A/N: Inspired by How I Became The Sea by Owl City.
I do not own the characters, except aunt Anne and uncle Michael.
I wrenched the engines off
And drank them down
The depths turned the iron soft
As they swiftly drowned
And I brought the ocean side
To its rusty knees
As I felt the even tide
Deep in my shallow dreams
This is how Kurt Hummel, once a boy faced with things he couldn't handle and things he could but didn't want to, became the sea.
Kurt loved the sea, and, in fact, he always believed it was where he belonged, especially when he felt like he wasn't a part of anything wholly. He dreamt it was where he would be living by, when someone he truly came to love wanted to spend the rest of his life with him and when they would decide where they want to live out there lives.
Kurt was a dreamer, a woolgatherer intensely attached to fantasies and reverie, things so unreal and said impossible. His daydreams consisted of draining the sea and making it fit in a water bottle, where he can watch the waves rebel and calm, eye the fishes, and maybe discuss his days and whine his worries to fellow sea sirens. He could see himself as a merman, struggling mightily through the swarm of sea life and meeting the merman of his dreams.
People didn't care about him. They thought he was absurd most of the time and downright silly, "always thinking of these… of these impossible scenarios." Kurt was always like that, dreaming and reaching out to the sea even if it wasn't there, wanting to feel the salty water around him. He was like that ever since he was a bubbly baby, mommy Elizabeth cradling him in her arms while papa Burt sat below the trees watching the two beloved people in his life. Elizabeth loved the sea, and Burt loved it too because it was something Elizabeth obviously adored. She spent her time being a very good mother, eyes so warm yet the color of the strong ocean, voice so sweet, and love unconditional.
Kurt could easily close his eyes and hear the lullaby his mother used to sing to him years ago, soothing in his ears, but he was afraid because, as time passed by, the song his mother lulled to him by the shore on windy evenings was starting to disappear, beginning to big good-bye. The memory was delicate and fragile. He feared it wouldn't last long forever like he wanted it to.
Papa Burt wasn't his papa Burt anymore. Days after Elizabeth died because of a mysterious disease, the truth that she was gone sunk into him completely and tore him apart. Kurt would remember the nights when his papa would forget to tuck him in or forget to tell him fairy tales. Burt was blinded without the presence of his dead wife. He was miserable. And even while he knew this didn't help his young son, he attempted suicide. He didn't make it.
After that, Kurt always wanted to elude help and comfort from relatives, breaking free from their invitations and hugs and running up to his room, locking the door, and breaking down into tears.
Aunt Anne took him in as her own son, but it was never the same. She lived minutes away from an often crowded sea. She had a husband named Michael; he was a good man fighting for his country. Kurt still knew of the stories she would tell him about how she knew his uncle was the one.
"How-how did you know uncle Michael was the one for you?" he once asked her under his Power Rangers blanket, wiping his tears off his cheeks from moments ago when his aunt found him crying, nose runny. She just smiled, and little Kurt could see his mommy in her smile. But he knew his mommy was irreplaceable.
"I just knew," she said as she kissed him on his forehead. "You'll meet your soul mate someday and you'll know it's her, Kurt-y."
Little Kurt frowned. "Can my soul mate be a boy, like me?" He yawned and missed the shocked expression that crossed his aunt's face.
She blinked and shook her head. "Of course, Kurt." Her smile was assuring and her eyes were kind. "Good night."
"Okay. Good night, aunty Anne." He yawned again and prepared to doze off.
Anne shut the door of his room quietly.
Kurt wondered if he'll ever find his soul mate, someone perfectly for him, someone perfectly made for him.
It was night, and he drove himself near to the sea, parking the Navigator his uncle gave to him for his previous birthday on cold cement and making sure it was locked before he began to walk toward the shore. The night was chilly and the leaves of the trees bristled in the wind. He had excused himself from supper, walked up the stairs to his room, waited for everyone in the house to sleep, sneaked out, and journeyed the small journey to the sea on his vehicle. He needed real time alone in the open and decided to visit a place where waves rolled in.
He knew his face was damp with tears as the wind blew softly across his face. He could taste his tears flowing down his cheeks to the side of his lips and into his mouth. The waves whispered and was illuminated by the full moon. Even in the darkness, besides the pouring moonlight, the sea looked ethereal.
It looked like home.
He wanted to get out of it all. He was fighting and he was exhausted. He wanted to get rid of the hurt and the pain and the abhorrent taste of Dave Karofsky in his mouth. All of it just wouldn't go away. He didn't want to unload everything onto other people; he didn't want them to worry about him. They shouldn't.
He felt worthless and depressed, his head scattered everywhere, left in pieces. One part was in the boys' locker room where Karofsky had latched his disgusting mouth on his; one part was still in the living room where he, his aunt, and his uncle had talked about how sad he looked, and where he pushed them away; one part was in the choir room where his Glee club members fought over something stupid like solos which he stopped caring about; and one part was in the hall where jocks shoved him and threw words like fagfairygayhomogaygaygayGAY at him. His head whirled and maybe he wanted to vomit out all the heartache and anguish. But it wasn't that easy.
He didn't care anymore about his clothes and shoes and hair and just freaking everything as he discarded his shoes and socks, as well as shrugging off his Marc Jacobs jacket. He ran to his Navigator and tossed them all on its hood, save for his shoes, landing them beside the left front tire.
He could feel recklessness creeping up on him. Nobody knew this side of him.
The cold water kissed his feet and he felt like he was being worshipped, being loved. He went in deeper. His black skinny jeans stuck to his legs, his thighs, and he hummed at the way the sea brought him in and embraced him. He submerged himself deeper, feeling isolated yet at home. The undershirt latched on his chest, on the bruises on his back. They felt possessive and he felt submissive.
He had never felt more alive as he tilted his head upward, with the sea tugging under his fingertips, with the waves caressing his sides, with the immense sky crying – the tears flooding the contours of his face. His own tears mixed with the empyrean. A silent pact was made.
It was strange at first – the feeling. The tides pulled him down before he could breathe in gulps of air. He was sliding on sand, raking it with his toes and understanding the salt. He cried out when his lungs weighed down with the sea. His viridian eyes grew brighter. It felt like a dream. But each and every move said otherwise in his ears. He was pushed onto his knees and thought of his mother, his mommy.
Although he wasn't a baby boy anymore, he was still her baby boy.
He let out a shrill scream that quaked the sandy ground. He shifted, holding the sea on his shoulders and blew icy air that shot through the night. The sea swayed with him, with his movements. The sea stayed with him, with his heart. It slithered inside him and healed the wounds people couldn't reach because they simply couldn't see and couldn't get themselves to care.
He felt everything inside and outside him explode and shatter. And he believed it wasn't all just a dream.
He woke up the next morning, buried under the sea. He moved, and the sea moved with him.