Hey everyone :D
This is a Glee one-shot based on Victor Hugo's novel and Boublil and Schonberg's musical Les Miserables :') It doesn't always stick to the story of Glee, or Les Mis, but hopefully you'll still enjoy it :')
For Holly and Heather :')
Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables, novel or musical, and I do not own Glee or any characters associated with it.
Enjoy, and please review! :D PhantomVoldyGleek24601 xxxx
"There's a boy climbing the barricade!"
A tearing explosion blasted out, causing such a catastrophic, titanic collision with the unsteady, but determined barricade, it was like the entire earth had moved right under the feet. The huge, hastily constructed barricade groaned like a wounded soldier, and shards of wood and debris flew through the smoky air, whole burned planks falling to the ground, holes opening up, threatening to destroy her-but she stood. She stood, strong as the spirits of the unwavering, indomitable young men who'd built her so passionately; proud as their hearts and minds and devotion to their cause; glorious as the reddish full moon in the sky above, watching them like a sentry. The barricade was the symbol of their struggle, the revolution represented in wood and stone. It was a beacon of hope. But the scarlet-tinted moon was only a prophecy of what was to come…
The terrific BANG of the last detonation rang out like a death-toll, ringing in the thick, smothering air and almost deafening the young men defending the barricade. The force blew several men right off their feet, sending them flying like rag dolls, and injured many more-but none were killed. Yet. But Blaine Anderson knew the worst was still on the horizon…
Straightening up, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg and the blood he could feel spurting out, he looked over in the distance, where their enemy gathered like a pride of evil, blood-thirsty lions, seeking only to destroy them, to flatten their cause to the ground, to silence the people. They made Blaine sick to his stomach. He would lead the rebels to victory, to overthrow the fat ones on top-or else he'd die in the attempt. A strong leader, his golden eyes full of fervour, zeal and determination, the other young men looked to him to guide them to triumph, so they could creating a better France, a better life for the people beneath. And Blaine felt it, stirring the blood in their veins. He knew the time was now. This was the big push. Now or never. And he and his friends would see it through to the bitter, bloody end.
The gunfire had stopped. Blaine squinted to where the enemy lay-but their guns had ceased. The orange sky was still, quiet. Too quiet.
They were toying with them. But Blaine knew they'd be back. This was far from over.
All around him, his friends were injured, groaning, covered in blood and reeking of smoke. But they were not done. Every single one still had more fight in him. Blaine admired them so much. He knew that they knew full well some would live, and some would not last the night. But it didn't stop them. It just filled them with more fire. This was do or die.
Beside him, Finn Hudsen swore loudly, blood spurting down his face like a waterfall, splinters of wood all over him. But he stood up, and turned to Blaine, waiting for orders.
"Tell the men to rest-but keep sharp. Do not put away your weapons," he told him. "They're playing games with us,"
"Bastards," Finn spat, scarlet blood pouring from his mouth and creating a puddle of red at his feet. He nodded in understanding. "Yes," Turning, he shouted Blaine's orders to the company, who complied, sinking down and beginning to clean their guns or their wounds.
"Be ready!" Blaine shouted to them. He began to climb down from the highest point on the barricade to assist-
"M'sieur!"
Suddenly, a voice came-a voice from over the top of the barricade. Blaine froze.
"There's a boy climbing the barricade!"
"M'sieur!"
The voice was high-pitched, it choked and coughed, obviously having breathed in a lot of smoke. How could anyone climbing up that side, the side facing the enemy, have survived the gunfire? Blaine was too confused and surprised for a second to react.
Then-the shock of his life.
"M'sieur Blaine!"
Oh my God. The racing blood in his body turned to ice, his heart stopping in his chest with an unpleasant lunge.
He knew that voice.
But others had reacted before his brain could function enough to send messages to the rest of him. Several men rushed forward, hearing the voice too as it pierced the scene, and leaned hurriedly over the side, pulling the person up as quickly as they could. Blaine hardly dared to look.
"Thank you!" came the high-pitched, broken voice.
"Are you alright, boy?" one man asked. "What are you playing at, on a night like this?"
"Please?" The Boy was surrounded by the other men, so Blaine couldn't see him-but the voice was unmistakable. There was no question.
"Please, where is M'sieur Blaine?"
The crowd of men parted.
And then Blaine saw him.
Kurt Hummel. His pale, porcelain face was filthy, his coat torn, his brunette hair windswept. His blue-green eyes were terrified and full of scared tears, his soft lips torn and bleeding, his ghostly white cheeks were covered in mud and soot-but he still managed to be the most beautiful boy Blaine had ever seen.
The leader's heart leapt, feeling as if it had been set alight, illuminated. He had to catch his breath, as it left him in a dizzy rush.
He'd come to terms with this fact long ago. He was entirely, truly, hopelessly in love with Kurt.
But he couldn't be.
He had to push everything down as Kurt approached him, limping slightly, like a broken puppet, but still managed to be graceful, like a dancer. The boy looked like he'd just been through hell, exhausted, huge purple bags under his eyes, which were wide and fearful. Just like they had been the night they'd met, when Blaine had hidden this skinny, frightened little waif from Inspector Javert after he'd been caught up in a theft crime he did not commit. That night, as soon as their eyes had met-Blaine had fallen in love with him.
Since then, knowing he could never act on his feelings-he'd done everything he could, as we must. He'd looked out for him on the streets, helping him through, protecting him from gangs and other dangers. He brought him food, despite Kurt telling him not to, even though he was starving. He spent as much time as he could with him, talking to him, learning everything he could about him, until they'd become close friends.
Blaine knew Kurt saw him as the wonderful fairy prince who'd been sent to him by some miracle, looking at him with big, puppy-dog eyes that just made Blaine fall for him even harder…but it was just the way things were. Blaine knew they could never be together. He couldn't break his heart any more than it already was-and he must focus on the greater goal. Freedom for France, and his brave companions, was far more important.
Well, that's what he'd convinced himself. Hadn't he?
"Oh M'sieur!" Kurt's voice was more of a breathy gasp-but it set Blaine's soul dizzy. He spent every night longing for him, longing or him to be there beside him, close. Whenever he saw him, it was all he could do no to sweep him up in his arms and keep him forever. Sometimes, when he was with Kurt, he forgot that he wasn't supposed to love him. It was like breathing-he couldn't help it.
But he must.
"Kurt, I told you not to come!" Blaine hurriedly adopted the older-brotherly tone he always used with Kurt, putting a hand on his slim shoulder to steady him-just touching him sent electric shocks through his whole system. "It's too dangerous!"
"I-I had to come," Kurt panted, stuttering. He met Blaine's eyes-and Blaine melted inside. "I-I had to-oh!"
Suddenly, horribly-Kurt collapsed to the ground.
In that moment-blind panic, the worst he'd ever felt, filled Blaine like a tsunami. He hurried to catch him, cold fingers of fear closing around his heart as Kurt fell into his arms like an ornament, a china doll about to shatter. Kneeling to the floor, Kurt in his arms, Blaine's whole body brimmed with terrible, aching dread.
"Kurt? What's wrong?" he asked urgently.
Moaning in agony, what little colour was left in Kurt's face drained. He looked bewildered-bewildered by the searing and extreme pain he was obviously in. His snow-white hand flew to his stomach, and he whimpered.
With much trepidation, Blaine's shaking hands undid the coat and pulled it back-and, beneath-his shirt was covered with pulsing, thick crimson blood, spreading like poppies over the white material. In the middle of the nightmarish mess-there was a black matter.
Blaine's heart dropped like a stone.
Kurt had been shot.
"Kurt!" he screamed, panic taking over him completely, dragging him under. "No!" He didn't want to believe it. No. This couldn't be happening. Not Kurt, anyone but Kurt…
"Kurt, you need help!" He touched the wet blood, soaking and thick, throbbing out of the wound. "My God, it's everywhere!"
But, to Blaine's shock-Kurt's lovely face, which had been twisted and distorted in agonizing pain, all of a sudden became still and quiet. He looked up at Blaine- and weakly smiled-but his eyes were sad. Like he knew something was ending.
"Don't you fret, M'sieur," Even his voice was different, softer and more peaceful.
"Kurt?" Blaine's panic rose in his confusion. But Kurt did nothing, still smiling sadly up at him.
"No, M'sieur. There's nothing to be done,"
"What?" Blaine didn't understand. He held him tighter, blood soaking his clothes. "What do you mean?"
"I feel…peaceful," His eyes were a little glazed-over-but he looked straight at him. The sad smile was still there…
Horribly, it rose in Blaine's head, like a tidal wave of doom. No. Please. No. No.
"No!"
He forgot everything. A desperation growing inside him, consuming him, killing him. "No! Kurt, no! You have to hold on! I need you to hold on! Please!"
Limply, Kurt raised a trembling, blood-covered hand and gently stroked Blaine's face. "You're so kind, M'sieur. So kind…always so kind to me…"
Blaine could see he was already receding, like something was leaving him.
"No! No, Kurt, please! Please, you can't leave me!"
"I'm sorry, M'sieur…"
It was too late.
Tears cascaded down Blaine's face, splashing onto Kurt. "Please don't leave me, Kurt," he pleaded, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Looking up at him, Kurt's own eyes were full of tears-but a different kind. "You're here. That's all I need to-to know," He stammered a little.
Blaine's heart was breaking, shattering into a thousand pieces that could never be recovered, falling into the darkest, irretrievable places-but Blaine still felt their agony. "Please…" he begged one more time, choking out the words.
A tear spilled down Kurt's cheek, turning red as it met drops of blood. "Just…just hold me. Safe in your arms. Please,"
A huge, dooming wave of hopelessness washed over Blaine, like a black hole sucking him in-but he could see Kurt's final minutes ebbing away before his eyes. The boy already looked halfway to another world. He had to hold him now-or never.
Cradling Kurt in his arms, Blaine made him as comfortable as he could. The barricade-the entire world faded away, just leaving them alone, in a cut-off bubble, together. He held Kurt close to his heart, as tears fell like raindrops.
"Oh M'sieur, are you crying for me?" Kurt sounded surprised, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "Do you really care about me?"
"Yes. Yes. I care about you so much," Blaine told him. He laughed weakly.
"I haven't heard that since Papa…Thank you," Coughing a little, Kurt weakly leaned in closer to Blaine, as if scared he'd disappear. "Please…stay with me. Un-until the end…"
Holding him closer, Blaine buried his face in Kurt's hair. "How could I leave you?"
And that's where they stayed. Real rain began to pour down mercilessly, as if the sky was crying as hard as Blaine. He tried to hold himself together as Kurt grew weaker and weaker in his arms. In his mind, he recalled the all-too-short time they'd had. All the long nights they'd sat on that rickety old cart on the cobbled streets of Paris, just talking.
He'd learned Kurt's story. Kurt had never known his parents; his father had left her while she was pregnant-they were not married. Desperate and grieving, and very ill, she'd got a job at a factory, and had to send him away to be brought up by others, so she could earn money to send to them. But the innkeepers who'd taken him in, from the moment he could walk, all but enslaved him. He was weak, timid and miserable, barely surviving from lack of food and sleep, and those endless, horrible beatings when Madame felt he wasn't working hard or fast enough. Setting him impossible tasks for a small, weak child, like going alone at night into dark, dangerous woods to fetch heavy pails of water from the old, deep well, then beating him to within an inch of his life, Kurt's childhood was hell.
Then, when he was eight years old, when he'd gone to fetch water as usual, staggering in that labyrinth of pitch-black, forbidding, perilous woods, his leg almost broken from the last ordeal with Madame's cane-a man had met him by the well. Instantly, he was terrified-but the man's old eyes were kind. He simply asked him his name, then took his hand and lead him back to the inn, where he found the horrible Madame and Monsieur. Not letting go of Kurt's hand, the man had told them that Kurt's mother had tragically died. But before she had, she'd placed Kurt in his care.
So the man, named Burt Hummel, took him away from the innkeepers, away from the inn, across the country to Paris. And from then on, Kurt had a father. His dear Papa was wise, understanding and kind. He protected Kurt from the world, brought him up as his own, took care of him. For the first time in his life, Kurt had a home, and felt safe and loved.
But, when he was sixteen, his Papa had died; something happened to his heart, and it killed him. Kurt was devastated by the loss-but now he was alone again. No one knew him, and he knew little of the outside world, from his sheltered life. So, in time, Kurt wound up on the street, with nothing and no one. And that's how he'd lived-until he met Blaine.
He was the only friend Kurt had ever had.
"There was…so much I never told you," Blaine admitted, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Me too, M'sieur. S-Silly things…" Kurt shook his head. His breath was becoming shorter as his smile became more strained. "Rain…" He sounded delirious. "I a-always loved the r-rain," he gasped. "Rain…makes the f-flowers g-grow…"
What was left of Blaine's heart melted, and tears fell even more as Kurt said that. Rain makes the flowers grow…that was so Kurt…
"Kurt…"
He took a deep breath. He had to tell him. Or he never would.
"Kurt, I-"
"Shh," Kurt put a finger to his lips. "It's…too late now. Just-just one thing," Suddenly, he looked a little sheepish. "Please…please will you…when I'm sleeping…will you kiss me? I'll f-feel it,"
Blaine could no longer speak, but he nodded. Of course he would. It was the least he could do. All he had wanted to do since he'd known him.
Kurt's face chalkened, and he gave a mighty shudder, and whimpered in pain. But his face was peaceful. Before Blaine's eyes-he became limp. It was like the endless struggle had ended, the tired, hopeless machine had given in to the tranquillity of beyond. "A breath away...from where you are..."
His eyes closed. All was still, as Kurt quietly slipped away.
But, before he was gone-his eyes fluttered open once more-but they were already in another place. So distant…but his blood-crusted lips opened, and, in a bell-like, suddenly clear as day voice, he said, as if he'd wanted to forever:
"And do you know, M'sieur Blaine? I believe I was in love with you,"
Then-his eyes slowly shut, like flower petals closing, never to open again. Beneath the bloodstained shirt, his heart shuddered-then stopped.
That utter loss.
Blaine held him so tight, as if pure force of will could bring him back. He was falling. He felt everything, every devastating, horrific emotion in the world, and nothing at the same time. Kurt…all those lost moments…everything he should have told him…Desperatly, he pressed the promised kiss to his still, already cold lips, again and again.
A hand was on his shoulder. It might have been Finn. He sensed people standing around-but he didn't care. Forcefully shrugging it off, he held Kurt like he'd never let go. Kurt was the only real thing in the world-everything else was a daze. Nothing else mattered any more. Not his own life, nothing. He'd lost Kurt. Kurt.
The entire company had gathered, watching helplessly as their leader grieved like nothing they'd ever seen before, cradling the lifeless body, kissing the dead lips. No one knew what to say or do. Blaine was broken. He moaned Kurt's name again and again, covering him with tears and kisses, silently begging for this to be reversed, for him to be taken instead. For Kurt to come back, just for a second, so Blaine could tell him he loved him with all his heart, and always had.
Hours later, though to Blaine it seemed like eternity, as night fully drew in, the orange sky darkened. Suddenly-Blaine broke their silent vigil.
"We fight in his name,"
His voice, surprisingly loud, carried through the cold air. "For Kurt,"
There were muffled sounds of the men agreeing. Gently, as if he could shatter, Blaine laid Kurt carefully on the ground, kissing him one last time, then covering the body with a red flag. "Take him somewhere safe," he instructed, and three of the men solemnly lifted him and respectfully carried him away. Blaine watched him go, with desperate longing. Then, determinedly wiping away the last of his tears, he turned to the gathered company.
"Kurt Hummel was the first to fall at this barricade. And he will not be the last. Brothers-the time is now. We fight for a lonely boy who loved, and needed love. He will not have died in vain," Raising his voice, he picked up his gun and lifted it high in the air. "We will climb to victory, for a better tomorrow,"
The company cheered as Blaine lifted is head to the sky. "France!"
"France!" they echoed, and split, going to sleep until the fateful day, tomorrow. You could feel it in the air. Tomorrow was the day. The day where history would be made.
Blaine watched them leave, then climbed to the top of the barricade to keep watch. He sat on some charred wood, looking out into the night sky. Through the smog, a bright star shone, brighter than all the rest. Blaine knew it was Kurt. Looking up at it, he whispered "I love you. Always,"
And, in the heat of the battle that came the next morning, through the blood and the never-ending gunshots, the men falling to their deaths, as Blaine proudly and defiantly waved the huge red rebel flag at the advancing enemy, eyes full of ardour, he felt a shot tear through him, like a dart. Right through his chest. The wound pulsed, and, still gripping the flag, the world beginning to spin out of control, beginning to fade away, the deafening noise drowning out of his ears, Blaine fell. He fell-and as he did-his ankle caught on the front of the barricade. Hanging sickeningly, he felt the cold, clammy arms of death closing around him. This was the end-and he welcomed it, like a weary traveller welcomes sleep. The battle was over.
But, as the last light faded away-he felt a small, soft, warm hand take his. And he was home.