Jazz
Title: Jazz
Author:ah_lisa
Rating: PG-13?
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sam/Kurt
Author Notes: Posting this and its companion, because I'm particularly proud of these two, not gonna lie.
Warning: Major character death and angst.
Disclaimer: The characters, they are not mine. Neither's the show.
Summary: Sam is taking a jog through the park when he hears it.
Usually Sam doesn’t jog through the park, especially not during the fall. The city never cleans up the leaves, and he hates the feel of them crunching beneath his feet as he runs. And when it rains, the smell of wet leaves is thick in the air and it clings to his clothes when he arrives home to his apartment. Even without the leaves and the rain, though, parks are usually big tourist hot-spots for people to rest and plan out what places they want to go to, and Sam hates being the one people stop to ask for directions. So, he normally doesn’t jog there, even if he does occasionally pass through when he’s late for work.
Yet today is a weekend, it’s autumn, and he’s still jogging through the park. He pretends not to hear the small groups of tourists asking for his time, pretends not to feel leaves breaking with each footstep, and instead focuses on the music up ahead, played by the usual street performers planted somewhere on the grass. It’s all live instrumental with no speakers or vocals, and it’s been like that ever since that one time a wire broke and started a huge fire. If ever Sam actually wanted to come to the park, it’d be to listen to them play. Admittedly, part of the reason is because one of the trumpet-players looks like Brad the piano guy back from his days at McKinley.
When the band reaches his line of sight, he slows down the pace a little to listen to them play. They’re doing a jazz theme today, it seems, and there’s a small pool of people crowded around them listening to them play. Apparently they’ve started to allow electric keyboards back into the park, because there’s one sitting somewhere amongst the trumpet players, the Brad-look-alike manning it today.
Sam’s about to jog on, because it looks like they’re wrapping things up, but then a familiar trumpet sings out and he can’t do anything but stand there and stare.
He knows this song.
It’s Kurt’s song.
There aren’t any vocals, but he knows the tune nice and clear as it rings in his head. It’s insane, because the last time he heard this song was four years ago, but he remembers it so vividly it almost makes his head spin. He remembers Kurt’s voice, soft and delicate yet strong. He sounded out every syllable in this self-assured way that could only be described as Kurt, no explanation; Sam never had an explanation for anything he felt about Kurt, he was just really bad at describing it. And this song-it’s nothing without Kurt, without someone in the middle of it all, radiating confidence and pride and everything Sam has ever admired about him. It’s nothing without this little feeling of love and admiration that both frightened and thrilled him. It’s just a bunch of instruments playing at the same time.
He can still hear Kurt’s voice when he runs away, forgetting everything about his morning jog and just running.
And now that the floodgates have opened, it all comes tumbling out. Every song Kurt’s ever sung, every word ever exchanged, every laugh, every whisper-all of it rings in his ears in a collection of Kurt that’s been locked up in the back of his mind for years.
“You know, they make a special shampoo for color-treated hair.”
“I…thank you.”
“You don’t have to be alone.”
“Giraffes? Really?”
“No, it’s fine, it’s…you’re sweet. Thoughtful.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can-“
“In what universe is this supposed to be okay?”
“Who’s Jack Harkness again?”
“You’re not stupid. Even if everyone thinks you are.”
“Jealous, are we?”
“Calm down, it’s just a hot dog.”
“Sam, don’t do this to me!”
“I could never abandon a boy that calls me Baby Doll.”
“Please, the effects are decent at best.”
“I’m scared. Sam, I’m…what if I d”
“You don’t have to do that to impress me.”
“I think I love you.”
Sam runs.
He runs until the sound of his feet slamming against the ground grows loud enough to be heard amongst all the memories flooding back to him.
He runs until he becomes aware of people staring at him, possibly wondering who or what he’s running from.
He runs until his head is pounding and his muscles burn and he’s tired of running, and then he runs some more.
He runs.
He trips.
It takes a moment for Sam to gather his thoughts. Even when he does zone back in, all he can think is ground, dry, and ow. There are definitely people staring at him at this point. Vaguely, he hears people ‘ooh’-ing in sympathy in the background.
With as much dignity as he can muster, Sam stands up and brushes himself off. He tries laughing it off, but his throat feels oddly contracted and dry, so he ends up swallowing it down instead. There’s dirt and leaves sticking to the front of his shirt that he has to take care of first, and then there’s a stinging pain pricking at his knees. He doesn’t dare try to examine the damage. People start coming into his peripheral vision, probably to ask if he’s okay, so he waves them off without actually looking at them first. Not sparing his spectators a second glance, Sam starts walking home.
Now his iPod is broken, since it seems he fell on it when he tripped earlier, and the band is done playing, so there’s an odd silence that’s bound to be full of Kurt if he leaves it alone long enough. So he fills the silence with his own voice. He sings songs Kurt always wanted him to sing and steers away from songs Kurt himself always sang, because those songs are untouchable, can only be heard with Kurt’s voice alone.
If he puts it that way, there are really about a hundred songs Sam can never listen to again.
Kurt is dead. He thinks his knees are bleeding.
He walks on.
Author:ah_lisa
Rating: PG-13?
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sam/Kurt
Author Notes: Posting this and its companion, because I'm particularly proud of these two, not gonna lie.
Warning: Major character death and angst.
Disclaimer: The characters, they are not mine. Neither's the show.
Summary: Sam is taking a jog through the park when he hears it.
Usually Sam doesn’t jog through the park, especially not during the fall. The city never cleans up the leaves, and he hates the feel of them crunching beneath his feet as he runs. And when it rains, the smell of wet leaves is thick in the air and it clings to his clothes when he arrives home to his apartment. Even without the leaves and the rain, though, parks are usually big tourist hot-spots for people to rest and plan out what places they want to go to, and Sam hates being the one people stop to ask for directions. So, he normally doesn’t jog there, even if he does occasionally pass through when he’s late for work.
Yet today is a weekend, it’s autumn, and he’s still jogging through the park. He pretends not to hear the small groups of tourists asking for his time, pretends not to feel leaves breaking with each footstep, and instead focuses on the music up ahead, played by the usual street performers planted somewhere on the grass. It’s all live instrumental with no speakers or vocals, and it’s been like that ever since that one time a wire broke and started a huge fire. If ever Sam actually wanted to come to the park, it’d be to listen to them play. Admittedly, part of the reason is because one of the trumpet-players looks like Brad the piano guy back from his days at McKinley.
When the band reaches his line of sight, he slows down the pace a little to listen to them play. They’re doing a jazz theme today, it seems, and there’s a small pool of people crowded around them listening to them play. Apparently they’ve started to allow electric keyboards back into the park, because there’s one sitting somewhere amongst the trumpet players, the Brad-look-alike manning it today.
Sam’s about to jog on, because it looks like they’re wrapping things up, but then a familiar trumpet sings out and he can’t do anything but stand there and stare.
He knows this song.
It’s Kurt’s song.
There aren’t any vocals, but he knows the tune nice and clear as it rings in his head. It’s insane, because the last time he heard this song was four years ago, but he remembers it so vividly it almost makes his head spin. He remembers Kurt’s voice, soft and delicate yet strong. He sounded out every syllable in this self-assured way that could only be described as Kurt, no explanation; Sam never had an explanation for anything he felt about Kurt, he was just really bad at describing it. And this song-it’s nothing without Kurt, without someone in the middle of it all, radiating confidence and pride and everything Sam has ever admired about him. It’s nothing without this little feeling of love and admiration that both frightened and thrilled him. It’s just a bunch of instruments playing at the same time.
He can still hear Kurt’s voice when he runs away, forgetting everything about his morning jog and just running.
And now that the floodgates have opened, it all comes tumbling out. Every song Kurt’s ever sung, every word ever exchanged, every laugh, every whisper-all of it rings in his ears in a collection of Kurt that’s been locked up in the back of his mind for years.
“You know, they make a special shampoo for color-treated hair.”
“I…thank you.”
“You don’t have to be alone.”
“Giraffes? Really?”
“No, it’s fine, it’s…you’re sweet. Thoughtful.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can-“
“In what universe is this supposed to be okay?”
“Who’s Jack Harkness again?”
“You’re not stupid. Even if everyone thinks you are.”
“Jealous, are we?”
“Calm down, it’s just a hot dog.”
“Sam, don’t do this to me!”
“I could never abandon a boy that calls me Baby Doll.”
“Please, the effects are decent at best.”
“I’m scared. Sam, I’m…what if I d”
“You don’t have to do that to impress me.”
“I think I love you.”
Sam runs.
He runs until the sound of his feet slamming against the ground grows loud enough to be heard amongst all the memories flooding back to him.
He runs until he becomes aware of people staring at him, possibly wondering who or what he’s running from.
He runs until his head is pounding and his muscles burn and he’s tired of running, and then he runs some more.
He runs.
He trips.
It takes a moment for Sam to gather his thoughts. Even when he does zone back in, all he can think is ground, dry, and ow. There are definitely people staring at him at this point. Vaguely, he hears people ‘ooh’-ing in sympathy in the background.
With as much dignity as he can muster, Sam stands up and brushes himself off. He tries laughing it off, but his throat feels oddly contracted and dry, so he ends up swallowing it down instead. There’s dirt and leaves sticking to the front of his shirt that he has to take care of first, and then there’s a stinging pain pricking at his knees. He doesn’t dare try to examine the damage. People start coming into his peripheral vision, probably to ask if he’s okay, so he waves them off without actually looking at them first. Not sparing his spectators a second glance, Sam starts walking home.
Now his iPod is broken, since it seems he fell on it when he tripped earlier, and the band is done playing, so there’s an odd silence that’s bound to be full of Kurt if he leaves it alone long enough. So he fills the silence with his own voice. He sings songs Kurt always wanted him to sing and steers away from songs Kurt himself always sang, because those songs are untouchable, can only be heard with Kurt’s voice alone.
If he puts it that way, there are really about a hundred songs Sam can never listen to again.
Kurt is dead. He thinks his knees are bleeding.
He walks on.