I dreamed that love would never die...
Who: Blaine and Kurt
What: My mum is a ghost :(
Where: The Wes/D/Kurt household
When: Sunset
Rating: PG?
Status: Closed/Incomplete
It would come as no surprise to learn that Kurt Hummel sang in the shower.
There were few places he considered off-limits for singing, and he did not deny the allure of porcelain acoustics. As he scrubbed himself with a pale pink loofa, a shower cap protecting his hair, Kurt was singing a rather soulful but still popping rendition of "Rude Boy" and crooning those high notes like a pro as he jammed back and forth. As he turned to wash some of the soap off his shoulders, he caught something out of the corner of his eyes that made his song cut off and had him stumbling back toward the tile with a choked gasp: what looked like a person standing in the doorway to his bedroom.
But when he looked directly, there was nothing there. It still took a few moments for him to calm his heart down and convince himself he was imagining things. He shakily finished his shower and dried off, peering around his room suspiciously as he got dressed for a trip down to the movies to meet Blaine. He tied his sneakers and then walked back into the bathroom to get his comb fix his hair.
His hands reached instinctively for his product, eyes on the counter. It wasn't until he lifted them to the mirror that he screamed and staggered back against the shower, making the door rattle.
KURT was written on the fogged mirror in shaky capital letters. Trembling and trying to breathe, he reached into his pocket for his phone and flicked it open, texting three numbers to Blaine: "911".
And that was when an invisible finger seemed to press into the frosted glass and begin to write again, right before his eyes. His eyes widened and the color drained from his face as his phone dropped to the bathroom floor from his limp fingers. Letter by letter appeared, his chest tightening, and he pressed back into the shower, knees trembling.
W. I. N. D. O. W.
Window. The window. He stared for a second longer before stumbling out of the bathroom and racing across his room toward the window, throwing it open.
Below, the entire front lawn of their house was spontaneously erupting into bloom. Lilies, every inch of grass sprouted with lilies, reaching up into the glow of the setting sun. Kurt breathed in shakily at the sight, because he found he could again, he could breathe... this was impossible, of course it was, but everything was impossible here. And it was impossible in a way that made his broken heart lift feebly.
He ran from the window down the hallways of the house clumsily, not retrieving his phone from the floor, aiming for the front door, and as he burst out into the sea of flowers, he knew. That smell swept through him and he was a kid again and she was holding him, he could smell it on her sweater and in her hair as she carried him up to bed. She was teaching him to dance and it wafted in the air when she spun and laughed. He was standing by a headstone and laying a bouquet... of lilies at his feet.
Kurt stepped into the flowers instinctively while tears he didn't notice dropped thickly down onto his cheeks. There was a small clearing in the center that he aimed for and he knelt down, not even thinking about stains, in front of a framed photo that lay on its back in the soft grass. It was the one belonging he left behind before traveling to this strange place that he couldn't recover through Ebay, that he wanted more than anything: the portrait of his mother that he kept beside his bed. She was smiling and glamorous, her hair waving back away from her strong, pointed face.
"Mommy," he whispered, a soft and shattered sound that curled into a sob, and a gentle wind immediately whirled around him, shaking the heads of the lilies, and he closed his eyes as he held the portrait to his chest. "I miss you- I miss you so much..."
Eyes still closed, he could hear a voice begin to carry on the wind. She was singing to him, and it danced around him like a sound echoed down a tunnel. You can do no wrong... you're as right... as the nightingale's song...
He could feel a hand touch his cheek though he knew there was no one there. He couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't hear anything outside of her.
What: My mum is a ghost :(
Where: The Wes/D/Kurt household
When: Sunset
Rating: PG?
Status: Closed/Incomplete
It would come as no surprise to learn that Kurt Hummel sang in the shower.
There were few places he considered off-limits for singing, and he did not deny the allure of porcelain acoustics. As he scrubbed himself with a pale pink loofa, a shower cap protecting his hair, Kurt was singing a rather soulful but still popping rendition of "Rude Boy" and crooning those high notes like a pro as he jammed back and forth. As he turned to wash some of the soap off his shoulders, he caught something out of the corner of his eyes that made his song cut off and had him stumbling back toward the tile with a choked gasp: what looked like a person standing in the doorway to his bedroom.
But when he looked directly, there was nothing there. It still took a few moments for him to calm his heart down and convince himself he was imagining things. He shakily finished his shower and dried off, peering around his room suspiciously as he got dressed for a trip down to the movies to meet Blaine. He tied his sneakers and then walked back into the bathroom to get his comb fix his hair.
His hands reached instinctively for his product, eyes on the counter. It wasn't until he lifted them to the mirror that he screamed and staggered back against the shower, making the door rattle.
KURT was written on the fogged mirror in shaky capital letters. Trembling and trying to breathe, he reached into his pocket for his phone and flicked it open, texting three numbers to Blaine: "911".
And that was when an invisible finger seemed to press into the frosted glass and begin to write again, right before his eyes. His eyes widened and the color drained from his face as his phone dropped to the bathroom floor from his limp fingers. Letter by letter appeared, his chest tightening, and he pressed back into the shower, knees trembling.
W. I. N. D. O. W.
Window. The window. He stared for a second longer before stumbling out of the bathroom and racing across his room toward the window, throwing it open.
Below, the entire front lawn of their house was spontaneously erupting into bloom. Lilies, every inch of grass sprouted with lilies, reaching up into the glow of the setting sun. Kurt breathed in shakily at the sight, because he found he could again, he could breathe... this was impossible, of course it was, but everything was impossible here. And it was impossible in a way that made his broken heart lift feebly.
He ran from the window down the hallways of the house clumsily, not retrieving his phone from the floor, aiming for the front door, and as he burst out into the sea of flowers, he knew. That smell swept through him and he was a kid again and she was holding him, he could smell it on her sweater and in her hair as she carried him up to bed. She was teaching him to dance and it wafted in the air when she spun and laughed. He was standing by a headstone and laying a bouquet... of lilies at his feet.
Kurt stepped into the flowers instinctively while tears he didn't notice dropped thickly down onto his cheeks. There was a small clearing in the center that he aimed for and he knelt down, not even thinking about stains, in front of a framed photo that lay on its back in the soft grass. It was the one belonging he left behind before traveling to this strange place that he couldn't recover through Ebay, that he wanted more than anything: the portrait of his mother that he kept beside his bed. She was smiling and glamorous, her hair waving back away from her strong, pointed face.
"Mommy," he whispered, a soft and shattered sound that curled into a sob, and a gentle wind immediately whirled around him, shaking the heads of the lilies, and he closed his eyes as he held the portrait to his chest. "I miss you- I miss you so much..."
Eyes still closed, he could hear a voice begin to carry on the wind. She was singing to him, and it danced around him like a sound echoed down a tunnel. You can do no wrong... you're as right... as the nightingale's song...
He could feel a hand touch his cheek though he knew there was no one there. He couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't hear anything outside of her.