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14 January 2011 @ 02:18 am
Fic: of art and broken hearts  
Title: of art and broken hearts
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sex, trigger warning: drug use, angsty fluff
Word Count: 5433
Summary: AU: splitting off from where Kurt visits the Warblers. In ten or so years, Blaine paints a beautiful man who's strangely familiar. Only he's not quite the same, he's broken and tired, and there are track marks up his arms. Of painting sessions, realizations, broken hearts and capturing the essence of a person in a portrait.

check out the amazing artwork for this fic

He’s beautiful. The sunlight from the window casts long looming shadows across the floor, highlighting his angular cheekbones and the hollows beneath, the delicate curve of the arch of his eyebrows, the tender crook of his neck. He blinks, and his dark eyelashes brush his pale skin, the contrast in colours stark.

Across the room, Blaine bites his lip, sketches lightly on the canvas the outlines of the man before him, trying to capture the impossible.

He shifts, the dying light playing across his face and clears his throat.

Blaine jumps slightly, his hand erring, and he lets out a muffled curse, loud in the almost silence.

“When is this session over?” he asks, his voice more delicate and sweeter than Blaine expected.

“Soon,” he answers, and that’s the limit of their conversation.

Blaine knows it’s impolite to stare, but he lies to himself, he isn’t staring, he’s needs to look closely to do this portrait right. Up and down the other man’s arm are track marks, the only things marring that perfect, pure skin. They’re startlingly dark, and more elegant than he would think they could be, after all, it’s damage, it’s the physical wounding of a soul to bear, and yet they’re not the plum purple of bitterness he expects, they’re a bruised pink.

He sets down his pencil, and the slight motion makes the other man turn, his movement graceful, like that of a dancer who has never grown out of old habits. Blaine looks up from where he’s picking up an old eraser, and meets the model’s eyes, clear and sharp with unspoken sorrows.

Blaine feels like his heart is breaking when he looks into those eyes.

He doesn’t know why he does it, almost doesn’t feel anchored into reality, everything suddenly seems like a dream, but Blaine crosses the room, his feet crumpling some old sheets, and stops right in front of chair where he sits.

Blaine opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to express what can’t be said, that you’re beautiful and broken, I want to know your name and your secrets, but most of all I wish I could paint you.

And like that, just like that, he doesn’t know what to do, so he kisses him on his lips, soft and slightly bitter.

Blaine doesn’t even know the other man’s name, but there are no words for these moments anyway, as hands grip tightly into his hair, as limbs twist together, both of them wondering exactly what they have gotten themselves into. At one point, where their skin is damp and tinged with salt, most of their clothes strewn across the messy floor, their eyes meet again, and they both understand how surreal this moment is, how unnatural, but those feelings are quickly drowned in gasps and kisses down the column of a spine.

The light from the window fades into the velvet of the night, and suddenly everything is silent, except for them, their soft sighs, the rustling of paper against their backs, the occasional clatter as they knock over a tin or a brush. They don’t quite know what they want from each other, but when one of them, they don’t know which of them, reaches for a condom, the other shakes his head, not yet, not now. Everything is reduced to the essence of their senses, only hearing each other, tasting the salt of their skin, seeing the angles and curves under the eerie moonlight, the scent of sex in the air, of old paints and paper, but most of all, feeling skin against skin, the desperate need to get even closer.

After a while, they can’t tell where their own skin stops, and the other person’s begins, and it doesn’t matter.

Afterwards, they lie there, the light of the moon throwing almost everything into darkness, except for their eyes, bright and searching.

The other man gets up, and Blaine sits up, feeling suddenly empty.

“This was a mistake,” he says, his voice clear and broken.

The words cut to Blaine, and he breathes in, sharp and fast, as if he had been dealt a physical blow.

“I’ll still come for the afternoon sessions,” he continues, and now he is collecting his clothes and putting them on, and layer by layer he gets further and more distant from Blaine, “but this never happened.”

Then the model leaves, and there’s nothing left, only a painter, choking out a single sob.


Outside, Kurt breathes out and in, relishing the sting of the cold air against his cheeks.

He catches the bus home, he’s the only one on it, most of the town is asleep, and the yellow artificial light of the bus throws into stark relief his disheveled state, the marks on his neck, his tangled hair.

Kurt almost laughs at himself.

He’s a pretty miserable picture, isn’t he? On the verge of twenty, wasted, his dreams forgotten, and all he has to remember from high school is pain, terror and hurt.

Living just to find emotion

He looks out of the window, trying to block out the tinny radio and the sound of the bus driver humming along.

Somewhere in the dark…

That’s when his breathing hitches, his heart beats faster, his vision blurring at the edges, he needs to get out, to get home and to get away, away from everything, Kurt needs to escape.

When he reaches his flat, he struggles with the rusty lock, lights a candle and under the unstable flickering glow, uses a paperweight to crush some of his precious powder even finer. He doesn’t need to refine it, it’s already reduced, but it soothes him, the crackle of crystals, the smooth weight of the paperweight. Kurt prefers to inject, he doesn’t like damaging his throat, however stupid and useless that concern may seem now but tonight he can’t be bothered.

He reaches for the drawer, where he knows his paper knife will be and cuts the powder into two straight lines. He fumbles for where he knows his tubes will be, and then pauses. Kurt knows how this will play out

He’ll snort the cocaine, feel the familiar high, the buzz, the forgetfulness of reality, first one line, then after ten or so minutes, the second line, and after that he’d collect the remaining powder and rub it against his gums.

But today, his hand shakes, and Kurt gets up, not sure if he should feel angry or disgusted at himself, sad or whatever, but he walks to his cupboard and pulls out his vodka and gets drunk, the old fashioned way.

Tomorrow he knows he’ll have a monster of a hangover, but at least he’s not taking drugs. Right?


They don’t talk about it. It’s obvious Blaine hasn’t gone home, his clothes are the same, he looks like a mess, and it’s obvious that the other person got completely wasted last night. Blaine knows hangovers.

“What’s your name?” eventually Blaine asks, while prepping for the afternoon session, setting up his pencils again.

“Kurt,” he answers, and doesn’t elaborate.

They continue for a while, Kurt looking off to the left, while Blaine sketches him lightly onto the canvas.

The silence between them stretches onto forever and Blaine wishes it was raining or something, just not this awful silence. So he turns on the radio, though he usually doesn’t listen to music while working.

He fiddles around with the stations, and at one point he hears the unmistakable driving bass of Katy Perry’s new comeback single, and he smiles for a moment, before switching to a classical music station.

The faint strains of music fill the air, where there should be words and laughter, a poor substitute for what could be.


It’s very early morning, early enough that no one is awake, except for Kurt, sitting in bed and wishing that all his life was a terrible nightmare.

His phone rings next to him, but he lets the call roll to voicemail.

Hey, Kurt, this is Blaine – I’m falling behind on my project, is it ok if you come in this morning?

Kurt rolls over, picks up the phone.


“I’m sorry for calling you so early,” Blaine apologizes, setting up his oil paints. He selects his favourite brush and pulls on an old apron.

“I was awake anyway,” Kurt answers, muted and quiet.

They settle into their old pattern, the radio the only sound in the silence.

Blaine bites his lip. It’s incredibly difficult to paint Kurt. When the assignment had been handed out, he was planning to do his mother or one of his friends, maybe Wes, he didn’t live too far away.


Kurt’s in some old, dirty alleyway, letting some man fuck his mouth. It’s garishly bright, and there are no shadows to hide in, something Kurt hates. He wishes for it to be night, so he can pretend this isn’t happening, so he can hide his shame.

Kurt doesn’t even have to distract himself from what he’s doing anymore, he just tries to make it faster, so it’s over with. And when it’s done, well – that’s that.

“You’re always good,” the man says, and he zips himself up again, “My favourite.”

He reaches out and touches Kurt’s cheek, stroking it with an incongruous gentleness that makes him want to cry because –
boy, with that pretty fair skin, you just make me want to mess you up and whatever happens, Kurt refuses to look up with those fuck-me eyes, I’ll have you anytime, anywhere and he bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood, salty on your full lips, as if you were made for sex.

Kurt pockets the tiny package that is his Armageddon, and walks away.

He bumps into someone in the street, shorter than him, but more solid – but then and again, it wouldn’t be hard to be more substantial than Kurt right now, he was fading away.

“Sorry,” the stranger apologizes, then seems to do a double take.

“I know this is strange, but – wow, would you like to model for my art assignment? I’ll pay you.”

Kurt shrugs. He knows that modeling can be pretty much anything, but there can hardly be anything lower to what he’s sunk to already.


Blaine shuffles in his seat, and frowns at his canvas. It isn’t turning out right. The background is decent, but it can’t be too hard to mess that up, he was aiming for simple and minimalistic anyway. He’s been procrastinating, usually he does the background last, the face first.

“Thanks Kurt,” he sighs eventually, it’s past one and he’s starving.

“It’s okay,” he says, with that ever present cool air of detachment.

“Where are you eating lunch?” Blaine asks, on the spur of the moment and wonders if it was a mistake immediately after he says it.

Kurt pauses.

“I’m going home for lunch,” he answers eventually.

But when they exit, the silence between them as loud as ever, Kurt doesn’t turn to Madison Street, where he usually takes the bus home.

“Aren’t you catching the bus?” Blaine asks.

Kurt turns and seems to deflate.

“I lied,” he says, and it comes spilling out of him, “I don’t eat lunch, not usually, I can’t really spare it and –“

He cuts himself off.

“Never mind.”

“Do you want to have lunch with me?” Blaine says, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, only there’s that same heady feeling as the other night, where they ended up tangled on the floor. For a second he curses at himself, he’s made a fool of himself and there’s no way Kurt would accept anyway but then –



They end up going to some tiny Italian cafe. Kurt fingers at his clothes, he knows they’re dirty and though where they’re going isn’t exactly high tea, he still doesn’t fit in. He eyes the gorgeous coat of a tall stranger, admiring the elegant lines and notices the man hasn’t put anything into the pockets to spare ruining those pretty angles.

They enter and suddenly Kurt is nervous, a feeling he hasn’t had for a while.

“What would you like?” Blaine smiles, looking through his menu.

“Just coffee,” Kurt replies.

“You should eat something,” he insists.

Kurt flicks through the menu and he bites his lip, everything is so decadent, he doesn’t know what to choose.

“I’ll order you the same as mine,” Blaine says and Kurt doesn’t know if he’s picking up on the fact Kurt is ridiculously twitchy or it’s some kind act of providence, “I know what’s good around here.”

So they end up with this huge bowl of linguini and after the first few bites Kurt is full.

“Do you paint a lot?” Kurt asks after a while, initiating the conversation.

“I’m only attending art lessons in this summer break,” Blaine says, “but it’s always been a hobby, that, and singing.”

“I used to sing,” Kurt says.

“Part of your school choir?”

“Glee club, yes,” Kurt answers and he forces his mind back to present, away from hard fought for solos and the pure soprano of one Rachel Berry, whose name he’d seen in some off Broadway production a while ago, not a big deal, but still bigger than him.

“I was part of The Warblers,” Blaine smiles and at that, Kurt freezes.

“I…I knew them,” he says and his mouth is dry.

“What was your old glee club named?”

Kurt takes a sip of his coffee, delaying the moment. He’s panicking. Blaine, the Blaine before him, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t possibly. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t thought about those years in forever, of course he didn’t recognize Blaine, when was the last time he thought about him, let alone Puck, or Quinn – or heck, Mercedes?

“Vocal Adrenaline,” he lies wildly.

But his messy save isn’t enough to stem the sudden memories that flood back, the warm touch of a hand, the strains of that song – what was it called? Kurt can’t even remember, but the husky singer’s voice seems to echo in his mind you make me feel, like I’m living a teenage dream and there’s some unfamiliar emotion in his chest

-it feels like pain, and it hurts, and Kurt is surprised to feel tears pricking at his eyes – when was the last time he cried? He can’t remember, only

-there was that one year where he cried all the time, and he spits out Karofsky under his breath, vehement and angry, he hasn’t thought of that name, or that person for a long time

-that’s a lie, Kurt thinks about it every night, when he can’t sleep, his insomnia keeping him awake, the way his life fell apart, how stupid, ridiculous courage wasn’t enough

-but it was enough to leave him broken and bruised, how many ribs did he break again?

-and he hates the fact that all he could think of afterwards was thank god he didn’t do anything but beat me up

-but one incident became two, three, and eventually he moved out of town, and eventually he fell apart

and Kurt feels hot tears slip down his cheeks.

Later, he can’t remember how the rest of the lunch went.


They end up naked together the next week. The days in between were forgettable, but something in Blaine snaps today.

He grabs Kurt’s shoulders and kisses him, and they lie together on the floor, sticky, sweating from the heat. Blaine walks over to the tap and fills a paint jar with ice cold water. They dribble it over their bodies, their limbs knotted together, their skin slippery with water and sweat.

After a while, it grows dark and Kurt doesn’t leave. He’s too tired, he says.

Blaine falls asleep.

After a while, he wakes up to the vibration of Kurt’s voice and the sound of it, silk-smooth, slipping through the air.

“I was in New Directions,” he whispers, half to himself, half to no one, “I’m sorry I lied. I wish we could have had something together, you know, but it never happened.”

He plays with Blaine’s curls, twisting them through his fingers.

“Finn’s taking his degree at the University of Michigan. Who would have guessed? He’s majoring in Commerce Law. Everyone thought I’d be the one to get out of Lima and make a name for myself. I had everything, a killer singing voice to pad my marketability, an eye for fashion, a heart for literature.”

He stops for a while and Blaine’s mind is racing, trying to process everything.

This is Kurt Hummel?

The beautiful, sea-eyed boy with the gorgeous countertenor voice? Who had turned up to Dalton wearing clothes that seemed straight from the pages of a glossy magazine? But most of all, where had the wit and fire gone? That was what made Kurt unrecognizable, not the track marks, or the unnatural thinness, just that missing spark.

The last time Blaine had heard from Kurt was when he’d moved out of town, to escape.

Kurt sighs, his chest rising from beneath Blaine’s cheek.

“Sometimes I think this is all a dream,” Kurt confesses, and his voice breaks at the end of his sentence.

Blaine wishes he had the strength, the courage to move and tell him that he’d heard everything, but since when was courage good advice anyway? He falls asleep, his mind troubled, and when he wakes, Kurt is gone.


When he comes to his rented out studio, Kurt isn’t there, leaning against the door as usual. Blaine frowns. It’s been a few days, and nothing seems to have been out of the ordinary, just the silence and the tension as normal.

But he doesn’t panic for long, Kurt runs up the steps just a few moments later.

“Sorry,” he laughs, and there’s something off about his behaviour.

“What’s up today? Don’t answer that – I’ll sit over there, and you’ll be there and I’ll wait for time to pass,” Kurt says and his diction is all over the place.

Blaine lets them inside.


There’s nothing like cocaine. You feel fucking amazing, and nothing matters, it’s like all your troubles have been put into a little box and shoved somewhere out of sight.

He doesn’t do it at all really – though each time is unforgettable, he’s heard that only the first five or so times are really excellent.

Mainly he self-injects depressants, stuff like morphine when he can get it, but that’s rare. Sometimes he just straight up takes stuff like Ambien, maybe some Lunesta, but it’s never strong enough.

But now, God, this is amazing.

He feels light as a cloud, and indestructible. It’s not like he’s tripping, just that everything in the world is better.

It doesn’t matter that his life isn’t the way he planned it, it’s better, the world is his for the taking, nothing can stop him, he’s there, he’s wonderful, it feels wonderful and God, it’s Nirvana, better than sex, better than stuff that’ll knock him out, better than alcohol.

He almost watches himself, as if he’s separated from his actions. Watches Kurt spin across the studio, sit in the chair, but can’t keep still for long, take Blaine by the shoulders, kiss him hard and he smiles, because seriously – sex and getting high?

But then, Blaine pushes him away and what’s happening, what’s going on?

And then somehow through the buzz something sharp breaks through, something painful and edged purple and bitter.

But Kurt ignores it, he feels amazing, and nothing is strong enough for very long to keep away this feeling of being absolutely on top of the world.


Somehow Kurt wakes up in his own flat. It’s dark, and he blinks, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

“You need help.”

The voice is flat and comes from somewhere in the vicinity of the room. Kurt gropes for the light, turns it on. Blaine is sitting in a chair across from the sofa, looking absolutely exhausted.

“How did I get here?”

“You showed me the way,” Blaine sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “Kurt – look, you’re my subject and I need you to complete my portrait, okay? So please, don’t get high or smoke weed or whatever you were doing, because you could really mess this up for me.”

“Mess this up for you,” Kurt repeats, his voice flat.

Blaine nods. Kurt sits up, his mind cleared by the hot flicker of anger that runs up his spine.

“Blaine, it may have never occurred to you that messing up a single project isn’t the end of your life. You have no idea. Telling me not to get high, like I can even control it! I can’t, you don’t know what it’s like, the fucking need all the time, it’s not simple as A B C, I can’t turn it off and on,” he says, and Kurt thinks he should be shouting, it would get the point across better, but instead his voice is icily cold.

“Maybe you should have considered that before accepting my offer, you knew what it would include,” Blaine shoots back, and a vein is pulsing angrily in his forehead.

“I needed that offer!” Kurt shouts finally, “I’m lying to my parents, I’m telling them I’m doing some fucking literature degree at some university, that I can’t come home because I do so much work, I haven’t seen any of my friends since high school because they don’t know what I’ve turned out like.”

Blaine shakes his head, his eyes full of tears.

Fuck you, Kurt,” he chokes out, “what have you done to yourself?”

And he watches as Kurt’s eyes widen and his face pales.

“You know –“

“Kurt Hummel,” Blaine says, his voice bitter, “fashionable countertenor who had big dreams, who had a future, who would never let anything stop him from becoming exactly who he wanted to be. Who continued to be fabulous even after being driven out of Lima.”

Kurt’s beautiful eyes, and suddenly they’re filled with spirit and fire and all the things Blaine’s been missing, and they’re gorgeous, spill with tears.

“I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations,” he hisses, fighting back, “You’re not my parent, you know.”

“I loved you,” Blaine says, “I did, a long time ago. When you left Lima, and stopped returning my calls, I cried every night for a week.”

“Is this guilt-tripping time?” Kurt bites, “Because sorry sweetheart, but you’re not a charity case. Perhaps your still terrible taste in clothing – but apart from that –“

“You’re being petty Kurt,” Blaine whispers, “and lashing out. I know you better than you think.”

Kurt gets up from the sofa and spins, walking over to the dirty window. His breath mists against the glass and his hands, clenched against the sill, are impossibly tense.

“What do you want to hear?” Kurt murmurs, his voice thick with tears, “That I loved you too? I did. In the past.”

Then he turns around, backlit by the eerie white gloom of the moon, and he’s terribly beautiful.

“But now, I hate you,” he says, “I hate you, Blaine Anderson, and that’s that.”

“I hate you too,” Blaine shouts back, desperate to hurt, to make Kurt feel any of the pain he’s feeling.

“My life isn’t perfect either,” he continues, “I work three jobs to pay the bills, you say you don’t have money, get a job!”

“It’s not that easy!” Kurt yells, “it’s not like I can walk in anywhere and just get a job easy like that, don’t you understand that? No one wants to hire a wasted teenager with no prospects in life!”

“You’re not wasted,” Blaine protests, and suddenly the argument has veered way off course.

Kurt raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sick of the lies, when do they stop? All this shit of your dreams will come true, guess what? They don’t.”

“Obviously not,” Blaine shouts, “Not when you’re in the back of an alley, selling your body for your next shot of drugs.”

Kurt looks completely, utterly crushed. He almost wilts visibly before Blaine’s eyes, his shoulders slumping together, and tears shimmer in those beautiful eyes.

“Get out,” he says, his voice weary and terribly sad, “Now.”

Blaine walks out, and he wishes for a second that he could get wasted too, that he could forget the world, that things wouldn’t have to matter, even if only for a moment.


He doesn’t expect Kurt to come. He’s packing up his stuff, preparing to move out of the studio. There’s no point, not anymore.

But he turns at the sound of the door, and Kurt’s there, and there’s a determined look in his eye that shows he refuses to talk about anything that’s happened.

“Let’s finish this,” Kurt says, and his words have more meaning to them than just one.


Blaine has almost finished it, he’s got everything but Kurt’s face. Sure, he’s done a few of the outlines, the line of his cheeks and hair, but not much else.


Kurt doesn’t get high, not anymore. It’s too painful. He gets drunk, and even then, there’s something to cut through the buzz and ruin it. He tries to return to his trusty depressants, but they make everything worse.


Blaine can’t sleep at night. He watches the sun rise, and wonder if this is what insomnia is like.


Kurt hates to admit it, but the only thing keeping him from dissolving, from curling up and disappearing from the world, is that afternoon appointment every few days.


Blaine lives and breathes for his portrait. It’s almost done. Almost.


It happens exactly like this. Blaine’s starting on Kurt’s eyes, and he can’t get them right, which is frustrating beyond belief. He drags his chair closer, and looks into his eyes, and it’s like that.

They get up at the same time, kiss each other hard. At some point they’re both naked and Blaine stops them, breathing heavily.

“Wait,” he says, “there’s something I want to try.”

And he gets out his old acrylic paints, his softest brush.

Kurt whimpers a little on the floor, it’s getting cold, and he needs the touch of another, now.

“Shhh,” soothes Blaine, and he dips his brush into a vivid blue and makes Kurt turn over so he’s lying face down on the floor.

First he kisses up the column of Kurt’s spine, and he’s painfully thin, each knob standing out. He takes the brush, paints a long line of cerulean down where he just kissed. Kurt shudders a little, the paint is cool against his heated skin and as it dries it stiffens a little.

He grabs the other paints, and all the colours get mixed together, because he’s forgotten a water pot, but he’s mainly working with greens and blues anyway – the colour of Kurt’s eyes.

Kurt moves a little underneath his painting, each touch sparking a million nerves that he didn’t know he had, heightening his senses until it’s reduced to what he can feel, the smooth stroke of the brush, the cold of the paint, the heaviness when it’s dried.

It’s not angry or burning hot, like the other times, when all they wanted was to feel each other’s skin, the heat and the knowledge they weren’t alone. It was slow, beautiful, each stroke of the brush bringing them together in ways they didn’t know were possible. When he’s done with Kurt’s back, he looks back, at the wings he’s painted, bright and beautiful.

Blaine takes those pale arms, the ones that transfixed him at the very beginning, traces those heart-breaking track marks, in yellows and whites, surprisingly cheerful colours. Kurt watches him lazily, his breath hitching a little here and there.

Kurt sighs, his lashes fluttering a little. Blaine kisses his lips, gently, and with dark black, he paints a single stroke on the angle of his cheekbones, across the arresting line of his jaw, and when he leans to kiss him again, there’s a little paint that gets caught, and it’s strange to taste, a little oily and sour.

After he’s done painting intricate swirls down the long column of Kurt’s neck, his tiny sighs and whimpers like heaven, Kurt pulls Blaine up and kisses him, long and slowly.

And for a while they stay like that, curled together, just kissing, sweetly.

Then they grow a little more frantic, and there’s that familiar passion-heat, burning through their veins like quicksilver, the need to press their bodies together and Kurt reaches behind him, and pulls out a condom, and Blaine kisses him.

It’s a little messy and awkward at the beginning, but then it’s unbearably beautiful, so much so they both feel their hearts break a little.

Kurt’s paint rubs off onto Blaine, until they’re both covered in smudges of paint, and at some point Kurt’s hand ends up in the palette of paint, and he presses his paint-cold hands against Blaine’s chest and he shudders a little. Their hair is streaked, from hands knotting in curls and silky hair.

Afterwards, they lie there, exhausted, the familiar moon casting a silvery glow over everything. Kurt takes the brush and doodles randomly on Blaine’s arm, his chest, wherever he can reach, with tiny scribbles and pictures that make no sense. They laugh a little together, exchange stories.

Kurt tells Blaine about how he fell off the tracks and there’s silence, and he cries a little, but not a lot. Blaine tells Kurt about his fears, how he’s scared of being a failure, how even after all this time he sings, but never tries for solos. Kurt tells him about the cheap screws, the dirt and the desperation. Their voices grow a little hoarse, and they’re both a little thirsty, but they just kiss each other.

At some point, Blaine sings a little to Kurt, and Kurt smiles, his eyes downcast. Kurt sings too, but it’s obvious he hasn’t done so for a very long time, at first his voice cracks and is husky, then after a while it’s that clear countertenor, not as pure as before, a little darker at the edges and worn out by life. To Blaine, it’s even more beautiful than before. But of course, Kurt doesn’t believe him and he lies there for a while, thinking about his voice, before Blaine kisses him again.

Their breathing slows, and they lie there, on the verge of sleep, just caught in between.

“I don’t know much about you,” Kurt whispers into Blaine’s hair, and Kurt thinks Blaine is asleep, but he’s not really, and somewhere in Kurt’s mind he knows Blaine isn’t asleep, “not enough to fill out a missing person sheet, or to describe you to my parents.”

After a while, his breath stirs Blaine’s hair again.

“I think I love you though. I’m not sure.”


Blaine finishes the portrait the next morning, covered in paint that peels a little, sweat and the heady scent of sex. He spends hours on the eyes.

It’s beautiful. Perfect.

Kurt doesn’t look at it.


He doesn’t see Kurt after that day. He hands over the money, they say goodbye, there’s an awkward hug.

The air is heavy with the things left unsaid.


Blaine hands the portrait to his professor. It’s great, she says, you’ve really captured something special. Maybe enter it into a competition or two? Blaine declines.


Kurt spends forever in the shower, washing off the paint, returning things back to cold, bleak reality.


Summer break ends, and Blaine goes to collect his painting from where it’s hanging in the corridor. His teacher stops him.

“There’s someone who would like to see you.”

And there, in the dusty old classroom, dust motes lit up by the golden sunlight, dressed immaculately, new clothes – he notes, is Kurt, the sun lighting his face, making his eyes sparkle.

“How are you?” Blaine asks, when he can talk.

“Better. I’m thinking about seeing a doctor. Or a psychiatrist. Whatever.”

They smile at each other, a little hesitantly. After a while, Kurt gets up from where he’s sitting, moves from behind the desk where he’s sitting and perches on the very edge of a desk at the front. He plays with his hands.

“I saw the painting,” he says.

“Oh,” is all Blaine manages.

Kurt walks up to Blaine, presses his hands against his chest, looks up.

“Do you love me?” he asks, his voice tiny and uncertain.

“I think I do,” Blaine whispers.

“I think I love you too.”
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
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( 141 comments — Leave a comment )
burntheghosts on January 13th, 2011 04:03 pm (UTC)
Wow. I mean, really, wow.
This is quite potentially the most beautifully written fic I've ever read. Truly.
It's hard for me to put into words... You visualize everything so wonderfully, and you really capture all of the emotion... It's almost like I can see the emotion as well as feel it. Well, okay, that makes no sense. But I'm hoping you can figure out what I'm trying to say.
I'm so in love with this. When I get on my laptop tonight, I'm bookmarking for future rereading.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:27 am (UTC)
♥ Thank you so much for this absolutely beautiful comment, it really means a lot to me that you can feel the emotions that I'm trying to express.
being appropriate is boring.dreamerofmonday on January 13th, 2011 04:07 pm (UTC)
I think I love you. This is one of the best things I've ever read (including stuff by Coincident on FF.NET) and just... WOW.


So beautiful.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:28 am (UTC)
Thank you! I love Coincident, she/he (I don't know?) is one of the most beautiful, poetic writers I've come across, so thank you very much :)
RomyKateromykate on January 13th, 2011 04:21 pm (UTC)
Oh my freakin' god, that was gorgeous. It was so raw, and brutal and yet really beautiful. I especially lived the bit with the wings <3

Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:31 am (UTC)
Thank you so much, I'm glad you liked the wings, that was actually what I built this fic around, just this image of two lonely people, both a little broken and sad, with one painting wings onto the other in the light of the moon, and it somehow grew to ~6000 words!
Aelora: Glee - Kurt @ Blaine w/loveaelora on January 13th, 2011 04:23 pm (UTC)
I wish I could put into words how beautiful this fic is. I was entranced from the beginning and couldn't look away. My heart ached for both but the scene when Blaine painted the wings on Kurt just... did something to me.

Just wow. I really wish I could articulate my thoughts better.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:33 am (UTC)
Your thoughts are perfect as they are (: Thank you so much, and the part with the wings really was what made me write this whole thing, it just started with that one moment and grew.
NdR: Rachel Berrynaderegen on January 13th, 2011 04:42 pm (UTC)
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:33 am (UTC)
thank you for reading and commenting ♥
Elenuvien Firelle: glee - klainefirelle on January 13th, 2011 04:47 pm (UTC)
i'm not too fond of AU and even less when it comes to future!fics. yet this, THIS. do you even realise how beautiful it is? how raw and sincere? how poetic and delicate yet it screams with passion and desperation? i can't out it into words but i'm speechless.

i saw everything, them together, alone, every detail. you decribed it perfectly.

this is perfection.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:34 am (UTC)
wow, well - thank you very much for your beautiful comment, truly. Thank you.
rusting_roses: BW chrisrusting_roses on January 13th, 2011 05:01 pm (UTC)
Wow. Normally I'm not one for angst, but this is so well written, and so amazingly intimate that it's impossible not to love it. I am very impressed indeed ♥
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:35 am (UTC)
Coming from you - I think you're an absolutely amazing writer - that means a lot, so thank you very much ♥
bardlover6: rasillonbardlover6 on January 13th, 2011 05:10 pm (UTC)
This is absolutely gorgeous.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:35 am (UTC)
Thank you so much, I'm glad you liked it!
fire_and_fall: I knowfire_and_fall on January 13th, 2011 05:37 pm (UTC)
God, this was beautiful, I can't even... ♥

Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:37 am (UTC)
Thank you so much, and you have a gorgeous icon by the way :)
(Anonymous) on January 13th, 2011 05:40 pm (UTC)
I always kind of feel bad for having a drug using kink, but this was beautiful on top of it all. lovely work.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:39 am (UTC)
Thank you so much, re:drug use, I've always found it a little sad, dark and very human - overwhelmingly so
(Deleted comment)
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:42 am (UTC)
*waves* I think I've seen you in all of my fics - thank you so much! ♥ For both your comments and for liking my work in general. Maybe a sequel? Probably not? But thank you for liking it so much you'd enjoy reading a sequel.

And no, I'm not a painter - in my dreams I am though!
lady lazarus: glee: klaineplanetariium on January 13th, 2011 07:15 pm (UTC)
Oh WOW. This is pure poetry. The emotions were so raw that they physically hurt. And the wings? So perfect, so beautiful, so flawed, so touching. ♥
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:43 am (UTC)
Thank you so much, really and truly, I really appreciate that I could touch you :)
elsaalysskeaelsaalysskea on January 13th, 2011 08:58 pm (UTC)
That was so beautiful...
Really that was the best I've ever read.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:44 am (UTC)
Wow, thank you so much, that's truly a generous and very lovely thing to say ♥
audi_katia: klaineaudi_katia on January 13th, 2011 09:32 pm (UTC)

Waking up to read this is probably the best way I could have woken up. Semi-AU, future fic, my favorites. And then you add art and the way they paint themselves? I find that so intimate and heartrending, so personal to them. I felt like reading about it was an intrusion.

The way you broke down the passages, some of them only a sentence or two long, fragmented it in a way that made it seem like snapshots. I felt like I could understand their relationship better that way.

All in all, this is beautiful. And perfect. And wow. The ending just hurt. Great job.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:45 am (UTC)
Thank you so much, I appreciate your comment more than you know, it's pretty much every writer here's wish to touch people with words, so ♥
obsession called while you were out: Blaineflyingcarpet on January 13th, 2011 09:35 pm (UTC)
This is really beautiful -- great job.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:42 am (UTC)
thank you so much ♥ that means a lot to me
titacats: Bill intensetitacats on January 13th, 2011 10:40 pm (UTC)
Wow. That's just . . wow.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:46 am (UTC)
Thank you so much, I'm glad you felt what I wanted you to feel
i'd kiss you if you weren't so damn ugly: under my umbrellatakewing on January 13th, 2011 11:07 pm (UTC)
I think this is the closest I've come to crying from a fic in this fandom. Such a great story, so poignant.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:47 am (UTC)
Wow - thank you, that's a really wonderful compliment
Murgymurgy31 on January 13th, 2011 11:16 pm (UTC)
That was awesome!
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:47 am (UTC)
Thank you! :)
Ms. Beeelven_freckles on January 13th, 2011 11:26 pm (UTC)
Speechless. Beauty. I can't find the words. Thank you. This is amazing, and heartbreaking, and beautiful.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:49 am (UTC)
To be able to make someone feel what I feel when I write is all I've really wanted, so thank you so much ♥
RDM-ationrdm_ation on January 14th, 2011 02:21 am (UTC)
I usually don't comment on fic at all.

But this was beautiful. Totally heartbreaking, and amazingly written.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:49 am (UTC)
thank you so much, I'm happy that I managed to lure you from your rock :)
maplelump: Pivitol momentmaplelump on January 14th, 2011 02:44 am (UTC)
Just shatter my heart why don't you? Then patch it, then break it again, then stitch it together and fill it with hope.

Loved every bit of this.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 06:50 am (UTC)
Thank you, seriously the prettiest way to describe such a dark and somewhat twisted fic ♥
Marie-Èveelanor12 on January 14th, 2011 10:37 am (UTC)
Wow. Just wow. I have tears in my eyes from the beauty, desperation and hopefulness of this story.

This is me being speechless.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 11:31 am (UTC)
Thank you - I really mean that, I feel honoured that you were moved by this, thank you.
I'm my own worst enemy.chronokinetics on January 14th, 2011 11:14 am (UTC)
You, dear author, are absolutely amazing. This deserves more recognition. Beautifully written, amazing visuals... AND THE EMOTIONS, WHERE DO I BEGIN? You are glorious. Job well done.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 11:32 am (UTC)
Thank you kind reader (: Your recognition is enough for me ♥
Beatriceparis_5053 on January 14th, 2011 12:27 pm (UTC)
This was an incredible pleasure to read. Everything about this piece of writing just fell into the right place, and the whole thing is just...overall beautiful.

Seriously one of the best fics I've ever read. <3
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 14th, 2011 02:24 pm (UTC)
Thank you so much - that is seriously one of the best compliments ever :)
apleby_arrowapleby_arrow on January 14th, 2011 06:17 pm (UTC)
This was amazing. My heart is completely broken. I really lack of words to describe what I felt. I pictured the last scene with a great sunlight and yeah, there's hope for them. Thanks anyway for your fabulous job.
Meaof_a_crescendo on January 15th, 2011 03:36 am (UTC)
Thank you too - I'm glad you picked up the whole lighting in the last scene, I could see it in my head :)
( 141 comments — Leave a comment )
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