The Queen of Fluff attempts angst once more. Read, review, and enjoy.
When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The waking up is the hardest part.
Kurt was even more beautiful than Blaine remembered him.
And exactly the same, too. Porcelain skin, chestnut brown hair, lithe, ever-slender body that he knew felt almost too blissful under his memorizing fingers.
And that smile.
Blaine watched him in awe from the bed, half-awake, reveling in his lovers' presence in the doorway. Blaine didn't know how Kurt woke him; he hadn't made a sound as he watched him silently from the door, glasz eyes unreadable.
Blaine's voice is caught in his throat, his limbs are unnaturally frozen.
"You came back," Blaine mouths, just barely less than a whisper.
Kurt shakes his head, no.
His cheeks are tearstained.
And then Blaine jolts up in bed, for real this time.
You roll out of bed
And down onto your knees.
His sleep-ridden eyes are foggy along with his sleep-numbed brain as his heart beats erratically, eyes struggling to read the flickering shadows cast by the soft, unforgiving moonlight. Blaine can't breathe; the intensity of this feeling is so much, and he collapses out of bed for the sheer magnitude of it, humbled to the point of falling on his knees, praying, wishing, begging silently but in vain.
And for a moment you can hardly breathe
Wondering, was she really there?
Blaine's eyes are trained hopelessly on the empty doorway.
Is she standing in my room?
But Kurt's not there.
No she's not.
He never will be.
Cause she's gone, gone, gone gone
Blaine's entire frame trembles as his face crumbles into his shaking hands, willing himself to cry but he can't. He can't allow himself that kind of relief or catharsis. He deserves this, this suffering. It is his punishment for letting slide something immeasurably flawless and precious. It is his cross to bear.
When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The giving up is the hardest part.
He can't remember where it all went wrong it was when he missed one too many dates. Maybe it was when the intensity of feeling started to frighten him. All he knows is that he's missing a part of him that he'll never get back. He's never been particularly good at romance and now it's caught up to him. But he's living with it.
If you can constitute living as surviving the day just to make it through to nightfall. As breathing for the fleeting moments where Kurt wakes up by his side, or calls him on the phone or is watching him from the doorway.
No matter what helpless, sweet nightmare his aching subconscious can drag up, Kurt's face is always stained with tears.
She takes you in with her crying eyes
And all at once you have to say goodbye.
And he never talks. Only smiles.
Sometimes Blaine is begging for days, sometimes it's for seconds. Asking him to speak, to tell him where he's been, what he's been doing, what he's feeling, what's on his mind, why he's crying, asking "Do you still love me," and "Are you staying longer this time?"
Wondering, could you stay my love?
Will you wake up by my side?
But the answer is always the same.
No she can't.
A smile, a shake of the head, a sweet decline.
'Cause she's gone, gone, gone
Blaine rouses himself from his knees onto shaking legs, drawing himself up to lean out of the open window, sobering himself against the cold midnight air. The sky is dark and starless, grass glistening with dew and the primrose bushes lining the side of the house pierce the chill with their fragrance.
Maybe if Blaine just tries a little harder he can get Kurt to speak. Get him to stop crying. If these dreams are all he has, he should at least get the most out of them.
So he leans down and plucks half a dozen red blossoms into his hands, feeling a little silly and a lot desperate and shameless all at the same time.
He eases back into bed, pulling up the covers and rolling onto his side, gazing in agony at the empty spot beside him. Sometimes if he buries his face into the pillow long enough he can smell him, the lingering scent of night cream and coffee. It's probably all in his head but he smells it either way and it helps. A little.
He reaches the hand that holds the little flowers out to the empty pillow, resting it there.
Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hands?
Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my, roses in my hands?
A single tear rolls down his barely shaven face.
Would you get them if I did?
'I'm sorry,' repeats as a mantra in his head, holding onto the words like a lifeline, needing them to fall with him into repose. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...'
He finally drifts off into sleep, fingers slacking as the flowers scatter over the pillow and his heart and mind slip easily into fleeting moments of smiles and tearstains and blue eyes and hopefully primroses.
No you won't.
'Cause you're gone, gone, gone,