Fic: Burns Brighter (Chapter Four - Part A)

Jan 24, 2013 14:04

Title: Burns Brighter (Chapter Four - Part A)
Authors: gameboycolor ( drblaine) and ourlivesareweird.
Spoilers: All of Avatar: The Last Airbender, The Legend of Korra, and Glee to be safe.
Warnings: Supernatural elements within the realm of the Avatar universe, descriptions of injuries, sports-related violence.
Rating: R overall
Length: ~3700 / ~14100
Summary: Kurt and Blaine navigate the perils of politics and pro-bending during the early years of Republic City. Picks up 50 years after the finale of Avatar: the Last Airbender.
A/N Thank you, thegrayowl, for making us some amazing cover art!

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four (Part A)

AO3 | Reblog on Tumblr



“Yeah,” Kurt replies. “That’s Blaine.”

“He’s cuter in the papers,” Lin notes with a brief, calculating look over her shoulder. “Shorter than I thought he’d be too.”

Kurt considers asking Lin not to stare, but odds are that he’d only end up encouraging her. Instead, his nose wrinkles at her observation, trying to recall his own first impression of Blaine - he doesn’t get far. “That doesn’t even make sense. Even the pictures on the front page are four inches tall at best,” remarks Kurt.

“He’s well-proportioned,” Lin explains, earning a brief sputter from Tenzin. Waving the thought off, she presses on. “I gotta know, is he as much of a brat as everyone makes him out to be?”

“Lin!” Tenzin cuts in at last, slightly red around the ears. “It’s not nice to gossip.”

Although tempted to agree, Kurt finds himself shaking his head. “It’s fine, Tenzin,” he says. “To answer your question, Lin, he’s... really not that bad. You don’t know him.”

Lin arches a brow. “Well, you’ve certainly told me, haven’t you?”

Kurt doesn’t mind having Lin as a verbal sparring partner. She’s always quick with a response. Normally, he would welcome he exchange. The problem is, he doesn’t feel much like talking about Blaine.

“So Lin,” Kurt says cheerfully. “Did you enjoy the match?”

“I’ve seen better,” she shrugs. “You guys weren’t completely awful. But it’s a shame, seeing the only all-female team get knocked out of the running this early.”

“It serves Sue right. She plucks her players from all over the globe. Word is, they paid that waterbender under the table to get her to join up.”

Lin shooks Tenzin a look.

“I mean,” Tenzin continues. “I have no idea what is going on. Resume your idle gossip.”

“Right,” Lin says with a slight smile. “Well, I should be going. Kurt, your match wasn’t a complete waste of my evening. Tenzin...” She leans up on the tips of her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You always know where to find me.”

As Lin leaves, Kurt watches Tenzin stare after her.

“Someone’s got it bad,” Kurt teases, leaning forward.
Tenzin smiles; somehow, the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Is something wrong?” Kurt asks, then flinches. From so close a distance, the question simply seems unnecessary; fortunately, Tenzin seems to take it in stride, his gaze turning. “I just mean that you two seem like you’re getting along well. Or, as well as Lin ever does with people.”

“She’s... everything. She’s my best friend. I’ve loved her since we were kids.”

It’s rare for Tenzin to come across as anything short of focused, but when his eyes cloud over and his stride turns uneven, Kurt takes it as a sign to watch for prying eyes, guiding both of them towards a smaller hallway, well nestled away from the hundreds of people leaving the stadium. “So what’s the problem?” he asks, leaning against a wall.

Tenzin follows, his back held straight and hands tucked away in his sleeves. “Well, as you know,” he says slowly, “Avatar Aang is getting up there in years.”

It isn’t the first time that Kurt’s heard Tenzin refer to his father by his title, but every single time, Kurt can’t help but think of how lonely it must feel to have a parent with an obligation greater than to his family. Kurt can’t imagine calling his own father anything other than ‘Dad,’ but Tenzin’s situation is different. Maybe using the title is just a way of coping.

Kurt feels a chill run down his spine; somehow, even though he’s come close to losing his own father before, being able to share this doesn’t make Kurt feel any less lonely. “Is he sick?”

“No, he’s doing as well as anyone could at his age. But he’s only human, Kurt.” People forget that, sometimes. “He’ll be gone someday. The cycle will continue. And I’ll be the last airbender.”

It’s hard for Kurt to imagine being concerned about future generations when he hasn’t even found himself.

“Okay, so you and Lin can pop out a million kids,” he suggests. “There’s bound to be some airbenders in the bunch.”

“She...” Tenzin frowns, rubbing his hand against his chin. “Lin sees a different future for herself. One that doesn’t exactly line up with my own.”

“So you’re going to break things off?”

Tenzin nods. “I’m not sure when, but it seems inevitable. All I can do is enjoy the time we have left.”

It all strikes Kurt as incredibly unfair, protests immediately rising in his chest. Tenzin shouldn’t be responsible for the population of the airbenders, but there’s no one else for the responsibility to fall to.

-

With their next match merely a week away and being the final qualification round for the championships, Kurt’s found himself heading to the gym more than ever before. Strangely, he finds himself looking forward to these hours, to the chance of working out all his tension and the relief of laying his burdens down. When he’s in practice, there’s no time to ponder on questions he can’t answer or people he can’t fathom. His objective is to win the game.

Maybe that’s the whole appeal pro-bending’s held with Blaine.

Dropping his bag gently on the ground, Kurt steps into the main practice area, surprised when he only finds Blaine. He draws water from a nearby basin, passing it in front of Blaine’s field of vision in greeting. “Is Puck going to be joining us?” Kurt asks, grinning when Blaine waves.

“Uh,” Blaine scratches the back of his head. “No, he’s not. He’s got this crazy idea that we need to learn to work together better. Thinks it’s be better if he leaves us alone.”

“And I think he just wanted to hang out with his girlfriend,” Kurt mutters.

Blaine laughs. “Unofficially, I agree.”

“And officially?”

Grimacing, Blaine rubs at the back of his neck. “Puck once shifted the foundation under my apartment. Everything was tilted slightly to the left for an entire week. I thought I was going insane.”

“Right,” Kurt nods, nose wrinkling in a smile. However endearing the image of Blaine fretting about his apartment might be, Kurt knows they shouldn’t be sitting around idly gossiping about Puck, so he points his thumb in the direction of the makeshift ring.

“I don’t have to be at the clinic until two. We have plenty of time before then. Where do we start?”

“Well, Puck thinks we need to stop working against each other,” Blaine muses with a raise of his brow.

It’s strange how much truth there is in Puck’s words. With the walls lowered and a bit more perspective under his belt, Kurt finds himself at greater ease in the gym than ever before. His eyes briefly glance over Blaine, at the broad expanse of his chest, considering Lin’s words from several days ago. Living in Republic City makes it impossible for him to go very long without being bombarded with Blaine’s image at some turn, whether it’s in the athletics section of the paper, or political columns discussing the future of the Council.

In comparison to spreads and photo ops, the Blaine who stands before Kurt seems like any other person.

Not so tall.

“And what do you think?” Kurt asks after a pause, taking a step closer towards Blaine with his expression carefully held even.

“Well,” Blaine says nervously. (The future Councilman? Nervous? In front of Kurt?) “I think that a little teamwork couldn’t hurt.”

Blaine’s guard must be down, judging by the way he entirely misses the orb of water Kurt lets float above his head, held aloft with a few swift, circular hand movements. “That sounds great,” he answers earnestly, watching Blaine heave a small sigh of relief before abruptly dropping the water onto Blaine’s head.

As Blaine splutters, looking a bit like a drowned buffalo yak, Kurt considers scooping up both of their supplies and dumping it all in the locker room, leaving Blaine soaking wet and miserable, but when Blaine glances up with a wide-eyed stare, Kurt decides to take pity.

Asking him not to laugh is the harder task.

“Hummel, what was that for?” Blaine demands, pushing his fingers through wet strands of hair, but the slight tug at the corner of his mouth seems to give everything away.

“Teamwork means knowing how to get a little dirty together, doesn’t it?” chuckles Kurt, stepping closer to pull and siphon excess water away from Blaine’s clothes and hair, returning it to the basin in the center of the gym. Conserving water might spare him a few trips to the tap.

He doesn’t even have the chance to manage a halfway serviceable job before Blaine’s clothes suddenly start to hiss, steam rising from the fabric as Kurt yelps and stumbles back from the heat.

From a distance, Kurt notices for the first time how closely the damp cloth is plastered to Blaine’s skin. As often as Kurt finds himself in the gym, one glance at Blaine has him feeling suddenly self-conscious; planes of muscle are clearly defined all over Blaine’s body, lean and sturdy in the way that firebenders tend to be.

Unlike Puck, Blaine doesn’t need to keep close to the ground. Unlike Kurt, his strength doesn’t lie in turning existing momentum against an opponent.

Fire’s forced to breathe life out of nowhere, and Kurt barely has time to settle the sudden thud of his heart before a line of flame forces him to turn out of the way, heat rushing by his shoulder.

“Maybe teamwork’s overrated,” Blaine smirks, eyes alight as he strikes forward with another burst of fire, the air between them crackling before Kurt whips his arms around to send a long arc of water in Blaine’s direction, putting the flames out with a hiss.

“Maybe,” he agrees.

It becomes clear after a couple of minutes how much Blaine’s held back in their earlier practices. Some of it was Beiste’s idea, letting the newest member act more in defense, stepping back to add support for Blaine and Puck wherever needed. Against fire, water’s practically an impenetrable defense, easily whipped around to help redirect the heat; as a result, few firebenders have ever focused their attention on Kurt in rounds.

Blaine seems to revel in the challenge.

Leaping through the air becomes a necessity against the near constant punches Blaine throws Kurt’s way, and soon enough, his calves ache, muscles forced back on instinct and reserve strength. Relying on stamina might pull a draw during the tournament, but both of them are stubborn people. It’s practice, but their aim is perfection.

He’ll have to take offense if he wants to win.

They pull to the center of the ring, barely three feet apart when Kurt gathers water around his arm, punching it directly towards Blaine’s face. He grins in triumph when Blaine’s eyes widen in surprise, but the victory doesn’t last long - even as Blaine starts to fall to the ground, he gathers his legs up by his abdomen and kicks them fiercely in Kurt’s direction. Barely managing to escape the heat, Kurt overcorrects his balance, leaning forward and suddenly scrambling to stand. Water splashes helplessly down around them as Kurt flinches, both palms held out to keep him from slamming against slate.

Except, one catches on something warm, soft, the rounded curve of a shoulder that breaks his fall into a stumble.

Blinking his eyes open, Kurt finds himself hovering a couple inches above Blaine, who similarly stares up with a bemused expression.

It’s wet. Everything is wet, droplets caught on Blaine’s skin and sliding slowly down his cheek, a pool gathered in the dip between his collarbones. Only seconds later does Kurt catch himself looking at all, cheeks blazing as he quickly corrects his gaze.

He catches a flicker of Blaine’s eyes. Glancing up, Kurt thinks.

(Blaine’s lips are wet, too, and Kurt curses his peripheral vision.)

“Well, if that's what you two need to sort out your differences, you can take my bed.”

Suddenly, all Kurt’s aware of is a tangle of limbs as he scrambles to roll off to the side, knees splashing through puddles in the process. He and Blaine stand within seconds of each other, if not less.

“We weren’t-”

“-were just-”

“-funny, just practicing and then he-”

“-fell, I fell.”

Puck grins.

“No funny business in the gym, boys,” Beiste bellows from across the room, sweeping past the entrance with a tall stack of discs in her arms.

Kurt can’t decide if he’d rather hit Puck or beg him to let the earth swallow him up alive.

-

Several minutes before the match, Emma whisks into the locker room, hair sweeping with the movement as she knocks sharply on the door frame.

“Kurt, do you have a minute? There’s a visitor here for you.”

Picking himself up from where he was stretching on the floor, Kurt raises a brow and nods. With the match itself soon to be underway, the visitor is either a close friend or someone bearing an urgent message - his heart lurches suddenly at the thought that his father might be in trouble, having insisted on coming even though his hours have been long...

He steps forward a little faster, briefly catching Puck and Blaine glancing his way as he ducks out of the room.

“...Master Katara!”

Her laugh sounds first, soft yet hearty, and Kurt rushes into her outstretched arms before she even has a chance to reply. “Kurt,” she murmurs, cupping his cheeks briefly and pressing a quick kiss against his forehead. “It’s good to see you.”

Nose wrinkling in slight distaste, Kurt ignores the temptation to bat her away; when he rarely gets to see her in a given month, it’s hard to begrudge anything. “I didn’t think you’d make it here on time!” he marvels, leaning back to glance briefly at her from head to toe. Thankfully, she looks as healthy and energetic as ever. “Sailing here from the South Pole takes forever, and I heard about that storm out at sea. Did you...?”

“A little water’s never stopped me,” she grins, patting his cheek again. “Your father saved me a seat, too. It’s a pretty impressive view from out there.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Kurt says, leaning forward for another tight hug.

“I’m glad to be here. Now, you should run along.” Pulling back, Katara rests her hands on Kurt’s upper arms, giving them a squeeze. “And win this match for me.”

-

With Katara and his father supporting from the front row, Kurt feels less nervous this time around. It also helps, not having Blaine tossing words of wisdom in his direction every few minutes.

The Dragonhawks seem to be working more as a unit this time. Kurt feels less like a last minute addition and more like a teammate.

-

The bell sounds, and the crowd falls into a hush for all of five seconds before the result is announced over the speakers: the Dragonhawks won the round, earning them a spot in the pro-bending championships. The roar is deafening, passing through Kurt’s chest in a loud thrum, and maybe it’s just his imagination, but he swears that they’re louder this time than ever before.

His gaze doesn’t drop to his feet, not even for a second; last time, Kurt hadn’t gotten a chance to take a good look at the crowd, too focused on his own faults. But they’re cheering now. Cheering. And as he stares, Kurt catches sight of an occasional blue flag waving vigorously - people cheering for him? It’s a strange feeling, something between a thud in his chest and a lump in his throat.

He’s never been into something for the sake of praise, but after weeks of constantly being downtrodden in the clinic, it’s nice to feel proud of himself again.

When he hears a rush of air close to his ear, Kurt turns on his heel, smile still stretched across his face as he watches a disc fly across the ring.

He doesn’t realize what’s happening at first. The game is over. They’ve won. There shouldn’t be a disc hurtling across the arena at full speed.

Blaine falls to the ground. Kurt hears laughter - the opposing team’s earthbender. Dustin, was it?

Doesn’t matter. His blood is boiling, stomach twisting. Kurt doesn’t even think before rushing to Blaine’s side. He should be cringing at the fact that he’s using dirty water from below the platform to tend to Blaine’s wound, but he doesn’t give it a second thought. There’s so much blood, more blood than Kurt has ever seen at once. He’s accustomed to mending minor injuries and broken bones. The blood blossoming from the cut on the crown of Blaine’s head - it keeps flowing, it won’t stop - feels like too much for him to mend.

Fingers smeared with red, Kurt abandons all hope of healing the gash and presses his hands to Blaine’s head, hoping to quell the blood flow.

He hears footsteps coming from across the bridge. Kurt can’t bring himself to look up until Wes starts to shake his shoulders. “Kurt, you need to stop.”

“I... can’t,” Kurt says weakly. “I have to help him.”

“We need to get him out of here.”

Kurt sees a flashbulb out of the corner of his eyes, and it dawns on him. They’re photographing this. These vultures are photographing a young man who is in critical condition. It’s sick.

Katara is next on the scene next with Tenzin, a stretcher floating between them with a soft rush of cool air. Someone’s prying his fingers loose, tugging at his wrists, the wound briefly exposed before Kurt’s hands are replaced with sterile gauze.

He looks down at his palms. They’re covered in blood, Blaine’s blood. He looks up to see Chief Bei Fong’s metalbenders escorting Dustin off the premises.

It would be better to let the officers to their job, but Kurt can’t help himself. Before he can think it through, he’s chasing after them and ignoring Puck’s protests.

He grabs Dustin by his hair. “Why did you do that?” he shouts, and his throat feels torn.

“It wasn’t supposed to hit him in the head.”

His hand quickly shifts down to Dustin’s neck, eyes wide and livid, because Dustin’s missed the point entirely. It doesn’t matter where the disc was supposed to hit Blaine. He’s hurt, his injury is worse than anything Kurt has ever seen, and Dustin has the gall to make excuses. Blinking through suddenly blurring vision, Kurt grits his jaw, fingers tightening.

“Mr. Hummel.” The hand on his shoulder is gentle, so when Kurt turns to find Chief Bei Fong herself standing close, his breath catches in surprise. “Let us take care of this.”

Then again, given Blaine’s status, it shouldn’t be surprising that she’s taking it upon herself to see to the escort of Blaine’s attacker.

Kurt lets Dustin go, and it’s the harder thing he’s ever done. Blaine is hurt, and Kurt can’t get his hands on the person who did it to him.

-

The waiting room of the clinic is dark, the steady hum of electricity almost more unnerving than silence. Kurt sent word to his Dad earlier, letting him know that he wouldn’t be home for a while.

He still has on most of his clunky uniform pads. When Kurt flexes his fingers, he can feel the tug of stiff skin; his gloves, stained with Blaine’s blood, were likely tossed out in the confusion.

There’s nothing he can do to help at this point, but at least he’s there. Good news or bad, he’ll be one of the first to hear.

Blaine hasn’t woken up yet. The healers in the clinic have tried to keep Kurt positive about it by telling him that they’ve seen people come back from worse, but Kurt can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t going to end well.

Maybe they’d give him a more realistic prognosis if the clinic wasn’t so hopeful about the recovery of a nation’s future leader.

Wes takes a seat beside Kurt, burying his head in his hands.

“I suppose you’re here to tell me that everything’s going to be alright,” Kurt says.

“No,” Wes says quietly. “I’m not.”

It’s a relief.

“Oh,” Kurt says quietly. “Okay. Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Wes replies, perhaps to dispel the tension in the air. But there’s something about his words, careful and deliberate in the way that Kurt expects people in Wes’ line of work to be.

Not having spent a lot of time with Blaine’s aide, Kurt’s not sure what he’s supposed to say.

“If he doesn’t make it, I’m going to end up next in line for that council chair.” There’s a distance in his tone; Wes isn’t speaking for Kurt’s benefit. In fact, judging by the pale stretch of his knuckles, the words seem to be for Wes’s own sanity. “And sure, there was a point where I would have wanted it, but not like this.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “Hell, there was a point where I would have said that I was rooting for the kid to crack his head open on the arena floor. It’s awful, but I can’t say I didn’t think it. But now...” He sighs. “He’s Blaine. I’m responsible for him. I was supposed to make certain that this didn’t happen.”

Kurt’s lips part for a moment, but press tightly shut again when he can’t find the right words to say. Just like he doesn’t know what he wants his fellow clinicians to say to him regarding Blaine’s prognosis.

All they can do now is give each other the gift of silence.
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