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[FIC] One Saturday (1/1)
I'm fielding a few prompts from my Tumblr followers. There'll be six of these eventually. Prompts are in three parts, a location, a mood, and a color.
One Saturday
for calliopeoracle's prompt: attic, anticipation, pink
Kurt/Blaine | canon set, S2 post "Original Song" | G | 1,100 words | Kurt waits for Blaine to arrive
“You put them in the attic?” Kurt demands. He yanks his apron strings loose and tosses the apron over the back of a dining chair.
“Well…” his Dad explains from the kitchen, but Kurt isn’t listening. There’s no good reason, and Blaine is well on his way. This afternoon is the first time Blaine will be coming over since they started kissing each other. Which Kurt thinks makes them boyfriends, but they haven’t called each other that yet, so he’s not completely sure. He wants to be sure, and it’s just… He wanted today to be perfect.
“You can’t store VHS tapes in the attic, Dad.” Kurt sighs and heads up the stairs before he gets scolded for his attitude. He’s going to end up covered in dust, and he won’t have time to shower and change. Blaine will arrive looking perfectly adorable, rosy cheeked and smiling, and Kurt will have cobwebs in his hair and grunge on his knees.
The attic ladder unfolds with a horrendous creak, and Kurt blinks up at the black rectangle above him. At least it’s been winter, and his old collection of Disney films hasn’t been up there long. It’s strange in the new house, not knowing where things are. He’s been at Dalton so much, this house doesn’t feel like home yet.
Kurt places a hand on the unfinished wood of a step. He hates the dry, vaguely gritty texture of it beneath his fingers, shudders, and starts to hoist himself up. The dangling cord of the light swings suddenly against his cheek, making him flinch and recoil. He chases the elusive thing with his hand. Once caught, he gives a jerk, and the bare bulb blazes bright.
The happy flutter that’s been in his belly all morning is at risk of turning queasy. Kurt grits his teeth and crawls up into the space. He’s careful not to plant a hand—or knee—off the edge of the rafters and into the fusty layers of cotton-candy fiberglass. He blinks, peering past the halo of light into the gloomier recesses of the attic. He spots the faded red crates of Christmas decorations, some old tattered cardboard boxes he knows hold mementos of his mother, and at last, a cluster of newer boxes from the recent move. They’re all labeled in fat black ink.
His Dad has laid sheets of rough plywood as a makeshift floor, so Kurt makes his way toward the boxes slowly, trying very hard not to snag the knees of his pants against the splintery timber. From his pocket, his phone buzzes. Kurt glances warily up at the low angle of the roof truss as he maneuvers back onto folded legs to check it. It’s a text.
From Blaine: “At the supermarket, anything you need?”
That’ll be the supermarket on the corner, which means Blaine is about five minutes away—barring time spent shopping. He’s probably picking up drinks of some sort. Kurt could text back with something hard to find to buy more time for himself, except—attic adventures aside—he’s excited to have Blaine here, wants to spend as much time as possible with him, but, knowing Blaine, he’d be likely to go traipsing off to every other market in the county to find a thing, and then he’ll never arrive. So Kurt compromises. They are short on jam for the scones after all.
To Blaine: “Could you get some raspberry jam please?” He follows with another text: “Good stuff w/actual fruit, not crappy pink jelly.” Kurt bites his lip and sends a third: “I’ll pay you back.”
He fidgets with the phone, scrolling up and down his text timeline with Blaine while he waits for a reply. The heat from the bulb behind is hot on his neck. He goes over his mental checklist again: he’s got finger sandwiches, scones he made this morning, Blaine’s favorite biscotti, and some fancy little orange cakes from the bakery downtown; both loose leaf English tea and coffee; and—if Blaine is not enchanted by the Saturday High Tea—Kurt’s also got ice cream, cookies, popcorn, potato chips, and there’s a pack of Twinkies he can ‘borrow’ from Finn.
His phone buzzes again. From Blaine: “St. Dalfour OK?”
Kurt smiles, for that’s his favorite. Blaine is actually the best, and Kurt’s definitely going to ask him about the boyfriend thing today.
To Blaine: “Perfect, thank you.”
From Blaine: “No problem! See you soon. :)”
So Kurt scrambles. He finds the box marked ‘Kurt’s old videos books’, wrestles the packing tape off the flap, and digs in to the contents. The books are on top—they probably shouldn’t be in the attic either—and it’s hard not to linger with them. His touch is tender upon the old familiar covers—of Winnie the Pooh, Alice in Wonderland, the beautifully illustrated Sinbad the Sailor, the embossed covers of his complete collection of Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books (an extravagant eighth birthday gift from Aunt Mildred), and more—as he lifts them out, one at a time, to set them down beside himself as gently as if they were newborn kittens. He finds his old Piglet doll stuffed randomly in a gap; Kurt tugs him free and massages the plush toy back into shape. But Piglet’s seen better days; his once velvety fur is pilled and clumpy, and his pink face is permanently squashed into asymmetry from being lain upon for too many years. Kurt sets him in his lap with a pat on the head and then turns his attention to the videos.
They appear fine. Kurt pulls out the top case—Sleeping Beauty—and opens it for inspection. He’s not sure how to tell if the tape is okay, but it appears the same as always. He can’t remember which Blaine said were his favorites (Kurt worries, does this make him a bad boyfriend already?), so he decides to take them all downstairs. Which will be easiest in the box, so he carefully places all the books back in, tucks Piglet under his arm, and works the box in a noisy stuttering drag, backward toward the ladder.
It’s a complex and precarious coordination to balance the heavy box while stretching down blindly, one foot at a time, for each step. After several breathless minutes, he’s at the bottom of the ladder, out of breath, beginning to sweat, and with scuffed knees. He and the box are safe on the floor.
And that’s when the doorbell rings. Kurt’s heart trips over its next beat, and he’s flying down the stairs before he can even think to check himself in a mirror.
the end
One Saturday
for calliopeoracle's prompt: attic, anticipation, pink
Kurt/Blaine | canon set, S2 post "Original Song" | G | 1,100 words | Kurt waits for Blaine to arrive
“You put them in the attic?” Kurt demands. He yanks his apron strings loose and tosses the apron over the back of a dining chair.
“Well…” his Dad explains from the kitchen, but Kurt isn’t listening. There’s no good reason, and Blaine is well on his way. This afternoon is the first time Blaine will be coming over since they started kissing each other. Which Kurt thinks makes them boyfriends, but they haven’t called each other that yet, so he’s not completely sure. He wants to be sure, and it’s just… He wanted today to be perfect.
“You can’t store VHS tapes in the attic, Dad.” Kurt sighs and heads up the stairs before he gets scolded for his attitude. He’s going to end up covered in dust, and he won’t have time to shower and change. Blaine will arrive looking perfectly adorable, rosy cheeked and smiling, and Kurt will have cobwebs in his hair and grunge on his knees.
The attic ladder unfolds with a horrendous creak, and Kurt blinks up at the black rectangle above him. At least it’s been winter, and his old collection of Disney films hasn’t been up there long. It’s strange in the new house, not knowing where things are. He’s been at Dalton so much, this house doesn’t feel like home yet.
Kurt places a hand on the unfinished wood of a step. He hates the dry, vaguely gritty texture of it beneath his fingers, shudders, and starts to hoist himself up. The dangling cord of the light swings suddenly against his cheek, making him flinch and recoil. He chases the elusive thing with his hand. Once caught, he gives a jerk, and the bare bulb blazes bright.
The happy flutter that’s been in his belly all morning is at risk of turning queasy. Kurt grits his teeth and crawls up into the space. He’s careful not to plant a hand—or knee—off the edge of the rafters and into the fusty layers of cotton-candy fiberglass. He blinks, peering past the halo of light into the gloomier recesses of the attic. He spots the faded red crates of Christmas decorations, some old tattered cardboard boxes he knows hold mementos of his mother, and at last, a cluster of newer boxes from the recent move. They’re all labeled in fat black ink.
His Dad has laid sheets of rough plywood as a makeshift floor, so Kurt makes his way toward the boxes slowly, trying very hard not to snag the knees of his pants against the splintery timber. From his pocket, his phone buzzes. Kurt glances warily up at the low angle of the roof truss as he maneuvers back onto folded legs to check it. It’s a text.
From Blaine: “At the supermarket, anything you need?”
That’ll be the supermarket on the corner, which means Blaine is about five minutes away—barring time spent shopping. He’s probably picking up drinks of some sort. Kurt could text back with something hard to find to buy more time for himself, except—attic adventures aside—he’s excited to have Blaine here, wants to spend as much time as possible with him, but, knowing Blaine, he’d be likely to go traipsing off to every other market in the county to find a thing, and then he’ll never arrive. So Kurt compromises. They are short on jam for the scones after all.
To Blaine: “Could you get some raspberry jam please?” He follows with another text: “Good stuff w/actual fruit, not crappy pink jelly.” Kurt bites his lip and sends a third: “I’ll pay you back.”
He fidgets with the phone, scrolling up and down his text timeline with Blaine while he waits for a reply. The heat from the bulb behind is hot on his neck. He goes over his mental checklist again: he’s got finger sandwiches, scones he made this morning, Blaine’s favorite biscotti, and some fancy little orange cakes from the bakery downtown; both loose leaf English tea and coffee; and—if Blaine is not enchanted by the Saturday High Tea—Kurt’s also got ice cream, cookies, popcorn, potato chips, and there’s a pack of Twinkies he can ‘borrow’ from Finn.
His phone buzzes again. From Blaine: “St. Dalfour OK?”
Kurt smiles, for that’s his favorite. Blaine is actually the best, and Kurt’s definitely going to ask him about the boyfriend thing today.
To Blaine: “Perfect, thank you.”
From Blaine: “No problem! See you soon. :)”
So Kurt scrambles. He finds the box marked ‘Kurt’s old videos books’, wrestles the packing tape off the flap, and digs in to the contents. The books are on top—they probably shouldn’t be in the attic either—and it’s hard not to linger with them. His touch is tender upon the old familiar covers—of Winnie the Pooh, Alice in Wonderland, the beautifully illustrated Sinbad the Sailor, the embossed covers of his complete collection of Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books (an extravagant eighth birthday gift from Aunt Mildred), and more—as he lifts them out, one at a time, to set them down beside himself as gently as if they were newborn kittens. He finds his old Piglet doll stuffed randomly in a gap; Kurt tugs him free and massages the plush toy back into shape. But Piglet’s seen better days; his once velvety fur is pilled and clumpy, and his pink face is permanently squashed into asymmetry from being lain upon for too many years. Kurt sets him in his lap with a pat on the head and then turns his attention to the videos.
They appear fine. Kurt pulls out the top case—Sleeping Beauty—and opens it for inspection. He’s not sure how to tell if the tape is okay, but it appears the same as always. He can’t remember which Blaine said were his favorites (Kurt worries, does this make him a bad boyfriend already?), so he decides to take them all downstairs. Which will be easiest in the box, so he carefully places all the books back in, tucks Piglet under his arm, and works the box in a noisy stuttering drag, backward toward the ladder.
It’s a complex and precarious coordination to balance the heavy box while stretching down blindly, one foot at a time, for each step. After several breathless minutes, he’s at the bottom of the ladder, out of breath, beginning to sweat, and with scuffed knees. He and the box are safe on the floor.
And that’s when the doorbell rings. Kurt’s heart trips over its next beat, and he’s flying down the stairs before he can even think to check himself in a mirror.
the end
no subject
Kurt sets him in his lap with a pat on the head
SEE, THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I WOULD DO. Though I love Kurt a lot, I'm really very little like him, most days. But in that perfectly in-character moment, you made me feel such kinship with him. THAT is damned good writing.
And you name-checked Andrew Lang, ILU.
This reminds me that you were musing on setting and atmosphere a few days ago and I meant to come back and babble at you about that, just because it's fun. I think you do not need any help in that department.
Hey, I suppose I missed the prompt window, huh? I'll catch you next time!
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It's funny and fantastic; that line you quoted was the last one I wrote. :) I'm touched that was a moment of kinship for you; it was for me too when I realized I needed to add it. And I think this is maybe part of Kurt's magic, too; his relationships with his things and his memories. I don't know that he's overly sentimental per se (at least not mawkishly so), but I think he understands the power there and honors the way it marks time and transience. At any rate, I bet he read and cried his eyes out over The Velveteen Rabbit as an even younger child.
I have to confess, Andrew Lang only popped up on my radar a few years ago, which in retrospect is ridiculous given where my interests tend to wander. He's still (embarrassingly) in my giant terrifying to read pile, but his work struck me very much like something young Kurt would connect with. Last night I loaded The Blue Fairy Book onto my Kindle, and today I've rummaged about and found my Mum's old Winnie the Pooh. :D
As you mention, I have been fighting with myself over how well or not I feel I portray setting and atmosphere. I think it's one of these elements that, when done well, I envy so much in others' writing, it makes me feel relatively inept myself. So I've wanted to challenge myself. I appreciate so much that you think I do it well, but I still want to be better.
And for you, of course I'll take another prompt. Just give me a location, a mood or emotion, and a color. :)
As always, thank you, for both reading and for helping me understand my own methods. It's so helpful! <3
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:D
location: outdoors
mood/emotion: wisdom
color: that Doppler-bendy orange-gold of very late afternoon sunlight
And now I have to go root around in a box for a photocopy of a Tolkien essay, but I shall be back!!!
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Ha! God knows why, but the lines that most often get quoted back to me in my own fiction are almost always the ones I added slap-dash at the last minute! There might be something for me to learn, there.
And I think this is maybe part of Kurt's magic, too; his relationships with his things and his memories.
I like this. Kurt and his talismans; you could write a book. Clothes and brooches and songbirds and stage props. He feels their power, but sometimes he makes the mistake of thinking they're his only, or greatest, source of power, when really, they're just amplifiers and conduits (and sometimes elude or impair his control). That's what Thibodeaux tries to tell him, isn't it? "Child, the magic is in you."
I first became aware of Lang when Tolkien insulted him. *g* Have you read Tolkien's essay, "On Fairy Stories"? Google the .pdf; you'd like it. He grumps at Lang for not taking fairy tales seriously as adult literature, and talks about the power of fantasy and mythic tropes and symbols, and eucatastrophe, and throws in some stuff about Christianity at the end that's right up your alley, give the kinds of things you've been tugging out of Glee, lately:
no subject
I tend to think it's my subconscious shoving up last minute notions that it's been chewing over while I've been consciously thinking about other elements of the writing. I've learned to mostly trust the impulse. It's like educated intuition or something. :)
Kurt and his talismans; you could write a book.
This is a stellar idea! Wow. I don't know that I could do such a concept justice. Urban fantasy isn't something I've spent a lot of time with. Mind you, that's not dissuasive at all. I wish there were more stories about Kurt and his magic, whether its explicitly incorporated or just lurking under the surface. I love it so much. It does make Glee feel like modern mythology to me. Which is really something for a show that's ostensibly "just" teenage melodramedy.
Have you read Tolkien's essay, "On Fairy Stories"?
I haven't! Thank you for this. That does sound intriguing & fun. I will add it to my giant terrifying pile. :D The world needs more eucastasrophe even if it's only in the stories we tell each other.
the kinds of things you've been tugging out of Glee, lately:
Haha! This makes it sound so much more rigorous than it actually is. My brain has crazy pattern recognition algorithms, and I love falling down rabbit holes. :D
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And once more, thank you for reading! I appreciate it. <3
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I'd say you've got settings/moods down quite well! Can't wait to read the rest of these!
<3<3
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I want to thank you again for your prompt. I loved how not obvious the connections were and that challenge made it really fun for me (also that I was getting to write for you <3).