Fic: Consequence of Dissolution
Blaine (Blaine/Kurt) - PG-13 - 2,000 words - spoilers for 4.04 (tumblr link)
He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his arms heavy as lead as he combed his hair back. Over and over and it just wouldn’t stay flat enough. He grabbed the pot of gel again, breathing fast over the memory of Kurt tsking his excess, and added just a bit more to the back of his head.
No one was going to touch his hair, anyway. There was no point in considering a hand carding through his curls, fingers cupping the back of his neck. Not now, or for the foreseeable future.
Kurt still wasn’t talking to him.
Back to his room, he avoided the chest of drawers as he had unconsciously been doing for the last couple of weeks. His bowties were all in there, his ties, Kurt’s clothes, his softer cardigans, Kurt’s gifts. He couldn’t even bear wearing a scarf around his neck, no matter how cold it was getting lately. Everything reminded him of Kurt, his bright eyes every time he stepped as close as he could to tie something for him, to fix a knot, to make him right.
Now it all felt like an iron band around his throat, the mere idea like choking on air.
His closet had enough clothes for him, even if these days he only picked his self-appointed uniform for school: polo, sweater, jeans, shoes. It gave him no room for creativity, but it also didn’t require him to lose time thinking about it. It didn’t matter anymore. He had no one to dress for, no one who wanted to see his outfits in small phone pictures.
Blaine shuddered a sigh, tried to get himself together.
His homework was in his satchel already, and he promised himself like he did every morning he was going to get a new one as soon as possible. Maybe a black portfolio, or nothing at all. He could just carry his books in his arms, had no reason to need them free.
(He had bought Kurt the same satchel as a parting gift, knowing he had always been fond of it and his smaller Marc Jacobs wasn’t going to be enough to carry his work papers. He can’t even look at his anymore. He used to clutch the leather strap across his chest whenever he and Kurt weren’t comfortable with their surroundings to hold hands. It was a small comfort knowing he could still feel the strength of Kurt’s shoulder against his, that as soon as they could they always let go of themselves to hold on to each other. He swears he can feel it, sometimes. The phantom of Kurt’s fingers curling against his, the void right at the heart of his palm burning with Kurt’s absence. Every time he closes his fist into air, catching nothing. The worn strap of his satchel is the worst reminder of the things he won’t have now, no matter where he is).
These days he was used to spend as little time as possible in his own room. Sometimes he couldn’t even sleep in his own bed, had to curl on his couch twisted on himself just so he could look at Kurt’s portrait by his bedside table. That was the only one he had allowed himself to keep on plain sight. Kurt had looked aloof and mysterious during that little photoshoot, and Blaine could handle that much better than seeing his smiling face every morning.
The pinning board above his desk was completely empty now. What once was filled with Warbler pictures (their betrayal still hurt like kicks to the ribs after dancing with a boy), then shared with New Directions (he was an afterthought, he would never be any of them’s first or second choice) and surrounded by Kurt, always Kurt since the very beginning (he felt so guilty, so tainted, he couldn’t get out of his own head) had became a collage of all the ways his life had fallen apart time after time. He didn’t need that board anymore, either.
He thought about how easily he had destroyed the most important thing in his life, the one above all, on his own. Thought about it every day, every where, every second.
He could barely remember that actual afternoon (didn’t want to, wanted to erase it from his past) only the relief of someone actually wanting him close, asking for him. He didn’t even stay for Glee club that day, he could recall driving in a daze, his sight blurring and meeting with a boy with the wrong eyes. And everything had felt wrong before they even touched, and that should have been his first sign to stop, to get out and into his car, to drive back. But he hadn’t, had felt frozen on the spot, and the void that had been living in his chest grew tenfold. This wasn’t what he had been needing, not at all. Eli’s hand had closed on his biceps, keeping him close, and his rebuttal stayed silent like a lump in his throat. Like a knife slowly and irrevocably twisting into his own heart.
He had gone straight back home after, mindlessly walking to the basement without stopping until he was in front of his punching bag. He had breathed in the stale air and the used cracked leather, had felt like the old heavy bag had looked.
One second to the next, he had divested himself of shirt and sweater and had started punching, his bare fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. He didn’t know how much time he spent there, hitting every thought away. Had no way of knowing. He had stopped when one of his hands slided the curve of the bag, the blood from his abused skin mixing with the sweat he was drenched in.
A memory had assaulted him at once: Kurt strapping his boxing gloves with a kiss afterwards on each hand, flirting and looking through his eyelashes at him, asking to be careful with his hands because who would play piano for me if you hurt them?
An unexpected sob had broken through his apathy and before he knew it he was kneeling on the floor, dry heaving a lunch and breakfast he had skipped and hyperventilating through the desperate tears he had been keeping at bay. It all became real, right there and then. Real and undoable, and the bile in his mouth was the least of the things he deserved.
He had ruined everything. There was no excuse, no explanation other than I was so alone and even that sounded empty and insincere. His mind kept handing him reasonings as his body curled more and more into itself, his forehead almost to the floor, but the truth was he hadn’t thought at all before going to Eli’s house.
How could he ever explain things he had no words for? That his heart was overflowed with Kurt, that his love kept burning him from the inside out and had no outlet for the way he was losing himself in his absence. That he was spiralling without control, that he was uncomfortable in his own skin because he couldn’t be his true self with anyone left at all. That he was choking with his devotion, always drowning in the words Kurt had no time to hear from him.
He was starved from physical affection, was almost blinded by the need of any sort of connection he could get. He had thought maybe that was the only thing he had needed, something to put him back together until he could see Kurt again. And he had tried, tried so hard to be touched by anything at all but school clubs only left him emptier, and the presidency meant less than nothing.
Without Kurt’s buffer, no one really talked to him. His classmates were rude, his teachers uncaring. Glee club only ever wanted things from him, always demanding and never satisfied and he was just so tired. Endless repetitive speeches about union and group work meant nothing when New Directions had always only been Kurt’s home, not his.
Blaine’s home was Kurt and Kurt’s was now New York, and perhaps that was one way of making sense of everything. Blaine had always needed Kurt more, and sometimes he felt so helpless from his need he couldn’t understand how no one saw right through him, how much he couldn’t do this alone anymore.
He had known they had to talk, had to sit down together and just… speak. Blaine would do absolutely anything at all to get Kurt’s forgiveness, to earn his trust back.
But when the moment finally came Finn and Rachel stepped over their privacy every second they had together. When Blaine’s truth tumbled out of his lips uncoordinated and incomplete his mind went blank and wouldn’t speak anymore. Kurt refused to talk to him on their way back, refused to even look at him when they got ready together for bed. The next morning Blaine had woken up with swollen eyes and an empty bed, the only thing different from the last couple of days the overwhelming sense of being surrounded by Kurt’s belongings. He had turned to Kurt’s pillow, had breathed in as deeply as he could to gather his courage.
But he wasn’t Kurt. He would never have his strength.
He had gotten dressed as quickly as he was able, the flat silent and his thoughts tripping over themselves inside his head. But when he had seen Kurt, curled and deep asleep with dark circles under his eyes, any bravery he may have had left him in a single exhale.
He was a coward, and he was so ashamed.
He allowed himself one last indulgence, gently pushing Kurt’s hair back from his face, his fingers trembling. Kurt deserved so much better than the mess he had became.
He had gone back to Ohio without saying goodbye to anyone. Had sent the roses a day later, felt like a stupid child seconds after leaving the flower shop.
Blaine was so tired. He wished every morning he could sleep the day away, but ever since New York he hadn’t even managed an entire night without waking from torturing dreams.
He dragged his feet, one after the other, his car keys secured in his hand. His drive to school was made in silence, the quiet rumble of the engine his only company. His day would go in the same greyscale his routine had become, no surprises or unnecessary chatter: attend classes, hide during lunch hour in the choir room, maybe skip Glee and the judgment in their eyes if he could avoid them long enough.
They didn’t understand, none of them could ever. It hadn’t been about lust. It hadn’t been about sex, it hadn’t been about being upset with Kurt and how busy he had been with his new life.
It had been about Blaine, and how he was slowly coming to accept the only constant in his life were the ways he tainted those he cared about.
Back when they had gotten together, everyone had been sure Blaine was going to break Kurt’s heart. But he hadn’t understand that, how could it be? When Blaine was so hopelessly in love the air felt heavier whenever he was without Kurt, when his days didn’t start until he had heard his voice. Wes had been the only one (Wes who had known him the best, the closest thing he had to a real friend before Kurt) who had looked at him with concern. Who had taken him aside, had spoken quietly and without rush and asked him to please, please take care of yourself Blaine.
In the end, they all had been right. Except no one had considered Blaine breaking his own heart in the way, too.
He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his arms heavy as lead as he combed his hair back. Over and over and it just wouldn’t stay flat enough. He grabbed the pot of gel again, breathing fast over the memory of Kurt tsking his excess, and added just a bit more to the back of his head.
No one was going to touch his hair, anyway. There was no point in considering a hand carding through his curls, fingers cupping the back of his neck. Not now, or for the foreseeable future.
Kurt still wasn’t talking to him.
Back to his room, he avoided the chest of drawers as he had unconsciously been doing for the last couple of weeks. His bowties were all in there, his ties, Kurt’s clothes, his softer cardigans, Kurt’s gifts. He couldn’t even bear wearing a scarf around his neck, no matter how cold it was getting lately. Everything reminded him of Kurt, his bright eyes every time he stepped as close as he could to tie something for him, to fix a knot, to make him right.
Now it all felt like an iron band around his throat, the mere idea like choking on air.
His closet had enough clothes for him, even if these days he only picked his self-appointed uniform for school: polo, sweater, jeans, shoes. It gave him no room for creativity, but it also didn’t require him to lose time thinking about it. It didn’t matter anymore. He had no one to dress for, no one who wanted to see his outfits in small phone pictures.
Blaine shuddered a sigh, tried to get himself together.
His homework was in his satchel already, and he promised himself like he did every morning he was going to get a new one as soon as possible. Maybe a black portfolio, or nothing at all. He could just carry his books in his arms, had no reason to need them free.
(He had bought Kurt the same satchel as a parting gift, knowing he had always been fond of it and his smaller Marc Jacobs wasn’t going to be enough to carry his work papers. He can’t even look at his anymore. He used to clutch the leather strap across his chest whenever he and Kurt weren’t comfortable with their surroundings to hold hands. It was a small comfort knowing he could still feel the strength of Kurt’s shoulder against his, that as soon as they could they always let go of themselves to hold on to each other. He swears he can feel it, sometimes. The phantom of Kurt’s fingers curling against his, the void right at the heart of his palm burning with Kurt’s absence. Every time he closes his fist into air, catching nothing. The worn strap of his satchel is the worst reminder of the things he won’t have now, no matter where he is).
These days he was used to spend as little time as possible in his own room. Sometimes he couldn’t even sleep in his own bed, had to curl on his couch twisted on himself just so he could look at Kurt’s portrait by his bedside table. That was the only one he had allowed himself to keep on plain sight. Kurt had looked aloof and mysterious during that little photoshoot, and Blaine could handle that much better than seeing his smiling face every morning.
The pinning board above his desk was completely empty now. What once was filled with Warbler pictures (their betrayal still hurt like kicks to the ribs after dancing with a boy), then shared with New Directions (he was an afterthought, he would never be any of them’s first or second choice) and surrounded by Kurt, always Kurt since the very beginning (he felt so guilty, so tainted, he couldn’t get out of his own head) had became a collage of all the ways his life had fallen apart time after time. He didn’t need that board anymore, either.
He thought about how easily he had destroyed the most important thing in his life, the one above all, on his own. Thought about it every day, every where, every second.
He could barely remember that actual afternoon (didn’t want to, wanted to erase it from his past) only the relief of someone actually wanting him close, asking for him. He didn’t even stay for Glee club that day, he could recall driving in a daze, his sight blurring and meeting with a boy with the wrong eyes. And everything had felt wrong before they even touched, and that should have been his first sign to stop, to get out and into his car, to drive back. But he hadn’t, had felt frozen on the spot, and the void that had been living in his chest grew tenfold. This wasn’t what he had been needing, not at all. Eli’s hand had closed on his biceps, keeping him close, and his rebuttal stayed silent like a lump in his throat. Like a knife slowly and irrevocably twisting into his own heart.
He had gone straight back home after, mindlessly walking to the basement without stopping until he was in front of his punching bag. He had breathed in the stale air and the used cracked leather, had felt like the old heavy bag had looked.
One second to the next, he had divested himself of shirt and sweater and had started punching, his bare fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. He didn’t know how much time he spent there, hitting every thought away. Had no way of knowing. He had stopped when one of his hands slided the curve of the bag, the blood from his abused skin mixing with the sweat he was drenched in.
A memory had assaulted him at once: Kurt strapping his boxing gloves with a kiss afterwards on each hand, flirting and looking through his eyelashes at him, asking to be careful with his hands because who would play piano for me if you hurt them?
An unexpected sob had broken through his apathy and before he knew it he was kneeling on the floor, dry heaving a lunch and breakfast he had skipped and hyperventilating through the desperate tears he had been keeping at bay. It all became real, right there and then. Real and undoable, and the bile in his mouth was the least of the things he deserved.
He had ruined everything. There was no excuse, no explanation other than I was so alone and even that sounded empty and insincere. His mind kept handing him reasonings as his body curled more and more into itself, his forehead almost to the floor, but the truth was he hadn’t thought at all before going to Eli’s house.
How could he ever explain things he had no words for? That his heart was overflowed with Kurt, that his love kept burning him from the inside out and had no outlet for the way he was losing himself in his absence. That he was spiralling without control, that he was uncomfortable in his own skin because he couldn’t be his true self with anyone left at all. That he was choking with his devotion, always drowning in the words Kurt had no time to hear from him.
He was starved from physical affection, was almost blinded by the need of any sort of connection he could get. He had thought maybe that was the only thing he had needed, something to put him back together until he could see Kurt again. And he had tried, tried so hard to be touched by anything at all but school clubs only left him emptier, and the presidency meant less than nothing.
Without Kurt’s buffer, no one really talked to him. His classmates were rude, his teachers uncaring. Glee club only ever wanted things from him, always demanding and never satisfied and he was just so tired. Endless repetitive speeches about union and group work meant nothing when New Directions had always only been Kurt’s home, not his.
Blaine’s home was Kurt and Kurt’s was now New York, and perhaps that was one way of making sense of everything. Blaine had always needed Kurt more, and sometimes he felt so helpless from his need he couldn’t understand how no one saw right through him, how much he couldn’t do this alone anymore.
He had known they had to talk, had to sit down together and just… speak. Blaine would do absolutely anything at all to get Kurt’s forgiveness, to earn his trust back.
But when the moment finally came Finn and Rachel stepped over their privacy every second they had together. When Blaine’s truth tumbled out of his lips uncoordinated and incomplete his mind went blank and wouldn’t speak anymore. Kurt refused to talk to him on their way back, refused to even look at him when they got ready together for bed. The next morning Blaine had woken up with swollen eyes and an empty bed, the only thing different from the last couple of days the overwhelming sense of being surrounded by Kurt’s belongings. He had turned to Kurt’s pillow, had breathed in as deeply as he could to gather his courage.
But he wasn’t Kurt. He would never have his strength.
He had gotten dressed as quickly as he was able, the flat silent and his thoughts tripping over themselves inside his head. But when he had seen Kurt, curled and deep asleep with dark circles under his eyes, any bravery he may have had left him in a single exhale.
He was a coward, and he was so ashamed.
He allowed himself one last indulgence, gently pushing Kurt’s hair back from his face, his fingers trembling. Kurt deserved so much better than the mess he had became.
He had gone back to Ohio without saying goodbye to anyone. Had sent the roses a day later, felt like a stupid child seconds after leaving the flower shop.
Blaine was so tired. He wished every morning he could sleep the day away, but ever since New York he hadn’t even managed an entire night without waking from torturing dreams.
He dragged his feet, one after the other, his car keys secured in his hand. His drive to school was made in silence, the quiet rumble of the engine his only company. His day would go in the same greyscale his routine had become, no surprises or unnecessary chatter: attend classes, hide during lunch hour in the choir room, maybe skip Glee and the judgment in their eyes if he could avoid them long enough.
They didn’t understand, none of them could ever. It hadn’t been about lust. It hadn’t been about sex, it hadn’t been about being upset with Kurt and how busy he had been with his new life.
It had been about Blaine, and how he was slowly coming to accept the only constant in his life were the ways he tainted those he cared about.
Back when they had gotten together, everyone had been sure Blaine was going to break Kurt’s heart. But he hadn’t understand that, how could it be? When Blaine was so hopelessly in love the air felt heavier whenever he was without Kurt, when his days didn’t start until he had heard his voice. Wes had been the only one (Wes who had known him the best, the closest thing he had to a real friend before Kurt) who had looked at him with concern. Who had taken him aside, had spoken quietly and without rush and asked him to please, please take care of yourself Blaine.
In the end, they all had been right. Except no one had considered Blaine breaking his own heart in the way, too.