Supershort oneshot. Warnings: allusions to prostitution, implied sexual themes, nothing explicit but it's honestly disturbing so I'm making it M. I had to clean it up majorly before I even considered posting it. I'm much happier with it this way. So here you have it, The Queen of Fluff's attempt at angst. Just to prove that it's in my realm of possibility Enjoy, I guess, and review, please discourage me from writing stuff like this ever ever again, the works.
Je ne veaux pas mourrir toute seule.
Kurt knows it was a crazy idea and that it won't help anything, but now that it's here he wants it bad.
They're already half-naked upon throwing open the motel room door. There's no need to turn on the lights; it's not going to be about seeing. It will be tasting and feeling and there won't be room for anything else and it's not how Kurt pictured his or even their first time to be but he's looking around for damns to give and can't find any.
The only illumination is the hazy yellow-blue streetlamp light filtering in through the dusty window and that's how Kurt likes it, how he wants it; no distractions, just sensations. Sight triggers thought, and thought triggers memory, and that's the last thing Kurt wants to be doing. He just needs to feel, feel what he wants with no one to stop him. His inhibitions, if there are any, are sliding slowly, seeping out through every pore of his body and through the walls and fibers of the carpet, soaking his surroundings and tinting everything an icy red.
He can practically feel the familiar hands on him; smell the old scent of buttery-boy scent. Almost, but not quite.
It isn't long before it all ends and Kurt's doused in sweat and yellow-blue streetlamp light and icy red inhibitions, shouting his few moments of euphoria.
And then he's empty, and sliding down against the wall to the floor, naked and vulnerable and weeping.
He doesn't hear the zip of pants, the creak of the floorboards, the quiet shut of the door. He only feels the emptiness, the bedside table now lacking a fifty-dollar bill and the room lacking everything but the scent of sex and severe disillusionment.
Kurt buries his face in his hands, curling in on himself, sobs wracking his body harder than his less-than-ideal-afterglow.
"Blaine," is all he can seem to say through his hitching breath, all he can think through the too-sharp haze of desolation. "Blaine, Blaine, Blaine..."
He says it again and again, just because this is the only time he'll be able too.
Tomorrow he'll go home. He'll be Kurt Hummel, only out kid at McKinley, official male counter-tenor of a Glee Club all set to win at Nationals, honorable senior rewarded with a full scholarship to Parsons in New York.
All of it means nothing without Blaine.
He'll go home, pretending like four months has been enough time. To everyone in the real world, Kurt Hummel has moved on.
But for right now he's Kurt Hummel, lying naked drenched in cold sweat and yellow-blue streetlamp light on the floor of a cheap motel, despairing over his long-gone boyfriend, desperate to keep his memory alive even if it means paying someone to pretend to be him for one lonely night.
Blaine was supposed to be his first time.
Kurt sobs once more, eyes and soul wrung dry.
And then he's had enough. He sits up, stands with steady legs. He sniffs once and heads to the bathroom to rinse off the ten minutes of stupidity he just indulged in. That's one more thing to check off the list; one more thing to try that didn't work.
He locates his clothes and pulls them on meticulously, numbly. He grapples blindly for his phone and finds it halfway under the bed from where it fell from his abandoned jeans, sliding it safely back inside his pocket.
He straightens his bangs with a lingering and dignified thumb. He strides to the door but stops just as he's about to reach for the handle, closes his eyes and breathes in deep.
If he tries, really tries, he can still feel those eyes adoringly on his, that nose against his jaw, those lips soft against his own.
But it isn't enough.
It's never enough. And it never will be.
Kurt opens the door, welcoming back the icy red inhibitions, and closes it on one night of stupidity, leaving behind only the scent of sex and severe disillusionment, yet another attempt in vain to take hold of something so vivid and yet so long, long gone.