Author: skwirelygurli PM
Blaine finds that with the right company, life can be pretty sweet. Klaine. Boxer!Blaine.Rated: Fiction K - English - Romance/Hurt/Comfort - Blaine A. & Kurt H. - Words: 1,998 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 16 - Follows: 3 - Published: 12-11-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7628297
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Sweat, a Glee fiction
I do not own Glee or Fly Away. Reviews are always welcome.
Like a movie, I'm living
Another day, another chapter of my script
Scared. Dead terrified with his feet stuck to the floor with nothing more than his own sweat. Dripping in pools, harvesting in the folds of his shirt.
Never again, he promised himself. Never again would allow himself to play victim.
That afternoon he stopped by the store. Digging around for the spare change in his pocket, what was supposed to last him the rest of the week for lunch, he paid for his purchase. He got back a nickel.
A nickel wouldn't buy him lunch for the next two days, but he could stand the rumbling of his stomach. This was an investment for his future. A future he might not otherwise get to see.
He was lucky if he could live to see tomorrow.
Fast forward five years. The DVD was buried in a box in his closet. He hadn't opened that box in ages. Opening it would be like opening Pandora's box. It was a flood of memories. Memories boxed away, to never be revisited. Ones that were kept, no matter how badly he wished to rid of them. They were a part of him.
On top of the DVD was a yearbook. It had been from his first school. The place that he thought was his home. Until he proclaimed that, yes he liked boys, and no, that did not mean that he wanted to get in every male student's pants.
They didn't believe him.
The stares, the full on gawk-fest they had when he walked into the Sadie Hawkins dance with another boy.
The blood rushing to his head as he tilted it backward, trying to stop his nose from gushing over his father's tie.
He had a feeling the stains wouldn't be coming out.
He stood on his toes and removed the box from it's spot on the shelf. He undid the flaps, reaching inside. His fingers closed in on the book. He took it out, blowing dust off the cover.
On the right inside cover his friends had written phone numbers and countless have a good summer messages. One note, written in pink Sharpie stuck out to him.
Don't ever change. HAGS.
It wasn't the words themselves that resonated with him. It was the signature that followed, the nearly illegible scrawl of who he thought to be his friend. But friends don't punch you in the face and laugh. They don't harass you every step down the hallway, so badly that you consider making a tunnel from your locker to all your classrooms just to avoid them. And they certainly don't leave the imprint of their size nine dress shoes on your stomach, forming bruises that match the condition of your spirit.
Here's what he should have written.
Don't ever change, or I will beat you to a pulp. Have a good summer, for it may be your last.
He threw the book across the room. He heaved his body off the bed, heading to the kitchen. Inside the drawer was a lighter.
The pages tore easily. Each rip was louder than the last. Smiling faces scattered across the floor. His thumb flicked the lighter. A flame rose from within.
The black ashes forming at the corner of the page exhilarated him. He picked up a page from the top of the pile.
That face. The ears that stuck out from his annual picture day haircut. The Chuck E. Cheese grin. It made him sick.
The flame swept across the page. It was his medicine. Nothing was left of the page or the picture.
If only he could say the same about the person in the picture.
Once the book was burned, and his room smelled of ashes and smoke, he sighed in relief.
And then he coughed, having filled his lungs with smoke.
He went back to the box. Rummaging to the bottom he picked up the DVD. Fight Club. The movie that had inspired him to take boxing lessons. The movie that had inspired him to start the Fight Club branch at Dalton.
The movie that cost him two days of lunch, surviving on the sole stick of gum a kid gave him for doing his math homework. It had chicken sub day too.
He took the DVD out of its case. That night he decided to rewatch it. Finn had been a jerk to him lately, and it was really starting to grate on his nerves. Him and Sebastian. He was trying to be friendly, give the kid the benefit of the doubt. But the excess flirting was not wanted. He had a boyfriend. One who loved him and hopefully would never end up in the box of broken memories.
With Sam Evans back at McKinley they had a chance. They could win Sectionals. His spirits are high, the lyrics to Red Solo Cup swimming around his head.
And then, just like everything else in his life, it breaks.
He was not going to sell himself to win. He saved this body for one person, and one person only. Sure, he had tried being sexy with the Warblers, but that was before he started dating Kurt. Before being sexy was replaced by being loved and feeling like he didn't have to put his body on display to earn someone's heart.
It was a pretty great feeling.
In the choir room Kurt was chewing Sam out. Ever since he had transferred to McKinley Finn had been cutting him down. Made him feel small. Smaller than he already was. It wasn't a knock to his height, rather a vague cover over what he had become privy to in their relationship.
"Do you have any idea what it's like to be Blaine?" He was angry at Sam. Yet his words veered in the other direction, biting into Finn.
"No. I wouldn't know what it's like to be perfect." Finn retorted.
"Right. Because perfect people get bullied by people who are supposed to be their friends. Perfect people struggle to find their breath as they curl up on the pavement." Kurt took a step towards his brother. He stood as erect as he could to meet him at eye level. "Maybe if you were to actually pay attention, and get your head our of your butt every once in a while you'd know that."
The other boys stood back in shock. Kurt Finally had the guts to stand up to Finn.
Finn pushed past Kurt. "Where are you going?"
"I have something I have to set straight." He left the classroom. Silence ensued.
Puck slapped Kurt on the back. He meant it as a mean of congratulations. Kurt understood and gently removed the hand as to not offend him. He smoothed the newly formed wrinkles of his shirt.
Only one thought crossed his mind.
Please don't let Finn mess this up.
And I feel my heart pounding
As I take off like a rocket ship
"I'm jealous. I would have enjoyed walking in on you all sweaty much more than Finn did." Kurt accepted his coffee from the barista and walked to a table.
"Considering I told him I was picturing the punching bag as his face, I'd have to agree with you." He lifted his bag from his shoulder and set it down beside him.
Kurt took a sip of his mocha. "Not what I meant. So hot."
"Me or the coffee?" Blaine joked. He leaned forward. "I could teach you. We could have private lessons at my place after school."
Afternoons became busier after that.
Push harder, run faster
Keep going 'til I reach the top
Then no one will ever make me stop
Almost a week later, Kurt had developed a surprising amount of skill. Mrs. Anderson had grown used to seeing his face around the house. They'd come home, finish homework and spend the rest of the time practicing. She got used to the grunts of exertion coming from her son's room. The names called out in anger of past pains and burdens.
"Take that Azimio!" His fist flew through the air.
Saturday afternoon the boys were practicing yet again. She had gone out to get some groceries expecting by the time she got back they would have settled down, be watching a movie or reading magazines. After putting the groceries away, she went to knock on Blaine's bedroom door to tell them she was back. She still heard the grunting going at a steady pace.
She called out to them, doubting that they'd hear her over their noise. On her way back to the kitchen she heard Blaine call out.
"Kurt!" It wasn't the tone she was used to. Normally there would be some rage, his voice breaking as his knuckles collided with whatever he was aiming at. Instead, the tone was excited. She hadn't heard him like that since his sixth birthday party. She stopped in the middle of the hallway. She stood still for a few minutes, wondering what else she would hear.
"Yes!" She felt her heart stop. Part of her wanted to walk away and pretend she hadn't heard anything. She supported her son, and if she interrupted a wholesome boxing match (well it was more wholesome than what she thought was going on) he might not trust her again. But if something more was going on under her roof she had a right to know. Her hand wavered over the handle. The door opened and she jerked away.
"Oh, hi Mrs. Anderson." Kurt paused in the doorway. Beads of sweat coated the back of his neck. He wiped them away with his hand.
"What were you doing outside my door?" Blaine asked.
She glanced down to her feet. "I came to tell you that I was home but I heard grunting and didn't know if I should interrupt or not."
"You missed Kurt doing this one move. It was amazing. But I should expect it from such an amazing person." He dabbed at his face with a towel.
She smiled, lips clamped together. "I'm sure you two worked up quite the thirst. Who wants apple cider?" She headed off to the kitchen, not bothering to wait for a response.
Kurt went to follow, but Blaine held him back. He cocooned around him, the sweat of their arms sticking them together. "It's a good thing she didn't come home any sooner. She'd probably be able to tell your grunts of pleasure from grunts of boxing."
"You were the one shouting my name loud enough for the neighbors to hear." Kurt wiggled against him.
"I didn't expect them to actually call the house. You think they really believed that I was freaking out over a spider?" He wound their fingers together.
Kurt twisted to face him. "Not at all."
Mrs. Anderson called out to them. "Are you boys coming?" Blaine tossed his towel onto the bed.
"We should go." Kurt jerked his head. "Or then she'll really think something is up."
Blaine shut the door behind them. Nobody would have to know. His bed was perfectly made, minus the towel he had flung at it. And the only other piece, pieces that is, of evidence were hidden in the garbage, under the scorched cover of an old yearbook.
Suck on that homophobe.
I'll spread my wings and fly away
No matter what it takes
Won't let the rain put out my flame
Don't want to play it safe
Whoa oh oh oh oh oh
Whoa oh oh oh oh oh
I'll spread my wings and fly away
No matter what it takes