m not scared of you, Sue Sylvester!”
Sue laughed at that, wild and maniacal and like a storm-downed branch crashing through glass, the shards of it cutting through Elliott who started to slip in the slickness around his feet, and there were hands on him and the laughter growing wilder and then everything exploded.
Very, very literally.
--
“Elliott?”
Elliott had a boring childhood. Two parents, white picket fence, a dog. Magic as nothing more than a car never breaking down and food never spoiling.
“Elliott …”
He’d always felt like more exciting things waited for him around the bend, somewhere where there were people like him. He’d been half right. Exciting things. Not necessarily for him, though.
“Please, Elliott …”
He hadn’t minded though. His parents hadn’t had the wrong idea. Now he had something to mind, however, and he couldn’t quite remember what.
“Elliott!”
Something was being very insistent. No, not something. Someone. Cosmos eyes and the delicate sewing on fine leather gloves, a clear voice and strong mind.
“Wake up, Elliott!”
Kurt. His name was Kurt, and he was asking something of Elliott, who was helpless but to obey. With a groan, he cracked open his eyelids, a face swimming into view above him. He shut his eyes on instinct, and Kurt brushed a hand down the side of his face. A warm hand. Elliott made a very unhappy noise because his head felt like a portable cement mixer, but that hand was warm and Elliott had to see a gaze that was sure to match.
Elliott slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear out dust, which he tasted in his teeth as well. He was fairly certain he was half-lying on rubble, half on Kurt’s lap, but his attention was drawn upwards, to the anxious face, splattered with blood, gazing down at him.
“No.” Elliott reached up, arm aching, but needing to cup Kurt’s face in his hand. An imperfect, oh so human, but beautiful face. “It did.”
Kurt let out a half-choked sob, then bowed forward, hugging Elliott to his chest and squashing Elliott’s arm at an awkward angle. “It worked,” Kurt gasped, and Elliott was fairly sure his head was being kissed. He wondered dimly where his hat had gone. “Oh my god, it worked, it worked, thank you, I love you, oh my god, I’m normal …”
“Amazing,” Elliott corrected, into Kurt’s chest, which was just as warm and real and supple as the rest of him. Elliott figured his brain-to-mouth filter needed a second to kick back in, but they were celebrating, so it was okay. “You’re amazing.”
“No, you are!” Kurt pulled back, teary blue eyes staring down at Elliott. “You did this. You fixed it!”
“You fixed it yourself,” Elliott corrected. He was starting to finally piece together the last few minutes (and yes, there was definitely a hole in the school now. Yikes.) “Sue Sylvester feeds off fear, but you, you weren’t afraid of her. That’s why the curse broke.”
“So there was a clause.” Kurt grinned, and then abruptly, his face started to go rosy, the blush steadily crawling down his neck to his chest. “Um. I need clothes.”
“If you insist …” Elliott grinned, still a bit loopy, but let Kurt set him down and rush off to get clothes, eyes shutting politely. It seemed like no time at all before Kurt was shaking his shoulder again, and Elliott opened his eyes to find that Kurt was wearing the jeans and shirt only, the other items discarded.
“Come on.” Kurt helped Elliott sit up. “We should get out of here before someone blames us for this mess.” Elliott could indeed hear sirens howling in the distance.
“Yes …” Elliott got up, and shot a glance at his ritual arm. It was still bloody, but the wound was pink and shiny, a week-old scar on a fifteen-minute injury. He frowned, but before he had time to puzzle it out Kurt was guiding him away from the blown-up office, only stopping to grab Elliott’s “knife, please, that was a killer auction find …” and then they made their way as quickly as they could around the building, to the parking lot, into Dani’s car, leaving the lot just as a firetruck came barreling in.
Elliott slumped back into the passenger seat in relief. It was starting to hit him that things were finally over. He’d kept his promise. Things could go back to normal now, though hopefully with one or two more additions. He glanced at Kurt, still there, gloriously in the flesh. He wondered how Kurt would feel about the addition number two, also known as a whole lot more weed, because Elliott seriously needed the stress relief after all that.
“Back home?” Elliott asked, as Kurt drove away, glancing in the rearview mirror occasionally. Kurt had pores. It was wonderful.
“Yes,” Kurt said, and then spun the wheel. Elliott drifted away, trusting Kurt to get them there.
--
Home turned out to be a quiet two-storey home in Lima, Ohio.
Home turned out to be a burly older man in a ballcap who grinned like the sun had come out when he saw Kurt, yanking him into a hug, and his kind-eyed wife doing the same right after.
Home turned out to be the acceptance of Kurt introducing him as his very good friend and Burt Hummel shaking his hand while Carole Hudson-Hummel invited him to stay for dinner and clean up in their bathroom.
Home turned out to be seeing that by helping Kurt, Elliott hadn’t just helped the man in question, or even himself.
Home turned out to be … really nice.
--
When they got back to New York, Dani’s car newly upgraded and serviced at Hummel’s Tire and Lube, Elliott was right-footed once more, and Kurt was easing himself into his new fashion freedom, wearing jeans and t-shirt with a vest, sunglasses protecting his very-unused-to-light eyes. Elliott was informing Kurt that he could totally get a tattoo now to celebrate his human flesh once more, and Kurt was shooting down the suggestions as they came up, when they parked in the underground lot and found Santana and Dani awaiting them.
“Hummel!” Santana drawled, stalking forward to grab his face and pinch his cheeks. “There’s the Pillsbury boy I remember.”
“Nice to see you too, Santana,” Kurt returned evenly.
“Don’t pout.” She grinned delightedly. “I see you blew up McKinley and Coach Sylvester. Drinks are on me tonight, twinkles.”
“It was only a tiny explosion,” Kurt said. One that was being accepted at face value, apparently -- as Kurt kept repeating, McKinley thrived on the unusual and unexplained. “And I’m sure she isn’t gone permanently. She’s probably found a new group of kids to terrorize.”
“But she won’t bother you anymore, right?” Dani asked. Kurt nodded. “I’m happy for you, Kurt.”
“We all are,” Elliott added, nudging Kurt. They shared a smile and Santana pretended to gag. He noticed Dani tilting her head, sniffing the air. “What is it?”
“Huh?” She looked over. “Nothing, nothing. Wanna go get those drinks Santana promised?”
“Uh-uh, he pays for himself,” Santana said, pointing to Elliott. “But I’ll treat my girl and favourite mad gay bomber.”
“Sounds good,” Kurt said, and then Santana stepped forward, linking their arms and dragging him away while saying, “Tell me everything that happened in gory detail.”
Elliott and Dani followed at a more measurable pace, Elliott enjoying the familiar quiet of his friend. She still had a somewhat pensive set to her face, and Elliott let her mull it over while watching how Kurt seemed to soak in the sunshine -- they’d already gone through half a bottle of sunscreen in the past week, but it was worth it. Kurt had always been a whirlwind of energy and passion and idiosyncrasies, but now he seemed happy about it, the thing that had been burdening him dropped like the cloak from his shoulders. He wasn’t eerily graceful anymore, in fact he was a bit clumsy, but he was so light on his feet he seemed to glide as Santana pulled him along.
“You really like him, huh?” Dani asked, finally breaking the silence. Elliott glanced over, smiling a little to himself.
“Yeah.” Elliott looked back. “I’m not rushing anything, though.”
“When do you ever?” Dani asked, laughing a little. “But it’s okay. You’re pretty much all there already. I can smell all kind of pheromones.” She waggled her eyebrows. Elliott could hardly argue that; getting to see Kurt’s skin was a powerful effect on its own, everything else about him even moreso.
“Is that all you smell?” Elliott asked. “You looked pretty confused back there.”
“Well …” Dani hesitated. “Call me crazy, but he still smells like magic. And not like yours, I know yours. And not whatever was on him before. It’s one I’ve never smelled before.”
Elliott nodded slowly, dropping his tone and hanging back a little. Kurt and Santana didn’t notice (well, Santana didn’t seem to notice) as they drew ahead. Then he raised his arm, indicating the shiny pink scar on his arm.
“I passed out in the explosion and woke up with that healed. I’ve never performed unconscious heal magic before.”
“I don’t think he realizes,” Elliott said. It must have been buried beneath the bubble of Sue’s spell, kept locked up tight to stop it from interfering, but as Kurt glanced briefly back at him with a bright smile, Elliott could almost see it, twining around the veins of Kurt’s body. After Kurt turned back around, smile softening, he added, “I’ll tell him once he’s had a few more days to adjust to things. It’s a lot to learn, late in life.”
“He’ll have you,” Dani said, giving Elliott’s hand a squeeze. “You’ll be a good teacher.”
“I hope so.” Elliott let go of her hand, only to wrap an arm around her. “By the way, you are more than welcome to audition.”
“Audition? To be your student? The only magic I got is my hair dying skills …”
“Nope,” Elliott said. “We’re forming a band. It’s carpe diem.”
“Not sure if that’s the band name or your new philosophy on life, but I’m so in,” Dani replied. “Hey! Santana! Want to join their band?”
Santana whipped her head around, an evil grin forming on her face.
“I call lead singer!” Santana said immediately.
“No way Lopez,” Kurt shot back. “Take a look into the future, because it only holds good things for me.”
The friendly trash talk continued, and Elliott let it, content to watch Kurt talk. The future only held good things for him -- well, Elliott had to agree. If only because he’d be working hard to make sure that stayed true. Some part of him had realized, that day Kurt had first walked in five minutes from closing, that things were about to change. It had seemed like too much trouble then, but now, well -- it seemed the perfect amount of trouble. Exactly what he’d always needed, but never known, and honestly ...
Hi everyone! Because our last Kelliott Weekend was such a success, we are doing it again! I’m excited to announce Kelliott Appreciation Weekend 2015 on June 13th & 14th.
What is it? Another weekend for us to celebrate the relationship between Kurt Hummel & Elliott Gilbert.
What can you contribute? All kinds of fanworks are welcome and encouraged, including fic, fanart, gifsets, fan mixes and vids, or whatever else you are inspired to make. There are no themes or prompts to follow so feel free to go where your creativity takes you, whether it is canon-based or AU, about their friendship or romantic–it’s up to you!
Post your works on June 13th or 14th (or even later if you can’t make those dates) and tag it #kelliottappreciationweekend or #fyeahkelliott so I can find and reblog them!
And remember this is about celebrating Kurt & Elliott, not putting down other characters or ships, and I’ll be using my discretion about reblogging here.
Thank you so much! And please help spread the word if you can and let me know if you have any questions!
FIC:
Lips In My Hair by fierybeams
Kurt and Elliott's relationship as told through hair dye. Or: Five times Elliott changed his hair, and one time Kurt did.
We're Different and the Same by mockanddee
After ten years of friendship, Kurt and Elliott reconnect in New York—Elliott getting his home back, and Kurt feeling like he is getting his friend back. Maybe they were always heading to this.
With the Help of a Friend by scentofsummerrain
Kurt doesn’t miss being in a relationship, but he misses sex. A lot. So he tries hooking up with online strangers. However, it doesn’t quite work out and then Elliott, who’s become his best friend, makes him an offer…
You Should Probably Stay by flipmeforward
Kurt shows up unexpectedly at Elliott’s door. It works out well.
Thank you so much to everyone that supported & participated in Kelliott Appreciation Weekend and helped make it so great! I will be putting together a master post tomorrow in case anyone missed anything. If you didn't get to post or are still working on something, I'm going to continue tracking the tags and will reblog your work! And as always, if you post something off tumblr (like on ao3) you can drop me an ask & I'll link to it. Thank you again! <3
