Fic; Grim [1/?]
Title: Grim
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson
Rating: M
Summary: In the small, sleepy town of Lima, Ohio, Kurt Hummel had always been different. Then a boy with hazel eyes tugged at his hand, saved his life, and kidnapped him on the back of a magic carpet alongside his companions, a skeleton named David and a small tuft of flames known as Wesley to lead the way.
A/N: I've been wanting to write fantasy!Klaine forever, and this has finally come together. Inspired in equal parts by Howl's Moving Castle, Harry Potter and every other fantasy novel I've ever read! If you'd like to know more about the fic, or me, or chat about Glee, or yell at me about anything, or you know...just say hi, head over to my tumblr. Amodelofefficiency :) Please, enjoy.
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---
Many moons ago, when humanity was still quite young, and the trundle of horses down the main street was quite common and the concept of the magic was still understood in a terrible, fearsome way - a small, bearded group of men huddled around a fire on the outskirts of London.
It was a cold evening, but the fire provided warmth, and the men on the fringes juggled small tufts of flames in outstretched hands, sparks hissing and spitting upwards, showering them every few seconds in a cozy, warm glow.
“Must we always meet outside,” mumbled one of the group - still rather young with his black beard mottled around sunken cheeks. The others tutted at him in disapproval - they’d been meeting in this spot for years, centuries even, as some of them could well remember. It was tradition and tradition was valued above all else when they were called together to in times of emergency.
“This land is sacred, Wesley. You will learn to respect that one day,” and the young mans lips drew shut.
“Do you have it?” another of the group asked eagerly, as if he’d been bursting to say those words all evening. Many of them had, because they lived in dangerous times, but the promise of peace had started in whispers across the countryside, and it was only now that they were all meeting that they could see if the rumors of capture were true.
The fire in the middle swayed gently, reverently, as the oldest of the group withdraw a small, bound book from his robes with shaking hands.
One of the men gasped, another sighed softly and the rest peered closer at the small tome. It was an ordinary, leather-bound book with yellowed parchment edges and a thick rope tied around its middle, holding it shut, but inside was trapped the soul of the most dangerous creature any of them could recall.
“And he’s really trapped in there?” murmured Wesley, half struck with fear and fascination. He reached forward a moment, but then shied back as the book seemed to shake. The older man holding it clamped down on the tome quickly, stuffing it back into his robes, and close to his chest.
“Yes. He will remain there.”
“How are we to ensure that?” asked a member of the group, “He has held court over the land for half a century - we’ve near been forced to extinction - how do we know he won’t return?”
The eldest man - aged beyond centuries - sighed wearily, as if the task of holding the tome to his chest was a great burden on his soul.
“It will remain in my care, and when my time comes will be passed onto the next to take my position. And so it shall be that he will never be allowed freedom.”
There was a grunt from the group of men, as if they agreed with the statement, but where uncertain still. To live so many years in fear had taught them all to be wary - very few remember what it felt to be truly free.
There was a deep silence, and the fire between them crackled and hummed. With a start the flames burst up into the night, and then the men - wizards, as they were sometimes known - took off, some to the night sky, others trailing slowly through the stretches of woods, robes billowing and little balls of light bobbing in the air before them as they walked.
They were a strange group of men, unaccustomed to much contact with the outside world, and where thus fortunate for the cover of night - had people been watching, hidden in their windows and startled by the light, they would have struck them as a most peculiar sight indeed.
---
The small town of Lima, Ohio, was not accustomed to anybody being particularly perculiar.
Kurt had learnt that when he was four years old and the neighbour had shrieked and yelled for his mother when Kurt had wandered out onto the front lawn, teetering in his mothers ruby red heels with his fathers tool belt hanging from his shoulders.
From that time onwards his life had been a series of odd looks, derisive whispers and snickers hidden behind hands - small shoves to his shoulder that started when he was in first grade and escalated as the years went on; the thick, slimy trail of spit balls down his neck that left his shoulders shaking with tiny tremors and his hair a mess when he’d scrub angrily at it after school; the hollow feeling in his stomach when the other boys would line up to pick teams and Kurt would be left last, peering warily between the two forming groups, not sure if he wanted to be on either side because he’d still find himself the target of his own team alongside the oppositions.
In the playground at lunch he’d tuck himself in the corner of the library, or the big yard, or the cafeteria, elbow deep in books about the theatre or French Aristocracy, or magazines about cars or fashion (not that the later were a particularly smart idea, not after Thomas Rodriguez found him eagerly flicking through one of his mothers old copies of Vogue, amazed by the colours and the styles and the expressions, only to find it ripped to shreds and drowned in the toilet before he was locked in the stall until after lunch.)
And then when Kurt was 8 years old, already so quiet and unobtrusive, his mother had died and left him to the care of his father, a gruff, introspective man that Kurt had always admired but was still a little scared of.
Burt’s large hands were callused with the scars of life in the shop and felt heavy on Kurt’s shoulders whenever he’d lay them there to squeeze tightly. And whilst Kurt was sure of his fathers love, just as he was sure that the sky was blue, or that birds could fly, he still longed to be back in the soft, warm arms of his mother each night, to feel her fingers drift gently through his fringe as she peppered kisses across his cheeks until he giggled and then gently drifted off to sleep, or to stand on tip toes and wrap his arms around her waist as they waltzed through the garden in late spring, breathing the heavy scented, jasmine air and singing at the tops of their lungs.
In the first few weeks after his mother died, a slow but steady trickle of women would appear at the Hummel front door each evening, some holding casserole dishes, others warm pots of stew, or bowls of soup - always hot, heavy food that sat at the bottom of Kurt’s stomach and ached when he went to bed; wondering if this would be his life from now on, opening the door each evening around six to discover a frowning older lady thrusting Tupperware in his direction.
They never seemed to say much, and Kurt could feel the air of disapproval they exuded - whether it was for Kurt (who was still looked at oddly years after the incident with the high heels - it’s just unnatural for a boy, Mrs. Lee would often mutter) or for his father, who was yet to move from the house unless it was for work, Kurt couldn’t tell; but he’d perfected the art of smiling tightly and thanking the women quickly and then shutting the door in their faces so he could divide the food between two plates for tea.
He’d carry the food and a cup of water on a tray to his father, who’d sometimes smile softly, or drift a hand across Kurt’s cheek; or startle, as if pulled from terrible thoughts, and then tug Kurt into his strong arms tightly and jostle the tray of food and water until it teetered on the edge of falling.
Afterwards, the boy and his father would settle on the lounge and flick idly through the television and Burt would ask Kurt how school was, voice rough but still warm, and Kurt, he knew his father was trying, would only nod and let his head slowly fall to the crook of Burt’s elbow, as if the day had gone very well and he hadn’t spent the entire lunch period scraping the remains of thrown spaghetti off his shirt and trousers.
It was a routine that carried them through the first month following Elizabeth’s death. Burt worked, and Kurt suffered through school, and woman showed up with food to keep them alive, but then suddenly, as the month was up, like clockwork, the food stopped.
On that evening Kurt loitered in the doorway to the kitchen, unsure of what to do and picking at a spot on his shirt that he’d missed whilst huddled in the bathroom, but then Burt had got up off the couch, looked for a second at Kurt like a lost puppy, and then strode into the kitchen, opening all the cupboards and draws. Kurt had hurried after him, calling “Dad?” warily and Burt had muttered, “Where’s the damn pan?” and Kurt had shrugged helplessly. Five minutes later Burt’s head had emerged from the back of a cupboard with a loud exclamation of excitement and Kurt had jumped at the sudden, utterly foreign, noise.
Burt pulled bread from the pantry and cheese that Kurt was sure had been there for months and made four batches of badly burnt grilled cheese until finally the fifth one was perfect.
They’d sat at the table to eat and Kurt had kicked his feet under his chair, toes skimming the carpet until their tips tingled from the rough friction, and allowed himself to smile softly when his father spilt water down his front, like he always would.
“Dad, we should go shopping tomorrow morning,” Kurt had told him, and Burt had stilled his movements, hastily trying to wipe water from his shirt, and nodded slowly, as if the idea was a revelation.
“Yeah bud, we should. Get some of that cereal you love. I noticed we ran out,” and Kurt felt a hot blush spread through him because his father had noticed him, and the two slices of toast he’d been forced to make each morning after his muesli supply ran dry.
“And some pasta?” he’d pressed, “And maybe some vegetables?”
Burt had chuckled, “Trust me to get the only kid in Ohio who actually likes vegetables,” he’d muttered, voice thick and smile wavering, even if it was true.
Kurt had huffed, “I’m not the only child. And shouldn’t you be happy? You should eat more too!”
And suddenly, as his father roared with something akin to laughter though it was decidedly heavier, a tiny weight had begun to lift from Kurt’s chest.
---
Life progressed, and though Burt Hummel slowly returned to normal, Kurt still found himself the abnormal oddity in a town that prized conformity over all else.
He didn’t speak how they expected. He didn’t dress how boys should. He didn’t like football, or dirt, or roughhousing (even though he received an awful lot of it) and he didn’t like the thought of being stuck in Lima, Ohio one second longer than was absolutely necessary.
And sometimes, late at night, he’d lie in bed and feel a tingle through his veins that blossomed from his chest, a livewire of electricity run hot through him and he’d blink, mind suddenly completely clear and his breath ragged, pulse jumping, as if for those brief moments he’d held the entire universe in his fingertips.
He never spoke of it to anyone - not his father, nor a teacher, nor a doctor - he was the oddity of the town, but if it was found out that he was...different? No, that didn’t begin to describe the power he could sometimes feel travel down through his veins. Special, he’d decided upon. If anyone knew that he felt special in those moments, he’d be lucky to survive the day without having his head drowned down a toilet.
Little moments kept him going - the first few drops of jasmine in the air each spring; the soft touch of fabric under his fingers as it ran through the sewing machine; lying on the floor of his bedroom in the middle of summer, the air hot and oppressive against overheated skin as Julie Andrews sang loud and clear through his speakers and curled around his room and out the window into the breeze.
He entered high school and the bullying got worse, but for the first time in a long time there was friendship, and small laughter and music - finally, finally music beyond the walls of his house - a rag tag group of children playing at performance until somehow they matured into young adults who could put on a show.
There was Mercedes, and then Tina, and then somehow Rachel, even if she did drive him insane, and before he knew it there was also Artie and Brittney and Finn.
Finn who as tall and broad and not entirely handsome but had a wide smile that made butterflies curl in Kurt’s stomach. For the first time in a long time he felt like he was truly living - how could he not?
His heart felt liable to burst out of his chest whenever he was wrapped in the cocoon of the choir room amongst these wonderful people.
---
“Hey boo, you busy this weekend?” called Mercedes, peering around the edge of Kurt’s locker with a wide smile.
The beginning of Senior Year, and Kurt felt like his heart was a thousand, tiny fluttering wings all ready to scatter at any moment - he could almost taste the freedom in the air, if only he could last a final year in this hell hole.
“There’s a sale on and a pair of boots that have been calling my name all summer and I’m counting on you to guard them for me I case anyone else tries to snatch them.”
Kurt huffed a laugh and nodded, closing the metal door of his locker with a creak and hefting the leather strap of his satchel over his shoulder. It was heavy with books and sheet music for glee and cut across his chest tightly, dragging against his shirt.
“I was supposed to meet Dad at the shop but I’m sure he’ll understand. Well, not understand, but he knows better than to interfere with the mall and I. We have a long, sordid romance,” he sighed wistfully, and Mercedes cackled beside him, nudging his shoulder as they walked.
“Oh, hey, have you heard? There’s a new kid in town apparently. Tina had chemistry with him this morning.”
Kurt glances sideways at her. Not that he was opposed to such information, he just wasn’t quite sure why she was offering it to him, “And?”
She sighed dramatically, as if Kurt should have guessed the rest, “And he’s cute.”
Kurt chuckled, “Oh? Do tell.”
They rounded the corner, Mercedes waving a hand about as she imitated Tina, “Oh his hair, it’s so shiny, and his smile, and his eyes and his ass,” and Kurt was halfway through giggling when a shoulder ran into his chest, sending him toppling backwards, landing with a crash with his weight resting on his wrist, and then a steady, wet ooze dribbled down his neck and beneath his shirt and he shuddered backwards, trying to escape the uncomfortable mess as it trickled down his chest.
“Oops,” said the guy standing above him, wide brimmed cup still dangling from his hands. He chuckled, and then tore off down the hallway, Mercedes yelling abuse until he disappeared.
“Oh my god. Kurt! Come here, sit up, oh my god.”
“I’m fine,” he gritted, teeth clenched and body shuddering. “Nothing that I’m not used to.”
“Kurt,” Mercedes sighed, manhandling him until he was standing upright. The position only made the ooze slide down his chest quicker, pooling at the top of his pants and spreading across the waistband of his boxers. He squirmed uncomfortably and felt the hot curl of tears behind his eyes, threatening to fall before he pushed them back.
It wasn’t that this was an unusual occurrence - instead it was such a normal part of his day that he could feel his body give up entirely - his knees were shaking and his chest was heaving and the sudden throb in his wrist was banging against his temple.
“Kurt!”
He blinked quickly, and Mercedes was standing directly in front of him, mouth curved in a deep frown.
“That’s it, I’m taking you to the nurse, and then Principal Figgins.”
Kurt found his voice just in time to yell quickly, darting forward to stop Mercedes’ march and grabbing her around the arm, his wrist throbbing terribly.
“I’m fine Mercedes. Complaining only gives them what they want. I just need to clean up, that’s all.”
“Boo, no. They’re assholes who can’t deal with how fabulous you are, but they shouldn’t get away with it.”
Kurt sighed, shoulders hunched. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the wet substance congealing against the top of his pants. He didn’t want to think about the dry cleaning bill, or the mess down the front of his shirt.
“Please, just go to Glee. I’ll get cleaned up and be there in a minute.”
Mercedes eyed him warily.
“Please, Mercedes. I promise you can buy me a frozen yoghurt to make me feel better this afternoon.”
At that she smiled, though it was tinged with a sad, wary frown.
A big blob of, well, Kurt wasn’t even sure what it was - definitely not a slushie - but still disgusting, ran quickly down his stomach and pooled in his belly button until he squirmed, biting his lip, “On second thoughts you can buy me a hot pretzel.”
And Mercedes laughed, the noise bursting out of her as though she disapproved, but couldn’t help it, and Kurt smiled bashfully, knocking his shoulder with hers playfully.
“Go save me a seat, and then you can tell me all about this cute guy Tina spotted.”
“Oh my god, yes. She said he was more gorgeous than Mike, so he must be -“
“Go!”
Mercedes flittered down the now empty hallway and Kurt rolled his eyes before bending slowly, the ache down his side intensified by the movement and the bruise that was no doubt forming up his back. He checked his wrist over once, wincing as he tried to move it, but the pain was sharp and intense and tears prickled his eyes so he ignored it in favour of looping his satchel over his uninjured side, shuffling quietly down the hall towards the boys bathrooms, heaving a deep sigh before going inside.
Gently he peeled his shirt away from his chest and bit his lip to stop the barrage of insults on his tongue. It would cost him to have this fixed; and though the shirt was last season, it was a gorgeous fabric and one of his favourites.
Perhaps it was stupid to wear it to school but he’d given up on dressing himself down a long time ago - probably when he was four and mixing his parents fashions, he thought with a sad smile - and he wasn’t about to start now because some idiot couldn’t appreciate design.
At least, as far as he could tell, none had made it further down his pants.
He grabbed a handful of paper towels and mopped at his chest, rubbing the pink oozing liquid - and honestly, what the fuck was this stuff, he thought in disgust. He was almost finished when his own reflection caught his eye in the mirror.
He rocked forwards, wincing at the state of his hair, of his face - the dark rims under his eyes, still shiny with tears; the downwards slope of his nose; the curve of his ears.
He huffed and felt his throat tighten, “You’re better than all of them,” he muttered to himself.
“Less than a year and you’ll be in New York and no one will think you’re different, or disgusting.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, taking a deep breath as the anger curled in his chest and then with a final drag of breath he felt himself calm, felt the first, delicate tingle of power run like molasses down his spin and then shoot up his fingertips. His breath quickened, his heart beat wild and he let himself enjoy it a second, let himself suck it all in and then -
Then, a loud, piercing wail of an alarm tore through the school and Kurt jumped so far backwards he almost fell against the cubicle behind him.
Oh my god, oh my god, he thought desperately, pushing himself upright and glaring, wide eyed and astonished into the mirror because surely, no, that was impossible - but he’d been thinking about...but no - “impossible”, he whispered.
Just because he could feel his body shift and change with the power down his spine, didn’t mean that anything was actually happening. He couldn’t really control anything, deep down he knew that - he was just calming himself, just finding his core...but then... then the alarm had sounded, just as his body had been ready to burst.
But that was just a coincidence, a terrifying coincidence that he realized was still occurring because the alarm was still wailing pitifully loud and obnoxious in his ears.
“Fuck, fuck fuck,” he muttered, tearing around the tiny bathroom to grab his stuff.
His shirt was hanging over the sink and he pulled it up, wincing at the wet, pink stains down the front and slinging it over his shoulders, already pulling his satchel over his arm and fumbling with the buttons, his wrist throbbing painfully and making it hard to do them up.
The door to the bathroom flew open with a bang and Kurt jumped, already on edge from the footballer in the hallway and the sound of the alarm, and as he hastily tried to shove his shirt over his chest, curling in on himself, a small, hot hand grasped his wrist tightly and with a start Kurt gazed up into clear, hazel eyes.
The boy was shorter than Kurt, with dark, tight curls and soft, olive skin that Kurt immediately wanted to brush the backs of his fingers too. He blushed hotly at the thought and felt the boy run his fingers down his arm until they tangled with his hand, tugging at it, ruby red lips curling delicately around the words, “Oh, Kurt. I’ve been looking for you forever,” and with a firmer tug and a half crazed grin, “Now run.”
---
Kurt, wrist throbbing and satchel banging harshly at his side, shirt tails open and fluttering and leaving his bare chest to catch the breeze, tore down the hallways of McKinley after the small, half crazy boy still tugging on his hand.
They turned a sharp corner, and Kurt yelped in surprise at the high wall of flames engulfing the building ahead of them - because where the fuck had that come from? Not that the fire should have surprised him, there was an alarm wailing in his ears.
But surely they should have had a little more notice before the fire built to such heights?
“What on earth?” he muttered, voice high and cracking with fear, but the boy merely tugged him to the side and into a classroom and then pushed Kurt, hands hot and wide across his back, towards the closed window.
“Go, quick.”
“What?” Kurt screeched, digging his heels in and turning back to the boy.
“Those window’s don’t open,” he yelled, and the other boy’s eyes widened dramatically.
On closer inspection, his olive skin was flushed hot and his lips were paling and thin, but his eyes were still the bright hazel that Kurt had first noticed in the bathroom and he felt his heart flutter madly, despite the danger.
He could hear the flames crackling further down in the building, a sizzle and then pop that sounded too much like a bonfire and not enough like danger for it to really register - only the heavy seep of smoke in the air, rough down his throat but oddly sweet tasting, was causing his heart to flutter madly with adrenaline. It confused him - the sweet, acrid taste hanging in the air - not that he had much time to think about it, after all he’d never been stuck in a fire so he didn’t have much to compare.
He’d just never expected smoke to taste sweet.
“What do we do?” he rushed instead, shoving his satchel further up his shoulder.
He cradled his wrist in his hand because the ache was unbearable, and tried not to let the threat of tears cloud his vision as they grew, because really, if this was how he was going to die, it was a pretty crappy decision on the part of the man upstairs.
Stuffed into a classroom, minutes after being shoved to the floor, with a boy he didn’t know who looked half crazy with eyes darting around the room, but oh so beautiful, and where did that thought come from, Kurt questioned internally, his brain tumbling around too many thoughts as it filled with smoke and sweat.
“Okay, we need to get out of this building.”
“Yes.”
“But the windows are closed.”
“Yes,” Kurt whimpered.
“Do you trust me Kurt?” asked the boy, and Kurt felt a sob rise in his chest.
“I don’t know you!”
The boy stepped forward and gripped Kurt’s forearms tightly, all but shaking him, his gaze strangely familiar though no less intense. His hands were hot and hard and wide around his skin and Kurt drew a startled breath, because he’d only now remembered his shirt was open, and the boys gaze had quickly dropped, running up his bare, sweat glistened chest, and Kurt felt a hot curl of something in his stomach as the boy stuttered a second.
“Wha-?”
“Do you trust me?” the boy pressed, eyes upwards once more and steely, and Kurt could only nod.
“Okay, on the count of three I need you to duck your head, close your eyes and run, promise?”
Kurt gaped at him, but nodded. “Run where?”
“I’ll direct you. Just remember, head down and eyes closed and everything will be fine. Don’t let go of my hand.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. One,” and Kurt closed his eyes, wincing around tears, because surely this was suicide, “two,” and he ducked his head, “And three, run!” the boy yelled, and Kurt felt the hard grip of a hand around his uninjured wrist and a sudden tug and then they were tearing out into the hallway, down the corridor and around a corner and Kurt drew in a deep, horrid breath of curling, sweet smoke and with a terrified gasp realized they were running straight towards the fire.
He stumbled, but then the boy was tugging him forward harsher, grip not letting him go, and his feet were tripping and knocking into each other and there was a sudden, startling rush of heat up his back, like liquid fire crackling up his spine, but before he knew it they were thundering down a run of stairs and had collapsed on the cool, soft, wet grass, utterly spent.
There was a soft hand petting through his hair, as Kurt gasped wildly, trying to draw breath down his aching lungs. Fingers rubbed at his scalp, nice and deep and Kurt felt his bones give out, the breath leave his body and then the soft press of lips to his forehead where the boy was leant over him close.
And then everything went black.
---
He woke in a hospital bed, a machine beeping a steady and clichéd rhythm by his side and his wrist heavy with plaster.
“Oh Kurt,” rasped a heavy voice, and then his father was swimming before his vision, face a blur but getting clearer as Kurt blinked rapidly.
He tried to speak, tried to whisper his dad’s name, but all that came was a horrible, dry cough - his throat felt like sandpaper and he gestured wildly around for some water.
His dad lifted a cup and pressed a straw to his lips and Kurt drank it quickly, coughing as the liquid coated his throat and helped him feel half human once more.
“Dad?” he croaked.
“Yeah buddy. How are you feeling? You took quite a hit.”
“What...what happened? I don’t know. I don’t...I was in the bathroom and then there was a boy and then, nothing.”
Burt was nodding, still standing over Kurt’s body, and he pressed a large palm to Kurt’s forehead and stroked soft but firm across his fringe.
Kurt could feel phantom fingers drift against his scalp and then the feather light press of lips, and startled when his father started speaking, drawing him back to the present.
“There was a fire at school. No one’s sure what happened, how it started. They suspect it was deliberate, but no one can understand how it built so quick. Geez, Kurt. I’ve never seen anything like it. Half the school is in ashes.”
He felt a shudder tremble down his spine and blinked heavily, eyes still sore from the smoke, “You were there?” he asked, licking his lips to wet them.
His skin felt tight and dry and his insides hot and smoky, but as he licked his lips there was the faint, sweet tang of the smoke and he blinked quickly, made sure to ask his father about that, because something about that taste had terrified him. It was so unnatural.
“Not when it started, but afterwards. I didn’t know where you were. No one did. Not until they found you sprawled across the lawn behind the school.”
Burt, Kurt realized, had a hand nestled against Kurt’s cheek but also one resting against his own head, holding it up, and his eyes were drawn tight and painful, his lips a thin, red line. He looked terrible, and scared, and Kurt’s heart leapt in his chest with love.
“I was in the bathroom,” he tried to explain, pausing to cough harshly. It rattled up his spine and spluttered out, but he felt slightly better afterwards, even if it did make his chest ache. “I was in the bathroom, and I didn’t know what was happening, and then this boy ran in and grabbed my hand and we went into a classroom but we couldn’t climb out the window, so then we...” then we ran through the flames - through the thick, red, licking curls of flames, Kurt thought, shuddering.
But that can’t have been what happened, could it?
“And then?” Burt prodded, voice shaking.
“Then we found another exited, but we must have inhaled a lot of smoke, because I passed out,” he whispered softly.
How could they have run through the flames? He thought wildly. They were wearing flimsy clothes, no protection, and the flames had licked up the sides of the entire second half of the hallway. There was no was they could have survived.
Kurt felt his spine tingle uncomfortably and his fathers heavy gaze and with a shaky breath whispered, “The other boy, where is he? Is he okay?”
Burt’s brow crinkled. “I don’t know buddy. There was no one else with you when you were found. But you said there was someone with you in school?”
Kurt felt a sob rise deep in his throat, his mind flashing quickly - wide, hazel eyes and plump, red lips and olive skin and dark curls and oh god, he was real, wasn’t he? He had to have been.
But Kurt had never seen him before.
“Yes. He saved me. He was with me on the lawn.”
He held me in his arms and kissed my forehead and rubbed at my scalp and for the first time in forever it felt like home. Oh god, who was he?
“I don’t know, buddy. Maybe he wasn’t hurt. Maybe he’s somewhere else. I’m sure we’ll find him.”
And Kurt felt his heart thump thump, thump thump, deep and heavy in his chest as Burt’s smile wavered. “Oh Kurt, I’m so glad you’re okay,” and then his dad’s hand curled close around his own and held tight.
Phantom fingers tugged at his wrist and Kurt blinked his eyes closed, focused on hazel shine and ruby red and flushed cheeks and that stark, intense gaze, and the boys soft, wispy voice wrap delicately around the words “I’ve been looking for you forever.”
And then with a terrible start, Kurt froze.
How the fuck had that boy known his name?.)
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson
Rating: M
Summary: In the small, sleepy town of Lima, Ohio, Kurt Hummel had always been different. Then a boy with hazel eyes tugged at his hand, saved his life, and kidnapped him on the back of a magic carpet alongside his companions, a skeleton named David and a small tuft of flames known as Wesley to lead the way.
A/N: I've been wanting to write fantasy!Klaine forever, and this has finally come together. Inspired in equal parts by Howl's Moving Castle, Harry Potter and every other fantasy novel I've ever read! If you'd like to know more about the fic, or me, or chat about Glee, or yell at me about anything, or you know...just say hi, head over to my tumblr. Amodelofefficiency :) Please, enjoy.
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---
Many moons ago, when humanity was still quite young, and the trundle of horses down the main street was quite common and the concept of the magic was still understood in a terrible, fearsome way - a small, bearded group of men huddled around a fire on the outskirts of London.
It was a cold evening, but the fire provided warmth, and the men on the fringes juggled small tufts of flames in outstretched hands, sparks hissing and spitting upwards, showering them every few seconds in a cozy, warm glow.
“Must we always meet outside,” mumbled one of the group - still rather young with his black beard mottled around sunken cheeks. The others tutted at him in disapproval - they’d been meeting in this spot for years, centuries even, as some of them could well remember. It was tradition and tradition was valued above all else when they were called together to in times of emergency.
“This land is sacred, Wesley. You will learn to respect that one day,” and the young mans lips drew shut.
“Do you have it?” another of the group asked eagerly, as if he’d been bursting to say those words all evening. Many of them had, because they lived in dangerous times, but the promise of peace had started in whispers across the countryside, and it was only now that they were all meeting that they could see if the rumors of capture were true.
The fire in the middle swayed gently, reverently, as the oldest of the group withdraw a small, bound book from his robes with shaking hands.
One of the men gasped, another sighed softly and the rest peered closer at the small tome. It was an ordinary, leather-bound book with yellowed parchment edges and a thick rope tied around its middle, holding it shut, but inside was trapped the soul of the most dangerous creature any of them could recall.
“And he’s really trapped in there?” murmured Wesley, half struck with fear and fascination. He reached forward a moment, but then shied back as the book seemed to shake. The older man holding it clamped down on the tome quickly, stuffing it back into his robes, and close to his chest.
“Yes. He will remain there.”
“How are we to ensure that?” asked a member of the group, “He has held court over the land for half a century - we’ve near been forced to extinction - how do we know he won’t return?”
The eldest man - aged beyond centuries - sighed wearily, as if the task of holding the tome to his chest was a great burden on his soul.
“It will remain in my care, and when my time comes will be passed onto the next to take my position. And so it shall be that he will never be allowed freedom.”
There was a grunt from the group of men, as if they agreed with the statement, but where uncertain still. To live so many years in fear had taught them all to be wary - very few remember what it felt to be truly free.
There was a deep silence, and the fire between them crackled and hummed. With a start the flames burst up into the night, and then the men - wizards, as they were sometimes known - took off, some to the night sky, others trailing slowly through the stretches of woods, robes billowing and little balls of light bobbing in the air before them as they walked.
They were a strange group of men, unaccustomed to much contact with the outside world, and where thus fortunate for the cover of night - had people been watching, hidden in their windows and startled by the light, they would have struck them as a most peculiar sight indeed.
---
The small town of Lima, Ohio, was not accustomed to anybody being particularly perculiar.
Kurt had learnt that when he was four years old and the neighbour had shrieked and yelled for his mother when Kurt had wandered out onto the front lawn, teetering in his mothers ruby red heels with his fathers tool belt hanging from his shoulders.
From that time onwards his life had been a series of odd looks, derisive whispers and snickers hidden behind hands - small shoves to his shoulder that started when he was in first grade and escalated as the years went on; the thick, slimy trail of spit balls down his neck that left his shoulders shaking with tiny tremors and his hair a mess when he’d scrub angrily at it after school; the hollow feeling in his stomach when the other boys would line up to pick teams and Kurt would be left last, peering warily between the two forming groups, not sure if he wanted to be on either side because he’d still find himself the target of his own team alongside the oppositions.
In the playground at lunch he’d tuck himself in the corner of the library, or the big yard, or the cafeteria, elbow deep in books about the theatre or French Aristocracy, or magazines about cars or fashion (not that the later were a particularly smart idea, not after Thomas Rodriguez found him eagerly flicking through one of his mothers old copies of Vogue, amazed by the colours and the styles and the expressions, only to find it ripped to shreds and drowned in the toilet before he was locked in the stall until after lunch.)
And then when Kurt was 8 years old, already so quiet and unobtrusive, his mother had died and left him to the care of his father, a gruff, introspective man that Kurt had always admired but was still a little scared of.
Burt’s large hands were callused with the scars of life in the shop and felt heavy on Kurt’s shoulders whenever he’d lay them there to squeeze tightly. And whilst Kurt was sure of his fathers love, just as he was sure that the sky was blue, or that birds could fly, he still longed to be back in the soft, warm arms of his mother each night, to feel her fingers drift gently through his fringe as she peppered kisses across his cheeks until he giggled and then gently drifted off to sleep, or to stand on tip toes and wrap his arms around her waist as they waltzed through the garden in late spring, breathing the heavy scented, jasmine air and singing at the tops of their lungs.
In the first few weeks after his mother died, a slow but steady trickle of women would appear at the Hummel front door each evening, some holding casserole dishes, others warm pots of stew, or bowls of soup - always hot, heavy food that sat at the bottom of Kurt’s stomach and ached when he went to bed; wondering if this would be his life from now on, opening the door each evening around six to discover a frowning older lady thrusting Tupperware in his direction.
They never seemed to say much, and Kurt could feel the air of disapproval they exuded - whether it was for Kurt (who was still looked at oddly years after the incident with the high heels - it’s just unnatural for a boy, Mrs. Lee would often mutter) or for his father, who was yet to move from the house unless it was for work, Kurt couldn’t tell; but he’d perfected the art of smiling tightly and thanking the women quickly and then shutting the door in their faces so he could divide the food between two plates for tea.
He’d carry the food and a cup of water on a tray to his father, who’d sometimes smile softly, or drift a hand across Kurt’s cheek; or startle, as if pulled from terrible thoughts, and then tug Kurt into his strong arms tightly and jostle the tray of food and water until it teetered on the edge of falling.
Afterwards, the boy and his father would settle on the lounge and flick idly through the television and Burt would ask Kurt how school was, voice rough but still warm, and Kurt, he knew his father was trying, would only nod and let his head slowly fall to the crook of Burt’s elbow, as if the day had gone very well and he hadn’t spent the entire lunch period scraping the remains of thrown spaghetti off his shirt and trousers.
It was a routine that carried them through the first month following Elizabeth’s death. Burt worked, and Kurt suffered through school, and woman showed up with food to keep them alive, but then suddenly, as the month was up, like clockwork, the food stopped.
On that evening Kurt loitered in the doorway to the kitchen, unsure of what to do and picking at a spot on his shirt that he’d missed whilst huddled in the bathroom, but then Burt had got up off the couch, looked for a second at Kurt like a lost puppy, and then strode into the kitchen, opening all the cupboards and draws. Kurt had hurried after him, calling “Dad?” warily and Burt had muttered, “Where’s the damn pan?” and Kurt had shrugged helplessly. Five minutes later Burt’s head had emerged from the back of a cupboard with a loud exclamation of excitement and Kurt had jumped at the sudden, utterly foreign, noise.
Burt pulled bread from the pantry and cheese that Kurt was sure had been there for months and made four batches of badly burnt grilled cheese until finally the fifth one was perfect.
They’d sat at the table to eat and Kurt had kicked his feet under his chair, toes skimming the carpet until their tips tingled from the rough friction, and allowed himself to smile softly when his father spilt water down his front, like he always would.
“Dad, we should go shopping tomorrow morning,” Kurt had told him, and Burt had stilled his movements, hastily trying to wipe water from his shirt, and nodded slowly, as if the idea was a revelation.
“Yeah bud, we should. Get some of that cereal you love. I noticed we ran out,” and Kurt felt a hot blush spread through him because his father had noticed him, and the two slices of toast he’d been forced to make each morning after his muesli supply ran dry.
“And some pasta?” he’d pressed, “And maybe some vegetables?”
Burt had chuckled, “Trust me to get the only kid in Ohio who actually likes vegetables,” he’d muttered, voice thick and smile wavering, even if it was true.
Kurt had huffed, “I’m not the only child. And shouldn’t you be happy? You should eat more too!”
And suddenly, as his father roared with something akin to laughter though it was decidedly heavier, a tiny weight had begun to lift from Kurt’s chest.
---
Life progressed, and though Burt Hummel slowly returned to normal, Kurt still found himself the abnormal oddity in a town that prized conformity over all else.
He didn’t speak how they expected. He didn’t dress how boys should. He didn’t like football, or dirt, or roughhousing (even though he received an awful lot of it) and he didn’t like the thought of being stuck in Lima, Ohio one second longer than was absolutely necessary.
And sometimes, late at night, he’d lie in bed and feel a tingle through his veins that blossomed from his chest, a livewire of electricity run hot through him and he’d blink, mind suddenly completely clear and his breath ragged, pulse jumping, as if for those brief moments he’d held the entire universe in his fingertips.
He never spoke of it to anyone - not his father, nor a teacher, nor a doctor - he was the oddity of the town, but if it was found out that he was...different? No, that didn’t begin to describe the power he could sometimes feel travel down through his veins. Special, he’d decided upon. If anyone knew that he felt special in those moments, he’d be lucky to survive the day without having his head drowned down a toilet.
Little moments kept him going - the first few drops of jasmine in the air each spring; the soft touch of fabric under his fingers as it ran through the sewing machine; lying on the floor of his bedroom in the middle of summer, the air hot and oppressive against overheated skin as Julie Andrews sang loud and clear through his speakers and curled around his room and out the window into the breeze.
He entered high school and the bullying got worse, but for the first time in a long time there was friendship, and small laughter and music - finally, finally music beyond the walls of his house - a rag tag group of children playing at performance until somehow they matured into young adults who could put on a show.
There was Mercedes, and then Tina, and then somehow Rachel, even if she did drive him insane, and before he knew it there was also Artie and Brittney and Finn.
Finn who as tall and broad and not entirely handsome but had a wide smile that made butterflies curl in Kurt’s stomach. For the first time in a long time he felt like he was truly living - how could he not?
His heart felt liable to burst out of his chest whenever he was wrapped in the cocoon of the choir room amongst these wonderful people.
---
“Hey boo, you busy this weekend?” called Mercedes, peering around the edge of Kurt’s locker with a wide smile.
The beginning of Senior Year, and Kurt felt like his heart was a thousand, tiny fluttering wings all ready to scatter at any moment - he could almost taste the freedom in the air, if only he could last a final year in this hell hole.
“There’s a sale on and a pair of boots that have been calling my name all summer and I’m counting on you to guard them for me I case anyone else tries to snatch them.”
Kurt huffed a laugh and nodded, closing the metal door of his locker with a creak and hefting the leather strap of his satchel over his shoulder. It was heavy with books and sheet music for glee and cut across his chest tightly, dragging against his shirt.
“I was supposed to meet Dad at the shop but I’m sure he’ll understand. Well, not understand, but he knows better than to interfere with the mall and I. We have a long, sordid romance,” he sighed wistfully, and Mercedes cackled beside him, nudging his shoulder as they walked.
“Oh, hey, have you heard? There’s a new kid in town apparently. Tina had chemistry with him this morning.”
Kurt glances sideways at her. Not that he was opposed to such information, he just wasn’t quite sure why she was offering it to him, “And?”
She sighed dramatically, as if Kurt should have guessed the rest, “And he’s cute.”
Kurt chuckled, “Oh? Do tell.”
They rounded the corner, Mercedes waving a hand about as she imitated Tina, “Oh his hair, it’s so shiny, and his smile, and his eyes and his ass,” and Kurt was halfway through giggling when a shoulder ran into his chest, sending him toppling backwards, landing with a crash with his weight resting on his wrist, and then a steady, wet ooze dribbled down his neck and beneath his shirt and he shuddered backwards, trying to escape the uncomfortable mess as it trickled down his chest.
“Oops,” said the guy standing above him, wide brimmed cup still dangling from his hands. He chuckled, and then tore off down the hallway, Mercedes yelling abuse until he disappeared.
“Oh my god. Kurt! Come here, sit up, oh my god.”
“I’m fine,” he gritted, teeth clenched and body shuddering. “Nothing that I’m not used to.”
“Kurt,” Mercedes sighed, manhandling him until he was standing upright. The position only made the ooze slide down his chest quicker, pooling at the top of his pants and spreading across the waistband of his boxers. He squirmed uncomfortably and felt the hot curl of tears behind his eyes, threatening to fall before he pushed them back.
It wasn’t that this was an unusual occurrence - instead it was such a normal part of his day that he could feel his body give up entirely - his knees were shaking and his chest was heaving and the sudden throb in his wrist was banging against his temple.
“Kurt!”
He blinked quickly, and Mercedes was standing directly in front of him, mouth curved in a deep frown.
“That’s it, I’m taking you to the nurse, and then Principal Figgins.”
Kurt found his voice just in time to yell quickly, darting forward to stop Mercedes’ march and grabbing her around the arm, his wrist throbbing terribly.
“I’m fine Mercedes. Complaining only gives them what they want. I just need to clean up, that’s all.”
“Boo, no. They’re assholes who can’t deal with how fabulous you are, but they shouldn’t get away with it.”
Kurt sighed, shoulders hunched. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the wet substance congealing against the top of his pants. He didn’t want to think about the dry cleaning bill, or the mess down the front of his shirt.
“Please, just go to Glee. I’ll get cleaned up and be there in a minute.”
Mercedes eyed him warily.
“Please, Mercedes. I promise you can buy me a frozen yoghurt to make me feel better this afternoon.”
At that she smiled, though it was tinged with a sad, wary frown.
A big blob of, well, Kurt wasn’t even sure what it was - definitely not a slushie - but still disgusting, ran quickly down his stomach and pooled in his belly button until he squirmed, biting his lip, “On second thoughts you can buy me a hot pretzel.”
And Mercedes laughed, the noise bursting out of her as though she disapproved, but couldn’t help it, and Kurt smiled bashfully, knocking his shoulder with hers playfully.
“Go save me a seat, and then you can tell me all about this cute guy Tina spotted.”
“Oh my god, yes. She said he was more gorgeous than Mike, so he must be -“
“Go!”
Mercedes flittered down the now empty hallway and Kurt rolled his eyes before bending slowly, the ache down his side intensified by the movement and the bruise that was no doubt forming up his back. He checked his wrist over once, wincing as he tried to move it, but the pain was sharp and intense and tears prickled his eyes so he ignored it in favour of looping his satchel over his uninjured side, shuffling quietly down the hall towards the boys bathrooms, heaving a deep sigh before going inside.
Gently he peeled his shirt away from his chest and bit his lip to stop the barrage of insults on his tongue. It would cost him to have this fixed; and though the shirt was last season, it was a gorgeous fabric and one of his favourites.
Perhaps it was stupid to wear it to school but he’d given up on dressing himself down a long time ago - probably when he was four and mixing his parents fashions, he thought with a sad smile - and he wasn’t about to start now because some idiot couldn’t appreciate design.
At least, as far as he could tell, none had made it further down his pants.
He grabbed a handful of paper towels and mopped at his chest, rubbing the pink oozing liquid - and honestly, what the fuck was this stuff, he thought in disgust. He was almost finished when his own reflection caught his eye in the mirror.
He rocked forwards, wincing at the state of his hair, of his face - the dark rims under his eyes, still shiny with tears; the downwards slope of his nose; the curve of his ears.
He huffed and felt his throat tighten, “You’re better than all of them,” he muttered to himself.
“Less than a year and you’ll be in New York and no one will think you’re different, or disgusting.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, taking a deep breath as the anger curled in his chest and then with a final drag of breath he felt himself calm, felt the first, delicate tingle of power run like molasses down his spin and then shoot up his fingertips. His breath quickened, his heart beat wild and he let himself enjoy it a second, let himself suck it all in and then -
Then, a loud, piercing wail of an alarm tore through the school and Kurt jumped so far backwards he almost fell against the cubicle behind him.
Oh my god, oh my god, he thought desperately, pushing himself upright and glaring, wide eyed and astonished into the mirror because surely, no, that was impossible - but he’d been thinking about...but no - “impossible”, he whispered.
Just because he could feel his body shift and change with the power down his spine, didn’t mean that anything was actually happening. He couldn’t really control anything, deep down he knew that - he was just calming himself, just finding his core...but then... then the alarm had sounded, just as his body had been ready to burst.
But that was just a coincidence, a terrifying coincidence that he realized was still occurring because the alarm was still wailing pitifully loud and obnoxious in his ears.
“Fuck, fuck fuck,” he muttered, tearing around the tiny bathroom to grab his stuff.
His shirt was hanging over the sink and he pulled it up, wincing at the wet, pink stains down the front and slinging it over his shoulders, already pulling his satchel over his arm and fumbling with the buttons, his wrist throbbing painfully and making it hard to do them up.
The door to the bathroom flew open with a bang and Kurt jumped, already on edge from the footballer in the hallway and the sound of the alarm, and as he hastily tried to shove his shirt over his chest, curling in on himself, a small, hot hand grasped his wrist tightly and with a start Kurt gazed up into clear, hazel eyes.
The boy was shorter than Kurt, with dark, tight curls and soft, olive skin that Kurt immediately wanted to brush the backs of his fingers too. He blushed hotly at the thought and felt the boy run his fingers down his arm until they tangled with his hand, tugging at it, ruby red lips curling delicately around the words, “Oh, Kurt. I’ve been looking for you forever,” and with a firmer tug and a half crazed grin, “Now run.”
---
Kurt, wrist throbbing and satchel banging harshly at his side, shirt tails open and fluttering and leaving his bare chest to catch the breeze, tore down the hallways of McKinley after the small, half crazy boy still tugging on his hand.
They turned a sharp corner, and Kurt yelped in surprise at the high wall of flames engulfing the building ahead of them - because where the fuck had that come from? Not that the fire should have surprised him, there was an alarm wailing in his ears.
But surely they should have had a little more notice before the fire built to such heights?
“What on earth?” he muttered, voice high and cracking with fear, but the boy merely tugged him to the side and into a classroom and then pushed Kurt, hands hot and wide across his back, towards the closed window.
“Go, quick.”
“What?” Kurt screeched, digging his heels in and turning back to the boy.
“Those window’s don’t open,” he yelled, and the other boy’s eyes widened dramatically.
On closer inspection, his olive skin was flushed hot and his lips were paling and thin, but his eyes were still the bright hazel that Kurt had first noticed in the bathroom and he felt his heart flutter madly, despite the danger.
He could hear the flames crackling further down in the building, a sizzle and then pop that sounded too much like a bonfire and not enough like danger for it to really register - only the heavy seep of smoke in the air, rough down his throat but oddly sweet tasting, was causing his heart to flutter madly with adrenaline. It confused him - the sweet, acrid taste hanging in the air - not that he had much time to think about it, after all he’d never been stuck in a fire so he didn’t have much to compare.
He’d just never expected smoke to taste sweet.
“What do we do?” he rushed instead, shoving his satchel further up his shoulder.
He cradled his wrist in his hand because the ache was unbearable, and tried not to let the threat of tears cloud his vision as they grew, because really, if this was how he was going to die, it was a pretty crappy decision on the part of the man upstairs.
Stuffed into a classroom, minutes after being shoved to the floor, with a boy he didn’t know who looked half crazy with eyes darting around the room, but oh so beautiful, and where did that thought come from, Kurt questioned internally, his brain tumbling around too many thoughts as it filled with smoke and sweat.
“Okay, we need to get out of this building.”
“Yes.”
“But the windows are closed.”
“Yes,” Kurt whimpered.
“Do you trust me Kurt?” asked the boy, and Kurt felt a sob rise in his chest.
“I don’t know you!”
The boy stepped forward and gripped Kurt’s forearms tightly, all but shaking him, his gaze strangely familiar though no less intense. His hands were hot and hard and wide around his skin and Kurt drew a startled breath, because he’d only now remembered his shirt was open, and the boys gaze had quickly dropped, running up his bare, sweat glistened chest, and Kurt felt a hot curl of something in his stomach as the boy stuttered a second.
“Wha-?”
“Do you trust me?” the boy pressed, eyes upwards once more and steely, and Kurt could only nod.
“Okay, on the count of three I need you to duck your head, close your eyes and run, promise?”
Kurt gaped at him, but nodded. “Run where?”
“I’ll direct you. Just remember, head down and eyes closed and everything will be fine. Don’t let go of my hand.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. One,” and Kurt closed his eyes, wincing around tears, because surely this was suicide, “two,” and he ducked his head, “And three, run!” the boy yelled, and Kurt felt the hard grip of a hand around his uninjured wrist and a sudden tug and then they were tearing out into the hallway, down the corridor and around a corner and Kurt drew in a deep, horrid breath of curling, sweet smoke and with a terrified gasp realized they were running straight towards the fire.
He stumbled, but then the boy was tugging him forward harsher, grip not letting him go, and his feet were tripping and knocking into each other and there was a sudden, startling rush of heat up his back, like liquid fire crackling up his spine, but before he knew it they were thundering down a run of stairs and had collapsed on the cool, soft, wet grass, utterly spent.
There was a soft hand petting through his hair, as Kurt gasped wildly, trying to draw breath down his aching lungs. Fingers rubbed at his scalp, nice and deep and Kurt felt his bones give out, the breath leave his body and then the soft press of lips to his forehead where the boy was leant over him close.
And then everything went black.
---
He woke in a hospital bed, a machine beeping a steady and clichéd rhythm by his side and his wrist heavy with plaster.
“Oh Kurt,” rasped a heavy voice, and then his father was swimming before his vision, face a blur but getting clearer as Kurt blinked rapidly.
He tried to speak, tried to whisper his dad’s name, but all that came was a horrible, dry cough - his throat felt like sandpaper and he gestured wildly around for some water.
His dad lifted a cup and pressed a straw to his lips and Kurt drank it quickly, coughing as the liquid coated his throat and helped him feel half human once more.
“Dad?” he croaked.
“Yeah buddy. How are you feeling? You took quite a hit.”
“What...what happened? I don’t know. I don’t...I was in the bathroom and then there was a boy and then, nothing.”
Burt was nodding, still standing over Kurt’s body, and he pressed a large palm to Kurt’s forehead and stroked soft but firm across his fringe.
Kurt could feel phantom fingers drift against his scalp and then the feather light press of lips, and startled when his father started speaking, drawing him back to the present.
“There was a fire at school. No one’s sure what happened, how it started. They suspect it was deliberate, but no one can understand how it built so quick. Geez, Kurt. I’ve never seen anything like it. Half the school is in ashes.”
He felt a shudder tremble down his spine and blinked heavily, eyes still sore from the smoke, “You were there?” he asked, licking his lips to wet them.
His skin felt tight and dry and his insides hot and smoky, but as he licked his lips there was the faint, sweet tang of the smoke and he blinked quickly, made sure to ask his father about that, because something about that taste had terrified him. It was so unnatural.
“Not when it started, but afterwards. I didn’t know where you were. No one did. Not until they found you sprawled across the lawn behind the school.”
Burt, Kurt realized, had a hand nestled against Kurt’s cheek but also one resting against his own head, holding it up, and his eyes were drawn tight and painful, his lips a thin, red line. He looked terrible, and scared, and Kurt’s heart leapt in his chest with love.
“I was in the bathroom,” he tried to explain, pausing to cough harshly. It rattled up his spine and spluttered out, but he felt slightly better afterwards, even if it did make his chest ache. “I was in the bathroom, and I didn’t know what was happening, and then this boy ran in and grabbed my hand and we went into a classroom but we couldn’t climb out the window, so then we...” then we ran through the flames - through the thick, red, licking curls of flames, Kurt thought, shuddering.
But that can’t have been what happened, could it?
“And then?” Burt prodded, voice shaking.
“Then we found another exited, but we must have inhaled a lot of smoke, because I passed out,” he whispered softly.
How could they have run through the flames? He thought wildly. They were wearing flimsy clothes, no protection, and the flames had licked up the sides of the entire second half of the hallway. There was no was they could have survived.
Kurt felt his spine tingle uncomfortably and his fathers heavy gaze and with a shaky breath whispered, “The other boy, where is he? Is he okay?”
Burt’s brow crinkled. “I don’t know buddy. There was no one else with you when you were found. But you said there was someone with you in school?”
Kurt felt a sob rise deep in his throat, his mind flashing quickly - wide, hazel eyes and plump, red lips and olive skin and dark curls and oh god, he was real, wasn’t he? He had to have been.
But Kurt had never seen him before.
“Yes. He saved me. He was with me on the lawn.”
He held me in his arms and kissed my forehead and rubbed at my scalp and for the first time in forever it felt like home. Oh god, who was he?
“I don’t know, buddy. Maybe he wasn’t hurt. Maybe he’s somewhere else. I’m sure we’ll find him.”
And Kurt felt his heart thump thump, thump thump, deep and heavy in his chest as Burt’s smile wavered. “Oh Kurt, I’m so glad you’re okay,” and then his dad’s hand curled close around his own and held tight.
Phantom fingers tugged at his wrist and Kurt blinked his eyes closed, focused on hazel shine and ruby red and flushed cheeks and that stark, intense gaze, and the boys soft, wispy voice wrap delicately around the words “I’ve been looking for you forever.”
And then with a terrible start, Kurt froze.
How the fuck had that boy known his name?.)