His Final Gift
by padfoot
...
It's strange, finally being alone. Of course, he's surrounded by people as he walks back down a New York street on a Friday night, but still Kurt has never felt quite so isolated. It's like when he was young and he'd crawl into his mother's wardrobe, wrap himself up in her smell and the feel of sleeves and lining and buttons, and pretend he was with her again. The space in there was so small and tight, it felt almost like an embrace. And even though the draughtiness of a pavement is nothing like being held, it's still sort of the same – the same feeling of being surrounded by ghosts, instead of by people.
He can't even feel their eyes.
Did he used to feel people's stares? Kurt can't remember.
He could feel Blaine's stare, he knows that for sure. It was always so heavy and hot and somehow full. Blaine looked at Kurt and everything about him screamed out forever, like it was certain and obvious and necessary. Kurt knows now that it's none of those things. That weight, that promise – it was all a lie.
Practically speaking, he is almost positive that, one day, he'll move on. Right now he loves Blaine with every fibre of his being, but one day he thinks that will go away, now that it's allowed to. It sounds horrible, but there's sort of a blissful objectivity in the numb state that he's currently in. As if the tears cracking on his cheeks and the raw redness of his eyes can shield him from the feelings churning inside, like a brewing storm.
He knows that, soon enough, he'll cry and rage and feel so frustrated at the love-hate that will burn inside his chest. Ambivalent somehow isn't a strong enough word for what he knows is soon to come. But for now, things are calm within. And that makes him relieved.
Because, even now, after everything, he feels comfortable and sure in his love for Blaine. Despite having professed it as a thing of the past (it isn't), as something he's able to let go of (it isn't), as something he wants to move on from (it isn't), Kurt still knows that there's something special about how he felt – how he still feels. And when that day finally comes and every last piece of it is gone, he thinks he'll still be able to remember his first love with a smile.
The thing is, now that he and Blaine are over, their relationship – every perfect part of it – is untouchable. Nothing can ruin those beautiful moments, those wonderful memories: everything is shut away now, like a museum display. It's safe, able to survive forever as gorgeous and pristine as it was mere hours ago, when everything was happier, when they were still together.
But it was him who tore them apart, and as tough as it is, as heart-breaking and painful as it surely will be when it hits him, Kurt's glad. Glad to have saved them – the best version of them.
He vaguely remembers rationalising the break up, thinking it over and working it out. It seemed so grown up in his head, which is ironic because in the end everything was so childish. There were tears and there was begging and he wishes it hadn't been like that, because ending things that way is like an ugly stain on the hem of a dress. It taints their relationship, scarring it permanently.
God, it hurts, and it's scary to think that it's going to hurt more later. Kurt knows he'll forever carry around that weight, that knowledge that he was the one who did this, that he was the one who ended things. Just like he'll carry the knowledge that it needed to be him, that he loved Blaine too damn much to ever risk putting that weight on his shoulders.
So, in a way, this was his final gift to Blaine.
By breaking up with him, Kurt gave Blaine a relationship that will never be tarnished. Memories that will always shine with the shock of unrequited adoration, and hum with the wonder of unanticipated joy. Experiences that are so important to get right the first time around. And love. Plain and simple, unadorned.
Kurt gave Blaine everything.
And, as the ghosts of people glided by on a cold New York street, Kurt looked up to the cloudy sky, and wished on all the hidden stars that, one day, Blaine would see.
...
some years later
...
Kurt sits in a cosy coffee shop, cold fingers curled around a steaming mug as he smiles up at the man beside him. The man presses a kiss to Kurt's cheek before sweeping out the cafe, his gait smooth and graceful, his quick glance back warm and smiling. He's everything that Kurt deserved.
As he lifts his mug to take a sip of his coffee, Kurt is suddenly aware of another presence in the room, a gaze fixed on him. Without even turning, he knows who it is. Even now, he'd recognise it anywhere.
He turns to face Blaine and there are those eyes: hot and heavy and... that's it. No longer do hopeless teenage promises lurk in his amber irises, wishing more than wanting to be fulfilled. Now it's just Blaine: handsome as ever, taller and larger and so obviously at ease with himself that it all but knocks the breath out of Kurt to see how amazing he's become. To see who he's become when given the chance to create himself.
There's nothing for them to say to each other and that knowledge is in their eyes. In a second they'll both look away and forget about this, a momentary connection between two strangers. Because, ultimately, it's better that way. They can both see it now.
Kurt's eyes drop back to his mug, and smiles to himself as he takes another sip. The warmth of his drink slides down his throat, spreading from the tips of his fingers to the depths of his chest. To the display case in his heart, locked up tight, where his flawless first love will live on forever.