There are too many references for me to list here so feel free to point them out. This is patterned after Somerset Maugham's The Fall of Edward Barnard in the tune of Adele's depressing songs so that pretty much gives the story away. Standard disclaimers apply; flames/reviews are welcome, as always.
And I hear your words that I made up;
I best tidy up my head.
'Never mind,' said your open arms,
I couldn't help believe the trick me back into them...
—
Kurt Hummel crossed his legs a minute after. The leather seat of his father's car felt warm against his clothes, against his unusually clammy skin, against his thoughts; his arrival from New York to Ohio was occupied with pages after pages of thoughts, with his own sly and scheming wisdom interjecting and streaking once in a while, not even bothering to abridge the blights that his foul-mouthed mind was writing in this good, un-fairytale book he penned for about seven days, in his mind's eye. He was choosing the right words to use when he tells the story to his stepbrother tonight and his faint smile was just as nervous as it was enthusiastic. On his flight home he downed a strong Tarrazu café au lait instead of the usual organic milk tea so he can repeat the same mental spiel he wrote in which he meant to tell it. In few long minutes he would be in Lima, and as the caffeine faded his own suspicions plagued him.
Underneath a tired yet moisturized skin crept in his uncertainties. His conscience may not exactly be altruistic, as it habitually came up with ulterior motives no matter how good his intentions were. He closed his eyes, sighing. His conscience, always thin-skinned, was now uncertain. As it had always been when it came to his stepbrother, he wanted to believe that he did all he could, but, as it had always been when it came to him, his uncertainty protruded further, in that while he never intentioned to put his uncanny interests first he can't help but wonder if this so-called selflessness on his part was merely a projection of his own selfishness. He was like non-profit benefactor with a lucrative investment in Wall Street (he wrote about it a month ago while trying to direct the cover shoot). No matter how seemingly innocent his actions were he relished in the impending self-interest in which no form of virtue was defense. This, somehow, seemed to detract everything he'd done.
Right now, he had to settle for sincerity. Kurt was flawed but at least this time around he tried to be heartfelt, knowing full well that those brown eyes wouldn't reciprocate the same earnestness he'd always had. Yes, even after all these years, after countless boys, after a myriad of comparisons and mock-up Finn Hudsons (sans the height), after all the awkward moments when he brought them home. Anyone who consoled was a fake. He was intelligent beyond his years but when it came to Finn he was always sixteen; bemused, befuddled, bewildered.
Twenty two-year old Finn Hudson was mature long enough to understand what overheating, break failure and frequent stalling meant, expertly so that he decided to continue Burt's business and take over most of his stepfather's job. Kurt taught him to refasten the cylinder head bolts when they were seventeen, and when they graduated in high school the quarterback already knew how to replace ignition systems and replace spark plugs and air filters. When Kurt came home during vacations Finn already knew how to do an Italian tune-up, and he could do so without remembering any of the complicated names of the car parts (he still has the verbosity of a freshman, despite everything).
He remained to be naïve and simpleminded; Kurt tried his hardest not to notice and even made sure he brought his boyfriends every time he went into the garage (with the incentive of impressing them with his own skills). Falling out of love, he thought, was only a matter of forgetting how charming someone is; in a span of months he saw the world and him with new eyes and a fresh perspective, only to revert in this vicious circle and burst into I-miss-that-stupid-ache and not-about-love songs when he was alone. Finn still had his firm sense of principle that seemed to amass into a respectable gentleman in both their insular town that is Lima, and Kurt would always see beyond what they called the former quarterback the all-American guy—after all, he was almost a family; and what he lacked in brain cells was compensated with an unquantifiable loyalty and good will that was too unique, like Kurt's own eyes, shifting from blue to green when light and mood saw fit. A flash of guilt suddenly snatched his thoughts away, and a dejected Finn Hudson came into view. His father saw him silently gritting his teeth as Kurt thought of Rachel Berry.
Underneath the blue skies the car ran more slowly, and time did, too; Kurt thought his father noticed his sudden, restrained annoyance. He shifted his weight to flex his legs and lean into the windowpane to see the long street of houses, and he blinked when he saw Mercedes' (he has to call her later), and a few meters away when they turned he found Puck's and Santana's. He can barely hear any noise; he was used to the music of train stations and streets crowded by yellow cabs, and he realized, after taking in a long fall of silence, that he was home; he felt a sense of belongingness to the place he wanted to get out of.
"My, nostalgic are we, son?"
"My face is betraying my mind. I must admit I am, dad," he smiled.
"Everything okay in New York?"
"Lima's good, too, maybe. How's everything?"
"Fine, I guess..." he turned again, "Carol got promoted so she doesn't have to do late shifts," he grinned.
"I don't want to know details, thank you—"
"No, no, I didn't mea—I didn't mean it, that way," he gestured with his left hand, obviously embarrassed. Kurt smiled back. His father's giddiness was probably something he can relate to; not that he would roll a tongue about it, though. Burt cleared his throat next, "So. You didn't bring Rachel with you."
"No, I didn't."
"How is she? Is she coming back? You know, we were supposed to, you know,"
"Uhm..." he looked at his trembling hands, "I'd rather not think about it right now. After a lavender bath, perhaps. I need to exorcise whatever microscopic bane the carpet of her apartment put in my body."
"Dopey-eyes will be happy to see you, anyway. And Carol, too. She misses your, uh, tuna, tuna... crudités?"
"Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought you were gonna say crude," he smirked, stepping out of the car and clutching his Bourget travel bag by the trunk. "Are you still calling him that? I thought I told you he doesn't like the nickname..."
"Only when he starts looking one. Anyway, he's working in the garage so you'd have to buzz him."
Nudging their way in Kurt took in the latest changes in the house with a quick glance; he went into the basement, noticing the new miniature Ferrari beside the worktable. Calling Finn seemed to be trickling grains of sand; his heart skipped a beat when clanking metal blared against his ears—
Killing his gaiety, "Dad's still calling you dopey-eyes. And you're still clumsy."
"Uhm, uh, hello to you, too?" he paused. "How've you been?"
"Rad," he teased, which earned him a chuckle; it was the only word he learned from Finn. "Carole's making dinner so you'd better be packing up now,"
"There's one more air filter to do then I'll pack up—hey, uh..."
"...how, uh—" he continued to stutter. Kurt was a heartbeat away either from starting his rapid speech or from bursting into another song; he almost chose to lie and decide against a fatalism that would come from letting people off. He mused for an ulterior motive, as his mind mechanically does; would he relish licking Finn's wounds more than basking in his gratitude?
Under duress Kurt decided that uncertainty, for all its indifference and worth, was perhaps better than his own misguided interest to which honesty and certainty were its resolution. "Yes, I'll tell you everything tonight," he finally whispered. He even heard the anxiety in his own voice.
Making his way to the table thirty minutes later the brown-eyed watched Kurt funnel into the different tête-à-tête which fell into long minutes, and Finn can't seem to find his way in as he was constantly talking to himself, too; his giddiness hid between the way he would heartily eat his food, the way he would goofily smile as if he actually understood the conversation. The fashion statements would turn into home movies and Sound of Music while wardrobe and photography become references to car insurance and emergency road service (he managed to say something in this for a second). As seemingly tedious these monologues are, he can't help but smile; he can't help but appreciate a sense of belongingness to the place he first thought he didn't want to be part of. It's just a room, Finn! We can redecorate it if you want to!
"Mom, Burt, we'll be outside for a bit," he finally said after dinner, picking up some beer and wine coolers before motioning Kurt outside; the latter gracefully obliged, ironing his shirt with his hands.
Evening and cold swathed them both. They settled on the lawn chairs and silence began to deafen them as they settled; whether they left towards a long fall of silence to bide time, or conversely Lima, Ohio left them to Finn's world of looming dejection, was a hesitation and sense of responsibility that even Kurt Hummel, for once, dared not to think about an ulterior motive. His hands went into the table; Finn did the same, drinking his beer before giving him a wine cooler.
Looking straight into Finn's eyes he first gauged the brown-eyed's keenness before he narrated the true, unabridged story he wrote in his head. The lamp post across the street illumined Finn's face, if only slightly, and repressing any more declarations of joy which Finn wrung into the pit of his stomach, "You're looking after the lawn. Well done, Finn, though I'd rather that we put new furniture for it. Probably the post-modern live-edge ones, they suit our home perfectly. "
Finn looked down, smiling. "Yeah, I guess so. I don't know what those are, so you gotta tag along."
"I think so, yes..."
"Now I know there's so much you're gonna tell—"
Netting his fingers, "I don't know where to begin,"
"Ho—whe... Rachel... is she coming back?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"Do, uhm," he closed his eyes, "...do you think she'll reconsider?" Kurt noticed that his face seemed oddly resolved. He ran his left hand to his hair.
"Sorry," the other whispered.
Of all things Kurt apologized for, the softness in his voice brought no malice in his reply.
Not very often that you see the way Finn's face betrayed a sense of reality for Kurt, the way his brows unexplainably creasing, which in turn drew attention to the lines on his face (he realized he wasn't sleeping very well). He has stockpiled enough mock-up Finns in his head that could render Finn himself unoriginal, atypical—that is, his supposedly surmounted pursuit to this young man before him; his seeming lack of confidence to Finn deceived Kurt and his notions of sympathy. In retrospect, it really wasn't a heartbreaking story, but in justice to Finn and no less dishonesty to himself, he told Finn Hudson everything.
Kurt and Rachel met Finn Hudson not too long ago. For Rachel, the quarterback was the male lead of Glee and made it compulsory to love him; to Kurt he was a knight in shining armor, and despite playing that role like what every fairytale was, along with a prejudice and meanness that dangerously lurked underneath Finn's good-natured shell, he conceded to the fact that Finn Hudson loved Rachel Berry for reasons that would forever escape his own wisdom. Rather than have nothing at all Kurt decided to be the dutiful team member, the dedicated stepbrother, the loyal friend, going past a vicious circle of struggling not to mar his friendship he perilously valued, of bitterness and restrained sobbing until semblances of Finn came his way. Kurt could only suffer so much to learn resignation.
Under the bluest firmament and gleaming sunbeams three years later the pair got engaged, but Rachel and her parents chose to marry after college, as youth often deluded the ideas of love and fortitude. She went on to become a prodigy in Julliard while her fiancé stayed to become Burt's protégé, and as Kurt religiously arranged countless gaieties for them he would later go into Parsons, then Columbia, only because his boyfriend asked him to move in with him. Kurt had to live in Lima and New York at the same time; he valued Finn no less, contentedly and without envy.
Rachel came home as frequently as Kurt did, and the latter would often bring Finn to her rehearsals; he pledged into the truce they made before but it was far removed from what she thought she knew—Finn's smile and confidence in him never stopped to engross him like a good book.
Two days after her career jumpstarted, a wistful yet timid Rachel told her fiancé to delay the wedding. His reply was a fiery kiss; Rachel gushed and threw her arms around his neck, and the omniscient, constant third that was Kurt Hummel couldn't help but wonder if she was preparing for the character she'll be playing next week. He looked on from the corner of the room.
"Finn, don't make this harder than it already is—"
"I, no, I will wait. I don't care. I love you."
Neither breathed a word for a long fall of minutes before Rachel intricately divulged them her plans; she will be doing five projects for about ten months to the outdoor and grand theaters of London, Prague and then Buenos Aires, and they would turn their wedding motif into all-white to contrast with the blueness of Iguazu Falls and its olive foliage, as its marriage myth epitomized a love eternal that was Finn and Rachel Hudson. It was an opportunity for Kurt to punctuate, as he'd most probably put everything together anyway.
"No, no, uh, yeah, this is okay," Finn tried to smile, but his lips tricked him. He knew Kurt can tell; he already memorized the language that is Finn's gesticulations. "You're worth it, you're worth waiting for."
Rachel spent her last evening at the house, and although Carol was as disappointed as her son was she graciously accepted the new wedding arrangements she and Kurt decided on. She left the house with protestations of love filling the white walls of the house, inscribing them with Rachel's tears and Finn was there to paint them everyday anew, to which Kurt had to pretend he wasn't hearing Finn silently snuffling. He had excused all of her intentions and forgave her once again, without him even knowing; he convinced himself that he was happy when she was, or so Finn told him, so Kurt had to be happy for him, too. He learned not too long ago that affliction enables vindictiveness, and so did happiness, but Finn's contentment to which he got his daily motivation to wait was too strange and suffocating. He left Lima the next day and broke up with his boyfriend.
A few days after Finn decided to follow Kurt. No other friend shared with him as much history as he did, and his being a family only reinforced how Kurt's steadfastness comforted him. He went to New York and tidied up Kurt's loft after moving his luggage in and chose to stay for a few months to nibble the city and savor Kurt's ludicrously big paycheck, seeing that he only had to write a bit and instruct his minion to do the rest. "Every production of an artist should be the expression of an adventure of his soul," Kurt replied, "We have as much virtuosity as Madonna, of course we're supposed to get paid heartily."
Contrarily to Kurt, Finn unveiled every postcard and email he received from Rachel; they totaled fifty so far and percolated with love and sometimes condescension, but he can see an enamored Finn smiling fondly at those loopy handwritings. They talked thrice a week; Kurt suggested that she was diseased with nostalgia and most probably regret, of her desire to wed, and Finn replied that perseverance rewards best. She replied with: You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart. Kurt just had to scoff at that one.
He figured that his fiancé had already adjusted, and he was more than happy to read about her latest excursions in London and Prague, and her budding eagerness to teach her Argentinean understudies American lifestyle. It's been two months and Rachel was flourishing, finding her ground, and it's been two months that he was diffusing his spry fortitude onto Kurt, who seemed to always have the time to listen to his cyclic nostalgia. Her last postcard and email did not enclose a sense of melancholy her usual ones contained.
"Enlightening, yes," Kurt yawned, giving him back the postcards. Finn rolled his eyes as the other continued, "Reading some of them I empathize with her blues, but she's holding out because..." he dared not insist; it would only keep his hopes up.
"Love," they both said. The other blushed, grinning. Silence set in longer than the brown-eyed wanted to.
"Kurt... uhm, thanks, man," he looked straight at him from across the table, "You're, uh, you're awesome. I know I've been needy and prissy these days, and, yeah, I owe everything to you."
Unsung were his woes. Kurt had excused all of his intentions and forgave him once again, without him even knowing. He resisted the brackish jewel to well up in his eyes; this was the 300th time Finn had proffered the merit he was due and yet it still feels like the first, especially here, where Finn has conquered his time and his loft, his only territory. He let himself off and ambled towards the rooftop, where all his tears can dry up and fully realize that the love that lasts longest is the love that is never returned.
Rachel sent a few more postcards and email the weeks after but it surprised Finn that all the tenderness, humor and the enthusiasm to come back home slowly withdrew themselves, one postcard at a time; her emails became starched and prescribed as if he was reading newspaper and her calls reduced to one every two weeks. She probably lost track of time, Kurt consoled, but Finn's seemingly hopeful look were futile against his keen instinct. Her last emails and postcards never answered any of her fiancé's unease and instead kept with her disconcerting letters; the next day her phone greeted them with voicemails. He wanted to go to her, but his naiveté and reticence and aspiration for Rachel's happiness prevented him to.
"This is so unlike her," he told Finn, "She's supposed to talk nineteen to the dozen. There must be something going on." After Finn left for Lima, he thus called his workplace, a powerhouse of connections and has since evaded all red tapes possible; he managed to trace Rachel Berry in London while convincing his chief that he go instead to the Cambridge art conference scheduled next week. Finn was working in the garage when he informed him of his plan, and his disinclination surfaced as he heard Finn's sighing and uneven tone—this, thought Kurt, had only fueled an ulterior motive way beyond his own: Rachel has to marry Finn so he can melt his heart to stone and finally stop caring.
tbc.