Hey, sorry it's been so long since I last uploaded. I recently found the amazing site and basically was hypnotized by the klainness of it all 3! Anyways I'll try to post more frequently from now on. The italicized sentences symbolize thought. Thanks to all those who favorite or followed, it means a lot! Okay so read on!
October 23, 2:30 pm
Put it simply, Mrs. Stump was no newbie to ranges of emotion one person could hold. Whether it is the deflation of limbs accompanied by gushing rapids of tears, the slightly crazy almost sardonic outburst of laughter, or the classic clenched jaw and crunched eyebrows…she had seen it all.
Wouldn't be a surprise to most, after all she was here since the first principle decided to fuck the school nurse in the custodian closet. In fact she had walked in on them, needless to say she took the next few weeks off for "being sick".
I guess one could say she had come to a strategy, a preparedness-plan if you will. Tissues perfectly stationed at the corner of her desk, mere arms length for the blubbering bastard who may acquire such utilities; Cough syrup (pre-opened) for those who claim they have a headache, when in fact the turbulence of this new passing just required a proper hazing (always under supervision of course); and finally the polished whistle she had attained for those thunderous elephants that may or may not just need to exert their sudden frustration and despair in a ear-rupturing scream or clatter. One single blow and their warpath cease to ever begin. Case in point, she was epitome of equipped. A fucking fireman couldn't compare to the likes of Mrs. Stump. Of course even with her encounters, the surprise never dulls. There is always that one baffling occurrence, which always seems to pacify the turning world in one fleeting word.
"It's your cousin Margaret…she's dead." Jeff's mom said into his ear, hesitance and woe painting the usual bell-like octave of her voice. Concocting an inexplicable wormhole in his abdomen.
He still had not reacted.
"Jeff? Sweetie?" She squeaked, he could feel the tears pricking at her cerulean eyes.
"W-who?" he asked, just barely audible.
"Margaret? Do you remember her?" He shook his head, not regarding the fact that his beloved mother would be helpless to see it.
"She was at thanksgiving, you probably didn't see her. She's your uncle Nick's daughter, you guys never really talked to each other, I guess. It's no surprise you don't recall her."
"Oh." He said, flummoxed and unable to fully converse, to breathe.
Quickly in his mind faces shuffled towards his forefront. Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Jennie, Cousin Audrey, Uncle Dave…and the list trails endlessly. Hundreds of eyes careening through the waves of slightly recognizable faces, each just briefly blinking at him as if to instill a warranted guilt. "How could you forget her?" They scold in his ears, but the voices amalgamate to point where they spiral like a flushing tide. A dead heart monitor's moan howls in his eardrums, blurring the world in a fog of colors. With a brisk snap, reality is restored.
"Jeff? Honey? Are you still there? Darling?" Jeff's mom worriedly queries, most likely for the seventeenth time.
"Huh? Oh, yeah…um..What?" He says, still slightly adrift in the abyss of his mind.
"I said you should probably come home dear" Quivers in her voice send bitter sparks down his spine, like the forceful jab of an accusing finger.
Suddenly reality slaps his cheek unabashedly. Anger ignites like the flare of man drenched in kerosene, just beginning to be eaten by the orange tongues.
"What?" He screeches, completely taken off guard (if that were even more possible) "Mom I have the Warblers!" He whines, unwilling to sacrifice what seems to be the last prospect of jollification.
"Your cousin just died sweetie! We need you here at home, now!" abruptly the parental tone is drawn, like the blade of a sword. Always the most useful tactic in his mother's sheath.
"To do what? Sit around stiff in a monkey suit; talking to people I've never actually met? Mom, I'm NOT playing that charade!" He bellows, trying to grasp his control with crippled, shocked fingers.
All the while Mrs. Stump perches on her chair, observing the fold and bends of this screeching teenager, like an owl in the twilight quietly waiting for something to erupt; for the ostentatious orchestra to suppurate in bellows of rupturing sound.
"JEFF!.." His mother shrilly responds, "This is not a negotiation! You are going to come home RIGHT NOW, or so help me you will never see those Warblers AGAIN! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!"
"FINE!" He roars, promptly slamming the phone in its holder. Somehow able to sense the phone's whinge from beyond it's confinements.
Huffing like a wolf with sheer aggravation he tramples out of the office. Just barely noticing the pair of green eyes that scrutinize his every step.
"Damn kids" Mrs. Stump mutters to herself.
October 23, 3:30 pm
"So why did you transfer again?"
Scintillas of happiness tumble from the ultramarine irises, they fall like a dead weight. Glass littering the ground.
It's funny; Kurt can't help but find the utter truth within that analogy. Because that's how he feels. A leaden object suspended in gravity's hold, just simply levitating.
He is a shattered mirror.
Cracks, imperfections, splinters have already ebbed their way throughout his shiny frame; broken angles that somehow posses the fluidity of a snake. Slithering up his torso in a vine-like manner. He is nothing but broken shards. Each jagged on the edges. Still, oddly resting in the fragmented walls, none have yet to plummet from their shimmery cells. But patience can modify that. After all, is that not what time does?
Snares and lacerates everything till it is deformed, a shriveled existence in the perished light? Perhaps, that is what Kurt is doing. Waiting. Lingering around lackadaisically for the final hit. The drop kick to his spine that will cause every last chip to cascade from it's home; tinkling as it kisses the cool surface, the last notes of vitality raining from their glory.
He is waiting with the semblance of dignity, of strength. Because if he were to expose the valleys marking his skin, the spaded lesions… well why not just paint a fucking target on his skin? Dive into the oceans of ravenous sharks with every perforation bleeding his delicious blood.
"Kurt?"
"Hmm?" He asks eyes lifting to meet honey gold. If looks could kill Kurt thinks
"You blanked out." Blaine says with his perfect grin
"Oh, um, sorry" Kurt responds, face flushing with embarrassment.
"No it's okay, I was just wondering why you decided to transfer mid-year."
Immediately images of locker bruises swarm in his brain. He can literally hear the deafening reverberation of his back meeting cool, tough metal.
"Oh, um, just not challenged enough…mentally at least" Kurt mutters, hoping his emotions don't peek through his words.
"Well, don't worry. Dalton will definitely challenge you." Blaine says a perfectly shiny smile beaming on his face.
"Good" Kurt says, not necessarily carrying the same enthusiasm.
God excitement must be infectious around here. He thinks, recalling the same electric life radiating from Harv. At the mere thought butterflies pirouette in his stomach.
"So do you like sports? Because we have a pretty good lacrosse team." Blaine says
"Oh, sports aren't really my thing.." Kurt replies feeling slightly guilty for his dead-end answers.
"Well, what about singing? We have the best team ever!" Blaine boasts, passion now igniting his eyes.
"Oh yeah and what are they called?" Kurt teases, resisting the urge to be nostalgic of old New Direction days.
The New Directions. A plucky, discombobulated species in itself, trying to swim amongst a sea of pencil eating Neanderthals. Amongst the surreal teenage-drama, and the somehow breathtaking renditions, they managed to preserve a family interaction. A secret language expressed through theatrical exits and exclamations. Of course, that was when it existed. For in the first years of infanthood the rivaling Vocal Adrenaline had smothered them, thus ceasing what little funds they managed to receive. Glee club was ended. Ironic really, as soon as these individuals collide into an entity of originality and quirkiness they are ripped apart from each other. No longer tethered by a common love, their personal social-statuses take reign and cast away the mere possibility of inter-connected friends.
Kurt was left to his lonely demographic and the sparse calls of Rachel Berry or Mercedes Jones.
"The Warblers! Actually, I'm the lead singer" Blaine smirks cockiness.
"Oh really?" Kurt taunts, flirtation now arising amongst the two.
"Yes, really" Blaine counters, participating in this new dance.
"Well then I'm sure they're horrible"
And then comfortable silence falls between them. The steam from their mocha-whatevers wafting into the atmosphere, warming the little space between them. And soon Blaine realizes he's leaning closer. As if to inspect the wondrous shades swirling in Kurt's eyes. Shimmering with playful coquetry, but suddenly replaced with an unfamiliar shadow. And it is in the arrival of this peculiar color, this mind-blowing turquoise that Blaine's heart jumps, is revitalized.
Thumping in his ears like an irresistible mantra; entrancing him to further close the distance. Soon the coffee house blurs in his mind.
It dances to this tango they've unknowingly initiated. Soon he's only a meter from the fathomless pools of blue, green. Soon his heart not only percusses to a beat, but also formulates a word that sends prickles of adrenaline through his body. Soon he feels Kurt's sweet, sweet breath ghosting across his lips and Blaine can't help but yearn for a lick of them. These lips, so bright, and red, and succulent that saliva fills the caverns of Blaine's mouth. Soon the distance has evaporated with the world around them.
KurtKurtKurtKurt; his heart thumps.
Soon their lips meet in a tender, delicate touch.
In a moments notice the world is nothing but a void, hungry for the meet and emotion of these two boys. Who stay together in this pose, kissing till the air they so desperately need dims to an inconsequential object of the universe.
They kiss, till the coffee grows cold.
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