Blow a Kiss, Take a Bow; Glee
Hopefully this is the only time I write Glee angst, ever.
Title: Blow a Kiss! Take a Bow!
Pairing: Jesse/Kurt.
Warnings: Angst, futurefic, a lot of references to 'Gypsy', a lot of Jesse being a heartless dick.
Summary: On dealing with failure.
BLOW A KISS! TAKE A BOW!
It’s hard to hide Jesse from Rachel. They’re performing together - a production of Spring Awakening that the press is going crazy for - but when offstage, declare mutual resentment. Rachel will stride to her Broadway dressing room, finally a winner, after so many years of effort, and Jesse will return to his own, that was built to resemble his old home back in Lima, this time with columns and photographs from magazine articles spelling out his name tacked to the ceiling, spaced like stars, and it’s here Kurt will stare up at them while Jess fucks him into the ensuite door, hopeless, wishing.
Mostly, he presses Kurt against the mirror, bends him over the dressing table, hums into the back of his neck, recites his lines into the small hollows of Kurt’s shoulder blades - sometimes, absolutely silent, head settled on Kurt’s shoulder, watching him through the mirror’s pane, intently, greedily. (Kurt sometimes dreams that their hips rock so hard the glass shatters - like all his aspirations, clutched in his bloody fists, glittering and dead; like the glow he’s bottled from the stars he was close enough to feel, but never to take, smashing to pieces at his feet. The shards stay contained in the frame, and thousands of Jesse’s eyes appear in them, bright, bright green, and watching him, unfalteringly. In the dream, Kurt wants to cry, and his face heats, it burns for tears that never fall. All of Jesse’s eyes crinkle into smiles and - Kurt wakes up.)
Kurt never sits through the shows, but sometimes, he stays through Rachel’s intro, and sometimes her voice makes his heart break, sometimes her passion, the glow she’s found that Kurt never reached high enough for; and now with Jesse picking him apart and rebuilding him with cracks that never heal, on ground that sinks lower and lower, until he is a speck, all his old dreams are standing a million feet above, shadowing over him like a constant reminder of every shortcoming and broken promise. He stumbles across her once, backstage after the show, tells her how wonderful she was and she smiles with her whitened teeth, with her brand new nose crinkling, an aura of grace she never had before and a harder to find despair - Rachel doesn’t get calls from Ohio, and adamantly denies she wants them. “Give them time to catch on,” Kurt tells her, smile almost as fake as her own. She brightens, kisses him, leaves holding a bouquet of extravagant flowers that Kurt’s hand twitches to hold. Her genuine care makes the guilt that stores in his chest flood his whole body, waves of shame, hands trembling when they stroke her hair, because friends didn’t do this; they don’t forget each other and come across one another mistakenly because their screwing the old exes, they don’t smile at the way Kurt does at her, with his heart aching.
“Don’t think about it,” Jesse breathes low into his ear a moment after the curtain has closed, like he’s read Kurt’s mind. They’re pressing into the floorboards of the dressing room, and Kurt is staring up at all the photographs and stories of Jesse St. James, infamous Broadway actor, dotted across the ceiling like the night’s sky, and he can’t stop himself reaching out this time, shaking fingers desperate to pluck and take, desperate to live another life. Jesse’s hand tugs at his trousers and the other slips soft into his hair, dragging his head back with mocking fingers, a kiss that feigns intimacy and something more Kurt can barely think about.
Kurt murmurs low against the corner of Jesse’s mouth, his voice shaking, “I was born too soon and started too late,” like it means something. Jesse just smiles into his skin, his tongue starts lapping at Kurt’s jawline, slowly, every flick and caress calculatedly precise - and Kurt lies beneath, squirming and panting and breaking all over again.
Title: Blow a Kiss! Take a Bow!
Pairing: Jesse/Kurt.
Warnings: Angst, futurefic, a lot of references to 'Gypsy', a lot of Jesse being a heartless dick.
Summary: On dealing with failure.
BLOW A KISS! TAKE A BOW!
It’s hard to hide Jesse from Rachel. They’re performing together - a production of Spring Awakening that the press is going crazy for - but when offstage, declare mutual resentment. Rachel will stride to her Broadway dressing room, finally a winner, after so many years of effort, and Jesse will return to his own, that was built to resemble his old home back in Lima, this time with columns and photographs from magazine articles spelling out his name tacked to the ceiling, spaced like stars, and it’s here Kurt will stare up at them while Jess fucks him into the ensuite door, hopeless, wishing.
Mostly, he presses Kurt against the mirror, bends him over the dressing table, hums into the back of his neck, recites his lines into the small hollows of Kurt’s shoulder blades - sometimes, absolutely silent, head settled on Kurt’s shoulder, watching him through the mirror’s pane, intently, greedily. (Kurt sometimes dreams that their hips rock so hard the glass shatters - like all his aspirations, clutched in his bloody fists, glittering and dead; like the glow he’s bottled from the stars he was close enough to feel, but never to take, smashing to pieces at his feet. The shards stay contained in the frame, and thousands of Jesse’s eyes appear in them, bright, bright green, and watching him, unfalteringly. In the dream, Kurt wants to cry, and his face heats, it burns for tears that never fall. All of Jesse’s eyes crinkle into smiles and - Kurt wakes up.)
Kurt never sits through the shows, but sometimes, he stays through Rachel’s intro, and sometimes her voice makes his heart break, sometimes her passion, the glow she’s found that Kurt never reached high enough for; and now with Jesse picking him apart and rebuilding him with cracks that never heal, on ground that sinks lower and lower, until he is a speck, all his old dreams are standing a million feet above, shadowing over him like a constant reminder of every shortcoming and broken promise. He stumbles across her once, backstage after the show, tells her how wonderful she was and she smiles with her whitened teeth, with her brand new nose crinkling, an aura of grace she never had before and a harder to find despair - Rachel doesn’t get calls from Ohio, and adamantly denies she wants them. “Give them time to catch on,” Kurt tells her, smile almost as fake as her own. She brightens, kisses him, leaves holding a bouquet of extravagant flowers that Kurt’s hand twitches to hold. Her genuine care makes the guilt that stores in his chest flood his whole body, waves of shame, hands trembling when they stroke her hair, because friends didn’t do this; they don’t forget each other and come across one another mistakenly because their screwing the old exes, they don’t smile at the way Kurt does at her, with his heart aching.
“Don’t think about it,” Jesse breathes low into his ear a moment after the curtain has closed, like he’s read Kurt’s mind. They’re pressing into the floorboards of the dressing room, and Kurt is staring up at all the photographs and stories of Jesse St. James, infamous Broadway actor, dotted across the ceiling like the night’s sky, and he can’t stop himself reaching out this time, shaking fingers desperate to pluck and take, desperate to live another life. Jesse’s hand tugs at his trousers and the other slips soft into his hair, dragging his head back with mocking fingers, a kiss that feigns intimacy and something more Kurt can barely think about.
Kurt murmurs low against the corner of Jesse’s mouth, his voice shaking, “I was born too soon and started too late,” like it means something. Jesse just smiles into his skin, his tongue starts lapping at Kurt’s jawline, slowly, every flick and caress calculatedly precise - and Kurt lies beneath, squirming and panting and breaking all over again.