fic: slow decay (Kurt/Blaine/Sebastian)
Pairing(s): Kurt/Sebastian/Blaine. Sebklaine.
Rating : R for allusions to threeway sex and depression
Warnings : Implicit threesome, depressing thoughts and illness (cancer)
A/N: sometimes I write depressing stuff for nice ot3s, so excuse me~ And incredible thanks to tremlock for being the best gorilla beta ever ! well, enjoy ? :3
He was just a left over of what used to be; a dying corpse, currently being eaten from inside by his own cells, too depressed to even care. Just a body agonising in the dark hours, alone in his room, hoping it would soon end.
He’d lost his purpose. Purpose to do what, anyway? Purpose to live? Like he was living. And even if he could live on, what could he do? Fuck himself up, hijack his last hopes - not his hopes, no, but the hopes of others. They still wished he would heal, live up the life like he used to, not caring whether he was going to die in a few months or not. Alcohol burnt his throat. He could barely stand it, he could barely even take the almost empty bottle to his mouth. His head hurt. His whole body ached, burned. He was too sick, too…weak. Too used by medicine, treatment - sickness in general - to be the old Sebastian.
He was just a left over of what used to be; a dying corpse, currently being eaten from inside by his own cells, too depressed to even care. Just a body agonising in the dark hours, alone in his room, hoping it would soon end.
Except he kept waking up to his own doom.
* * *
He had no idea how they got in - or how they got the idea to come. His mum probably let them in. Who would visit him, anyway. He had made sure even his family left him alone to die ever since the diagnosis. He made sure to make everyone hate him, instead of pity him. He felt more like a human being, if people could hate him. He felt like he had the choice, and that was it. He didn’t want anyone to fake care. So why would they care? Who cares? He didn’t care anymore. He had stopped caring months ago. He only did care a little about things, before. Now all he wanted was to lose grasp on the world, forget it, forget everything and how it hurts not being young anymore. It had been a slow decay. First he decided to continue living - getting drunk, high, sleeping around. And he had slowly gotten sicker. He hated it all. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had last had a meal. He refused them all. He wanted it quick, but it just grew slower and even more painful than planned.
They opened the curtains. He muttered them to leave him. Now. They were interrupting his dying party, he said. How dare would they anyway. He couldn’t even roll over in his own bed. “Leave,” he said louder.
A high pitched voice snapped, “Sorry to interrupt your pity party, Smythe, but -”
“Kurt,” the other voice tempered, and he could feel the big sorry eyes on him, looking away to the wall, which made him want to puke. I know, I know. Sorry I’m a dying mess.
He was so tired of people feeling personally involved in his pain that they’d even bother to go ahead and help him. He was just so tired of this ersatz of a life he’d been living. He wanted to consume the last seconds, burn them down quickly. Except nobody wanted him to - they just kept him alive. They wanted him to survive, as damaged as he’d end up.
He tried to fire back at Hummel, but he lost it. He lost his words. They didn’t leave his mouth. He rolled his eyes to himself. He’d even lost the snark. Fine. “Go away,” he’d manage to whisper. But Kurt refused. He was angry, fiercely angry, and somehow it made him want to stay.
Why? Why would they take care of him? He’d almost blinded Blaine. It made no sense but yet they were here. The only one left that cared enough about him. And it made him so angry. This sort of kindness made him angry. He would have resisted actively to both boys cleaning his room. Getting him up, helping him have a shower, giving him something to eat.
He didn’t exactly cooperate, he just obliged. “Damn it, just eat something, Sebastian!” Kurt would burst out. Kurt was as angry as caring. He was careful. Blaine was soft, nice, even sensual. He’d whisper him pleas and soothing words into his ear again: “Be a good boy and eat,” and, “Please, Bas.” All these words.
He gave up. He hated it. Losing control of his own body, his own person. He wanted to control it. He would like to control his dying but he couldn’t. He hated being petted. He was just stuck here, a million why’s unanswered.
The biggest one being: why did they come back every. Single. Day?
* * *
A week and another passed. They didn’t have to pet him as much, thank god. But they still stayed all afternoon. They watched movies with him. Baked him things he couldn’t keep down. Played cardboard games. Sang each other songs - he just watched them being a couple. His old, healthy self would have found this disgusting. He learned not to mind as much. They didn’t forget him, no, they just didn’t mind his silence, that’s it. He let himself slowly fade into their dynamics, still battling with himself, not able to let go and let them in. He hated heart eyes. The ones they gave each other. The ones they started giving him. Like he was special to them. Their little tiny pet, their bonus wheel because they’re so boring. He didn’t quite understand it just yet.
They started staying late, after a while, dragging themselves up the rooftop, letting him drink and spit out his feelings. He could rant and say hurtful things, about life, about illness, about them. They’d just nod quietly and drink along. He didn’t understand. He tried not to mind when Kurt would rest his head on his shoulder and Blaine’s would nest himself in his lap. He tried to ignore the fact he liked it. This was just not quite his thing, but it was all he had.
* * *
He fought with them more often. Movie choices, or just anything, just fighting with Kurt or flirting a bit too much with them. He felt a bit better. He could bear being on earth right now. He could deal with the pain. He wasn’t completely dying anymore. He was just alive. Alive. Not how he used to be - another type of alive, an alive that meant ending up tangled into his sheets, cuddled with those two other boys, so that soon the pain would disappear because they loved him.
“Take care of him,” they’d whisper to each other at night. He’d slowly rediscover, strangely, something he used to love so much. He’d love the strokes, the lips on him, and he’d feel full, empty, finally enjoying the good ache of not being able to catch his breath.
He would then lay awake at night, next to them, aching, but feeling safe. And loved. He still hated it, being weak and not being able to do anything but the careful kisses on his neck told him not to. He liked it. (He had loved attention, before.)
Everything still did not feel quite right, but he’d learned to let go, to let them, and smirk to himself, waiting for the moment he could finally give it back-waiting for the moment they would combust together.
Finally Alive.
Rating : R for allusions to threeway sex and depression
Warnings : Implicit threesome, depressing thoughts and illness (cancer)
A/N: sometimes I write depressing stuff for nice ot3s, so excuse me~ And incredible thanks to tremlock for being the best gorilla beta ever ! well, enjoy ? :3
He was just a left over of what used to be; a dying corpse, currently being eaten from inside by his own cells, too depressed to even care. Just a body agonising in the dark hours, alone in his room, hoping it would soon end.
He’d lost his purpose. Purpose to do what, anyway? Purpose to live? Like he was living. And even if he could live on, what could he do? Fuck himself up, hijack his last hopes - not his hopes, no, but the hopes of others. They still wished he would heal, live up the life like he used to, not caring whether he was going to die in a few months or not. Alcohol burnt his throat. He could barely stand it, he could barely even take the almost empty bottle to his mouth. His head hurt. His whole body ached, burned. He was too sick, too…weak. Too used by medicine, treatment - sickness in general - to be the old Sebastian.
He was just a left over of what used to be; a dying corpse, currently being eaten from inside by his own cells, too depressed to even care. Just a body agonising in the dark hours, alone in his room, hoping it would soon end.
Except he kept waking up to his own doom.
* * *
He had no idea how they got in - or how they got the idea to come. His mum probably let them in. Who would visit him, anyway. He had made sure even his family left him alone to die ever since the diagnosis. He made sure to make everyone hate him, instead of pity him. He felt more like a human being, if people could hate him. He felt like he had the choice, and that was it. He didn’t want anyone to fake care. So why would they care? Who cares? He didn’t care anymore. He had stopped caring months ago. He only did care a little about things, before. Now all he wanted was to lose grasp on the world, forget it, forget everything and how it hurts not being young anymore. It had been a slow decay. First he decided to continue living - getting drunk, high, sleeping around. And he had slowly gotten sicker. He hated it all. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had last had a meal. He refused them all. He wanted it quick, but it just grew slower and even more painful than planned.
They opened the curtains. He muttered them to leave him. Now. They were interrupting his dying party, he said. How dare would they anyway. He couldn’t even roll over in his own bed. “Leave,” he said louder.
A high pitched voice snapped, “Sorry to interrupt your pity party, Smythe, but -”
“Kurt,” the other voice tempered, and he could feel the big sorry eyes on him, looking away to the wall, which made him want to puke. I know, I know. Sorry I’m a dying mess.
He was so tired of people feeling personally involved in his pain that they’d even bother to go ahead and help him. He was just so tired of this ersatz of a life he’d been living. He wanted to consume the last seconds, burn them down quickly. Except nobody wanted him to - they just kept him alive. They wanted him to survive, as damaged as he’d end up.
He tried to fire back at Hummel, but he lost it. He lost his words. They didn’t leave his mouth. He rolled his eyes to himself. He’d even lost the snark. Fine. “Go away,” he’d manage to whisper. But Kurt refused. He was angry, fiercely angry, and somehow it made him want to stay.
Why? Why would they take care of him? He’d almost blinded Blaine. It made no sense but yet they were here. The only one left that cared enough about him. And it made him so angry. This sort of kindness made him angry. He would have resisted actively to both boys cleaning his room. Getting him up, helping him have a shower, giving him something to eat.
He didn’t exactly cooperate, he just obliged. “Damn it, just eat something, Sebastian!” Kurt would burst out. Kurt was as angry as caring. He was careful. Blaine was soft, nice, even sensual. He’d whisper him pleas and soothing words into his ear again: “Be a good boy and eat,” and, “Please, Bas.” All these words.
He gave up. He hated it. Losing control of his own body, his own person. He wanted to control it. He would like to control his dying but he couldn’t. He hated being petted. He was just stuck here, a million why’s unanswered.
The biggest one being: why did they come back every. Single. Day?
* * *
A week and another passed. They didn’t have to pet him as much, thank god. But they still stayed all afternoon. They watched movies with him. Baked him things he couldn’t keep down. Played cardboard games. Sang each other songs - he just watched them being a couple. His old, healthy self would have found this disgusting. He learned not to mind as much. They didn’t forget him, no, they just didn’t mind his silence, that’s it. He let himself slowly fade into their dynamics, still battling with himself, not able to let go and let them in. He hated heart eyes. The ones they gave each other. The ones they started giving him. Like he was special to them. Their little tiny pet, their bonus wheel because they’re so boring. He didn’t quite understand it just yet.
They started staying late, after a while, dragging themselves up the rooftop, letting him drink and spit out his feelings. He could rant and say hurtful things, about life, about illness, about them. They’d just nod quietly and drink along. He didn’t understand. He tried not to mind when Kurt would rest his head on his shoulder and Blaine’s would nest himself in his lap. He tried to ignore the fact he liked it. This was just not quite his thing, but it was all he had.
* * *
He fought with them more often. Movie choices, or just anything, just fighting with Kurt or flirting a bit too much with them. He felt a bit better. He could bear being on earth right now. He could deal with the pain. He wasn’t completely dying anymore. He was just alive. Alive. Not how he used to be - another type of alive, an alive that meant ending up tangled into his sheets, cuddled with those two other boys, so that soon the pain would disappear because they loved him.
“Take care of him,” they’d whisper to each other at night. He’d slowly rediscover, strangely, something he used to love so much. He’d love the strokes, the lips on him, and he’d feel full, empty, finally enjoying the good ache of not being able to catch his breath.
He would then lay awake at night, next to them, aching, but feeling safe. And loved. He still hated it, being weak and not being able to do anything but the careful kisses on his neck told him not to. He liked it. (He had loved attention, before.)
Everything still did not feel quite right, but he’d learned to let go, to let them, and smirk to himself, waiting for the moment he could finally give it back-waiting for the moment they would combust together.
Finally Alive.