:-:

the evening hangs beneath the moon
a silver thread on darkened dune

:-:

Kurt rolls across the wide, empty expanse of his bed, swallowed in a sea of silk and sweat. It is cold and clear and so very dark in his room – he's never felt more alone.

Sleep will not come to Kurt; he will not let it. With sleep comes nightmares, and he refuses to lie there, helpless, as unnamed terrors tear at the very fabric of his being. Dark is the room, but darker is his unconscious.

He whimpers, eyes itching so mercilessly that he turns on his bedside lamp, reaching for the nearest book to ease his weary mind.

Hamlet. He's read it before, but Blaine's in one of his crazy Shakespearean moods, and Kurt feels like he has to brush up on his reading just to stay on the same level as his friend.

But thoughts of Blaine just make his head hurt even more, so Kurt flips open to a random page, and begins to read.

"To be, or not to be. That is the question." The famous line. The soliloquy that Kurt has known by heart since he was thirteen. It is beautiful, if not disheartening.

He continues on, fighting a violent battle with his body to stay awake. He can't fall into that world of darkness and pain – not tonight. Not ever again.

"To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance, to dream." That line – it always strikes a chord within Kurt, shaking him down to his core, filling his head with ideas until they're brimming from his nose and eyes and mouth.

To sleep eternally, Kurt muses, is much easier than living. If he must be subject to sleep tonight, why not stay there forever?

He sets the book down, rubbing at his glassy eyes. Could it be that simple? Just…never wake up? It is a beautiful thought to Kurt.

He lies back down, turning the lamp off carefully. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, preparing to end his weary existence in favor of sleep. The darkness seems to swell around him.

As he opens his eyes, he sees more clearly. How beautiful and horribly, terribly ugly the world is. Without a second thought, he grabs the bottle of pills from his bedside table, knocking Hamlet to the ground as he lets the white pills slide roughly down his throat. A swig of water, and he's gone.

:-:

with closing eyes and resting head
i know that sleep is coming soon

:-:

He's in Finn's room. Kurt doesn't know how he got there, but he knows he's naked – very, very naked, pale and cold and vulnerable – and there are wings sprouting from his shoulder blades, white and ragged and holding him in the air like a dove.

The room is dark and gray and dirty. The video games lie untouched, the radio is off, and the drum set is covered in a layer of dust. One beam of sunlight bravely trails through the window, illuminating the face of Finn Husdon.

He's in the corner, slumped against the ground. His arms are wrapped around his knees, and the bags beneath Finn's eyes are disturbing. He's pale and thin and sickly, fading into the wallpaper like a ghost.

"It's all my fault…" He whispers to no one, lips trembling. "It's all my fault."

Kurt lands on the grimy floor, his ethereal feet leaving no mark. He kneels in front of his brother, reaching out to touch his face.

"What's wrong?" He breathes. "What's your fault?" But as the words pass from his lips, he knows Finn will never hear them.

"I failed him. I failed Kurt." Kurt blinked, pulling his hand back. "I should have…I should…oh, God…"

Finn breaks down completely, clawing at his face and neck. When blood appears, Kurt tries to intervene, to stop his brother from hurting himself.

"Finn! Please, stop this! You haven't failed me! You haven't!" Kurt grabs at the tall boy's hands, but his grip keeps slipping. "Please…"

"Why did you have to die, Kurt?" Finn asks, and for a moment, Kurt thinks he is visible. But Finn is staring at the wall, hiccupping violently. "Why did you…I could have helped. I shouldn't have bullied you, I shouldn't have let other scare you – I should have been a decent fucking human being!"

Kurt jumps back as Finn hurtles his football at the wall, creating a dent. The living boy just sobs in defeat, scratching at his arms, raking his nails down his forearms.

"And now you're gone. Dammit!" Finn falls to the ground, coming undone in front of his dead brother. Kurt closes his eyes, wishing to be far away from the boy he could not comfort.

:-:

if there are noises in the night
a frightening shadow, flickering light

:-:

Kurt opens his eyes, and has drifted into the living room. He sees Carole standing by the doorway, watching tearfully as Burt Hummel throws something to the ground.

"God dammit, Carole!" He roars, fists clenched. "They got him! Those bastards got him, there's no other way! Kurt wouldn't do this! He wouldn't! My son has been murdered!"

A lamp is smashed to the ground, and Carole just wipes at her cheeks, saying nothing. Kurt thinks she wants to – but she can't. She just can't.

"And the school – they won't do anything! Those lazy, bigoted assholes who refuse to believe that their precious athletes aren't capable of killing-!" A photo album is knocked onto the floor, its contents spilling onto the carpet. Kurt flies to his father, throat tight and aching.

"I just…" Burt's eyes are shining with tears, and he takes a deep, rattling breath. "I lost Katherine. And now I've lost Kurt. They took him from me, Carole!" He wails, throwing a picture to the ground, glass shattering. "Those bastards took my son away!"

Carole let out a little sob, leaning against the doorframe for support. Kurt tries to touch his father's shoulder, but the man slips away, face red with anger and pain.

"My little boy is gone." Burt's voice breaks, and he sinks to his knees, choking out sobs like prayers for anyone to hear. His head falls into his hands, and Burt Hummel's heart breaks into a million shards.

Kurt's does as well.

:-:

then I surrender unto sleep
where cloads of dream give second sight

:-:

And then Kurt is in an unfamiliar room, a dark, sinister room, devoid of light or life. Kurt's feet touch the ground, cold and hard and unfriendly to the touch. His wings flap nervously, then wrap around his body like a cocoon.

He walks, walks, walks until he finds something – anything – to show him he's not alone.

A body is sprawled across a bare bed, and at first, Kurt thinks him asleep. But the boy's familiar hazel eyes are open and dull, his cheeks gaunt and his breaths shallow. Kurt approaches Blaine carefully, eyes wide.

"Blaine?" He whispers, and Blaine looks up, a thin smile gracing his chapped lips.

"You've come for me…" he croaks back, and Kurt is afraid. So very afraid, but not for himself.

"Blaine, what's wrong?" He asks, but Blaine just stares at him, eyes twinkling just a little.

"If it's your time, Kurt, then it's my time, too. I'll follow you anywhere." His voice is weak, and Kurt wonders just how long he's been lying there, wishing, wanting to die – to sleep.

"Not today, Blaine. Please. Don't follow me." Kurt strokes Blaine's cheek, kneeling by his death-bed.

"But I want to." Blaine smiles, closing his eyes at Kurt's touch. "We'll always be together, Kurt."

Blaine's never been so romantic towards Kurt – they're 'just friends' and nothing else. But his loyalty, his devotion…it's so beautiful and heartbreaking and Kurt refuses to let such a perfectly imperfect human being die.

"I think you need to stay here, Blaine. Be here; be happy."

Blaine's face falls, and his voice is quiet and serious. "I can't be happy without you, Kurt. I forgot how."

Kurt lets out a sob, pressing his lips to Blaine's forehead gently. "You can. You will."

"You can't promise that." Blaine pulls Kurt's lips to his, kissing his deeply, passionately. "I need you."

Kurt wants to say something, but Blaine is faster. Silently, he pulls a knife from underneath his pillow, positioning it above his heart. "I've been waiting for you, Kurt."

The knife plunges in, and there's blood everywhere. It soaks Kurt's wings and stains his bare flesh, dripping from his hands and lips and Blaine is limp in his arms as everything goes black. He never wanted this; Blaine shouldn't die. Blaine couldn't die. It wasn't right.

:-:

what dreams may come, both dark and deep
of flying wings and soaring leap?

:-:

Kurt wakes, his phone vibrating by his leg. He looks over to his bedside table, no pills in sight – of course not, he realizes. He doesn't have prescription medicine. His dad does, but it's downstairs in the bathroom.

Kurt's not dead. He never died and Finn isn't blaming himself and Dad isn't breaking down and Blaine – Blaine isn't dead. The world is as it should be.

Tears are fresh on Kurt Hummel's cheeks, but he doesn't care; it's not his time. He can't. He won't.

His phone vibrates again, reminding him of his new message, so he picks it up and reads:

From: Blaine

Goodnight, sweet prince.

Kurt smiles, touching his lips where, in his dreams, Blaine has kissed him. Real or not, it had meant something.

Settling back down, Kurt breathes in the crisp night air, letting it drown out his fears and overtake his senses.

Lying in the dark, Kurt closes his eyes.

:-:

as I surrender unto sleep

:-: