there is the flashing of capitol-fashioned dimples
her way, a laugh burning a hole through his tongue
as a brow is cocked, body resting on his folded
forearms as he leans forward slightly to meet her
eyes. blue clashes with blue, saltwater & seafoam,
& if his laugh is a gull's cry to the wind, they do not
speak of it. the knowledge of his impending
departure tightens, noose-like, around his neck--
incredibly cruel, he should think for just a fraction of
a second, asking a man to tie his own noose. the
thought is cast aside quickly & forcibly, his hands
finding purchase on hers, & he will ask if only because
he knows he is not,
Will eventually be linked to both AO3 and Live-journal
“All that glitters is not gold,
often have you heard that told”
Mine is all the glittering sea,
waves of gold engulfing me,
in the depths all shadows dark,
they do not offer a warning bark,
Have you ever sung to the ocean?
and walked waters with a board?
For the tide’s ears are always open,
as long as it’s pits are clawed
Chapter 9
The compromise is Blaine stays with his family until graduation; that’s Tuesday, since they both missed the last week of school; so they only have to suffer through two days apart.
But Blaine’s skin feel itchier than ever, and the scattered sleep makes him want to scratch at his mind as well. He keeps thinking about Carole’s suggestion. It is terrifying to think of needing help, even the whispered “I’ve got it,” from Kurt, had been enough for the little twinges of embarrassment that had been at him all week to take control. Could he bear to have another offer their hands out to him? Perhaps a support group would be better, then he could be helping other people as well.
He feels scattered enough with only the sound of Kurt’s voice down the phone to remind him that he is one whole piece, and the tugging and scraping of his Mother’s attempts will not destroy him.
The issue lies with Graduation. The bright red gown was already folded on the end of his bed when he returned home, but had yet to try it on. Since it was summer he had yet to deal with sleeves, and the thought of such a prominent emptiness, such an obvious highlighting of his loss; it couldn’t bear thinking about.
So he waits for Kurt, the coiffed top of his hair as he slips out of the car, an hour before so they can get ready together. Blaine is still in his pajamas, a tank top and boxers for the summer heat.
“Hi,” is sudden at his doorway, with that quiet little squeak from when he snuck out all those times, “I was going to ask if you were ready but…”
“You’ll chose something better than me,” Blaine suggests, but the lump in his throat is not about the clothes hanging in his closet.
“Ooh, okay,” Kurt giggles lightly, rushing at his closet and opening it, the brightness of his clothes make Blaine’s eyes sting; he can’t believe that used to be such a part of him, he’ll never tie a bowtie again, “Well red is bright enough so I think we’ll go with something a little more subtle hmm?” Kurt suggests, not turning around. Blaine watches as he plays the keys of his clothing like a piano, “here we go…” Kurt finally turns around, a white polo and a pair of grey slacks. It is blessedly muted, “Do you need any help?” Kurt asks holding out the clothes like an offering.
Instead of answering Blaine begins to dress himself. His skin prickles under Kurt’s watchful gaze, it feels intimate and terrifying. The truth is Blaine doesn’t feel that much like he’s in his own body any more. Like he’s been translated into the lopsided weak being that he can’t even use properly.
“You’ve lost weight,” Kurt comments, as he’s attempting to twist the polo shirt over his head, “Here,” and then there are hands at his neck gently tugging and the soft skin of Kurt’s fingers rub across his stomach. He is extraordinarily close. Too close.
“Can you grab me a pair of boxers?” Blaine chokes out.
“Mmhm,” and he pecks the sweetest kiss against Blaine’s nose and turns, “here,” he passes them over a second later, “Do you want me to wait outside?”
“Kurt,” Blaine starts weakly, his eyes watering. He wants Kurt to stay forever and that hurts, but what hurts even more is that he needs him to stay. He been wearing pajamas for the last couple of days for a reason, and that’s that buckles are by far the most difficult, “I might need you,” he manages to get out.”
“Okay, I’ll stay,” he replies, lightly, sitting back on the bed behind Blaine and watches the dip of his back as he slips into the new boxers and slacks, “Your ass still looks as great as ever if you’re worried,” he quips with a smirk as Blaine turns around, his flies open.
“Thanks,” he gulps, gesturing to his fly, “Could you…?”
“I’ve got it,” and the fingers are there again, little pinkies brushing against the tightness of his stomach and the last press of cool metal against his skin as he finishes. But the hands are still there at his hips.
“Blaine?”
He looks down and those perfect eyes are still looking at him.
“Blaine, I want you to know that whenever you’re ready, I will still want you just as much as I love you. And I will always wait for you but I don’t want you worrying about what has changed because you are still my beautiful Blaine. Okay?”
The earnestness of Kurt’s expression breaks him, the way he can feel the warmth of him at his hips, the way his thumbs rub at his skin, like he could tear right through it. He takes two hauling breaths and nods, reaching for the Kurt’s face to hold in his palm like a prayer.
“I don’t know if I love myself so much anymore is all,” he tells the eyes, for to say it to all of Kurt would smash the words against his tongue.
“Do you still love me?” is the small answer.
“Always, of course, always and always,” he rushes out, pressing closer so Kurt’s arms are wrapped around his waist and ducking their heads together.
“Then everything else will fall where it will,” Kurt’s muffled voice presses against the skin of his neck, “Let’s go get graduated.”
The gown flops down his side as predicted when he finally puts it on and sits down next to Artie right at the front of the line of chairs. He grabs the wrist of the empty sleeve and twists it around his own.
“Hey, how’ve you been?” Artie asks. His own gown has been folded up his arms so he can still wheel his chair without the sleeves getting tangled.
“Well I’m alive,” he murmurs. The rising sound of Figgins voice is dull and easy to block out.
“Yeah it sort of feels that way huh?” Artie continues, “Like living is the only thing you woke up with left. Because every keeps saying ‘you’re alive that’s the main thing’. But there is so much more left.”
“Like what?”
“You’re about to graduate, the world is your oyster, man!” he thumps his fist against Blaine’s good shoulder and he supposes it’s a sweet gesture but.
“I don’t think I could open an oyster shell if I tried right now.”
“Hey,” Artie tries a different tact, “Would you consider coming along to a meeting with some of my friends next week?”
Before he can answer Artie’s name is ringing out across the crowd and he is wheeling away. And then so is his name and he is stumbling up the stairs, conscious of the railing that he can do nothing but waft a sleeve at. It is stiflingly hot, at sweat is sticking his gown to the back of his neck. His hat slip against the gel of his forehead, he used to much this morning his slippery hand panicking. The hall seems to silently watch his dragging feet and his sagging sleeve as he finally reaches Figgins. He faces the crowd instead of the painted pity of his teacher’s faces. He finds Kurt in the sea of red, his hat off, his hair glinting in the sunlight. They exchange a small smile.
“Congratulations on graduating William McKinley High School class of 2013, Blaine Anderson,” Figgins calls into the microphone, offering out a hand for him to shake. Blaine does so, knowing the quietness of the hall is not in boredom but in active eagerness. He is the “finally something happening” they’ve all been waiting for.
“Thank you, sir,” Blaine replies quietly, not giving the audience the satisfaction of hearing.
But Figgins is lifting his certificate over their shaking hands and following the tradition “shake and take” Blaine had perfected by five years old after winning the junior golf competitions and the Club. Now there is nothing there to take. Nothing in this world that you can practise enough that you will know forever. This is no like riding a bike. You can’t kid yourself that the world won’t keep turning without you.
The heat of the cap and his melting gel fuzzes his sight a little and he yanks his hand away, snatches the certificate and trips back of the stage; as fast as he can without falling over that stupid red and all the stupid eyes looking at him, like they’d sold them out front as part of the display.
He is not a display.
Outside the hall he rips the cap and gown off and throws them in the nearest dumpster. The pavement is steaming with heat but he sits down anyway, leaning against the boiling plastic of the dumpster, his knees up to his chest. He’s never felt so utterly out of control in his life.
He sits there until the crowds come out, watching litter drift across the back lot. Counting the birds that snatch for food and fly off again. Breathing waiting breaths and trying to hold back the watery part of him that wants to burst him open like a pipe.
He lets out an echoing sob, the kind the knifed through a throat, that binds and heart and squeezes, the kind that jitters through your shaking skin.
His is still quaking when Kurt comes slamming through the back door, tearing off his cap and rushing at him.
“I’m sorry, I came as soon as I got of stage, they wouldn’t let me past,” he crouches in front of Blaine and places a tentative hand against his shuddering shoulder, “Blaine, honey?” he can’t look up, not now, it would shatter him open, “What’s going on can you hear me, Blaine?” The panic is rising in Kurt’s voice now.
It’s just that he can’t move now, his limbs feel heavy, his head and lips the heaviest of all.
“I’m going to ring Artie,” Kurt voice tells him, the high tremble of it makes everything worse. He’s hurt Kurt again and it’s never going to stop because he can’t be perfect again. Not like he was before, not ever like that again. There’s no pretending now.
“Please, no,” He manages, his throat is raw and torn and the voice that comes out isn’t his.
“Okay,” the hand on his shoulder grips tighter and the voice is closer, “what do you want, what should I do?”
“Go home,” he gets out.
“Alright I’ll call your parents,” Kurt tries, there is hurt in his voice but it is nothing to what pain there will be.
“No, you, you go home,” his voice is calmer now and rigid. He refuses to raise his head.
“I’m not leaving you,” but the hand is gone and he is.
“I want you to.”
“Well, you’re not staying here, I’m not leaving until you do.”
Between his knees, Blaine can see Kurt’s feet, steadfast and unmoving.
“I don’t want to be with you right now,” he tries.
“Well let me call someone then. You can’t stay here.”
There is a moment of two breathings short and stuttering. Kurt’s feet shift a little. Another door slams and there’s movement inside.
“Call Artie,” Blaine decides, “tell him yes. Then you can take me home. My home. Then I want you to go celebrate with your family.”
“Blaine,” that voice is enough to nearly break him but he won’t let it. Artie is part of who his is now and all those friends he talked about. He belongs with the broken people. Not with perfect Kurt whose music will never stop even in his memories.
“That’s what I want,” he tells him instead.
“Okay.”
And there is a phone ringing and a two hearts breaking like beautiful blowing glass bursting.
Will eventually be linked to both AO3 and Live-journal
“All that glitters is not gold,
often have you heard that told”
Mine is all the glittering sea,
waves of gold engulfing me,
in the depths all shadows dark,
they do not offer a warning bark,
Have you ever sung to the ocean?
and walked waters with a board?
For the tide’s ears are always open,
as long as it’s pits are clawed.
CHAPTER 6
a/n ok so it's literally has been an age, I moved countries and all sorts of other bullshit, so if you're still reading congratulations. Hopefully all the links work above if you want to start from the beginning and I promise i'm sorting out the other locations.
When Blaine is finally released from the hospital, the Hummels have already settled into the rented house and are frantically trying to make the place homely enough for Blaine. Carol plans a barbeque lunch to celebrate his return, in the hope that the warm air and perfect view will lighten his spirits.
Burt and Kurt are silent as they drive to pick him up, Kurt had only really left the hospital a few days before, opting to sleep in an actual bed so he could be more awake when he was with Blaine. Not that Blaine had spoken about anything other than leaving since then.
Blaine is already sat, with his bag ready, on the edge of the bed when they arrive. He looks as he always had, his hair gelled perfectly, although he’ll never tell Kurt that he had cried when he had to ask a nurse for help; and he wears a blue polo shirt and cargo shorts. The only different is one arm of the polo shirt in sewn together holding his bandage in place and his other hand is gripping tightly to the sheet.
“Are you ready to go?” Kurt asks sweetly, a little scared of the reaction.
Blaine nods and stands up, trying to lift the bag before Burt grabs it off him and swings it easily over his shoulder. He doesn’t argue as he usually would.
Neither of them talk as they walk to the car, but Kurt slips in beside Blaine in the back seat and takes his hand firmly in his.
Not knowing what else to do, he starts rambling.
“You know, Carol’s made the most perfect lunch. It smelt absolutely divine when we left the house and there’s all your favourites,” he keeps on and on trying to fill the gaps, “And there’s all the meats for you and Finn and I might even let Dad have some, because I chose the leanest meat.”
He stops, then squeezes Blaine’s hand a little tighter, turning to him, “I know we’re not properly home yet, but it’s a really nice place, and your parents have said they’re coming…”
“That’s really nice,” Blaine says quietly, interrupting, letting go of Kurt’s hand so he can cling to his knee before clenching into a fist. Kurt remembers how he always held his hands in his lap together when he was nervous and how he now can’t see to grip anything at all, “It’s just I’m really tired is all.”
“That’s ok,” Kurt replies, his voice a little too high, he feels so out of depth like he’s in the ocean and Blaine is swimming too fast for him, or maybe he’s not swimming at all and the tide is just pulling them apart, “You can take a nap before we eat.”
“No, I mean, I,” Blaine pauses, squeezing his eyes shut, “That’s ok, I can make it through lunch.”
The thing is, when it really gets to eat, he doesn’t know if he can. Everything looks so fresh and bright and he feels off-balance like he might just topple over. Especially when Burt goes to shake his hand and has to swap quickly, and when he hugs Carole it’s awkward and weak. He misses feeling comfortable and he misses people acting comfortable around him.
“What’s up dude?” Finn asks, with the same words he always does, but with a tone like Kurt is poking him in the back. Kurt isn’t of course, he is stood right behind Blaine, one hand warm on his back, “This barbeque, I’m telling you man.”
“Oh cool,” Blaine feels himself respond, “Um can I help with anything?” he hopes his voice doesn’t sound as weak as it feels against his tongue.
“Oh no Blaine sweetie, you sit down,” Carole replies, pulling out a chair for him. He gives in and falls into it, tugging his hand across his stomach and holding it tightly. Kurt stands next to him, like his guard.
“You can sit, Kurt,” Blaine tells him, hoping he sounds kind still.
“I just want to be near you,” Kurt says, softly, touching a hand to the soft hair at the base of his neck and rubbing gently. Blaine closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He feels like he is walking on eggshells and stumbling, all of them are.
“Sit on my lap,” he orders, when he opens his eyes.
Kurt looks shocked and drops his hand to his side, his eyes unblinking, his mouth stutters a moment before he can form an answer, “Blaine I can’t, you just…”
“Your parents won’t mind,” Blaine almost whines, knowing that the just had meant something else entirely. Kurt trying not to hurt him when that’s all Blaine wants. He wants to feel the crush of Kurt all around him, remind him that they were made to crush each other until they are one mess, one heart, inescapably.
“It’s not that,” Kurt says weakly, “You just got out of hospital, Blaine, I might hurt you, I can’t…”
“Please,” he utters, gripping the flesh of his side tightly, trying to feel what he used to feel with two arms wrapped around him, he needs to feel blanketed, safe but he can’t not when Kurt won’t touch him properly.
“No,” comes the sharp reply, “No, Blaine.”
“I’m going to bed,” Blaine tells him blankly, getting to his feet, he feels the tangle of Kurt’s fingers between his own and what sounds like a whimper of closed off tears. He won’t look, he can’t, “Can you tell me where, please?”
“Second door on the right upstairs,” Kurt tells him, squeezing the pleads he tries to cancel out of his voice into his hand, “I can come with you,” he starts, “Show you where…”
“I can find it Kurt,” he interrupts too sharply, “I haven’t lost my mind you know. I’m not broken. And that’s what you said so please say what you mean or say nothing at all. I’m sick of you holding back. We’re equals remember? We hurt each other, we get angry at each other, and we love each other properly and fully, always, no matter what has happened before. So don’t come and show me anything until you can do that again.” His voice shatters halfway through but he carries on, despite how the broken sounds that Kurt tries to hold back cut like shards into him.
He feels the stares of the others on his back as he enters the house and he knows he has broken everything again. Knows he has destroyed something that was only the best they knew how to give. They will never love him like he needs again and he knows that. So why won’t they just stop trying. Everything would be so much easier if everyone else stops acting like it was all ok. It’s never ever going to be ok again.
Back in the garden the silence is broken by Finn’s cursing, his fingers singed on the barbeque. Kurt lets out a sob finally and Carole rushes at him, tugging him tightly against her chest. He clings to her the way he had wanted to cling to Blaine. He had wanted to dive straight back into him, press rough kisses into his skin, bruise his fingers into him and hold him like there would be no way back.
But Kurt cannot do that. He just can’t yet. Not when Blaine doesn’t seem to be coping at all. Not when all he can think about is that shark. He knows Blaine must be thinking about it too. How could he not be? And how could he really be thinking straight after that kind of trauma. No, Blaine needs someone to care for him now. All the rest, later, there is always later.
But lying still in his bed later that night, Kurt can’t help but feel the crawling sensation of loneliness; how Blaine had refused to even look at him. He had hurt him, in his best attempt to make sure he was never hurt again. And he can’t sleep. He can’t sleep because no one, not even Carole, had been able to give him the words of comfort he needed. The words of comfort only Blaine could give.
And he was right next door. Just like he had been all that time at Dalton when they had annoyed their roommates by tapping out wordless conversation through the wall.
He turns to face the wall, pressing his cheek against it and listening. There is nothing.
He takes a deep breath and taps out a melody.
I. Am. Sorry. I. Just. Don’t. Know. How. To. Do. This. Right.
There is long pause and for a terrible minute, he thinks Blaine is ignoring him. Then a tentative response.
I. Just. Miss. You. I. Need.
The tapping stops.
Can. I. Come. In?
The tapping returns a minute later, this time closer, through the wooden panelling of the door.
“Please,” Kurt utters softly, waiting for the soft squeak of the door and the pad of covered feet. Blaine always did like to wear socks in bed, especially when he was upset, he said it felt like being tucked in. In his old blue pajamas, Blaine looks quiet and nervous. He clutches the empty sleeve against his chest, and his shoulders jolt like he needs to be holding something else. Kurt shuffles to sit up, patting the bed next to him, “Sit, please.”
“I’m sorry,” Blaine starts as he awkwardly perches next to him, his toes scuffling at the floor as if he’s worried he can’t touch Kurt any more.
“We were both upset,” Kurt tells him, hoping that Blaine will reach for him again but he doesn’t, “I didn’t want to hurt you,” He looks at Blaine again but he’s turned away, staring at the door, he can see the little scratches at the back of his neck where he was thrown against the rocks, “And I know I did and I’m sorry too.”
“I just want to be with you,” comes the half-broken reply.
“You are with me,” Kurt breaks with him, giving in and reaching both for his hair and the soft cotton of his arm and gently easing Blaine back so he’s lying against him, curls tucked under his chin, hot weight against his chest. Blaine lets out a muffled squawk and then a couple of gasping breaths. Kurt lets him settle before continuing, “You are always with me, but I need you to understand that that means I was with you when you were close to dying, I was with you when I practically kidnapped Artie to get you to and I was with you when they wouldn’t let me at you in that waiting room. So I need you to understand that I was hurt and scared too and I need time too. And I know that sounds selfish but…”
“It’s not selfish, Kurt,” Blaine interrupts, softly, “I want you to be happy.”
“I want us to be happy, but everything feels really tender and hard at the moment and I don’t want you to ever think I don’t love you the same,” Kurt starts, absentmindedly rubbing a hand across Blaine back, feeling the warm solid muscles, each indentation of surviving human existence, “Because I know I will always love you and that’s why, do you understand?”
He waits for Blaine’s retort, not knowing what to expect, anger or sad acceptance like in the car, but nothing comes.
“Blaine?” he murmurs, carting fingers through his soft curls, tinkling a melody against his scalp. The reply is only the deep breathing of calm sleep.
He is not angry, more relieved that this he can still give. He can still comfort with the touch of a hand, he can still calm Blaine into sleep. He is not broken either.
