Flicker from View (9/25)
Summary: There have been stories of the Anderson house for as long as Kurt Hummel can remember: stories about music playing from the second story, and whispers of a crying boy. So when his Glee Club decides to check it out as a pre-Halloween trip, he doesn't expect anything more than some dusty floorboards and a creaky staircase. What he finds instead, will change his life.
Rating: Mostly PG-13, with some R stuff for triggers.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Except the order of the words.
WARNING: bullying and homophobic language.
Chapter Nine
"You should have called me," Mercedes repeated, crossing her arms and leaning against the locker beside Kurt's.
Kurt tried to contain his sigh, and opened his locker instead, keeping the door between them to guard his expressions from her. "We went through this yesterday," he reminded her, checking his hair in the mirror he had set up inside the door. Flat. Flat and brown and uninteresting - nothing worthy of any beauty points. At least his bangs weren't covering his eyes; those were at least semi-interesting.
"I just don't get it. You wanted to spend the whole weekend alone?"
Kurt sighed, fingers one wayward strand back into place. "You're projecting."
"No, I am not." Mercedes's head peeked out from around Kurt's locker, near his shoulder. "You spent it alone, doing God knows what, and you're practically glowing." She ended that sentence with one hard poke to his upper arm. "What did you do?"
Kurt pressed his lips together and cast a weary look in her direction. "'Cedes-"
"No, this is a happy glow, like you're really damned pleased with yourself." She leaned in, eyes narrowed and on her toes so her face was mere inches from his. "Is this about a boy?" she demanded.
He felt his face flush and heart race - an automatic, instinctive response. "No! I just, I-"
He turned back and closed his locker, taking a moment to breathe before he faced Mercedes fully. "Sweetie," he tried again. "We live in Ohio. There is no boy. There will never be a boy," he added with an eye roll.
And Blaine wasn't really a boy. Not a viable boy, in any case. He was a ghost, a specter left over from a corpse rotting away in a graveyard. He would never be at all available for Kurt.
Mercedes's face softened, and she reached over to touch his elbow. "Oh, boo. Of course there will be. They're just hiding away right now."
"Even better," Kurt grumbled, turning back to his locker. "They're all cowards."
"Kurt-"
"'Cedes," he said, opening his locker door again. "Really. I'm fine. My weekend was relaxing and lazy and exactly what I needed. Next time, though, I'll call you." He turned around and winked at her. "Ladies Night. Promise."
She watched his face for another moment, and he wondered if she was reading him, seeing the lie stained on his face like coffee. There were few people who knew him, really knew him. His dad, Mercedes, and Blaine was beginning to. If anyone could read him and his wishes, it would be Mercedes. If anyone was to confront him on these new desires, it would be Mercedes. And what would he say?
I chose to spend the night with a ghost who giggles so hard he loses pillow fights, and knows all the words to The Beach Boys and The Beatles; who woke me up by blowing in my face; who looks at me as if I'm the most important person in the world to him. And although you can quote You've Got Mail with me, and sing along to Lady Gaga, Rihanna, and the powerhouses you aspire to be, and although you look at me as if I'm going to be somebody someday, you just don't measure up.
Thankfully, if Mercedes could read him as well as Kurt thought she could, she could also read the longing for privacy. She forced a smile, gave a couple of short, small nods, then slowly turned, going down the hall towards her own locker. Kurt watched her go, wishing that he knew how to bridge the distance between him and the rest of the world. He had been learning last year. But now, between his dad's heart attack and this new wonderful addition to his life, he found himself drifting further and further away from people again.
Maybe death just clung to him a little too hard, a scent no bath could ever wash off. Perhaps that was the reason he was an island.
"Kurt!"
He turned his head to the left, and saw Sam waving him down. The grin on the blonde's face was large and boyish, and Kurt's heart did a quick ba-bum at the joy that shone from it. It reminded Kurt of the glee on Blaine's face as he pelted Kurt with his pillow, or when Kurt knew a certain song he also loved. In fact, there was something about the generous kindness of both boys that drew Kurt in like a fish on a hook.
But did he like Blaine because he liked Sam first, or did he still like Sam because of his new feelings for Blaine, or did he like them both because they treated him like someone worthy of their attention? Maybe Kurt would never know the answer to that.
"Well, I feel popular," Kurt murmured, trying to ease his racing heart. But his pleased smile wouldn't dim, especially when it was met with an even brighter grin from Sam.
"Eh, what's up, Doc?" he asked, with an eyebrow wiggle.
Kurt raised his own eyebrow in response, feeling warmth sweep through him. "You rascally rabbit," he replied, turning his head away with an arrogant look back from the corner of his eye. When it received the reaction he was hoping for - a bark of laughter - he tucked a smile into the corner of his mouth and looked into the depths of his locker. "What can I do for you, quarterback?"
Where was his history textbook, anyways?
"Can't a guy just come say hey to his bud?" Sam asked, voice teasing.
Bud. Odd word, one that Kurt hadn't known meant so much to be called. He swallowed the sudden lump of gratitude that rose in his throat, and said, "They can. They just don't." He exhaled at the sight of his history text and reached out for it, pulling it to his chest. He turned in his heel, and glanced at Sam. "No ulterior motives?" he questioned.
Sam shrugged, looking away. "Uh, well... I was looking for Finn," he admitted.
Kurt's heart sunk low, falling somewhere around his small intestine. Of course. Finn again. He straightened his shoulders and said, "Sorry. I haven't seen him since Glee yesterday."
Sam puffed out a breath, muttering a small, "Coises. Foiled again." Then he heaved another sigh and said, "Well, there goes that idea." He glanced down at the text book in Kurt's arms and said, "History? Are you, uh, any good at that?"
There was a sudden air of nervousness around him; it rose like an ugly shade of yellow. Kurt narrowed his eyes, wondering why Sam hadn't left yet. "Fairly good," he replied. "It's just dates," he added with a shrug.
Sam's full lips twisted. "That would be the problem," he muttered. He shuffled from one foot to another, then asked, "Would you... mind tutoring me, maybe?" He raised his eyes and smiled hopefully.
Kurt's heart stuttered to a stop. Tutoring. That would mean spending time alone. Spending time alone with a boy. A living, breathing, dorky, attractive, kind boy. The last time that had happened had, well...
He didn't like to think about that. Finn was working really hard to make up for that.
He cleared his throat, and said, "You want me to tutor you?"
You want to spend time with me?
Sam looked like this confused him (to be fair, he and Finn often looked that way). "Uh yeah. I mean, Mike's taking senior classes, and Artie's taking geography, and, well..." He suddenly looked ashamed, staring over across the hall. "I don't wanna embarrass Quinn, you know?"
Oh. Of course not. Everything always went back to Quinn.
"Dude, if you don't wanna tutor me though," Sam was saying, looking back at Kurt.
Kurt's mouth fell open a little, surprised at this. For once, he was in demand. That was... strangely empowering. But, if he didn't say something soon, then he would lose his chance.
"No, of course!" Kurt said, maybe a little too loudly, judging by the surprised jolt that ran through Sam. He backed off, dropping back down onto his heels - he hadn't realized he had risen off them - and gave a queasy, nervous smile. "I can tutor you. Just..."
He should say something to warn him. Maybe things were better at Sam's old school; it seemed as if they were. And he was a little oblivious...
"Are you sure you want me to tutor you?" Kurt asked, as gently as he could.
Sam's face creased in confusion again. "Uh, yeah. Why shouldn't I?" He grinned suddenly, and gave Kurt's arm a gentle, boyish shove. "You're a cool guy."
Even with his arm buzzing, Kurt said, "I'm a gay guy."
"So?"
So. Oh, wouldn't it be nice if everyone felt that way, if nobody cared about something he couldn't control? Kurt knew that the smile that was growing on his face was too soft, too tender for the rest of the world, but he couldn't help it. This was why he liked Sam. Because he didn't care about the stupid things.
Kurt pressed his lips together, trying to erase his smile. "So, Um, maybe at lunch? We could meet tomorrow, if you'd like."
Sam beamed. "Yes! Thank you! I owe you one - anything you want, okay, man?" He clapped Kurt a little too hard on the shoulder - it made him sway a little, but it wasn't really painful - and then jogged down the hall.
Kurt stood there for another moment, then turned back to close his locker. He stared at the metal, thinking, I think I just made a friend. He shifted to turn, when suddenly a hard, large hand closed around his left wrist and, using it as their lever, spun Kurt around so his back hit the locker hard, head clanging against the metal.
The pain - sharp and loud in his head, throbbing and low in his back - was only increased by his attacker tightening his grip on Kurt's wrist, squeezing it between beefy fingers. Kurt slowly opened his eyes that had closed in self-defence at the attack, and stared into Karofsky's face.
He gasped at the nearness of him, and the hatred burning in the football player's eyes. He squirmed, trying to pull away, and the pressure on his wrist only increased. He winced and closed his eyes, trying to hide the tears that had sprung up at the pain.
"Watch yourself, fairy," Karofsky said very quietly. His breath fanned out against Kurt's face. "You'd better not spread your sickness around."
Kurt merely gulped and turned his face away.
Karofsky stayed there for another moment, fingers flexing around Kurt's wrist another two times before abruptly released him and stepped away. Kurt fell down, landing hard and bringing his wrist around to cradle it against his chest.
"I'll be watching, homo," he heard above him. He stared at the space between his sprawled out feet, then glanced over at the textbook that had landed near his right foot. He sat there, waiting for his breath to return to normal, and willing the frightened, hot water building up to stay down.
*
Seven hours later, he sunk down into the Anderson's couch, still rubbing a hand over his wrapped left wrist. He had found some bandages in the first aid kit his dad had made him keep in the Navigator and wrapped his wrist during his lunch hour. He'd come up with a lie for the worried Mercedes, Tina, Mike, Artie and Brittany - something about slipping outside and landing wrong - and had kept his whimpers to himself. He was pretty sure it was only strained; at worse, it was sprained, and there was nothing the doctors could do for it anyways. This was better for everyone.
He lifted his head and stared at the boarded up window, wondering what would happen if he tore down the boards and let in some natural light. He was far too accustomed to the dim light that peeked through the gaps between the boards, and tended to just leave his flashlight shining and standing on end on top of the television. It offered just enough to make the place look cozy, but still wasn't exactly welcoming. Would people even notice if he did take the boards down?
He mulled over this idea, grateful for something to take his mind off his wrist. Still staring at the window, he called, "Blaine!"
There was a crash from upstairs, and Kurt shook his head as a fond smile tugged at his lips. "My God, Blaine. You are the clumsiest dancer I've ever met," he said loudly.
There was quiet for another moment, then thuds of footsteps on the ceiling. Kurt let the smile grow and his rubs slowly shifted to something slower and gentler than the relief he had been searching for before. "Or are you just the laziest ghost I've ever met?" he wondered aloud.
The thuds reached the stairs, heavy and even. So, not a child. Then, a voice: "Considering I'm the only ghost you've ever met, I don't think that's a fair statement."
Kurt turned his head and smiled over at Blaine, standing in the opening of the living room. A young teen Blaine, just out of middle school crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Kurt. He stepped forward, arms falling to his sides, and came to stand next to the couch's armrest. His eyes instantly landed on Kurt's wrist and they widened.
"Kurt! What happened?"
Kurt watched as Blaine reached out towards him, then stopped half-way through. His arm hung awkwardly in midair before it retreated back to Blaine's side. Brown eyes filled with something sad and wounded before they rose to meet Kurt's.
Kurt stayed where he was and thought for a moment. On one hand, this was Blaine who couldn't help Kurt anymore than Kurt could help him. On the other hand, this was Blaine who killed himself because of bullies. He would understand the pain of it all, even if he couldn't physically do anything. He would still be someone to talk to, someone to share it with.
"Do you want the truth, or the lie I told everyone?" Kurt asked.
Blaine's eyebrows folded over his eyes, and his hands fell to grip the loose fabric of the armrest. "Truth," he said simply.
Kurt nodded and raised his left arm to show it off. "Some football player slammed me up against a locker."
Blaine paled, his hands tightening on the fabric. His mouth fell open a little, and then his tongue peeked out to swipe across his bottom lip. "Why?" he whispered, voice a little ragged.
"I was talking to Sam," Kurt answered. "He's in Glee with me. And he's on the football team."
Blaine nodded slowly, throat moving as he seemed to swallow a couple quick times. "Afraid of it spreading, are they?"
And, oh. How easy was it to just have someone understand, without needing a single word? No one else would - no one else possibly could - understand like Blaine could.
"Well, I'm practically anemic; can't you tell?" he remarked, spreading his arms.
Blaine's lip twitched, even as his eyes stayed terribly sad. "You look perfect to me," he said quietly, smiling a small smile.
Kurt's heart fluttered like a fledgling's wings: quick and loud and terrified of falling. Perfect? Him, perfect? No one had ever, ever said something like that to him before.
He swallowed, wishing he could control his face and stop the flush he knew was spreading and the awe radiating out of his eyes. "If only everyone had your sight," he breathed, forcing an awkward chuckle.
Blaine shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe someday." He glanced away, and then looked pointedly at the seat next to Kurt. "May I?" he asked.
Another swallow to contain his wonder, and then a forced casual shrug. "It's your couch."
Blaine's smile was small, but still real. He stepped around the couch and sat down, mere inches from Kurt's hip. His hand rose and reached for Kurt's wrapped wrist, hovering a hair's breadth from Kurt's skin. He stayed there, and then, eyebrows furrowed and teeth chewing on his bottom lip, he lowered his hand.
It passed right through - like smoke or a shadow.
Blaine's hand landed on his lap, and it clenched in time with Blaine's angry sigh. Kurt slowly drew his arm back and curled his right hand around his left wrist, wondering if he could feel or sense some lingering effect of Blaine's touch. But there was no change whatsoever; if anything, his wrist was even colder.
"Sorry," Blaine grumbled, leaning back into the couch.
"It's fine, Blaine," Kurt whispered. "At least you want to touch me." It slipped out, a soft thought he couldn't bring himself to hold back.
At his side, Blaine's lips quirked again. "I am a very tactile person, believe it or not. If I was alive... I think I'd grab your hand and never let go."
Kurt looked down into his hands, empty and cold. He curled his fingers into his palms, as if they could substitute the warmth of someone else's hands. They couldn't. "I am a very private person, believe it or not," he said, keeping his eyes low. "But if you were alive... I think I'd let you hold my hand."
There was silence, filled only by the rhythm of Kurt's breathing, the shifting of fabric against fabric, and the loss of what could have been. Then, Blaine huffed a small breath. "Football players, huh?"
"Mmhmm," Kurt hummed. "And hockey too."
Blaine shook his head. "I guess history really does repeat itself."
Kurt shrugged. "That, or jocks just have no originality."
Blaine snorted. And then began to giggle. And then he started to laugh, hiccupping, beautiful, gasped sounds. Kurt looked over as Blaine curled into himself, still giggling, still gasping, and curled his legs up onto the cushion.
Kurt watched him and felt happiness simmer under the surface of his skin. He knew he was smiling down at the grinning boy, and didn't bother to hide it. Why should he? There wasn't enough happiness in the world to force it down and make it disappear.
Instead, he folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes at the bubbly boy. "Oh my God, Blaine. It wasn't that funny."
Which only made Blaine gasp again and fall over onto his side, arms wrapped around his waist and face split from mirth.
Kurt sighed and folded one leg underneath him and settled against the armrest, content to just wait until Blaine had calmed down. Maybe then, he could mention his idea of tearing down those boards.
Rating: Mostly PG-13, with some R stuff for triggers.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Except the order of the words.
WARNING: bullying and homophobic language.
Chapter Nine
"You should have called me," Mercedes repeated, crossing her arms and leaning against the locker beside Kurt's.
Kurt tried to contain his sigh, and opened his locker instead, keeping the door between them to guard his expressions from her. "We went through this yesterday," he reminded her, checking his hair in the mirror he had set up inside the door. Flat. Flat and brown and uninteresting - nothing worthy of any beauty points. At least his bangs weren't covering his eyes; those were at least semi-interesting.
"I just don't get it. You wanted to spend the whole weekend alone?"
Kurt sighed, fingers one wayward strand back into place. "You're projecting."
"No, I am not." Mercedes's head peeked out from around Kurt's locker, near his shoulder. "You spent it alone, doing God knows what, and you're practically glowing." She ended that sentence with one hard poke to his upper arm. "What did you do?"
Kurt pressed his lips together and cast a weary look in her direction. "'Cedes-"
"No, this is a happy glow, like you're really damned pleased with yourself." She leaned in, eyes narrowed and on her toes so her face was mere inches from his. "Is this about a boy?" she demanded.
He felt his face flush and heart race - an automatic, instinctive response. "No! I just, I-"
He turned back and closed his locker, taking a moment to breathe before he faced Mercedes fully. "Sweetie," he tried again. "We live in Ohio. There is no boy. There will never be a boy," he added with an eye roll.
And Blaine wasn't really a boy. Not a viable boy, in any case. He was a ghost, a specter left over from a corpse rotting away in a graveyard. He would never be at all available for Kurt.
Mercedes's face softened, and she reached over to touch his elbow. "Oh, boo. Of course there will be. They're just hiding away right now."
"Even better," Kurt grumbled, turning back to his locker. "They're all cowards."
"Kurt-"
"'Cedes," he said, opening his locker door again. "Really. I'm fine. My weekend was relaxing and lazy and exactly what I needed. Next time, though, I'll call you." He turned around and winked at her. "Ladies Night. Promise."
She watched his face for another moment, and he wondered if she was reading him, seeing the lie stained on his face like coffee. There were few people who knew him, really knew him. His dad, Mercedes, and Blaine was beginning to. If anyone could read him and his wishes, it would be Mercedes. If anyone was to confront him on these new desires, it would be Mercedes. And what would he say?
I chose to spend the night with a ghost who giggles so hard he loses pillow fights, and knows all the words to The Beach Boys and The Beatles; who woke me up by blowing in my face; who looks at me as if I'm the most important person in the world to him. And although you can quote You've Got Mail with me, and sing along to Lady Gaga, Rihanna, and the powerhouses you aspire to be, and although you look at me as if I'm going to be somebody someday, you just don't measure up.
Thankfully, if Mercedes could read him as well as Kurt thought she could, she could also read the longing for privacy. She forced a smile, gave a couple of short, small nods, then slowly turned, going down the hall towards her own locker. Kurt watched her go, wishing that he knew how to bridge the distance between him and the rest of the world. He had been learning last year. But now, between his dad's heart attack and this new wonderful addition to his life, he found himself drifting further and further away from people again.
Maybe death just clung to him a little too hard, a scent no bath could ever wash off. Perhaps that was the reason he was an island.
"Kurt!"
He turned his head to the left, and saw Sam waving him down. The grin on the blonde's face was large and boyish, and Kurt's heart did a quick ba-bum at the joy that shone from it. It reminded Kurt of the glee on Blaine's face as he pelted Kurt with his pillow, or when Kurt knew a certain song he also loved. In fact, there was something about the generous kindness of both boys that drew Kurt in like a fish on a hook.
But did he like Blaine because he liked Sam first, or did he still like Sam because of his new feelings for Blaine, or did he like them both because they treated him like someone worthy of their attention? Maybe Kurt would never know the answer to that.
"Well, I feel popular," Kurt murmured, trying to ease his racing heart. But his pleased smile wouldn't dim, especially when it was met with an even brighter grin from Sam.
"Eh, what's up, Doc?" he asked, with an eyebrow wiggle.
Kurt raised his own eyebrow in response, feeling warmth sweep through him. "You rascally rabbit," he replied, turning his head away with an arrogant look back from the corner of his eye. When it received the reaction he was hoping for - a bark of laughter - he tucked a smile into the corner of his mouth and looked into the depths of his locker. "What can I do for you, quarterback?"
Where was his history textbook, anyways?
"Can't a guy just come say hey to his bud?" Sam asked, voice teasing.
Bud. Odd word, one that Kurt hadn't known meant so much to be called. He swallowed the sudden lump of gratitude that rose in his throat, and said, "They can. They just don't." He exhaled at the sight of his history text and reached out for it, pulling it to his chest. He turned in his heel, and glanced at Sam. "No ulterior motives?" he questioned.
Sam shrugged, looking away. "Uh, well... I was looking for Finn," he admitted.
Kurt's heart sunk low, falling somewhere around his small intestine. Of course. Finn again. He straightened his shoulders and said, "Sorry. I haven't seen him since Glee yesterday."
Sam puffed out a breath, muttering a small, "Coises. Foiled again." Then he heaved another sigh and said, "Well, there goes that idea." He glanced down at the text book in Kurt's arms and said, "History? Are you, uh, any good at that?"
There was a sudden air of nervousness around him; it rose like an ugly shade of yellow. Kurt narrowed his eyes, wondering why Sam hadn't left yet. "Fairly good," he replied. "It's just dates," he added with a shrug.
Sam's full lips twisted. "That would be the problem," he muttered. He shuffled from one foot to another, then asked, "Would you... mind tutoring me, maybe?" He raised his eyes and smiled hopefully.
Kurt's heart stuttered to a stop. Tutoring. That would mean spending time alone. Spending time alone with a boy. A living, breathing, dorky, attractive, kind boy. The last time that had happened had, well...
He didn't like to think about that. Finn was working really hard to make up for that.
He cleared his throat, and said, "You want me to tutor you?"
You want to spend time with me?
Sam looked like this confused him (to be fair, he and Finn often looked that way). "Uh yeah. I mean, Mike's taking senior classes, and Artie's taking geography, and, well..." He suddenly looked ashamed, staring over across the hall. "I don't wanna embarrass Quinn, you know?"
Oh. Of course not. Everything always went back to Quinn.
"Dude, if you don't wanna tutor me though," Sam was saying, looking back at Kurt.
Kurt's mouth fell open a little, surprised at this. For once, he was in demand. That was... strangely empowering. But, if he didn't say something soon, then he would lose his chance.
"No, of course!" Kurt said, maybe a little too loudly, judging by the surprised jolt that ran through Sam. He backed off, dropping back down onto his heels - he hadn't realized he had risen off them - and gave a queasy, nervous smile. "I can tutor you. Just..."
He should say something to warn him. Maybe things were better at Sam's old school; it seemed as if they were. And he was a little oblivious...
"Are you sure you want me to tutor you?" Kurt asked, as gently as he could.
Sam's face creased in confusion again. "Uh, yeah. Why shouldn't I?" He grinned suddenly, and gave Kurt's arm a gentle, boyish shove. "You're a cool guy."
Even with his arm buzzing, Kurt said, "I'm a gay guy."
"So?"
So. Oh, wouldn't it be nice if everyone felt that way, if nobody cared about something he couldn't control? Kurt knew that the smile that was growing on his face was too soft, too tender for the rest of the world, but he couldn't help it. This was why he liked Sam. Because he didn't care about the stupid things.
Kurt pressed his lips together, trying to erase his smile. "So, Um, maybe at lunch? We could meet tomorrow, if you'd like."
Sam beamed. "Yes! Thank you! I owe you one - anything you want, okay, man?" He clapped Kurt a little too hard on the shoulder - it made him sway a little, but it wasn't really painful - and then jogged down the hall.
Kurt stood there for another moment, then turned back to close his locker. He stared at the metal, thinking, I think I just made a friend. He shifted to turn, when suddenly a hard, large hand closed around his left wrist and, using it as their lever, spun Kurt around so his back hit the locker hard, head clanging against the metal.
The pain - sharp and loud in his head, throbbing and low in his back - was only increased by his attacker tightening his grip on Kurt's wrist, squeezing it between beefy fingers. Kurt slowly opened his eyes that had closed in self-defence at the attack, and stared into Karofsky's face.
He gasped at the nearness of him, and the hatred burning in the football player's eyes. He squirmed, trying to pull away, and the pressure on his wrist only increased. He winced and closed his eyes, trying to hide the tears that had sprung up at the pain.
"Watch yourself, fairy," Karofsky said very quietly. His breath fanned out against Kurt's face. "You'd better not spread your sickness around."
Kurt merely gulped and turned his face away.
Karofsky stayed there for another moment, fingers flexing around Kurt's wrist another two times before abruptly released him and stepped away. Kurt fell down, landing hard and bringing his wrist around to cradle it against his chest.
"I'll be watching, homo," he heard above him. He stared at the space between his sprawled out feet, then glanced over at the textbook that had landed near his right foot. He sat there, waiting for his breath to return to normal, and willing the frightened, hot water building up to stay down.
*
Seven hours later, he sunk down into the Anderson's couch, still rubbing a hand over his wrapped left wrist. He had found some bandages in the first aid kit his dad had made him keep in the Navigator and wrapped his wrist during his lunch hour. He'd come up with a lie for the worried Mercedes, Tina, Mike, Artie and Brittany - something about slipping outside and landing wrong - and had kept his whimpers to himself. He was pretty sure it was only strained; at worse, it was sprained, and there was nothing the doctors could do for it anyways. This was better for everyone.
He lifted his head and stared at the boarded up window, wondering what would happen if he tore down the boards and let in some natural light. He was far too accustomed to the dim light that peeked through the gaps between the boards, and tended to just leave his flashlight shining and standing on end on top of the television. It offered just enough to make the place look cozy, but still wasn't exactly welcoming. Would people even notice if he did take the boards down?
He mulled over this idea, grateful for something to take his mind off his wrist. Still staring at the window, he called, "Blaine!"
There was a crash from upstairs, and Kurt shook his head as a fond smile tugged at his lips. "My God, Blaine. You are the clumsiest dancer I've ever met," he said loudly.
There was quiet for another moment, then thuds of footsteps on the ceiling. Kurt let the smile grow and his rubs slowly shifted to something slower and gentler than the relief he had been searching for before. "Or are you just the laziest ghost I've ever met?" he wondered aloud.
The thuds reached the stairs, heavy and even. So, not a child. Then, a voice: "Considering I'm the only ghost you've ever met, I don't think that's a fair statement."
Kurt turned his head and smiled over at Blaine, standing in the opening of the living room. A young teen Blaine, just out of middle school crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Kurt. He stepped forward, arms falling to his sides, and came to stand next to the couch's armrest. His eyes instantly landed on Kurt's wrist and they widened.
"Kurt! What happened?"
Kurt watched as Blaine reached out towards him, then stopped half-way through. His arm hung awkwardly in midair before it retreated back to Blaine's side. Brown eyes filled with something sad and wounded before they rose to meet Kurt's.
Kurt stayed where he was and thought for a moment. On one hand, this was Blaine who couldn't help Kurt anymore than Kurt could help him. On the other hand, this was Blaine who killed himself because of bullies. He would understand the pain of it all, even if he couldn't physically do anything. He would still be someone to talk to, someone to share it with.
"Do you want the truth, or the lie I told everyone?" Kurt asked.
Blaine's eyebrows folded over his eyes, and his hands fell to grip the loose fabric of the armrest. "Truth," he said simply.
Kurt nodded and raised his left arm to show it off. "Some football player slammed me up against a locker."
Blaine paled, his hands tightening on the fabric. His mouth fell open a little, and then his tongue peeked out to swipe across his bottom lip. "Why?" he whispered, voice a little ragged.
"I was talking to Sam," Kurt answered. "He's in Glee with me. And he's on the football team."
Blaine nodded slowly, throat moving as he seemed to swallow a couple quick times. "Afraid of it spreading, are they?"
And, oh. How easy was it to just have someone understand, without needing a single word? No one else would - no one else possibly could - understand like Blaine could.
"Well, I'm practically anemic; can't you tell?" he remarked, spreading his arms.
Blaine's lip twitched, even as his eyes stayed terribly sad. "You look perfect to me," he said quietly, smiling a small smile.
Kurt's heart fluttered like a fledgling's wings: quick and loud and terrified of falling. Perfect? Him, perfect? No one had ever, ever said something like that to him before.
He swallowed, wishing he could control his face and stop the flush he knew was spreading and the awe radiating out of his eyes. "If only everyone had your sight," he breathed, forcing an awkward chuckle.
Blaine shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe someday." He glanced away, and then looked pointedly at the seat next to Kurt. "May I?" he asked.
Another swallow to contain his wonder, and then a forced casual shrug. "It's your couch."
Blaine's smile was small, but still real. He stepped around the couch and sat down, mere inches from Kurt's hip. His hand rose and reached for Kurt's wrapped wrist, hovering a hair's breadth from Kurt's skin. He stayed there, and then, eyebrows furrowed and teeth chewing on his bottom lip, he lowered his hand.
It passed right through - like smoke or a shadow.
Blaine's hand landed on his lap, and it clenched in time with Blaine's angry sigh. Kurt slowly drew his arm back and curled his right hand around his left wrist, wondering if he could feel or sense some lingering effect of Blaine's touch. But there was no change whatsoever; if anything, his wrist was even colder.
"Sorry," Blaine grumbled, leaning back into the couch.
"It's fine, Blaine," Kurt whispered. "At least you want to touch me." It slipped out, a soft thought he couldn't bring himself to hold back.
At his side, Blaine's lips quirked again. "I am a very tactile person, believe it or not. If I was alive... I think I'd grab your hand and never let go."
Kurt looked down into his hands, empty and cold. He curled his fingers into his palms, as if they could substitute the warmth of someone else's hands. They couldn't. "I am a very private person, believe it or not," he said, keeping his eyes low. "But if you were alive... I think I'd let you hold my hand."
There was silence, filled only by the rhythm of Kurt's breathing, the shifting of fabric against fabric, and the loss of what could have been. Then, Blaine huffed a small breath. "Football players, huh?"
"Mmhmm," Kurt hummed. "And hockey too."
Blaine shook his head. "I guess history really does repeat itself."
Kurt shrugged. "That, or jocks just have no originality."
Blaine snorted. And then began to giggle. And then he started to laugh, hiccupping, beautiful, gasped sounds. Kurt looked over as Blaine curled into himself, still giggling, still gasping, and curled his legs up onto the cushion.
Kurt watched him and felt happiness simmer under the surface of his skin. He knew he was smiling down at the grinning boy, and didn't bother to hide it. Why should he? There wasn't enough happiness in the world to force it down and make it disappear.
Instead, he folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes at the bubbly boy. "Oh my God, Blaine. It wasn't that funny."
Which only made Blaine gasp again and fall over onto his side, arms wrapped around his waist and face split from mirth.
Kurt sighed and folded one leg underneath him and settled against the armrest, content to just wait until Blaine had calmed down. Maybe then, he could mention his idea of tearing down those boards.