#dicingvision writes

This was supposed to be smut but quickly devolved into brief character study because I can never stop myself. Oh, well. (Please be gentle, I wrote this too quickly and it's my first time writing in 3rd person in YEARS)

Read it under the cut, or here on AO3.

Memory Lane

***

I think I’ve recovered from the initial shock and stress of last night: Kurt’s hand, the ER, the notepad, the admission of his “bad thoughts.” But I still haven’t quite recovered from the shock of him asking me to stay, and today to come over again. I left early out of fear of overstaying my welcome, even though all I wanted to do was glue myself to his side and take care of him. 

I figured he’d want alone time to process everything that happened. That’s what he usually does first thing when something majorly stressful or horrible happens; he retreats inward, slips off to some quiet place to be by himself. When NYADA rejected him, he refused to converse over how he truly felt about it. He opted to bury his feelings until they popped out against his will. When Finn died, he didn’t want to talk. He flew home and locked himself in his room and wouldn’t be seen by anyone. He barely spoke a word at the funeral or after. Only after days of radio silence did he come over to my house, crawl into my bed, and let me hold him. It was then that I finally saw him cry. Kurt’s not the type to open up easily like a flower in springtime. He’s more like a biometric safe; you’ll never get at what’s inside unless he opens himself up for you.

But today he’s breaking such patterns. I’d resigned myself to waiting patiently for the next time he’d let me see him, no matter how long it took. He didn’t make me wait long. He’s being different. Letting me in instead of pushing me away, just like I asked. 

I try not to stare at him as he eats the croque monsieur. I just can’t believe I’m here. This is happening, for real. Sitting with Kurt at the dining table in the loft. Like a regular day. After everything that happened, this seemed impossible. A memory I might not be able to recreate. And now here we are. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. More like we’re both waiting for something. Testing the waters of whatever this is. I’m not sure exactly what. Not boyfriends. Friends, again? I hope so. 

I can tell he wants to keep things simple as possible. He sits not as close as he could. The stiffness in his shoulders is easy to see. Don’t get too excited, Blaine. We’re hanging out, nothing more. Although honestly, I don’t think I could do sex with Kurt right now. Isn’t that crazy? Who knew I would ever say that. After all the cold hook-ups and constant switch-ups, though, I think I need a break from it. Keeping things platonic is best. 

That doesn’t mean I don’t fall into old habits, though.

“I can pick something different to watch if you want,” he offers. 

“No. This is fine.” 

Kurt’s words are still clipped. Still frigid to the ears. Blaine wishes his words were as warm as his body is. It’s annoying. He’s sure Kurt’s thinking something, probably along the lines of, "I don’t want to watch this stupid movie I don’t care about with my fiancé who’s a crybaby that I don’t need to protect me anymore. I’m a hotshot with my own life in New York. I never needed Blaine; he’ll only drag me down. I should probably break up with him.” 

And there he goes again. Blaine silently tells the little voice in his head to shut up and leave him in peace. But it’s got a lot to say, and hell, is it loud. It hasn’t let him have peace in days, so why would it now? 

He’d pressed himself close to Kurt to feel his breathing, to let the reliable pace of each inhale and exhale soak into his body, comfort him. But he can’t feel it now. All he can feel are the sharp ridges of each new individual abdominal muscle that have been forming in Kurt’s body poking up against his back. They’re like stones jutting out of his body, barbed thorns where Kurt was once smooth petal. It feels inhuman, not Kurt, not the Kurt he knew, still lean but soft more like delicious pastry dough. 

Now Blaine is the one made of dough, and not even good baked dough, but unbaked, the kind that doesn’t taste good when you put it in your mouth, all gelatinous and chewy and squishy, no flavor, unformed. That’s what he is. That’s what he’s become. He’s turned himself into the stupid Pillsbury Doughboy, stuffing himself with cronuts and carbs for weeks on end while Kurt has molded himself into a cutting-edge Greek figure. 

He can’t stand it. The sensation, the thoughts, any of it. His stomach lurches into his throat. Nope! He sits up and scoots to the edge of the couch. Where is he even going to move? He doesn’t know. Either way, Kurt will notice—has already noticed. Kurt shifts upward and sits, glancing sideways at him. 

Summary: Kurt has nightmares. Finn knows. A series of vignettes.

You Never Wanted A Brother

I’m running. Faster than I knew my legs could take me. Wind whips my cheeks, razor-sharp. My lungs are a pair of stones in my ribcage. Each gasp of air drags me down, slows my pace. Something brushes against the skin of my heel. I cry out but don’t dare look down for fear of what I’ll see. Is he already on me? I thought I had more time! I thought I was going to make it. 

I’m running and I don’t know where. Less toward somewhere safe and more away from what chases. He’s behind me, I can sense it. Last time I craned my neck to look he was still a dozen feet behind me. He hadn’t gotten to me yet. But I know he will. I hear his voice all around me, low and thick with rage, calling my name. In spite of my better judgment, I have to turn around to see, just to make sure he’s not already close enough to touch. 

He looks like a zombie, stumbling with every step, covered in a layer of dirt and grime like he just crawled out of a shallow grave. Or a foxhole. He looms tall as the trees around us, at once far away and a hair’s distance from my face. Even though he staggers, he’s managed to catch up to me. I will my legs to take me faster, resist the wind pushing me back toward him. But it’s too late. He’s here, hands on my ankles in an icy grip like death. It floods my veins with ice that petrifies all muscles, even as all I want to do is move. 

Let me go. 

The ground meets me face. I sputter on the earthy taste of dirt. He’s dragging me somewhere. I don’t know. My hands reach for something, anything. I scrabble at loose weeds and vines for purchase, but he’s too strong. I don’t stop twisting, reaching, resisting. His grip only tightens. He’s shouting at me to look at him, but I pinch my eyes shut. I won’t, I won’t. Because I know what will be there when I look is a monster with his face. 

“No!” 

I lurch upwards against his cold grip, and suddenly it’s warm. I’m warm all over. My skin, my insides. My body is swaddled in velvety heat. This isn’t a forest. No wind. No dirt.

“Kurt?”

I almost flinch at his voice, nearly a whisper instead of the shout it was moments ago. Right. It wasn’t real. This is real: me, hunched over and panting in bed beneath blankets fisted tight in my palm, my pits and thighs and back sticky with sweat. Gross. Now I’ll have to take a shower. Why do I always sweat so much when I’m sleeping? I swear I sweat more when I’m asleep than I do when I’m awake. 

Finn watches me from the doorway, wide-eyed but silent. Crap.

My silly little not-so-silly season 6 rewrite series about Kurt and Blaine. AKA the one where the pair’s undiagnosed mental health issues go head-to-head as they are trying to build a real future together.

Part 1: Descent

It's the beginning of a new year, and the start of a new chapter for Kurt and Blaine. They've finally moved back in together, set a date for their wedding, and they have New York all to themselves. It should be the best time of their lives. Right? Caught off guard by the stress of living together again, Kurt can't stop getting this bad feeling when he thinks about the future. What if he and Blaine don't make it? What if things aren't as good as they seem? What if they truly aren't compatible? As Blaine tries to plan the wedding of their dreams, Kurt finds himself spiraling over every little thing, from Blaine’s past infidelity to his lack of independence. Blaine’s happy to finally plan their future together, though he senses Kurt’s off. He just can’t put his finger on why. The two struggle to understand each other as something neither of them quite comprehends begins pulling them apart. With the future looking less and less clear, Kurt and Blaine must answer the question: is love enough to carry them through? A season 6 Klaine rewrite with a mental health focus. Part 1 of the series "Works in Progress." Complete!

Part 2: Tempest

Love, Redefined

***

Kurt: Club 216. 8pm. See you there. 

I stare at the text for what seems like hours, scanning the words over and over to glean the message between the lines.

What does this mean?

“If I want to see you again, you’ll know.” 

That’s what he said yesterday. It’s been hard keeping track of whether he wants to see me or not with all the extremely mixed signals. He pulled me into the closet on July 4th, then he said he wanted to forget it, then he called it a mistake. But then yesterday… and now this! It must be the sign, right? He wants to see me again. He wants to see me tonight! It’s barely been 24 hours and he’s already reaching out. This is good. This is more than good; this is fantastic! 

Sure, I didn’t exactly get the answers I wanted yesterday. Kurt seemed angry with me, then horny for me, then just… I don’t even know what. I have no idea where our relationship stands. It doesn’t seem like we’re back together, but maybe we’re on our way to it again. I mean, he’s clearly still attracted to me. He called my ass “perfect.” Not that he hasn’t said it before, but it was nice to hear again, and sober. He noticed how I left the top buttons open on my shirt. He even said I was a “siren.” The hair on my arms rises at the thought of it. Does he really think of me as a seductive, magical creature? I’m totally flattered. 

He still wants me. Otherwise he wouldn’t have pulled me into that bathroom in the first place, pinned me down, then practically fed me his dick. God, that was so fucking hot. The taste of him, the weight of him in my mouth, in my throat. His hands in my hair. His voice, restrained and velvety with desire: “Good boy.” Heat swarms in my gut at the memory. If I hadn’t been using my hands for other things, I probably could’ve gotten off right then and there. I wasn’t sure that was ever going to happen again. Even after Fourth of July, I can’t completely believe it was real, not a dream. He let me put my mouth on him, suck him dry. After all the lack of touch, he trusted me to do that. Completely sober. Even while he was mad at me for showing up at his work. 

That whole thing could’ve gone very differently. I took a risk by showing up unannounced, but it was more than worth it. That song worked to get his attention and so much more. Thank you Katy Perry! She has never let me down. 

Company

***

“Table 46 wants their eggs runny. Like applesauce.”

“What is wrong with them?”

“Clearly, they’ve just escaped from a mental institution. And the first decision they’ve made with their freedom is to order a piping hot plate of salmonella.” 

The cook frowns but gives me a reluctant nod. With that, I’m back to zipping between my tables and the kitchen, getting orders, putting them in, delivering drinks and food, putting down checks. Asking the busser to put new silverware down for me so I can avoid the knives—good thing he pities me enough to help me out. It’s nice to to be on my feet and so out-of-my-mind busy that I can’t be too inside my mind, can’t mull over this past week with Blaine, everything I admitted to him, what he said. 

“I still love you. I’ll love you no matter how unsteady you are.” 

I wish he hadn’t said that. He can’t love me. Not like that. And now that I know he got cut from NYADA because of me, started failing his classes because he over-invested himself in our relationship, I know for a fact that I can’t allow him to love me. It’s clearer than ever that I’m a danger to him. I’ve been a danger to him this whole time. I shouldn’t have let him put all of his energy into us in the first place—it’s not healthy. I didn’t have the sense to see it back then. But I do now. I let him be around me too much this week. We need space. 

Did it feel comforting to casually hang out with him every day, to finally tell him about some of the things I’ve been going through? Yes. Without the expectations of being in a relationship, it was freeing to be around him and nice not to be alone. However, did things occasionally feel dangerously close to romantic? Also yes, which meant spirals out of nowhere. That and sleepless nights and holding my breath and using every ounce of restraint I had to not dig my nails into my palms. 

I’m exhausted.

I deemed it an overall good week in spite of all that, up until he had to go and say he loves me. He must have said it only to comfort me, though. A lie out of pity. There’s no way he actually meant it. He couldn’t still love me after everything. I know it. 

I think. 

Just Desserts

***

“Shit. Fuck.” 

It’s off-putting to hear the words come from Kurt’s mouth. He doesn’t curse like that, even when he comes. I know it’s nothing to do with innocence or restraint. It’s just, those aren’t the words that instinctively come out of his mouth. Usually when he comes, he says my name. How I wish he’d say it now. I took it for granted before. Never realized how much it meant. At least when he said my name I knew he was thinking about me. I knew he was here with me. Completely mine, and I his. Now, he mutters empty curses. I can’t help but believe the extra curses are all just filler words, replacing what he’d really be saying if he let himself: 

“Blaine.”

The universe gave me two hands, and this is what I’m doing with them: trying to jerk myself off and Kurt simultaneously. It’s hard to concentrate on getting us both off at once, but I do my best. My goal is to make us come at the same time. I’m riding on my self-confidence based on my familiarity with Kurt’s body to believe I’ll accomplish it. However, with the newness of our situation, I can’t be sure of what he wants. Before he liked it slow with lots of teasing beforehand, and usually my mouth on him at the end. It’s an art I’ve refined from years of practice with him. If it were a skill I had to rank on my resumé, I’d give myself a 10/10. But now the results from all that testing have flown out the window. Useless.

At this point, all I want to do is come. To feel good. But it’s so hard, my body resisting the stroke of my own hand. I can’t stop thinking: what if this is the last time Kurt lets me touch him or even see him?; he doesn’t love me; my love for him is never-ending but it’s also killing me. All that coupled with the stenches in this bathroom and the flickering of the fluorescent overhead light prove obstacles to reaching my own climax. In fact, nausea has begun swirling in my stomach.

“Fuck,” I grunt, more in frustration than anything else.

I shiver from the cold. The air in here is freezing, and it makes my entire body tense up. I want to be back in my underwear. At least I’ve still got the rest of my clothes on. But the fact that the most vulnerable, sensitive part of me is laid bare in this icy room does not do anything to raise my arousal. Everything about this feels so impersonal. It’s never felt this way with Kurt before. I never thought it could feel this way with him. But we’re crammed inside the men’s restroom at Pax where he texted me to meet him less than an hour ago, out of thin air. With nothing else to do—let’s be honest, even if I had something to do I would’ve skipped out on it for this—I came running. He calls and I answer. It sounds so simple. 

It’s not.