DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "The Saltwater Room" by Owl City.
Warnings are: angstangstangst, consensual first-time sex between two underage boys, barebacking in a monogamous virgin relationship, slight swearing, character death.
Reviewers, you make my heart go "whee!" Like, super "whee!"
And in case anyone really is curious, I'm going to be totally truthful about how I came up with the idea for this: I took a nap. I woke up, blinked, and this was the first thought that popped into my head. Trufax. Aura-reading is a practice that I've since researched (so all the colours that I've mentioned actually do go with the specific character's personality) and had originally read about it in a book when I was younger. So somehow it bled back into my present-day thoughts and then I wrote it? My creative processes are always when I'm half-lucid. It's weird.
TUMBLR IS THAT WAY
endofadream [.] tumblr [.] com
When Kurt Hummel is four, he's out with his mom on a hot summer's day at a local farmer's market and notices something odd: in the crowds of people a faint, rainbow glow is emitting, something Kurt can catch only if he squints and stares for a long time. It appears to emanate from each individual person, and each glow is different in strength, color, and pulse. It's something he's never seen before.
He looks up at his mom, blinking against the hot summer sun, and notices, for the first time, that she has a glow, too, and hers is a beautiful, pale blue, almost the same hue as the cloudless sky. Against her fair skin, vivid green eyes, and dark, wavy hair it looks beautiful, more beautiful than anything Kurt has ever seen in his short life. It wavers and flickers, shimmering over her exposed arms and shoulders like the waves on a beach.
When a man walks by with a flickering gray aura, almost like a fuzzy shadow, he asks, "Mommy, why do people glow?" It's a childish question; his voice full of curiosity and wonder, Elizabeth looks down at him in surprise and holds his hand just a little bit tighter. She doesn't answer for a minute or so but Kurt is patient if anything and his mom always knows all the answers.
"What do you mean?" she asks, turning a corner and leading him down a row of stalls for jams and preserved fruits and vegetables. Kurt watches these people as he passes, studying them. The stalls are draped in different-colored fabrics and over the awning of several of them there are hand-painted signs indicating what the stall is offering.
A woman who stands in a sheltered tent draped in white cloth, jams with cozy plaid lids aligned in a neat little row on a wooden table in front of her, has a nice smile and a pinkish glow about her. She catches his eye when they walk past and winks.
A few stalls down a surly-looking man has a similar aura to the one who had walked by earlier, but his is brown. In his stall are jars of preserved peaches and pears, fruits that look absolutely delicious to Kurt's empty stomach but he's afraid to go near the man. Kurt begs his mom not to buy anything from him because he's giving off scary feelings.
Elizabeth raises an eyebrow but walks on as per Kurt's request. When they're out of sight of the man he feels instantly better, like the air is cleaner and can breathe freely.
"Things like that," he says when they sit down at a bench to eat lunch, the sun beating down on them and warming his head. "Sometimes people have a scary glow. And sometimes it's really nice and I want to hug them." He pauses. "Your glow is really pretty, Mommy."
"What color's my glow?" she asks. Kurt knows that she's humoring him but he's too excited about everything to care. All these people walking by are so different and it's exciting and new to Kurt because he's never been in a crowd of people this big that he can remember.
"It's blue," Kurt says, bouncing a little in his seat as he takes a bite of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Elizabeth had packed that morning before they left. "It's like the sky. It makes me feel calm."
Elizabeth smiles and kisses him on the head but speaks no more of it. Kurt's content to watch all the people walk by, noting that the colors ranged from blue to green to pink, and every once in awhile a person would walk by with the neutral color shadowing them. Those people always look sad or angry and Kurt feels bad for them.
When they arrive home late that afternoon, Elizabeth's purchases carefully placed inside a large cloth satchel, the first thing Kurt notices is that his dad has a cool glow, too, and his is a deep green, like the lawn in early June.
"Daddy! You glow, too!" Kurt says happily, running over to hug him.
Burt scoops him up into a hug, looking at Elizabeth over Kurt's shoulder. She just shrugs and gives him a little smile. "Uh, you too, kiddo," Burt says in lieu of greeting.
Kurt gasps excitedly, pulling away enough to look his father in the face. "Really?" he asks excitedly, blue eyes wide and mouth stretched wide in a grin. "What color am I?"
"Uh…" Burt pauses, looking helplessly at his wife. She offers no help, instead turning to head into the kitchen to put away the things that they had bought that afternoon. "I think it's… it looks like it's gray or something."
"No!" Kurt wiggles free, fear written across his face as he scampers off toward the bathroom so he can look in the mirror. "Gray isn't good, Daddy! Gray means bad things."
In the bathroom he hurriedly climbs onto the footstool they had in front of the sink, propping himself up until he can clearly see himself in the medicine cabinet's mirrors. His little heart beats quicker as he scrambles up.
Against the white shower curtain and cream-colored walls Kurt can see a faint, lilac-colored glow surrounding him. Its pulse is lively and steady and it hovers over his pale skin. "You lied, Daddy!" he wails, skimming his fingers over where the glow touches his arm. "It's purple!"
From the other room Burt only chuckles and goes to help Elizabeth put things away.
In time as he grows up Kurt's learned that everyone has a glow—an aura, he had also learned—and that the colors are special to personalities. The people in his life who are nice to him—like his teacher and the lunch ladies—have pretty-colored auras. The mean people— like his bullies—sometimes have the grays and browns he'd grown to detest and associate with deplorable acts and thoughts.
He's also learned that only a few people have this gift and that not many people in the world outside of psychics believe that it exists.
It'd shocked him at first, though, when one of the boys making fun of his voice had had an aura that was pink and not dark like his friends'. Kurt remembers that his name is Noah Puckerman and that even though he was always mean, calling Kurt names and shoving him down at recess, there was always another part of him that seemed like he sort of regretted doing the things he did, a flicker in his eye that was gone before Kurt could address it or pick himself up off the ground. Even if he never says anything and still pushes Kurt around, Kurt will always smiles at him when they pass. Noah always looks a little confused and shoves him extra hard the next time.
In a way, it's also a method for Kurt to see the good in everyone—or the lack thereof—and it isn't exactly unpleasant. Just at a glance Kurt knows who to avoid and who to approach. It leads to fewer hurt feelings and more time making friends with the pretty blonde in his class named Brittany whose aura was yellow, or giving the annoying brunette named Rachel who always talked back to the teacher and whose aura was red the side-eye.
He never tells anyone besides his parents about it and though they'd seemed skeptic at first they still let him talk and explain in all the ways that his now-eight-year-old self could. He feels special and privileged with this secret and it remains something he can keep all to himself.
And then his mom gets sick.
He's seen the auras of sick people before, has noticed how they'd been dimmer and more sluggish than normal ones. Sometimes an affected area—a heart or lung or leg—would glow stronger, but that had never happened with his mom. Elizabeth's aura soon begins dimming, little by little, as she weakens, its strong glow flickering like a candle as she coughs and breathes.
Kurt watches as she goes through chemo, sees her get better for an extremely short period of time and then relapse, waits and cries and sees the disease take over her, grasping her beautiful, strong body in its venomous claws and wither her down too quickly.
He sees as time goes on and she's moved permanently to the hospital that her aura fades quicker. No longer is it the bright, sky-blue it used to be: now it's dull, something like a cornflower blue, and pulses sluggishly, erratically.
The day she dies Kurt had watched it fade into white, watched her eyelashes flutter and her chest move weakly, and then she was gone. He'd known about it before the doctors had even been completely sure of when she would pass on.
Suddenly, he doesn't appreciate his gift anymore.
The sky is clear and blue when his mother's funeral is held late that September in the same cemetery that his grandparents are buried in. After his dad helps him place a few lilies on the casket before it's to be lowered, Kurt looks up to the sky.
Burt's voice, tight and pinched with tears, asks, "What're you looking at, kiddo?"
"Mommy's aura," Kurt responds. "It's the same color as the sky."
He never sees it.
This boy is beautiful is Kurt's first thought when the boy he'd just asked a question turns around for the first time. His eyes are wide and a honey-colored hazel. His lips are full and pink and pouty and dropped open a little in what appears to be surprise. His hair is dark and slicked back, curling tendrils framing his forehead and temples and the nape of his neck. His skin is olive-colored.
His aura is also blue.
It's almost the same blue his mom's had been, and the aura of this boy pulses frantically but still with a steady rhythm. It curls and winds around the blazer like a snake, dancing around his hair like a flighty butterfly. When he extends a hand, Kurt looks down and watches blue play over blue. The kid—Blaine, he's just introduced himself as—has large, warm, boyish palms. Kurt never, ever wants to let go. He can see his own lilac-colored aura jump and shift excitedly as his heart speeds up when Blaine gives him a crooked smile and takes his hand again.
Then they're running.
When Blaine sings, his blue aura is strong, steady, like he's at his most calm. When his eyes lock with Kurt's, it fluctuates slightly, jumps around like Kurt's heart is doing inside his chest.
That feeling he'd had for Finn last year, only intensified enough that it feels like he's struck in the gut when it washes over him, curls low in his chest and moves upwards, seizing his heart and his lungs. Dalton is perfect. Dalton is everything he's never had. Blaine is sweet and kind and more attentive to his problems than anyone ever has been.
Most importantly, none of the boys he's seen have dark-colored auras. Everyone here seems so happy and content and friendly. And when Blaine gives him his number later, scrawled on a flimsy paper napkin with a permanent marker that bled through and smudged the "N" of his name, Kurt accepts it with a teary-eyed smile and falls into the warm hug Blaine offers.
It doesn't take long for Kurt to transfer.
By the time they're dating it's March and Kurt's almost a hundred percent sure that he's in love with Blaine, in love with everything that he does, from memorizing Kurt's coffee order to holding doors open to holding his hand any possible moment that he can. Blaine always gives him these little smiles, awe behind them like he can't imagine that the boy he's smiling at is Kurt. He looks at Kurt constantly like he's the greatest thing ever.
And it's been months and months of them dancing around each other, months of Blaine trying to find himself and Kurt waiting not-so-patiently at the end. March goes, then April and May, and suddenly it's the first week of June and Kurt's back from New York for Nationals. They'd lost, but somehow, he's happy. He has Blaine to look forward to and that's a lot better than a title.
Then, in the middle of the Lima Bean, Blaine says it: without hesitation, without a single negative flicker in his aura, he tells Kurt that he loves him and it's wonderful. Kurt wants to scream to the world that Blaine Anderson, his boyfriend of three-and-a-half months, loves him.
When Kurt says it back around the remaining dregs of a mouthful of hot latte, it's with all the sincerity that he can muster.
When he kisses Blaine later, they both still taste like coffee; Blaine's thigh is between his as he straddles him on top of the sheets and he keeps whispering I love you, Kurt, I love you so much in his ear. In the semi-darkness of Kurt's bedroom their auras, blue and lilac, meld and flicker together, twining and tying and bleeding into one as they kiss and touch and feel. They cast a source of light that only Kurt sees, a beautiful aurora borealis birthed from their love and their connection.
Kurt figures that someday down the road he'll tell Blaine what he can see. He'll explain the colors and the pulses and how his mother's had been nearly the same shade of blue and why that makes him love Blaine just that much more. It's a weird, complicated discussion, something he's long since stopped talking with his dad about, and though he knows Blaine will get it, will sit down with him and hold his hand, nodding attentively and putting in his own input wherever appropriate, he wants to know that this will last before he ever mentions anything about it.
But it's Blaine. It'll last.
One day in late July, when summer's at its hottest and it's been almost thirteen years since he'd first discovered his gift, Kurt notices that Blaine's aura is fading slightly.
They're sitting on a hammock out back behind the Hummel-Hudson house, shaded underneath the lush branches of two oak trees. Kurt's facing south, with the August issue of Vogue held up eye-level, and Blaine's facing north, balancing a tattered paperback of Something Wicked This Way Comes in his right hand. The slight breezes ruffles both the leaves high above them and their hair, sending Kurt's scurrying annoyingly across his forehead and Blaine's to brush against his ears and the nape of his neck, where it's at its longest.
Kurt looks up after staring longingly at the new Rag & Bone trenchcoats for fall, ready to ask Blaine whether black or navy blue would be better for the upcoming season, and before he's blinked his breath catches in his throat and a numbing sense of dread spreads over him.
Blaine's still engrossed in his book, none the wiser, glasses perched low on his nose and sliding ever further with the thin film of sweat coating his skin, and the scene looks normal, the same peaceful atmosphere Blaine brings with him everywhere that he goes. Only this time, Kurt can see that his aura's dimmed slightly. It's almost imperceptible, and it still beats the same as ever, but Kurt can plainly see the color change. He's been around Blaine long enough, spent too many hours watching the colors that Blaine doesn't even know he has play across his skin.
It's dimming the way his mom's had, and that can only mean one thing.
Blaine looks up, perhaps sensing Kurt's eyes fixed on him, and smiles wide, that cute lopsided grin Kurt loves to feel against his skin, loves seeing directed at him and only him. "What's up, beautiful?" Blaine asks, eyes glancing down for a split second to take note of the page he's stopped on before closing the book and dropping it on the grass, Kurt's magazine following closely behind with a crinkle of pages and a small thump.
It's a moment of situation that involves laughter and embarrassed blushes, but soon they're laid out against each other, looking up at the branches of the trees and listening to the birds chirp happily. Blaine props himself up on his elbow, the hammock wobbling slightly, and stares down at Kurt's heat-flushed face with nothing but adoration in his eyes. This close the color change is a little more obvious and Kurt's heart twists uncomfortably; he tries to push it back as he leans up and presses a gentle kiss to Blaine's parted lips.
"I was just thinking about you," he says softly, blue eyes locked to hazel. It's partially the truth. "About how much I love you."
"I love you, too," Blaine says in reply, leaning down to press their lips together again. Kurt's hand goes to his back, feeling the dampness soaking through his tank top, and doesn't stop his moan when he rakes his nails slightly down the muscled planes of Blaine's back and Blaine thrusts against him, tongue sliding between Kurt's lips to lick at the remaining tastes of the cherry popsicle he'd eaten earlier.
"I especially love when you eat cherry popsicles," Blaine says against Kurt's mouth, tongue licking at the corners of his lips. "It makes your lips look like they've been sucking on my cock."
Kurt groans and arches up into him, pressing their chests together in a desperate need for any sort of physical contact. "Oh god, Blaine," he gasps. "Blaine, Blaine, Blaine."
"What, what, what?" Blaine teases, using his free hand to run his fingers through Kurt's hair, pushing it away from his face. His eyes have darkened, pupils blown slightly; his tone has gone from teasing to dark and filthy. "What do you need, Kurt?"
"You," is the last thing Kurt gasps out before they're kissing again, harder than before, the hammock swaying dangerously underneath them.
He forgets about the aura for the rest of the afternoon.
Not until the first week of August do they see each other again.
No one's home when Blaine arrives, and before he steps out of his car Kurt hopes, prays to gods he doesn't believe in, that Blaine's aura is back to what it used to be, that maybe when he'd seen it last week it had seemed dim only because of the sun. He's fretted about it since then, going back and forth between wanting to tell Blaine and keeping it a secret, because, really, what is there to tell?
He doesn't even know what it means. He knows his mom's dimmed because she was stricken with cancer, but Blaine seems completely healthy. Hers had slowed, become sluggish and erratic, and last Kurt saw Blaine's pulsed the exact way it had since they'd first met. Maybe he's overreacting because for once Blaine is a person Kurt loves, that he cares about more than himself. Blaine is Kurt's world and stars and galaxy and he doesn't want to lose that.
His heart drops when Blaine steps out of his car, swinging his keys on the lanyard wrapped around his finger and smiling softly to himself. The blue is much, much dimmer, down to the same cornflower blue his mom's had been. Its pulse is now more erratic, slower, and its light flickers occasionally. Blaine, however, looks as healthy and happy as he ever has, maybe even more so.
Kurt doesn't say anything when he opens the door; instead, he pulls Blaine in for a tight hug and a searing kiss that leaves them both panting and moving against each other recklessly, hands pulling at clothes and hair and nails digging into skin. Kurt closes his eyes against tears and breathes in Blaine's scent of expensive aftershave, cologne, and body wash.
"I missed you," he whispers, voice two seconds away from being broken. He presses his nose into un-gelled curls and breathes and breathes and breathes.
"I missed you, too, Kurt." Blaine's reply is muffled, spoken into the soft cotton of Kurt's shirt. Kurt can still feel him hard against his hip, feeling his body tremble and shake underneath his hands.
"I want to…" Kurt swallows, grasping Blaine's face in his hands so that they're looking at each other. Blaine's lips are wet and starting to swell from kissing, his cheeks flushed and his hair a little messy. "I think it's time."
Blaine blinks. "Time?"
Kurt nods, licking his lips. Blaine's eyes follow the movement. "It's time that we… we had sex."
Blaine's mouth drops into a little "O" of understanding, hands moving to clutch at Kurt's waist. "Are you sure?" he asks softly, voice a little hopeful but a lot nervous and concerned. Kurt nods again, leaning down to kiss Blaine, gentler this time.
It's time, yes, but Kurt doesn't want to say why. He doesn't want to tell Blaine he wants to have sex with him now because he isn't sure if he'll have another opportunity after tonight. It's bittersweet and the tears sting behind Kurt's closed eyes, place a lump in his throat as he kisses Blaine and wonders what tomorrow will bring: if he'll ever feel Blaine's hands on him again, stroking and mapping, cradling and just holding, if he'll ever feel his lips pressing marks, pressing hard into his own lips until they both can't take it anymore. He wonders if he'll ever hear Blaine laugh or sing or speak again, see his eyes light up and that wide grin split his face.
Kurt doesn't know the outcome of anything, but he wants to make today count.
Blaine whimpers as Kurt parts his lips with his tongue, running it along the ridges of his teeth, his soft palette, moving along the soft flesh of the inside of his cheeks as he fists the hem of Blaine's shirt in his palms, pressing it up and up until they part and Blaine lifts his arms obediently. Kurt slides the shirt up and off, dropping it to the floor. His own is seconds in joining.
Eyes rove over bared chests for a fraction of a second before Kurt's pressing them together again, moaning softly at the skin-against-skin contact, curling his fingers into Blaine's hair and tugging gently. Blaine's hands are warm on his hips, tight in their grip, and when Kurt inches forward, slotting their hips together and pressing, their mutual moans are breathy and needy.
"Let's go upstairs," Kurt says, pulling back. Blaine's eyes are wide and owlish in their intensity. He nods and they have a hard time making it up the steps, teeth and tongues and lips sucking marks into skin, hands groping and squeezing; more than once they each hit the wall, laughing as they do so.
Kurt doesn't close his door when they reach his room. Blaine's back hits the sheets and Kurt's over him immediately, pressing down and in and around, sucking a dark mark onto his collarbone, licking up to behind his ear and latching his teeth onto the lobe, tugging gently, whispering, "I'm gonna fuck you, Blaine. I'm gonna fuck you so hard you'll never forget me."
"Kurt," Blaine gasps, head thrown back and tendons in his neck raised with the strain. "Oh, fuck, yes, fuck me, fuck me. I don't want to ever forget the feel of you in me."
Kurt reaches a hand between them, kissing his way up Blaine's neck, and rubs at Blaine's cock through his jeans, pressing the heel of his hand down hard enough to make Blaine squirm and buck his hips up desperately. Against his closed eyelids Blaine's aura is a faint glow, like if he'd closed his eyes next to the screen of his phone. He breathes in deep, smelling the beginnings of sweat, and presses their lips together once more, Blaine taking the initiative this time and deepening it, letting their lips slide slickly over one another as their tongues brush and dart.
He tries not to think as he undoes his jeans, pulling away to shimmy them down and off, and the undoes Blaine's jeans, urging his hips up to allow him room to slide the waistband past the swell of his ass and down the lines of his thighs and calves. Both pairs of jeans and underwear drop to the floor with a resolute noise and for the first time that afternoon Kurt sits back to breathe, to think and look and take all of this in. He wishes that it didn't have to be this past, this sudden and rushed, but he has no choice.
Blaine could be an angel or some higher form of glowing magical creature with the way he's spread out, loose-limbed and wanton, that glow lightening and lightening each time Kurt looks away and looks back. He licks his hips and places his hands on Blaine's thighs, leaning some of his weight on them as Blaine spreads his legs a little further apart.
They'd at least gone this far before: Kurt had insisted that if they were going to explore the physical aspects of their relationship they should go step-by-step instead of doing it all at one time.
The lube is in his bedside drawer, left there from the first time he'd fingered Blaine at the beginning of the summer, just a few weeks after they'd said their first I love you's. Kurt thinks, remembers back to that warm June day, when his windows had been opened and Blaine had been sprawled out on top of these very sheets, hips moving into the steady rhythm of three of Kurt's fingers. Kurt remembers the play of light over him, mingling with his then-bright aura, sending rippling, Caribbean water-like effects over his body; he sees Blaine's hands clenching into the sheets, reminiscent of the way he's doing it now, and hears his throaty moans.
Now, when he slicks up his fingers and presses one in, Blaine spreading his legs wide enough that it must hurt, Kurt says, "I'll love you forever."
Blaine makes a keening noise of agreement as Kurt slides the first finger in to the last knuckle, stilling as he waits the requisite adjustment period. When Blaine's body is relaxed and his breathing is labored but strong Kurt slides that finger out and drizzles more lube over it and his middle finger. He rubs the two tips against Blaine's hole, spreading the lube and feeling the puckered muscles flutter at his touch before sliding them in.
Blaine gasps in pain but forces his body to relax; Kurt doesn't move until Blaine's back is fully on the sheets again and the tension has mostly left his thighs.
"Touch yourself," Kurt whispers as he slides his fingers in and out slowly, occasionally twisting them over each other and crooking them, staying just out of reach of where he needs to be. "I want to see you."
Blaine's hand wraps around his cock, and when the head lifts off his stomach a clear trail of pre-come connects it to his skin. Blaine starts a slow, languid rhythm, pulling and gripping enough to ease the ache but not fulfill it. Kurt adds a third finger and crooks them, deeper this time, and Blaine arches up, pushing his hips down onto Kurt's fingers, moaning loudly as the pace of his hand on his cock increases slightly.
"Ah, fuck, fuck," Blaine pants, bending his legs at the knee and digging his heels into the sheets. "C'mon, Kurt, fuck me, fuck me, please."
It's belated, but Kurt realizes that he hadn't bought condoms. He chews on his lower lip in contemplation, sliding his fingers out of Blaine as he reaches for the lube. "I don't have any condoms."
"Don't care," Blaine replies hastily. "We're clean, it's okay. Just, please."
With only a slight amount of hesitation Kurt pops the cap on the lube and slicks up his cock, hips jerking into the touch. "Hook your arms under your knees."
Blaine does and Kurt's in awe at how unashamed he is, at how open he is at this moment. He grasps the base of his cock and rubs the slick head around Blaine's hole, making him jerk and shudder and whine desperately until Kurt finally aligns himself and begins the slow slide in.
When Kurt bottoms out, arms bracketing Blaine's torso, his buries his face in the crook of his neck, pressing his lips sloppily to the heated skin. Blaine's arms release his legs, which wrap around Kurt's waist, and his hands come up to wrap around his neck loosely; when he speaks his voice is directly into Kurt's ear, low and silky. "Move," he whispers, canting his hips up, sliding Kurt's cock further into him. "Kurt, move."
"Fuck, you're so tight," Kurt says, his voice strained and muffled as his hips twitch forward slightly. Sweat breaks out on his hairline. "I don't think I'm gonna last."
"I don't care," Blaine replies, kissing the side of Kurt's neck. "Just fuck me."
Together, this close, all Kurt can see is purple and blue, shimmering and surrounding them, see Blaine's dark skin, slicked with sweat, hear his grunts and pants close as Kurt's hips undulate, pushing further into him, bending him nearly in half as he feels the first stirrings of orgasm building.
"I'm close," Kurt gasps and it's too soon, much too soon.
Blaine runs his nails down Kurt's back, stopping above the swell of his ass, sliding lower until the flat of his palm is cupping one of Kurt's cheeks, pushing him further. "Come," he says quietly, voice cracking on a moan. "Come inside me, Kurt."
With a groan Kurt thrusts only a few more times before he's coming with a moan, Blaine clenching around him as he comes between them with a low groan, shutting his eyes and tilting his head back. Kurt watches through half-closed eyes as Blaine's aura brightens momentarily and pulses faster, matching the intensity of his own, before slowly dimming back down to the dull, almost-white.
He tries not to sob, he really does.
Instead, he kisses Blaine softly, stroking his hair and cheek, memorizing the feel of the skin against his, the way the dark hair on his chest is damp with sweat and come. He feels Blaine's breath on his cheek, warm and familiar. Kurt closes his eyes against the oncoming surge of tears.
"I love you," he says softly, and he never wants to stop saying it, never wants Blaine to stop hearing it. Their time is limited, Kurt's too sure of that, but he doesn't want to tell him. He doesn't want to worry him because this could just be his overactive imagination.
Blaine laughs and presses a kiss to Kurt's forehead. "I love you, too, Kurt."
Blaine leaves around five that evening, giving Kurt a quick kiss and a long hug goodbye, stepping back and walking out the door with a smile on his face. Kurt watches him walk down the driveway and to his car, looking at him sadly as he leans on the doorframe. Blaine's car backs out of the driveway and the last thing Kurt sees is a distorted wave and the grating honk of his car horn as he begins to drive away.
Blaine's aura is very nearly white.
Kurt closes the door.
When he gets the call late that night, he knows who it is before he even looks at the caller ID. His phone has been sitting beside him since Blaine had left, unresponsive and dark as he awaits a call, a text, anything from Blaine to let him know that he's safe and okay at home and that Kurt had read his aura wrong, that maybe it changing color meant something different, something better and not what he knows it really means.
The voice on the line is authoritative; it's cool and detached and somehow similar to Blaine's. Kurt catches snippets of Mr. Anderson's words, things like car crash and driver fell asleep at the wheel and died instantly. Blaine had never made it home in time for dinner, Mr. Anderson says, and it sounds almost like he doesn't even care. Kurt wants to hit him, yell at him and ask him why he sounds so indifferent to his son, the love of Kurt's life, lying dead under a fucking blanket.
Kurt politely croaks out a "thank you" and promises to attend the funeral, though one thing he can't promise is how well he'll hold himself together.
When he hangs up he sobs for hours. Tomorrow, when his dad and Carole and Finn arrive back he'll have to tell them. He'll have to see their looks of shock and horror and utter sadness as they hug him and tell him that everything's going to be okay because everything won't be okay. Nothing's going to be the same no matter how much time passes.
From then on his own purple aura dims a little and pulses a little less frequently. If it takes a slightly bluish hue, he never thinks about it unless it's one of those nights when he curls up in his bed under the covers and sobs and sobs until he's dry and hoarse and empty, so empty.
Blaine's funeral dawns bright and clear, like his mom's. When Kurt places a handful of roses on the casket, tears falling down his face as he stares at the polished black wood, he looks up at the sky, blinking against the sun. He looks for Blaine's aura but he never sees it.