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[Fic] All the Fading Melodies (klaine advent prompt #3 Consume)
All the Fading Melodies
Kurt/Blaine | T | set within 4x04 “The Break Up” | angst, melodrama | Title from Shelley’s poem, “Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats” | Kurt cannot stay in bed with Blaine. | ~600 words
Extra warning: This is not a happy one.
Revulsion creeps cold beneath Kurt's skin. He lies on his side at the precipitous edge of the mattress. On the wrong side of his own damn bed. Behind him is Blaine, rigid, silent, and unwelcome. Beside him, the darkened mirror reflects little, but he stares, unblinking, at its smooth black gloss that seems, right now, to devour every small glimmer of light rather than reflect anything.
He should have told Blaine to sleep on the couch. Or on the fucking street.
(No, not that. Kurt checks the vengeful impulse.)
But, earlier, trying to say anything to Blaine felt like worms crawling up his tongue. And right now, it feels like that's all that exists inside him, twisting, ravening worms of regret and shame and fury and incomprehension. Every good memory and tender moment with Blaine is rotting with betrayal, like there's a poison seeping back through time, corrupting every bright thing they shared.
His rage feels childish in its viciousness; even in the midst of it, some small, still-rational piece of Kurt's psyche tries to soothe. It stops him from spitting out every worm of hurtful words at Blaine, as if that would make him feel better. Nothing will make him feel better, and he saw the pain in Blaine's face, saw his tears. He may resent them, may wish to deny them, but he saw them.
Kurt gets up. Like a sharp hook with a lead sinker, gravity snags his heart, nearly makes his knees buckle. He can't stay in here. He doesn't look at Blaine to see if he's awake or asleep. He doesn't fucking care.
(Except, oh, he does.)
He picks up the photo frame on his desk before he creeps out of his curtained chamber. He grabs the throw Carole crocheted from the back of the futon and curls up in the old car seat his Dad gave him.
The photo in his lap stays face down at first. Kurt strokes the curved edges of the frame, and he lets the tears come. Restrained, but permitted to flow. They bleed away some of the tension and terrible ache. Each softly exhaled sob draws some of the poison from his heart. His insides stop squirming, and Kurt turns the frame over in his hands. He blinks his eyes clear and turns on the floor lamp by the chair.
There, behind the glass, a moment frozen. Blaine's smile and Kurt's smile. Together smiling. The two of them holding each other: terrified and brave and hopeful in their tuxedos; Kurt in his crown, scepter awkwardly held. Kurt grits his teeth and sets his jaw. He won't let himself lose this, won't let the precious joy of that moment wither into dust, as if it never happened at all. The boy in his bed may not be the boy in this photo any longer, but the boy in this photo existed. The boy in this photo loved him.
(And Kurt loves that boy.)
Reclaiming the emotion spurs more tears. Their flavor is familiar to Kurt: mourning. He weeps as he loses track of the cadence of time. Turns the lamp back off and huddles in the darkness. Within his mind, he tries to purge the poison from the damaged memories. Tries to untwist the crumpled mental photographs, smooth them out, clean them off, and remember them as they were. It takes so much energy, like all the torn edges may only be knitted together with the sinews of his own heart, leaving it rent and ragged and gaping raw.
He hopes he can survive it, because this feels a lot like dying.
Kurt/Blaine | T | set within 4x04 “The Break Up” | angst, melodrama | Title from Shelley’s poem, “Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats” | Kurt cannot stay in bed with Blaine. | ~600 words
Extra warning: This is not a happy one.
Revulsion creeps cold beneath Kurt's skin. He lies on his side at the precipitous edge of the mattress. On the wrong side of his own damn bed. Behind him is Blaine, rigid, silent, and unwelcome. Beside him, the darkened mirror reflects little, but he stares, unblinking, at its smooth black gloss that seems, right now, to devour every small glimmer of light rather than reflect anything.
He should have told Blaine to sleep on the couch. Or on the fucking street.
(No, not that. Kurt checks the vengeful impulse.)
But, earlier, trying to say anything to Blaine felt like worms crawling up his tongue. And right now, it feels like that's all that exists inside him, twisting, ravening worms of regret and shame and fury and incomprehension. Every good memory and tender moment with Blaine is rotting with betrayal, like there's a poison seeping back through time, corrupting every bright thing they shared.
His rage feels childish in its viciousness; even in the midst of it, some small, still-rational piece of Kurt's psyche tries to soothe. It stops him from spitting out every worm of hurtful words at Blaine, as if that would make him feel better. Nothing will make him feel better, and he saw the pain in Blaine's face, saw his tears. He may resent them, may wish to deny them, but he saw them.
Kurt gets up. Like a sharp hook with a lead sinker, gravity snags his heart, nearly makes his knees buckle. He can't stay in here. He doesn't look at Blaine to see if he's awake or asleep. He doesn't fucking care.
(Except, oh, he does.)
He picks up the photo frame on his desk before he creeps out of his curtained chamber. He grabs the throw Carole crocheted from the back of the futon and curls up in the old car seat his Dad gave him.
The photo in his lap stays face down at first. Kurt strokes the curved edges of the frame, and he lets the tears come. Restrained, but permitted to flow. They bleed away some of the tension and terrible ache. Each softly exhaled sob draws some of the poison from his heart. His insides stop squirming, and Kurt turns the frame over in his hands. He blinks his eyes clear and turns on the floor lamp by the chair.
There, behind the glass, a moment frozen. Blaine's smile and Kurt's smile. Together smiling. The two of them holding each other: terrified and brave and hopeful in their tuxedos; Kurt in his crown, scepter awkwardly held. Kurt grits his teeth and sets his jaw. He won't let himself lose this, won't let the precious joy of that moment wither into dust, as if it never happened at all. The boy in his bed may not be the boy in this photo any longer, but the boy in this photo existed. The boy in this photo loved him.
(And Kurt loves that boy.)
Reclaiming the emotion spurs more tears. Their flavor is familiar to Kurt: mourning. He weeps as he loses track of the cadence of time. Turns the lamp back off and huddles in the darkness. Within his mind, he tries to purge the poison from the damaged memories. Tries to untwist the crumpled mental photographs, smooth them out, clean them off, and remember them as they were. It takes so much energy, like all the torn edges may only be knitted together with the sinews of his own heart, leaving it rent and ragged and gaping raw.
He hopes he can survive it, because this feels a lot like dying.