At the benches sat a particularly cheery boy. Before the pews and underneath this blue firmament was Finn Hudson, who still managed, thought his onlooker, to look quite arresting even in those hideous cleats and pads. The former scuttled to the field, awkwardly; he didn't understand why the crowd has to be this garish every minute and smell like sticky armpits, but seeing his sweet face, though covered, was worth all the clammy skin he has to come in contact with. He might as well say he'd even wear that hair-damaging helmet just to see the quarterback, maybe leave a legacy, or win the game. He silently scoffed; okay, that was asking too much.
And so he looked on: the captain sidestepped, aiming; he sprinted forward, his legs flexing against the green fields, and in two more seconds he will be tackled yet again and the crowd will scowl, yet again. He takes out a Veltie Kleenex from his bag, shifting his poise, wiping his sweat on his cheeks, getting ready. He struggled free from the despoiling flannels and polyesters, dived into the crowd and made his way nearer to the bench. Every few strides were regrettable, as slime and sweat seemed to be more pungent on every tiptoe; then came timeout, and so he burrowed even more. He can hear Coach Tanaka roaring about tutus.
He stopped, breathing hard, and stared thus. He had taken hold of this image, Finn's exhausted face, his sweat rolling down his forehead, his cheeks, his nape—they were undeniably clear like Evian. He took out more Kleenex; his heart punched and he was short of breath. It wasn't from the sharp odor from the Writer's Club President beside him though; his weakness in the presence of this image was enough for Kurt Hummel to flail, to burst into song, to celebrate. It was like the smell of a new Marc Jacobs jacket, or a whiff of a freshly ironed Armani fabric—no, it was something more. His worn out smiles were like stars in this starless sky, something deadly yet sustaining. Two yards away he can hear adulterating cheers of encouragement: Quinn Fabray. Strangely enough Finn's smile grew wider. Kurt just had to snort.
Finn surveyed the crowd. Half of them are gone. Can the bathrooms accommodate that much people? He stared on, and sees the dumpster kid.
For Hummel, Finn's benign eyes staring at him required him to look behind just to clear the confusion. The quarterback apologetically beamed, and Kurt responded by silently mouthing good luck. Kurt could only think that every issue of Vogue he has religiously read seemed at once insignificant against this one-second smile; this, he thought, was the higher standard. It was chaste, flawless beauty.
Fifteen minutes further into the game and the referee announced McKinley's stinging defeat. Kurt Hummel will have to wait two weeks to witness another sore whitewash to their football team; and yes, he has to wait two weeks to recapture that delicate pale face, his chapped, cherry lips and his guiltless eyes. He hopped into his car, letting in all the last traces of the quarterback, who is by now visible in his side mirror kissing the supposedly celibate Cheerio lead. They seemed to be perfect together, he thought.
Tonight he'd be content closing his eyes and playing around Finn's smile in his mind until he was brimful; the possibilities are just endless! He ran his engine. Yes, he was probably the worst player tonight, he thought, but Finn was a star—in nobody's eyes but his.
Inspired by The Killer's Andy You're a Star, which perfectly fits Kurt's unrequited love. Only if he can sing it in the show.