I know I should be working on FTW, but this popped into my head this morning and demanded to be written! The town that this is written about is not a real place. It is actually an amalgamation of towns that exist in Northeast Washington. Also, I do not pretend to know anything about art except for basics, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong! As always, enjoy.
Warnings: Character Death.
Water-colored Roses (1/3)
He smiled as he ran his hand over the portrait. The colors of the sunset mixed with that of his lover's eyes staring back at him. He moved on to the next, which was darker, the pain seeping through to him from the canvas. The next was the view from the window of the bedroom they had shared for that one sweet moment. Taking a careful step back he surveyed the room. There was not a single space of wall showing, as the paintings and drawings of their life together took up the entirety of the room.
When they'd tried to move him to a home, he'd refused. He couldn't leave this place. Their place, it was the home that they'd built together over that one perfect summer. He could feel his love in everything they'd created together. He was there in the paintings that he could not take down; in the flowers covering every available surface that he still picked fresh everyday from the garden they'd grown together the spring after the cottage had been built. He could not leave this life behind, because he could not risk losing those moment's where he swore he could feel his lover's arms around him, or his presence in an empty room. He would not leave the only place he'd ever known genuine happiness and peace.
When you're young, you think you can map out you're life. You spend hours pinpointing the moment you'll be successful, the moment that you'll marry, even the moment that you're first child is born. The part that you don't plan, the part that no one ever bothers to tell you, is that often, the way your see your life and the way it ends up turning out, are on completely different atlases. Kurt Hummel knew this better than most.
When Kurt was in high school, he was positive that he would see his name in lights someday. He knew, without a doubt, that he would leave this Podunk town behind and make a name for himself. Then, when he was sixteen, reality hit him hard when his dad had a heart attack. His father had survived, but only barely. He could no longer work; and Kurt, against his father's wishes, dropped out of school in order to take care of the both of them.
When he was eighteen, his father's heart failed him once again, and this time he didn't make it. So, with no family to speak of and nothing to his name, Kurt decided to finally escape Lima, Ohio. However, knowing now what it was to work hard to barely get by, he no longer felt that craving to be somebody. Sure, he'd like to be successful, but the meaning of the word had change. The only thing Kurt wished for himself now was happiness; real, pure, unadulterated happiness.
After spending a year in New York, Kurt had enough. He could barely get by, and he was working so much that he was losing track of himself, of what he wanted. Kurt had always been artistic. Before his father had died, he spent hours designing and creating his own clothes. Relishing the feel of a pencil gripped firmly in his hand as the outfit on the page began to take shape. What he hadn't realized, was that this artistic passion could carry over. He began experimenting with paints, everything from acrylics on canvas to watercolors. He learned what a difference proper shading meant, and how to create a deep impasto. Kurt spent some time exploring other mediums as well. He practiced with charcoal, he blended pastels, and he even picked up paper cutting for a short period of time. He learned to throw clay on a wheel. The simple act of putting something beautiful, something meaningful, onto a blank slate, of putting something where there once was nothing, brought a sense of contentment. This was what he had been missing, a way to let everything out so he could breathe again. Inspired, Kurt left New York.
Rather than simply choosing someplace randomly out of a hat, Kurt traveled. He visited the coasts of Florida, the deserts of New Mexico; he even spent a brief period of time in Montana, before finding himself settled into a little town in the northeast corner of Washington. He quickly found a job working at a Ranch that doubled as a bed and breakfast, which also offered room and board. He would wake up in the morning and set the table, help with breakfast, and then clean the guest's rooms. He'd then be free to do as he pleased, which meant he could spend his afternoons with his art, bringing to life the memories of his travels. His life, though simple, was finally becoming something he could be proud of. Kurt Hummel was finally content.
Living in so far from the majority of the state's population, meant that things like art supplies were hard to come by. So, Kurt would have them special ordered at the general store in town, he'd then go pick them up every Wednesday. One such Wednesday, Kurt found himself in a foul mood. He had stepped on a piece he'd been working on the night before, paint not yet dry. Not only did he accidentally track paint across the hard wood floors, but he also regretted the long, difficult repair that lay ahead of him. He had let out a sigh as he'd started his truck and made the twenty mile drive into town.
Kurt recognized every car in town; he could tell you that the Little's drove that rattling old Subaru and the Kelly's drove the rusted out old Ford. The population was small enough that he knew everyone who lived within a fifty mile radius at least by sight. Not to say that there were never people traveling through, but why a '59 Chevy Impala in near perfect condition was parked outside of the local post office was beyond him. He looked at the car, drooling a little over the cherry red beauty with its drop top lowered. Finally he turned his eyes back to the road and turned left into the parking lot.
He quickly realized that he was not the only one who'd noticed the car. Cheryl, the owner of the general store, and her husband, Harry, were both peering out the window, no doubt trying to get a better look at the car's mysterious owner. They were talking in a whispered hush and quickly quieted as Kurt approached the counter. Cheryl reached under the counter to retrieve Kurt's package, which he promptly opened, reveling in the sight of the clean canvas and soft brushes. "Honey, when you get yourself a girl, you better look at her with half as much love as you look at those damn art supplies." Cheryl joked good-naturedly as she moved to fix the now hiring sign in the window.
"Awww, c'mon Cheryl, you know you're the only woman for me." Kurt said, wrapping his arm half around her waist and planting a chaste kiss on her cheek. A bright blush quickly colored Cheryl's cheeks. Harry laughed as he watched the two interact.
"Hey now, don't you two go getting too cozy on me." Kurt smiled at him as thanked the both of them and made his way towards the door, where he promptly collided with the dark haired stranger who had just entered. Kurt's paintbrushes fell to the floor and both he and the stranger reached down to pick them up, their heads colliding in the middle.
"Oh, ow. I'm so sorry!" The man said. Kurt started to reassure him as he gathered his bearings and finally looked up at the person who had interrupted him. The man was beautiful, with short curls and the largest, most expressive hazel eyes Kurt had ever seen.
He was a couple inches shorter than Kurt, but he appeared to be about the same age. Kurt wasn't exactly open about his sexuality, when he was younger, and admittedly more flamboyant, it was simply something he couldn't get away from. Now though, with no reason to wear designer fashion in small town Washington, no one was asking and he wasn't necessarily forthcoming about the information. Kurt had never been in love, and at this rate he didn't think he ever would be. He had endured bullying in high school from the hands of his small minded classmates, he was settled and content here, and would rather not get pushed out of the first place he'd felt at home since his dad had died. Kurt, realizing that he was simply standing there staring smiled at the newcomer. The man's smile dropped, however, as he noticed the canvas in Kurt's hands. He was staring at it hungrily. Kurt shifted awkwardly. "Do you paint?" He asked, at a loss for words.
The man simply nodded in reply, still staring at the canvas in Kurt's arms. "Well, I should be going then, it was nice to, uh, run into you… um?" Kurt waited as the boy realized he was looking for a name.
"Blaine, I'm Blaine Anderson." Kurt smiled at that.
"Well, it was nice to meet you Blaine Anderson, I'm Kurt Hummel." He offered Blaine his hand, who shook it firmly. Kurt gave Blaine one last look before exiting the store. He couldn't help but wonder what Blaine was doing there, especially in that car. As he started his truck, supplies stowed securely in the passenger seat, his mind wandered from Blaine Anderson to the painting he was currently working on. He found himself wondering what colors he would have to blend together to get the exact hazel that he had seen in the eyes of the man who had mysteriously shown up in town.