Fic: Nothing Really Matters (Glee: Kurt/Blaine)
Media: Fic
Title: Nothing Really Matters
Fandom: Glee, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Very, very vague spoilers for New York
Warnings: A bit of emotionally heavy material, but nothing that would be too bad; vague homophobia, lots of long and winding possibly run-on sentences, extreme attempts at poeticism
Word Count: 1,273
Summary: Kurt and Blaine in the future, living less than fabulously in New York City. Kurt has a late-night reflection on his current state of living.
A/N: Fic I wrote on a burst of late-night inspiration with little editing. I seem to have a thing for mildly angsty starving-artist ‘verses.
A song I highly suggest listening to while reading is another one of Madonna's songs, Drowned World (Substitute for Love). I find it fits the mood I intended really well.
Fic somewhat inspired by Madonna’s Nothing Really Matters.
Nothing really matters
Love is all we need
Everything I give you
All comes back to me
~"Nothing Really Matters" - Madonna
Some days, Kurt Hummel questions his life choices.
Not in a fleeting what-was-I-thinking sort of questioning, but rather an open and honest intrapersonal conversation that occurs only when he’s sitting alone in the compact kitchen of his shabby New York apartment at four in the morning, sipping from a glass of chocolate soy milk that he hates but is drinking only because the milk’s expiration date is fast approaching and money is too tight to afford wasting food.
He questions himself and the path he chose as he looks around the room at the stack of bills on the chipped wooden dinner table bought for five bucks at a flea market, listening to the sound of the perpetual early morning bickering of the couple on the floor above. The fight unfolding overhead reminds him of the shouted argument he and Blaine had several hours ago.
Four years earlier, he would have perished the thought of living the way he is right now, would have drawn back in horror at the thought of thrift store clothing in lieu of in-season designer clothes. Cutting coupons and cringing at every cent spent would have seemed so foreign and looked an almost impossible fate at the time.
How drastically things can change in such a short time, Kurt thinks, biting back the bitterness that he dare not let himself feel too strongly.
He yawns. In two hours, he will have to drag himself up and get dressed to look presentable enough for the outside world. He will walk to his work at a locally owned coffee shop, picking up breakfast from a nearby food cart owned by a Polish immigrant who lives two floors down.
Two rooms away, Blaine-Blaine Anderson, whom he gave up Broadway dreams for, whom he turned his life upside-down for-lies fast asleep in their shared bed, purposefully favoring the side closer to the window because he knows Kurt hates trying to fall asleep with the sound of cars roaring by.
The other half, Kurt’s half, sits vacant.
Was it worth it? Kurt prods, trying to force himself to open up and be honest, if only with his own consciousness.
Four distant years ago, at the tender age of seventeen, he would have simply put on one of the emotionally-charged tracks from a favorite musical and sang along, cathartically tapping into the raw feelings that way.
Except now he can’t. Not unless he wants to suffer the wrath of the despicable old widow next door-Mrs. Blackwood-who would look at him with thinly veiled hate from the threshold of his apartment door as she informed him sourly that his singing voice was too piercing and too sharp, especially for a man like him, and that she absolutely cannot stand it from behind the inadequate walls of the building.
But now that he thinks of it, he is unfair and irrational in trying to hate her.
He considers that maybe she, too, has her own problems. Problems, Kurt muses, that she hides from the world, the way everybody in their apartment complex folds their lives inward, away from probing, judging eyes. Her life hardly seems any more glamorous than his, perhaps even less so because she must live out her twilight years in solitude.
Kurt’s heart twists painfully at the thought, and he unconsciously throws a glance in the direction of his and Blaine’s bedroom.
Kurt doesn’t notice he’s crying until a tear finally rolls down his face and lands on the back of his hand. He snaps from his reverie, wipes the wet drop away quickly.
Stay strong. He must stay strong, for himself, yes, but mostly for Blaine.
But really, is Blaine worth it?
Is he worth having to suffer the biting words of Mr. Anderson, Sr. when he told the couple that Blaine would lose his hefty inheritance if he continued with his rogue and unconventional lifestyle? Is he worth having to grip Blaine’s hand while quashing down the many angry harangues he would gladly unleash on Mr. Anderson, Sr., if given the chance?
Is Blaine-stubborn, passionate Blaine-worth abandoning the last threads of his dignity to work at a rundown Mexican restaurant for eight months in order to cover the rent?
Is Blaine-wonderful, patient Blaine-worth always walking by the glittering billboards boasting of Broadway and the glory of New York City on his way to evening classes at the nearby community college?
Is he really worth the tears quietly shed when no one is looking as Kurt flicks through the box holding his old collection of Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand films?
Kurt knows the answer, in his heart-he has always known: of course. Of course Blaine is worth it.
Blaine is worth everything-all the difficulties that seem so small when he thinks of humble pizza dates had on the roof of their apartment building as the Empire State Building sits so small and quaint in the horizon, surrounded by a glimmering, silent sea of the city that never sleeps.
Or when he remembers the occasional outings to see musicals at the community theatre, where he and Blaine would spend most of the time necking and giggling in the back like the teenagers they once were and only part of the time actually watching the stage.
The obstacles, Kurt reiterates to himself, are but the lows to contrast the highs of passionate kisses and caresses shared in the privacy of their apartment.
He revels in grasping Blaine’s warm, rough hand as they walk down the street, feeling like total celebrities just because they have each other on his arm to boast of. And as their steps quickly fall into sync, feet beating the pavement in time with one another, Kurt doesn’t think there is a more beautiful sound in the world.
Then when Kurt gets to place chocolate-flavored kisses on Blaine’s lips under the grainy light of the street lamps after a late-night hot cocoa run, Blaine's hand digging into the slight curve of his waist, he feels like the luckiest guy in the world.
In a strange, strange way, Kurt is thankful that he has been forced down to such a low point in life, thankful that his conditions force him to see that his happiness and joy lie not in any runway clothes he could ever purchase, or the short-lived highs of performing for faceless crowds on a stage, or many of the luxuries of a more financially stable life, no.
Instead, he finds the bliss that makes life worth living comes from loving Blaine, from wondering how he gets to be the one that Blaine wraps his arms around and kisses the neck of.
Abandoning the glass holding the last few drops of the dreadful soymilk, Kurt finally slips off his stool, flips off the harsh fluorescent kitchen light, and pads quietly to his bedroom.
Blaine is still curled up sideways on his half of the bed, arms tucked under his head. Kurt slides in under the covers next to him, fitting their bodies together comfortably and wrapping a protective arm around Blaine’s waist, slimmed by a frugal lifestyle. He affectionately nuzzles the mess of black, unruly hair and sighs, smiling for the first time that night.
Kurt supposes for a second that he may be disillusioned by some silly, romantic starving-artist mindset, but he immediately dismisses the possibility as ludicrous because, honestly?
He’s pretty-much-absolutely certain that it can only get better from here.
~
Feedback is puppies, chocolate, and double-rainbows rolled in one! :D
Title: Nothing Really Matters
Fandom: Glee, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Very, very vague spoilers for New York
Warnings: A bit of emotionally heavy material, but nothing that would be too bad; vague homophobia, lots of long and winding possibly run-on sentences, extreme attempts at poeticism
Word Count: 1,273
Summary: Kurt and Blaine in the future, living less than fabulously in New York City. Kurt has a late-night reflection on his current state of living.
A/N: Fic I wrote on a burst of late-night inspiration with little editing. I seem to have a thing for mildly angsty starving-artist ‘verses.
A song I highly suggest listening to while reading is another one of Madonna's songs, Drowned World (Substitute for Love). I find it fits the mood I intended really well.
Fic somewhat inspired by Madonna’s Nothing Really Matters.
Nothing really matters
Love is all we need
Everything I give you
All comes back to me
~"Nothing Really Matters" - Madonna
Some days, Kurt Hummel questions his life choices.
Not in a fleeting what-was-I-thinking sort of questioning, but rather an open and honest intrapersonal conversation that occurs only when he’s sitting alone in the compact kitchen of his shabby New York apartment at four in the morning, sipping from a glass of chocolate soy milk that he hates but is drinking only because the milk’s expiration date is fast approaching and money is too tight to afford wasting food.
He questions himself and the path he chose as he looks around the room at the stack of bills on the chipped wooden dinner table bought for five bucks at a flea market, listening to the sound of the perpetual early morning bickering of the couple on the floor above. The fight unfolding overhead reminds him of the shouted argument he and Blaine had several hours ago.
Four years earlier, he would have perished the thought of living the way he is right now, would have drawn back in horror at the thought of thrift store clothing in lieu of in-season designer clothes. Cutting coupons and cringing at every cent spent would have seemed so foreign and looked an almost impossible fate at the time.
How drastically things can change in such a short time, Kurt thinks, biting back the bitterness that he dare not let himself feel too strongly.
He yawns. In two hours, he will have to drag himself up and get dressed to look presentable enough for the outside world. He will walk to his work at a locally owned coffee shop, picking up breakfast from a nearby food cart owned by a Polish immigrant who lives two floors down.
Two rooms away, Blaine-Blaine Anderson, whom he gave up Broadway dreams for, whom he turned his life upside-down for-lies fast asleep in their shared bed, purposefully favoring the side closer to the window because he knows Kurt hates trying to fall asleep with the sound of cars roaring by.
The other half, Kurt’s half, sits vacant.
Was it worth it? Kurt prods, trying to force himself to open up and be honest, if only with his own consciousness.
Four distant years ago, at the tender age of seventeen, he would have simply put on one of the emotionally-charged tracks from a favorite musical and sang along, cathartically tapping into the raw feelings that way.
Except now he can’t. Not unless he wants to suffer the wrath of the despicable old widow next door-Mrs. Blackwood-who would look at him with thinly veiled hate from the threshold of his apartment door as she informed him sourly that his singing voice was too piercing and too sharp, especially for a man like him, and that she absolutely cannot stand it from behind the inadequate walls of the building.
But now that he thinks of it, he is unfair and irrational in trying to hate her.
He considers that maybe she, too, has her own problems. Problems, Kurt muses, that she hides from the world, the way everybody in their apartment complex folds their lives inward, away from probing, judging eyes. Her life hardly seems any more glamorous than his, perhaps even less so because she must live out her twilight years in solitude.
Kurt’s heart twists painfully at the thought, and he unconsciously throws a glance in the direction of his and Blaine’s bedroom.
Kurt doesn’t notice he’s crying until a tear finally rolls down his face and lands on the back of his hand. He snaps from his reverie, wipes the wet drop away quickly.
Stay strong. He must stay strong, for himself, yes, but mostly for Blaine.
But really, is Blaine worth it?
Is he worth having to suffer the biting words of Mr. Anderson, Sr. when he told the couple that Blaine would lose his hefty inheritance if he continued with his rogue and unconventional lifestyle? Is he worth having to grip Blaine’s hand while quashing down the many angry harangues he would gladly unleash on Mr. Anderson, Sr., if given the chance?
Is Blaine-stubborn, passionate Blaine-worth abandoning the last threads of his dignity to work at a rundown Mexican restaurant for eight months in order to cover the rent?
Is Blaine-wonderful, patient Blaine-worth always walking by the glittering billboards boasting of Broadway and the glory of New York City on his way to evening classes at the nearby community college?
Is he really worth the tears quietly shed when no one is looking as Kurt flicks through the box holding his old collection of Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand films?
Kurt knows the answer, in his heart-he has always known: of course. Of course Blaine is worth it.
Blaine is worth everything-all the difficulties that seem so small when he thinks of humble pizza dates had on the roof of their apartment building as the Empire State Building sits so small and quaint in the horizon, surrounded by a glimmering, silent sea of the city that never sleeps.
Or when he remembers the occasional outings to see musicals at the community theatre, where he and Blaine would spend most of the time necking and giggling in the back like the teenagers they once were and only part of the time actually watching the stage.
The obstacles, Kurt reiterates to himself, are but the lows to contrast the highs of passionate kisses and caresses shared in the privacy of their apartment.
He revels in grasping Blaine’s warm, rough hand as they walk down the street, feeling like total celebrities just because they have each other on his arm to boast of. And as their steps quickly fall into sync, feet beating the pavement in time with one another, Kurt doesn’t think there is a more beautiful sound in the world.
Then when Kurt gets to place chocolate-flavored kisses on Blaine’s lips under the grainy light of the street lamps after a late-night hot cocoa run, Blaine's hand digging into the slight curve of his waist, he feels like the luckiest guy in the world.
In a strange, strange way, Kurt is thankful that he has been forced down to such a low point in life, thankful that his conditions force him to see that his happiness and joy lie not in any runway clothes he could ever purchase, or the short-lived highs of performing for faceless crowds on a stage, or many of the luxuries of a more financially stable life, no.
Instead, he finds the bliss that makes life worth living comes from loving Blaine, from wondering how he gets to be the one that Blaine wraps his arms around and kisses the neck of.
Abandoning the glass holding the last few drops of the dreadful soymilk, Kurt finally slips off his stool, flips off the harsh fluorescent kitchen light, and pads quietly to his bedroom.
Blaine is still curled up sideways on his half of the bed, arms tucked under his head. Kurt slides in under the covers next to him, fitting their bodies together comfortably and wrapping a protective arm around Blaine’s waist, slimmed by a frugal lifestyle. He affectionately nuzzles the mess of black, unruly hair and sighs, smiling for the first time that night.
Kurt supposes for a second that he may be disillusioned by some silly, romantic starving-artist mindset, but he immediately dismisses the possibility as ludicrous because, honestly?
He’s pretty-much-absolutely certain that it can only get better from here.
~
Feedback is puppies, chocolate, and double-rainbows rolled in one! :D