Wish You Were Here (PG-13)
Title: Wish You Were Here (Glory Box 5/6)
Rating: I’d place this part at about a PG-13, but it doesn’t really make sense unless you’ve read the very NC-17 part that kicks everything into gear.
Word Count: 1983
Spoilers: Through Furt, and goes AU from there.
Warnings: Beware of angst - from the boys as well as me, because angst isn’t my usual wheelhouse, so this whole series is a bit of an experiment.
Summary: Fifth part of what I’ve dubbed the ”Glory Box” series. Blaine had an experience once, and he’ll never be able to forget it.
All blame for this lies squarely at the feet of cgfan09, who nudged me toward exploring the consequences.
"…the worst thing about this is that I ever met you.”
It’s been two weeks, and Blaine can’t get the sound of Kurt’s voice out of his head. This isn’t uncommon; but in the past, Kurt’s voice was full of laughter and song. Now, it’s full of things like “go,” and “I can’t do this anymore.”
Kurt’s song has become a thing of the past. It’s not just their impromptu sing-a-longs that has stopped, it’s the Warblers, too. Or at least, Kurt’s role with them. Blaine had been shocked when Wes had made the announcement that Kurt had decided to quit, but it made sense, once he’d allowed himself to digest it. Kurt couldn’t exactly give him the silent treatment and sing in eight part harmony with him, and Kurt, it soon proved, was a master of the silent treatment. He disappears so easily into the crowd, now that he no longer wants to be noticed.
There are times when Blaine thinks he sees Kurt looking at him through a sheen of expectation, but every time, Kurt’s just ducked out of view by the time he manages to notice. He’s almost texted him dozens of times, but he just can’t bring himself to think of what the response could be. “Drop dead” seems likely, as does “go fuck yourself, or find some other loser to do it in another bathroom stall,” maybe.
He can’t remember the last time he really slept, and when Mr. Merrick takes him aside after history to tell him he’s noticed a change, and he’s worried about the sudden downturn in his grades, Blaine’s not even sure he’s got it in him to care. He just shrugs, noncommittally, and gazes out the window at the snowy fields below until his teacher realizes he isn’t going to get anywhere, and dismisses him.
It’s still a few days after that when Blaine finds the note. He’d been digging through the detritus at the bottom of his schoolbag when his finger slid across the heavy paper at just the wrong angle. He slid his finger between his lips and sucked gently at the cut, his mouth filling with a thin saltiness. With his other hand, he upended his bag and sent the entire contents spilling over his bed. Pushing aside textbooks, notebooks, and the odd pen or pencil, he finally spotted the envelope. The flap was loose, and from the crimson smear against the dove grey paper, it seemed that it must have already been up when he’d encountered it a moment earlier.
There was barely a moment’s confusion over it before the answer hit him. He’d left his bag in Kurt’s room that night, and it had been hours before that freshman had brought it over. Fingers trembling, he pried the envelope open and unfolded the paper within.
Blaine,
For the first time since what I mistakenly thought was our first meeting, I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know what would be right, or appropriate, or even what I want to say; I only know that it needs saying.
I don’t know which one of us I hate more right now, but I think my money’s on me. As much as I’d like to, I just can’t bring myself to hate you the way I think I should. The way I wish I could.
As much as I, right now at this moment, can’t stomach the thought of seeing your face, I know the time will come when I can’t stomach the thought of not seeing it. I don’t even know if you’ll want to see mine by the time I get there, but I do know that the day I first saw your face was the best of my life, and the thought that it might never have happened is more than I think I can stand.
When I “met” you (and I put it that way because I just can’t think of it as meeting you anymore, and I think you can understand why), that changed. You gave me strength I didn’t know I had, and you made me want to be a genuinely better person. You made me stop hating myself, and you helped me find my peace. You gave me a place to be that I’d never had before, and that place was one hundred percent safe. I never had to be afraid with you, and I never felt the need to pretend.
Part of me thinks that if I could go back in time and never go to that park, I would. The bigger part of me knows better. Be honest, Blaine. If that day had never happened, would you have still reacted the way you did on the stairs? Would your face still have lit up the way it did? Would you have still grabbed hold of me and taken me down what I now know for a fact is most definitely not a shortcut from the north stairs to the senior commons? Would you have sung to me? Whatever you think your answer is, you’ll never really know. That means I won’t, either, and I can’t stand the thought that the answer would be no.
I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this since you left, and I don’t know that it’s possible. There are things that I just can’t make compute, and they all have to do with you. The you I thought I knew, and the you that must exist if that day really happened.
The Blaine that I’ve known up to this moment is confident, and strong, and knows who he is. He’s always there with a shoulder to cry on or an annoying, yet apt, bit of wisdom just when it’s most needed. The Blaine that I know could have his pick of any of the gay students in this school (and quite possibly one or two faculty members, if my suspicions are correct) if he’d just do as much as look their way.
The Blaine I know is all but impossible not to love.
That said, people like that do not do what we did unless a) they’re also secret sociopaths, b) sex-crazed perverts, or c) not really people like that, at all.
So I’m thinking now that the answer to this riddle is one of three things. 1) You’re not the Blaine I thought I knew. 2) You’re not the Blaine you think you are. 3) You’re somewhere between the two, and we both need to take our blinders off and work at finding out what’s real and what isn’t. I know what my reasons for going there that day were, and I’m beginning to suspect yours weren’t much different. I’d like to know for sure.
I started this letter with the intention of chewing you out for being a liar and a creep and any other assortment of things, but once again, you’ve brought me back to peace. The closest to peace I can get for now, I think. Isn’t it funny how that works? Even when I want to scream that I hate you, I can’t help but feel stronger just to know that you’re reading this, and that it’s going to matter to you. At least, I think it will. Tell me it does, okay?
Ever since you left, I’ve been thinking of this song that my mom used to listen to when she was sick. Dad hated it, because he thought it was cruel for her to focus on the fact that she was leaving us, but she said it was (and I’ll never forget this, because it didn’t make sense to me, and I wrote it down in my diary and if you make one crack about a nine year old boy keeping a diary, I swear I will risk breaking a nail to slug you) ‘about more than the leaving, and more than the longing, and more about the things lost and found along the way.’ I’m still not a hundred percent I understand what she meant, but I can’t get it out of my head, and there’s a part that I’m beginning to think fits us both more than we might want to think.
”We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Running over the same old ground. How we found the same old fears. Wish you were here.”
I don’t know that I’m angry anymore. I’m still hurt, and I’m still confused, but I think that more than anything, I just want to talk. I’m sorry I was so quick to judge you, Blaine. I’m not going to press you, though. I think this is a wound that’s been festering for both of us longer than we’ve been letting on, and whenever you’re ready to talk, I’ll be waiting for you.
I’m tempted to go back and rewrite this, but I think it’s time we stopped trying to cover up our mistakes, and time we started being honest. I’ll start:
I really do wish you were here.
Love,
Kurt
Blaine’s hands were wet and the ink was starting to run before he realized he’d been crying. A quick glance at his clock shows half an hour before lights out, and he just hopes it’ll be enough. Without bothering to put his shoes back on, without bothering to tuck his shirt back in, he bolts from his room and barely takes a breath until he’s standing in front of Kurt’s room and banging on the door.
When Jeff opens the door, his expression is bordering on confused. “Dude, what brings you here?”
“Is Kurt here? I really, really need to talk to him.” Blaine’s chest is heaving rapidly, and his heart feels like it’s about to jump through his ribcage, but he can’t help it. He’d wasted enough time as it is, and he’s not going to let himself waste any more.
“Uh, Kurt’s not here, man. He left school about a week ago. Something about things getting sorted out back home and him wanting to be somewhere where at least he knew where he stood. Sorry,” and with that, Jeff shut the door squarely in his face.
Blaine felt his entire body go cold, and he wasn’t even aware of what his body was doing until he realized his feet were more freezing than the rest of him and looked down to find that he’d been walking through two inches of snow in the main quad, wearing only his socks. A glance at his phone proved that he’d been wandering around for longer than he’d thought, and he was sure to get a hefty batch of demerits for being out so late after lights out. He began to head for the doors, but thought better of it and thumbed in his passcode as he took a seat in the midst of all the dirt-filled slush. His pants may never recover from sitting in such a mess, but he really couldn’t bring himself to care. It took him a minute to figure out what he wanted to say, but in the end, he went for the direct approach.
“I’m sorry that I’m such a coward, and I’m sorry that I’m not better about going through my schoolbag, and I really wish I’d found your letter sooner, but mostly, I just wish that you were here.”
Just as he hits send, the bells of the clock tower break the silence. He wonders to himself for the millionth time since he started Dalton whose bright idea it was to have a giant clock that echoed through the entire grounds every midnight, but then it occurs to him that the bells mean it’s not just midnight, it’s another day.
Just what day it is, however, doesn’t quite register until his phone buzzes and he flicks open the new text.
“I’m sorry you’re such a coward, too, but I might still let you be my valentine.”
[Each installment of this series is named for a song I listened to while writing it. This one is "Wish You Were Here", by Rasputina (originally by Pink Floyd, but I like the cover better).]
Forex trading
Rating: I’d place this part at about a PG-13, but it doesn’t really make sense unless you’ve read the very NC-17 part that kicks everything into gear.
Word Count: 1983
Spoilers: Through Furt, and goes AU from there.
Warnings: Beware of angst - from the boys as well as me, because angst isn’t my usual wheelhouse, so this whole series is a bit of an experiment.
Summary: Fifth part of what I’ve dubbed the ”Glory Box” series. Blaine had an experience once, and he’ll never be able to forget it.
All blame for this lies squarely at the feet of cgfan09, who nudged me toward exploring the consequences.
"…the worst thing about this is that I ever met you.”
It’s been two weeks, and Blaine can’t get the sound of Kurt’s voice out of his head. This isn’t uncommon; but in the past, Kurt’s voice was full of laughter and song. Now, it’s full of things like “go,” and “I can’t do this anymore.”
Kurt’s song has become a thing of the past. It’s not just their impromptu sing-a-longs that has stopped, it’s the Warblers, too. Or at least, Kurt’s role with them. Blaine had been shocked when Wes had made the announcement that Kurt had decided to quit, but it made sense, once he’d allowed himself to digest it. Kurt couldn’t exactly give him the silent treatment and sing in eight part harmony with him, and Kurt, it soon proved, was a master of the silent treatment. He disappears so easily into the crowd, now that he no longer wants to be noticed.
There are times when Blaine thinks he sees Kurt looking at him through a sheen of expectation, but every time, Kurt’s just ducked out of view by the time he manages to notice. He’s almost texted him dozens of times, but he just can’t bring himself to think of what the response could be. “Drop dead” seems likely, as does “go fuck yourself, or find some other loser to do it in another bathroom stall,” maybe.
He can’t remember the last time he really slept, and when Mr. Merrick takes him aside after history to tell him he’s noticed a change, and he’s worried about the sudden downturn in his grades, Blaine’s not even sure he’s got it in him to care. He just shrugs, noncommittally, and gazes out the window at the snowy fields below until his teacher realizes he isn’t going to get anywhere, and dismisses him.
It’s still a few days after that when Blaine finds the note. He’d been digging through the detritus at the bottom of his schoolbag when his finger slid across the heavy paper at just the wrong angle. He slid his finger between his lips and sucked gently at the cut, his mouth filling with a thin saltiness. With his other hand, he upended his bag and sent the entire contents spilling over his bed. Pushing aside textbooks, notebooks, and the odd pen or pencil, he finally spotted the envelope. The flap was loose, and from the crimson smear against the dove grey paper, it seemed that it must have already been up when he’d encountered it a moment earlier.
There was barely a moment’s confusion over it before the answer hit him. He’d left his bag in Kurt’s room that night, and it had been hours before that freshman had brought it over. Fingers trembling, he pried the envelope open and unfolded the paper within.
Blaine,
For the first time since what I mistakenly thought was our first meeting, I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know what would be right, or appropriate, or even what I want to say; I only know that it needs saying.
I don’t know which one of us I hate more right now, but I think my money’s on me. As much as I’d like to, I just can’t bring myself to hate you the way I think I should. The way I wish I could.
As much as I, right now at this moment, can’t stomach the thought of seeing your face, I know the time will come when I can’t stomach the thought of not seeing it. I don’t even know if you’ll want to see mine by the time I get there, but I do know that the day I first saw your face was the best of my life, and the thought that it might never have happened is more than I think I can stand.
When I “met” you (and I put it that way because I just can’t think of it as meeting you anymore, and I think you can understand why), that changed. You gave me strength I didn’t know I had, and you made me want to be a genuinely better person. You made me stop hating myself, and you helped me find my peace. You gave me a place to be that I’d never had before, and that place was one hundred percent safe. I never had to be afraid with you, and I never felt the need to pretend.
Part of me thinks that if I could go back in time and never go to that park, I would. The bigger part of me knows better. Be honest, Blaine. If that day had never happened, would you have still reacted the way you did on the stairs? Would your face still have lit up the way it did? Would you have still grabbed hold of me and taken me down what I now know for a fact is most definitely not a shortcut from the north stairs to the senior commons? Would you have sung to me? Whatever you think your answer is, you’ll never really know. That means I won’t, either, and I can’t stand the thought that the answer would be no.
I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this since you left, and I don’t know that it’s possible. There are things that I just can’t make compute, and they all have to do with you. The you I thought I knew, and the you that must exist if that day really happened.
The Blaine that I’ve known up to this moment is confident, and strong, and knows who he is. He’s always there with a shoulder to cry on or an annoying, yet apt, bit of wisdom just when it’s most needed. The Blaine that I know could have his pick of any of the gay students in this school (and quite possibly one or two faculty members, if my suspicions are correct) if he’d just do as much as look their way.
The Blaine I know is all but impossible not to love.
That said, people like that do not do what we did unless a) they’re also secret sociopaths, b) sex-crazed perverts, or c) not really people like that, at all.
So I’m thinking now that the answer to this riddle is one of three things. 1) You’re not the Blaine I thought I knew. 2) You’re not the Blaine you think you are. 3) You’re somewhere between the two, and we both need to take our blinders off and work at finding out what’s real and what isn’t. I know what my reasons for going there that day were, and I’m beginning to suspect yours weren’t much different. I’d like to know for sure.
I started this letter with the intention of chewing you out for being a liar and a creep and any other assortment of things, but once again, you’ve brought me back to peace. The closest to peace I can get for now, I think. Isn’t it funny how that works? Even when I want to scream that I hate you, I can’t help but feel stronger just to know that you’re reading this, and that it’s going to matter to you. At least, I think it will. Tell me it does, okay?
Ever since you left, I’ve been thinking of this song that my mom used to listen to when she was sick. Dad hated it, because he thought it was cruel for her to focus on the fact that she was leaving us, but she said it was (and I’ll never forget this, because it didn’t make sense to me, and I wrote it down in my diary and if you make one crack about a nine year old boy keeping a diary, I swear I will risk breaking a nail to slug you) ‘about more than the leaving, and more than the longing, and more about the things lost and found along the way.’ I’m still not a hundred percent I understand what she meant, but I can’t get it out of my head, and there’s a part that I’m beginning to think fits us both more than we might want to think.
”We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Running over the same old ground. How we found the same old fears. Wish you were here.”
I don’t know that I’m angry anymore. I’m still hurt, and I’m still confused, but I think that more than anything, I just want to talk. I’m sorry I was so quick to judge you, Blaine. I’m not going to press you, though. I think this is a wound that’s been festering for both of us longer than we’ve been letting on, and whenever you’re ready to talk, I’ll be waiting for you.
I’m tempted to go back and rewrite this, but I think it’s time we stopped trying to cover up our mistakes, and time we started being honest. I’ll start:
I really do wish you were here.
Love,
Kurt
Blaine’s hands were wet and the ink was starting to run before he realized he’d been crying. A quick glance at his clock shows half an hour before lights out, and he just hopes it’ll be enough. Without bothering to put his shoes back on, without bothering to tuck his shirt back in, he bolts from his room and barely takes a breath until he’s standing in front of Kurt’s room and banging on the door.
When Jeff opens the door, his expression is bordering on confused. “Dude, what brings you here?”
“Is Kurt here? I really, really need to talk to him.” Blaine’s chest is heaving rapidly, and his heart feels like it’s about to jump through his ribcage, but he can’t help it. He’d wasted enough time as it is, and he’s not going to let himself waste any more.
“Uh, Kurt’s not here, man. He left school about a week ago. Something about things getting sorted out back home and him wanting to be somewhere where at least he knew where he stood. Sorry,” and with that, Jeff shut the door squarely in his face.
Blaine felt his entire body go cold, and he wasn’t even aware of what his body was doing until he realized his feet were more freezing than the rest of him and looked down to find that he’d been walking through two inches of snow in the main quad, wearing only his socks. A glance at his phone proved that he’d been wandering around for longer than he’d thought, and he was sure to get a hefty batch of demerits for being out so late after lights out. He began to head for the doors, but thought better of it and thumbed in his passcode as he took a seat in the midst of all the dirt-filled slush. His pants may never recover from sitting in such a mess, but he really couldn’t bring himself to care. It took him a minute to figure out what he wanted to say, but in the end, he went for the direct approach.
“I’m sorry that I’m such a coward, and I’m sorry that I’m not better about going through my schoolbag, and I really wish I’d found your letter sooner, but mostly, I just wish that you were here.”
Just as he hits send, the bells of the clock tower break the silence. He wonders to himself for the millionth time since he started Dalton whose bright idea it was to have a giant clock that echoed through the entire grounds every midnight, but then it occurs to him that the bells mean it’s not just midnight, it’s another day.
Just what day it is, however, doesn’t quite register until his phone buzzes and he flicks open the new text.
“I’m sorry you’re such a coward, too, but I might still let you be my valentine.”
[Each installment of this series is named for a song I listened to while writing it. This one is "Wish You Were Here", by Rasputina (originally by Pink Floyd, but I like the cover better).]
Forex trading