Media: Fic
Title: The Endless
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, Ensemble
Spoilers: Gen season 1-2
Warnings: Slight sexual and death implications.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee
Word Count: 1000+
Summary: Hi! I'm a new member, so this is my first dip in the Klaine fanfic pool. I saw Misyak's amazing Dream and Death interpretation- and it actually creeped me out because a couple of hours before I saw it I was thinking of assigning various Endless to the Glee cast. I squeed after.
These drabbles use the characteristics/aspects/quirks/trademarks of the seven Endless to describe Kurt in a variety of POVs. You have to guess who and what I used of the Endless to describe Kurt.
Enjoy. (And I totally copped out on Dream. Sorry.)
Destiny
You believe in fate, in the meeting of ends, the inexorable slide of two forces to meet at one centre. You knew, as a child and as a boy on the cusp of becoming a man, with unwavering belief that in someone's book of life, your name is mentioned- that in point of fact you will come to dominate every page of his manuscript, as his name will yours. And by no means will you falter in your faith, when your eyes meet his up a flight of steps, when you feel the pull moving the two of you forward, incessant and unavoidable, when the proof is the fact that you've found him, despite looking forever.
You and he are destiny.
Despair
He is thinner, she notices. There are bags under his eyes, more pronounced now that he has become paler. His shoulders stoop when he thinks no one could see, but she does. He avoids her gaze when they meet in a mirror in the girls' bathroom, washing up after another slushie bath. His eyes look deep and very blue, but she couldn't compare it to the ocean, because the sea had always made her calm, but the blue of his eyes make her feel anything but. She dreams of his eyes that night, navy fading into grey, and the rest of him turns grey as well. She wakes up screaming, feeling empty, trying to fill the void with noise because she couldn't forget how he started draining out until nothing of him was left.
There's a word for what she was feeling, and she resolves to help him before he falls more into despair.
Destruction
The gay kid shouts wittily sarcastic remarks perfected to cut as finely as French steel, and despite the thick hides of his opponents, he sees a flicker of emotion pass before their eyes. They all think his cameras simply capture the humiliation of a populace, but because of them he sees things others don't. The video lens chronicle the boy's ability to cut so finely the wound was almost a scratch, but underneath it the injury festers deep; they faithfully record his unapologetic style that was a slap in a place guaranteed to hurt. He thinks this is why other people hate the gay kid, because despite the locker slams and dumpster dives his personality still cuts them down finely inch by inch, and the force of his confidence crushes their own self esteem.
Everyday, from behind the camera, he records what other people think is the synthesis of the boy's defeat, but he knows that everyday, what he sees is the destruction the boy leaves in his wake.
Death
You are your mother, you say. And it is true. He inherited his mother's face, her voice, her eyes. Her courage. She was beautiful, nearly heartbreakingly so, and so is he. You see her in him every day, and while you try to forget, there are some nights when you come into his bedroom to make sure he is safe all you see is your wife, lying still and quiet in her bed. You touch his hand, and he is cold. Desperately you search for any signs of life, but he is unmoving, and you fall into a fugue, finding more parallels between your son and your wife, broken only when you hear him sigh in his sleep.
Sometimes all you want to do is listen to your son breathing, because you don't want them to be similar in death too.
Dream
Otherworldly is one badass way to describe his Princess, because there was no way somebody like him could exist unless he was the result of a crack trip. His brand of bravery is the stuff of fairytales, the drama of his life parallels a Hollywood screenplay, his form of beauty something that can only be imagined by the masters of the Renaissance century.
And yet despite all the smoke and mirrors his boy is real, and he would pound anyone's face in if they tried to take him away like a half-remembered dream.
Desire
In your fantasies he comes, swathed in smoke, androgynously lovely, clear eyes tawny with warmth and invitation. His pale skin peeks teasingly through your vision, and all you want is to touch, to mark, to make him mine. The pushes and the shoves become pulls and thrusts and his breathless indignation turns into gasping pleas. You hate yourself for this, and you hate him too, but you can't stop and all you want is more and more and more.
He is everything you've ever wanted, everything you've ever desired.
Delirium
His eyes constantly change colours, and it makes her giggle it every time she looks over at him and finds out that his eyes are bright blue now, instead of green. She'd asked Coach what colour his eyes were, and she said that since he always has to match, his porcelain skin got paired with glazs eyes. It's hard to say it and she didn't like words very much because her tongue is weird sometimes even though Coach said she had a fine drawl. So instead of words she colored his eyes in a drawing and took care to choose her favourite outfit out of the many varied ones she often sees him wear. She liked the top hat so she put that in, too. When the drawing was finished his eyes were a mix of blue and green and gray and little silver here and there, and it makes her slightly disoriented.
So she gives him the picture and asks if he can see the world differently when his eyes change shades and asks him is he doesn't get hallucinations form his eyes being different colours, and he said yes and he didn't mind, because it's nice to be in delirium sometimes.