Hello all!
I have had this story in my head for a while and just wanted to get the first chapter down. I am already writing another fiction at the moment called Ten Things Kurt Hummel Should Never Have Done Which I will be continuing.
This story is a lot darker than my others and features moments of an upsetting nature including - violence, dub-con, non-con and angst. But I promise amidst the hurt there will be lots of fluffy love as the story progresses.
I would love to hear your feedback on whether I should continue this fiction or not? Your thoughts mean the world to me!
Anyway here it is chapter one of Kisses In The Dark...
Enjoy...
Darkness. The smell of mold. A child's laughter.
It's the laughter that hits Kurt the hardest. When did such an innocent sound get so warped into something that evokes fear and terror. When a glass strikes the floor and smashes into a thousand pieces was it an accident? Or did the owner of the glass fall too to the ground…. Smashing lives into a million pieces. A million questions. A million unknowns.
Kurt stares blankly up at the ceiling above him, grey in colour, stained black water lines spreading intricately over the roof like veins. When he first came here… when he first lay back on this same bed, the ceiling was a soft blue colour, unmarked, pristine. Nothing lasts forever. Things grow old, things wither and die. People laugh and people cry. Glasses smash and lives crash down around you.
Thus is the fault of being human. The curse even.
Kurt pulls the thin blanket tighter around his body, the air of the room slightly chilly due to a soft crack in the window. The night is young, Kurt knows he wont sleep. Squeezing his eyes shut once before opening them, Kurt slid off the bed and stood shakily to his feet. Rolling his head to the side causing the muscles in his neck to crunch unhappily at the movement, he tried to relax. He'd go out. He has some money saved in his little black wallet, he'll go out and remember what its like to be alive. Why does this bloody room have to look so much like a fucking morgue? As Kurt pulls on a pair of tight skinny black jeans, a shirt and beaten leather jacket, he can't help but suppose the air of death clinging to the walls was the death of his childhood. The murder of his childhood perhaps. No time to grow up. Time to be a big boy now.
Kurt rubs a dab of cologne he'd pulled earlier out of a magazine onto his wrist. Time to be a big boy now. Big boys don't cry.
Cry. Cry. Scream. I like that. Scream again.
Kurt pulls out his toothbrush and toothpaste, scrubbing his teeth, the soft scratching sound pulling him out of his memories, spitting the mint like substance out into the sink and washing it away. Wash it away. He rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger gently, unlocking the door and walking out, wallet tucked deep in his trousers. He hates to save the money, he can't stand how it feels in his fingers. He cant stand that its still warm from their hands when they give it too him, barely giving him a chance to count it before harsh hot breath is on his neck and fingers thrust haphazardly down his pants.
Kurt locks the door behind him. People don't sympathize with him and he doesn't look for sympathy. Why would he? Why would they? It's his choice, they say, his lifestyle. He's a man. Getting paid to have sex is the dream right? That's what they say, clapping him on the back and laughing. Kurt only smiles. He'll drink to that. What's the point in setting the record straight? In explaining why he's really there in that dank dark room with the creaky doorknob that alerts him he has a visitor. He doesn't want to let their glasses smash to the floor. So he'll laugh. He laughs like a child, that's what they tell him.
They never let him be a child.
Kurt doesn't dwell. He turns his phone off for the night. No visitors today, his body is tired. They'll let him have the evening off. He's a good boy. They trust him. The hallways are in a worse state than his room, he tries not to think about what the large dark patches on the brown wallpaper are, his eyes flicking to the floor.
The night air is cool and clear. Perfect. The sweet icy oxygen that fills Kurt's lungs is exactly what he needs, his breath exhaling in smoky white puffs. He's brought new shoes, they're red with a long grey stripe across the top and grey laces, Kurt ponders on how strange the bright red coloring of the fabric looks in his grey room. Even against the grey of the pavement they look starkly out of place. Kurt smiles. It's nice to have some colour in his life.
It strikes him only after he had brought them that they are the colour of blood but he decides that maybe that's a good thing. Blood is the sign of life just as much as it is the sign of death, he thinks of every step he takes in those blood red shoes as being the soft thud of a live heart. It's nicer that way. He feels revitalized.
The bar is not too far down the road, the light from the misted windows only serving to provide the dullest of glows onto the dark shaped puddles outside the door. Kurt sighs. They often get clients drunk from this bar. If they're too drunk they're not allowed in, but more often than not Kurt finds himself cleaning sick off his sheets along with other bodily fluids. It's a good day if he's provided with a client too drunk to get it up. It's a bad day if he has to tend to a cuts and bruises of either himself or someone else because their client was too drunk and beat the shit out of them.
The door doesn't make a sound as Kurt pushes it open, the stench of smoke and cologne filling his nose as he walks inside. One or two heads turn as he enters the bar but they soon returned to the bottom of their cups or to the person sat opposite them. Kurt makes his way straight to the bar where the barman is waiting, a smile on his face as Kurt sits down. Jeff is always nice to him.
'Kurt.' Jeff says, already grabbing him a beer and shoving it across the table. 'Nice to see you all in one piece, its been a while.'
Kurt nods and pulls out his wallet as he wraps his fingers around the cool glass of the bottle.
'Thanks… I've been busy.' Kurt says, flicking the cap off and dragging it to his lips.
Jeff rejects the cash in Kurt's wallet, he always does. 'Its on the house.' He says with a wave of his hand. Kurt places the cash on the bar anyway, he always does.
'Your looking good.' Jeff says, slinging his cloth over his shoulder as he grabs a beer for himself. 'Healthy.' He adds.
Kurt knows what he means. Jeff has seen Kurt at his worst, skin white, eyes purple and hollow, littered with bruises and off his head. Jeff saw Kurt through the period when Kurt refused to eat. He's eating better now. The hollow concave of his stomach beginning to fill out to resemble an actual human torso.
'You hitting on me?' He asks with a wry smile, the beer burning down his throat as he takes a thirsty gulp.
Jeff laughs. Leaning his elbows on the bar softly. 'Now now, you've met my wife.'
Kurt only rolls his eyes. 'Most of them have wives.'
Jeff laughs again, Kurt enjoys the soft sound, its rare he hears genuine laughter. 'She always asks about you, she wants to know how you are, every night when I go home… She frets when you don't come into the bar.'
'Tell her I don't swing her way.'
'Kurt…' Jeff's face is suddenly serious, flicking over Kurt's face. 'Be serious for a moment… We both worry about you, come and live with us, we've got a spare room, Paula would love to have you.'
It's an offer Jeff has made a million times before. Jeff and Paula are older than Kurt by a few years, Paula is a kindergarten teacher and Jeff opened the bar a few years ago. After trying to have a baby, Paula found she would be incapable of ever carrying a child, both were heart broken but accepted this was the way it was. Now they were in the process of adoption.
It's an offer Kurt has refused a million times before.
'You don't need me in your house.' Kurt says quietly, the beer in his hands already half gone. 'I don't think the adoption agency would approve.'
Jeff is silent, moving to the side to serve a man in brown leather jacket and cap. Once he's poured the drink he returns, Kurt lets his finished beer fall onto its side. A small commotion at the door makes him turn his head, his eyes squinting to try and make out what's happening, a man with an umbrella had briefly gotten stuck in the frame but he manages to push through, droplets of water falling off his dark curls. He's far away but Kurt can immediately tell he's deeply attractive, a rarity for such a bar. His suit is far too expensive for this side of town, a shiny watch hanging off a muscled wrist.
'Someone has a death wish.' Jeff mutters under his breath causing Kurt to look back at him with a smile. Both men wondering what an earth a man with money was doing at this time, in this bar.
Blaine sinks down into the padded seats of the train with a relieved exhale. He can't wait to get home. It's just been one of those days. It started happily enough, he kissed his rosy-cheeked wife, Janie, goodbye and jiggled his three-month-old baby on his hip before grabbing his briefcase and heading out. Him and his wife had even had sex the night before. A rarity. It was stinted and mechanic and Blaine certainly hadn't enjoyed himself but it was enough.
By the time he'd got to the office things were already going downhill. For a start it was pouring with rain, the droplets of water beating the glass windows like bullets as he rushed into the foyer. His assistant, Mary, an attractive women in her twenties had rushed to his side the second his stepped through the door.
'Sir, the Terrance-Green case has taken a turn for the worst, his wives lawyer found a video tape of him actually screwing the girl in question and police think she was underage.' Mary said, pushing her glasses up her nose as she clutched the clipboard to her soft chest.
Blaine groaned. How disgustingly cliché. When he'd dreamed of becoming a lawyer he certainly hadn't imagined he'd spend his days defending husbands who couldn't keep their pricks in their pants for more than five seconds and were now being robbed of everything they owned by pissed off wives or pissed off, and apparently inappropriately young mistresses.
'Call him in, I want a copy of the tape and an explanation from the man himself.' Blaine said gruffly, hitting the elevator button and making his way up to his office. Mary nodded and scribbled down a note.
'Coffee Sir?' She asked.
Blaine pressed a ten-pound note into her hands. 'Full fat cappuccino, get yourself something as well.'
Mary nodded her gratitude and scurried out the office.
Nigel Terrance had no explanation for the tape. Blaine smacked his head repeatedly on the wood of his desk as the man left. This case was going to be hard to win.
He spilled his cappuccino down his suit and had to send Mary out for a change. His wife rang him to tell him her mother was coming to stay. His brother rang him to ask for some money to pay his rent for that week.
By the end of the day Blaine was exhausted and in a foul mood.
The train smelled like piss. Nothing-new there.
He couldn't even contain the string of violent profanities that escaped his mouth as the train stopped at some station in the gritty part of downtown and informed him that the carriages would be taking him no further due to a flood at the other stations. Blaine realized he was going to have to get a cab, as he walked out the station he also realized he had no phone signal.
After kicking the wall a few times he decided to find a bar. That was how he ended battling to get his umbrella through the door of some disgustingly grimy bar that made Blaine's skin crawl but maybe a good stiff drink would do him some good. Still muttering curses under his breath he approached the bar where a skinny, pale skinned boy was sat, soft brunette hair falling over one of his grey eyes. The boy was laughing he noticed as he battled his umbrella into his holder. He didn't blame him, Blaine looked ridiculously out of place in the bar. Perhaps he should have taken his gold watch off…
He sat down on the bar stool, the barman leaving the side of the boy to stand in front of Blaine.
'What can I get you?' He asked, his smile causing his eyes to crinkle in the corner.
'Something strong.' Blaine replied, discarding his sodden jacket to the floor as he dragged a hand through the soaked curls on his head, trying to sort out the straggled mess.
Jeff smiled wider. 'Of course.' He said, grabbing a bottle of something of a gold colour and pouring it onto some ice.
Blaine turned to the boy by his side, his eyes flicking over the flawless skin of his cheeks, only softly blushed from the biting cold of outside. 'You got a phone I could borrow? Mines not picking up signal.'
The boy looked surprised at the question, his lips already parted to take a sip of what looked like his second beer. The barman cut in before the boy could reply.
'I have.' He said, tossing Blaine an old looking mobile.
The boy shot the barman a glare from underneath his long dark eyelashes. He really did have pretty eyes, Blaine thought, the soft grey was filled with sadness and tension. His fingers began to twitch around his glass the bizarre want to wrap his arms tightly around the small-framed boy until the sadness in those pretty irises went away filling him.
Fucking hell.
He really was tired.
Uttering a thank you, he grasped the mobile in his hand and turned to make the call, pushing any thoughts of sliding his fingers over that soft porcelain skin until it flushed with hot blood rushing to the surface under his touch… Blaine was good at suppressing such urges. He'd been doing it for 15 years.