Far Away

Another 4x10 reaction ficlet. I had to kind of purge this from my system before I could write more fluff. Some angst and themes/thoughts about death and loss.

It would be stupid. He knows. His brain knows. His heart knows. His body refuses to comply. And Blaine’s body is there, in his bed, and the last time Blaine’s body was in his bed, curled in on himself and teetering on the edge of the mattress all night, Kurt fought with the push and pull of his raw anguish and his desperate denial. Surely that wasn’t what Blaine meant. Surely he didn’t-

But it was true, then Blaine was gone. Kurt thought he would suffocate under the pain, fresh and sharp, that his heart had broken, fractured down the center. He thought he could seal off what was left, let it mend, pretend it wasn’t ripped away and jagged edged. But it wasn’t a break, wasn’t snapped off clean so he could stitch himself back together. It was poison in his veins, it was everywhere; and every cell in his body still calling for Blaine.

He would learn to live with it. He would adapt. Hadn’t he always? Wasn’t that what his father was asking of him? It’s fine, it’s fine, we’ll be fine. It was what they did, he and his dad, spent their lives with hearts battered and bruised, marching on like soldiers with blood soaked bandages and blown off limbs, because you either keep going or you give up and wither away. Kurt refused to ever wither away.

Then he was there, with that smile that steals Kurt of his breath, every time. And for a moment, he forgot. Forgot everything, tripped headlong into loving Blaine the same as he always had; it could bring him to his knees, the way he loves Blaine. Can’t stop loving him and he feels stripped bare and vulnerable with it. 

It would be so easy. He just wants to forget again. Give in to the throbbing ache in his chest and lower, lower, where he needs Blaine the most. Needs him inside and all around him, needs to feel if his weary heart will pound in a steady staccato rhythm when it’s pressed to Blaine’s once more.

Blaine is sweet and unguarded in sleep, cheerful mask dropped from his face, like Kurt couldn’t tell, like he couldn’t see how badly Blaine wanted to fix everything and smooth it over, bury it cold in its grave. Kurt almost let him. Wants to let him, wants to let himself be cracked wide open for Blaine again and again. Almost.

His father is just across the open space between gauzy partitions, breathing and living and what if, what if. 

Does it matter anymore? A stupid mistake, a horrible awful mistake but maybe- 

Does everything matter? Does nothing?

Soon he’ll let Blaine run his fingertips along his skin, let him feel how Blaine is tattooed in invisible ink to every inch of him. Soon. But not tonight. 

He looks across the expanse of the bed, inches that could be an ocean, unending vastness of blue, whispers to Blaine’s silhouette shrouded in the dark of night:

I’ve been waiting for you forever, will you wait for me?

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