A/N: This is the first chapter to my second fic: Come Away With Me, and if you like it, please go check out the actual story :)
apter Rating: Language/character death
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.
Come Away With Me:
My name was Kurt Hummel. I was pretty much like any average man with a firm dream that you'd meet. I worked hard all through high school, collecting the wage I earned for tutoring the young singers in the local Lima choir and the long hours spent aiding my father in his automobile repair shop. Once I graduated, I bustled off to New York as quickly as possible, finding a cheap apartment and splitting the monthly cost with my best friend, Rachel Berry.
The first couple months went smoothly. We attended NYADA during the days, and spent late nights scraping up a couple bucks by waiting tables at James Craig Cafe. Our apartment was cramped with Rachel's flashy furniture she had inherited when her grandfather passed away and my extensive wardrobe. Yet, we were as happy as two young New Yorkers could be.
Once the first year had passed, everything was flowing just as planned. We had upgraded to a three bedroom, two bath apartment with a lovely skylight and even replaced some of Rachel's furniture. Our jobs waiting tables were far behind us and we now worked in a small theatre a couple blocks away. The pay was more than enough and we found ourselves working less and less, suddenly attending Broadway plays instead.
I was gay. However, I knew enough about the jocks at my school and how they treated supposed "faggots" like me to stay closeted around people other than my friends. I had pretty much given up hope of ever finding the man of my dreams, focusing on my career instead.
Blaine Anderson stepped into my life as suddenly as an unexpected tornado. I loved him. He changed me; morphed me into a better person. I can't remember ever being happier then I was over those three years.
It's such a pressing shame that I had to die. I wish I hadn't. I wish it with all my heart. I wish I could be down there with my Blaine, comforting and cuddling like we used to do. But maybe it was for the best. Maybe Blaine's expected to meet somebody who will change him. I'll be watching, and I'll be smiling. Blaine deserves the best.
I can't really remember how it happened, but I'm sure it'll unravel as the time goes on. I don't like it where I am. It's lovely, sure, with the bright sun never ceasing it's shine in the clear, blue sky, and the crisp grass beneath my feet, but it's lonely. I can't see anyone here. I mean, I can see my Blaine, Rachel, Dad, they're all below me...Kind of like a type of mental picture. But there's nobody actually present with me.
I miss my beating heart. All I am now is a roaming shell. There's a voice that tells me I'll solve this mystery in good time. What am I supposed to do here? I guess I'll sit here by the lake and dangle my feet in. I can't feel the water. I can't feel the minnows nipping at my toes. I miss that sensation.
Perhaps if I start at the beginning, this will seems less confusing for the both of us. Please, sit back, take a deep breath and enjoy the feeling of being alive...
March (sophomore year):
"Rachel?" I called, kicking of my Katherine Laboni boots by the door and stepping into our apartment. "What the hell is that awful smell?" A faint whisp of smoke swirled up from a boiling pot on our oven. "Oh, fuck," I groaned, slamming the door and rushing over to dump it in the sink. "Rachel!"
"Here, here!" A scrawny brunette emerged from one of the rooms in the far hall. "Where's the pasta? Is it done?"
I rolled my eyes, motioning to the steaming appliance now cooling beneath a smooth jet of water. "You tried to cook again? How many times must it take for you to realize that singing is your profession, not cooking?"
Rachel sighed. "I just thought we could cut back on the budget, you know, with pasta."
"I've never eaten pasta-from-the-box, and I don't plan to. Leave the cooking to me. Besides, what's wrong with take-out?" I asked her, hanging up my pea coat on the hook by the front door.
Rachel ajourned to our russet couch, plopping down on the feather cushions and switching on the T.V. "I'm sick of P.F. Chang's. I wanted to try something different. Ooh, Kurt, Titanic is on!"
I grinned, grabbing a Coke from the fridge before joining her on the sofa. "How were your NYADA classes? Did you get that outrageous assignment in Fashion - design a line of winter clothing for male models?" I popped the can, raising it to my lips.
Rachel tore her gaze from Titanic. "Yeah, I'm excited. We get to research sexy-ass men for homework."
"Sometimes," I said, leaning in closer as if to share a specific secret, "I think Ms. Jenae just gives us those assigments because she masturbates to our drawings."
"Oh, God," Rachel snorted. "That sounds like something Coach Sylvester would've done."
I burst out laughing. "Or Jacob Ben Israel. Remember when we did those Britney Spears numbers in Glee club and he was jerking off to your video. That was fucking hilarious."
It was then we simply rolled on our plush carpet, splashing Coke everywhere and laughing until cramps coiled in our bellies. Rachel leaned back at the foot of the couch, gazing out the window with her pretty, brown eyes. "Hey, Kurt," she whispered.
I nodded, muting the T.V.
"Do you...Do you think we'll ever find the one?" Her tone was feeble, breaking off at the end.
I recalled her many flings with my stepbrother, Finn, and stiffled a smirk. "I think you'll find that one. But it is, however, up to you if you choose Finn or not. I swear, if you guys keep going on and off-"
Rachel smacked my arm, giggling. "It's his fault, not mine. It's rare I get asked out, so I like to take advantage of it."
"So it has nothing to do with your feelings for him?" I demanded, quirking an eyebrow. "Or the fact that you love to watch romance movies after a break up, throwing crumpled tissues at the screen for me to pick up and making yourself sick with all the ice cream?"
She shrugged. "Hey, ice cream is good for break-ups. And enough about me. Do you think you'll ever find that special man?"
I chewed my lip. The truth was no, I didn't think I'd find a man I truly loved. It was hard enough finding another single gay man. I didn't want to seem desperate enough to date just anyone. "Honestly...There's time left. We're almost twenty. And we live in New York, for God's sake."
"Is that a yes?" Rachel looked genuinely concerned, cocking her head like a puppy.
"I guess there's love out there for everybody," I concluded softly. "If you look for it."
The conversation didn't continue, leaving us to drown in awkward silence and muted images of Rose flouncing about the boat. At last, I stood up and chucked my can in the trash. "Wanna order some Italian food? I'm craving something lowfat and pasta-y."
Rachel smiled. "Call up Olive Garden and I'll pick up the order on my way to the store. I've got to get some ice cream."
"Of course you do."
No matter how many times Rachel and I laughed at the terribly cliche shows on T.V. and joked over the calorie load of the meal, I still felt that cold lump in my stomach. Would I find that one? It seemed like I had given up hope a long time ago.
"Hey, Marisol," I said, lifting a hand to wave half-heartedly at my old-time waitress acquaintance.
Marisol, a charming blonde with baby blue eyes and a lofty grin, clipped her notepad to her belt and sashayed over. "Well, howdy, Kurt," she greeted, a Western drawl tainting her words.
I smiled kindly, taking in the sunken bags beneath her eyes and her hollowed cheek bones. "Has Frank been working you too hard?" I demanded jokingly, referring to the manager of James Craige Cafe.
Marisol cringed, taking a seat in the booth across from me. She slapped a crumpled, damp cloth onto the surface of the table and put her head in her hands. I frowned sympathetically. "What is it, Mari?"
"Remember Theodore? He's at it again."
"Abusing you?" I released a wary sigh. Poor Marisol had a horrible sense in men, not caring how badly they treated her as long and she, and her four children (from various men), got a share in the money they profitted. "Babe, you have to ditch him before he starts taking his anger out on the little ones.
Marisol nodded, sniffling slightly. "I know, I just...Theo's got so much money, and Katherine's sick..."
I caressed her pale elbow. "Rachel and I can babysit, you know that. Please, call us if anything goes wrong; hell, give us a ring if you can't afford to bring Katherine or Josie or one of the little rugrats into daycare."
Marisol snorted. "It's Mike, Jan, Katherine and Bryce, thank you very much," she corrected.
"Well, excuse me." I held my hands up in surrender, laughing with relief. "Seriously, Mari, call me, okay?"
She grinned. "You got it, tootse." Pleased that her flare had returned, I stood to give her a hug and a passionate peck on the lips.
"Be careful, yeah?"
"Yeah," she called over her shoulder, heading back towards the kitchen.
I collapsed back down in my seat, raising my non-fat mocha to my lips. Marisol was too easy, allowing her desperation to suffice for the absense of a masculine figure in her life. She wanted the best for her children, yet was going about it all the wrong way. Marisol's head was filled with fantasized images of 'prince charming'; a buff, seemingly suave guy, flaunting his wallet around and secretly hoping to spot a prostitute. They were all sick.
I stared out the slightly fogged window to my right, watching as pedestrians scurried to crouch under black umbrellas, a faint drizzle combing through the streets. Truth - good, down-to-earth truth - is a rare thing to come by these days. Anybody could be anything.
I wondered if I'd ever find somebody whom I could be myself around; somebody who was just as honest. I brushed a lock of my hair out of my face, and turned back to my coffee mug.
Deep in my soul, I doubted it. Deep my heart, a rose of hope blossomed.
"Baby girl, where you at? Got no strings got men attached! Can't stop that feeling for long, nooo. Mmmm! Making dogs wanna beg - breakin' them off yo fancy legs!" Rachel sang abnoxiously, pounding on the windows of our Sudan.
"Oh, my God, Rach!" I cried, gripping the steering wheel hard in order to channel some of my fury. "Will you shut up?"
She curled her lip in offense, turning the volume up on the stereo. "When I get you alone! When I get you alone, babe."
My hand snapped out and I strangled the dial in a bone-crunching embrace before stabbing it off. "Holy fuck," I cursed. "I do believe I'm permanantly deaf."
"If you remember correctly, I was the lead singer in glee club," Rachel said pointedly, turning to watch the buildings zip by.
"Sure, you were the lead, but I was the best. Everybody agreed," I sneered, winking at her. "How many critics do you think will be reviewing this play?"
Rachel fidgeted, crossing her legs on the nylon seat. She plucked at a loose thread in her sweat pants, brushing the curtain of shiny, dark brown hair over her shoulder. "I'm not sure. Hopefully, though, one of the complete asses that always observe our theatre productions will finally open their eyes and spot my shining talent."
I scoffed, reaching over to tug on the sleeve of her rainbow sweater. "Maybe your shining talent is masked by that God-awful fucking sweater you're wearing."
Rachel shoved me good-naturedly.
That night's performance had the actors jittery and jumping behind stage. I glanced out, watching as our directed, Collene, talked to the audience. Her fiery red hair sparkled with mousse in the illuminating stage lights. Her bright scarlette lip gloss totally clashed with the sequin coated silver gown that hugged her somewhat hefty waist.
Rachel wrapped her arms around my waist. "We did amazing! Did you see me? I rocked the part, baby!"
I nodded in confirmation, awaiting the reaction from the crowd; Collene plastered on a cheesy smile and laughed too loudly. "They were marvelous, no? They were marvelous!"
The audience clapped enthusiastically. "If you are interested in learning more about C.C. Coorperations in Acting Theatre, please visit our website. If you are interested in auditioning for one of our plays, please contact one of our directors. Links can be found at the website. Our actors will be in the lobby, signing for autographs. Thank you so much for attending tonight's performance!"
The crowd clapped again and stood up. "Ooh, here comes my favorite part!" giggled Rachel as the cast began to file into the lobby.
I rolled my eyes. "Everything's your favorite."
In the lobby, a few people clustered around the tables, fauning over our "splendid" attire and congratulating us on our "spectacular" performances. Rachel was butting through the bursts of people, taking their hands and graciously thanking them for coming. "Yes, yes, wasn't I amazing? Mmm? Sure, I'll sign your forehead? Do you have a marker? Permanant? Oh, lovely!" and "Yes, I am quite the supermodel. You want to touch my hair? My stylist will kill me. But what the hell? Isn't it soft? I know!"
I sat down in one of the plastic chairs, grinning at the people gaping at the pictures fanned out on the table. I chewed my lip awkwardly.
"Uh, excuse me?"
I glanced up, fully expecting to see perhaps an elderly man. What I saw, however, made my breath catch in my throat and my heart rate soar upwards. The man was shorter than me, a couple noticable inches. A mop of wild, curly, ebony hair covered the olive skin of his skull, licking his equally dark lashes, positioned over the definite most transfixing orbs I had ever seen. The green eyes, flecked with gold, contained an unbelievable amount of emotion.
I blinked, my chest heaving. The man smiled with suave. "Are you alright?"
I swallowed hard. "Yeah. Yes, sorry. What was it you needed?"
He extended a calloused hand, the lines creased with years of hard work. I stared down at the motion, confused. He cocked a bushy eyebrow. "I won't bite, I promise."
I clasped his hand. "I'm Blaine," he informed me. "Blaine Anderson."
"Kurt Hummel."
Taking that hand was one of the best desicions I have ever made.
A/N: Do you like it?
Love,
Lexi
