Short chapter guys, and just warning you, the next update will be the last! Also for those who are curious, near the end of this chapter is where the material from the prologue fits in :)
Chapter 10
Kurt was narrowly avoiding a panic attack.
Don't be silly
Don't be irrational
Don't panic
Blaine could be a thousand places in the city.
He wasn't in any danger.
He was fine.
Still, he was barely suppressing the urge to scream.
Kurt had spoken briefly with his neighbours, who had informed him that most of the cellphone networks were overloaded and not working. So he sat impatiently, waiting for a call that wouldn't come. All he could do was wait for Blaine to come home.
He watched the news coverage, even though it was sparse at best. Some of the local networks were running a broadcast, but they were all scrambling for information, experiencing technical difficulties and generally frenzied. They were saying it was a terrorist attack. Kurt buried his head in the couch cushions for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around it.
Their fight from the previous night seemed so trivial in the light of all that had happened. Kurt ached. If he hadn't been so stubborn, Blaine would be here right now instead of out there somewhere in a city filled with chaos.
He attempted calling Rachel a couple times from his landline, but her cell was unreachable as he expected. He wasn't particularly worried about her, she would never have been anywhere near the WTC anyway. She had a predictable pattern of travel around the city that usually only involved the theater district and uptown. It would be nice to hear from her, though.
He busied himself making a few calls to a few other friends in the city that he could reach, just to make sure they were okay. He avoided mentioning Blaine. He paced around once he had finished making his calls, unable to sit still.
Why hadn't Blaine called? He had to know that Kurt would be worried. Their fight wouldn't have prevented him from coming home or at least calling from a payphone.
He was standing by the window staring at the smoky sky when a knock on the door nearly startled him out of his skin.
His sock feet slipped across the hardwood floor as he raced to the door.
Blaine.
He turned the door handle and came face to face with a girl that looked vaguely familiar.
Of course, Blaine wouldn't have knocked.
He knew this, but still felt unreasonably disappointed.
The girl was panting hard and had her hands on her knees, bent over in front of her. She had dark eye makeup running down her cheeks and she reeked of smoke. Kurt waited awkwardly for her to catch her breath, until she finally choked out one word,
"Blaine."
Kurt crumpled.
Blaine had no way to tell how much time had passed. Everything alternated between black and blinding white. When he awoke again, everything tasted like blood and smoke.
Sorting out his thoughts was nearly impossible, but his gut told him he was in trouble. He tried to push through the murky confusion and the searing pain to figure out where he was and how to get out. He tried turning his head to look to his left, and it hurt like hell. He could make out crumbled stone, bits of glass, smoke.
What happened?
Blaine tried to shift his body but was met with excruciating pain; hot and fierce. He almost lost consciousness when he realized where it was coming from. He was buried from the waist down in rubble. But just above that, he could see the neck of his guitar sticking out of his stomach at an awkward angle.
The sight of it jerked Blaine into remembrance. Of course.
He remembered that he had been performing, that he had been with Cecily and Ray. That they had seen the plane, right before it crashed into the skyscraper above them.
But how? How was he alive? He didn't understand how he could have survived the falling rubble.
He was struck by the thought that maybe he wasn't alive.
He was surrounded by smoke, and rock.
Fire and brimstone
But no. There was too much pain, too much blood. He was definitely alive.
For now
With the realization that he was trapped, came panic. He needed to get out. He needed help. He was going to bleed to death. He couldn't die. Not before seeing Kurt again.
Kurt
The thought of Kurt's face renewed the panic inside him and he struggled against the rocks again. When he realized he was stuck, he tried to call out, but his voice was dead inside his throat. The smoke and the acrid tang of burnt flesh clogged his throat, making it impossible to call out for help.
He was buried alive.
Kurt
He just wanted to see Kurt again. He wanted to tell him he was sorry for pushing him, for trying to tell him what to do. He was so sorry for running away, for leaving him, for wasting what could have been their last night together.
He should have spent it with Kurt. They should have been snuggled up in bed together, twisted in the sheets, skin on skin, his forehead pressed against Kurt's, all arms and muscle and heat. He should have spent the night kissing his lips and whispering love into his chest and ears, he should have spent the night smelling and feeling and holding.
But he'd left.
And now, he might never see him again.
Blaine could feel the pain threatening to overtake him again, as salty tears trailed down his bloody face, stinging in the cuts and crevices. He struggled harder, hoping for just one last moment, maybe if he could hold on, they could at least say goodbye.
He turned to his right, trying to see if he could see an escape, a way out. But he was met with the face of another person. Blaine tried to scream but couldn't.
The person was dead.
And the face was familiar.
Ray.
Kurt was sitting on the floor in front of Cecily, unmoving. He didn't know how much time had passed since she had knocked on the door, but they'd both remained immobile and silent since then. She stared down at him, barely blinking, seemingly in some sort of trance and he sat cross legged on the floor, unable to think or move or feel.
He stayed silent for a while because he feared if he opened his mouth he would vomit, but once the feeling passed, he cleared his throat to speak,
"Tell me what happened."
His voice was stronger than he expected it to be, but it was also devoid of tone or feeling. Cecily was shaken from her trance by the sound of his voice and settled herself on the floor beside him. It didn't occur to either of them to move to a chair or the couch.
"He was playing down by the World Trade Center towers. We were just bumming around in front of the building. I left…I left him with Ray and when the plane hit…I…" she broke off, coughing violently in an attempt to disguise the tears in her voice.
Kurt surveyed the girl with mild interest, absent mindedly noting how strange the scene would have been under any other circumstances. He realized he had seen her with Blaine a few times before, in the early days of their relationship, but had never been formally introduced. She had always seemed stand-offish and distant and Kurt had never attempted to befriend her.
But here in this moment, sitting on the floor of his apartment with this teary, broken girl, Kurt felt close to her. Blaine had always spoken about Cecily like a little sister, and as Kurt clung to every word of her story he realized they had more in common than he might have thought.
They both loved Blaine.
"I ran back. I looked for them. But I couldn't find them. There was rubble everywhere. There were people everywhere; screaming, running. But I saw…"
She trailed off again and Kurt felt the urge to scream. He wanted to be patient with her, he studied her face and realized she couldn't be older than 18, but he needed to know, he needed to hear what she had seen.
"Cecily?" he prompted gently.
"His guitar. I saw his guitar. It was broken."
She began coughing again, clearing her throat gruffly. She seemed unable to cry in front of Kurt, or maybe unable to cry at all.
Kurt's eyelids felt heavy. He couldn't keep them open anymore. He dropped them, letting her words wash over him.
He lay back on the floor, letting the feeling of despair wash over him.
How fucking unfair.
Of all the nights for Blaine to walk out. Of all the places in the city for him to be. Of all the moments to stand in that very spot. Of all the ways their story could have ended.
Why this?
He was irrationally angry with Blaine. How dare he, how dare he leave him. How dare he do this to him.
Kurt suddenly slammed his fists into the hardwood floor on either side of him. It stung, but he didn't care.
Why this.
Cecily shifted on the floor beside him, and he could hear her clicking her teeth. She was fidgeting; anxious.
"I need a cigarette. I need a whole fucking pack of cigarettes. I need to start my own tobacco farm. I need to annex a small South American country dedicated to rolling cigarettes for me. Fuck. I'll be back."
She got up and then turned around right before exiting, "I'll be back, okay? Don't do anything stupid."
It seemed to be her attempt at comfort. With that, she was gone.
Kurt was alone, and he felt it.
He stood up, and strode over to the window purposefully. He stared at the ring of black smoke on the distant horizon. He surveyed the city, realizing that of all the moments he had felt utterly and spectacularly alone in the metropolis, he had never experienced anything like this before.
"I love you." He whispered as he stared at the ugly, angry black smoke in the sky.
When the thick silence hung in the air and carried no reply, he repeated himself.
"I love you."
Silence.
He didn't know what he was expecting, but the ugliness of the unanswered declarations of love was too painful to bear.
"I love you!" his voice rose in volume each time he said it, more frantic and more broken.
He whirled around, looking around the apartment. His eyes rested on the canvas on the wall. It was the painting he had done, back when he had first met Blaine. Back when he had first started painting again. It was the scene from the lake, and at the center of the canvas, he had painted a little boat like the one he and Blaine had sat in on the lake in Central Park all those long months ago.
He hated it. It was taunting him. It was sitting there, smugly reminding him of all the beautiful times he and Blaine had spent together, and all the things they would never do again.
"I love you!" he repeated again frantically, waiting for an answer.
The painting mocked him.
"I love you, I love you, I love you!" he cried desperately, walking towards the painting in long strides. He stood in front of it, glaring at it, waiting for an answer that never came.
He reached up, unsure of what he was doing, but he desperately needed to do something. He ripped the canvas from the wall and threw it to the ground.
The painting landed with a resounding thunk, but he wasn't satisfied. He needed it to stop looking at him, he needed it to stop reminding him of Blaine. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and he was angry with himself too. He didn't want to cry. He just needed it to stop.
He began to tear at the thick canvas with his hands. He repeated under his breath a thousand times, "I love you, I love you, I love you…" until he was crying too hard to continue, and he was left gasping for breath as the tears streamed down his face and his hands continued to rip up the canvas.
The thick material cut up his hands, but he didn't care as they started to bleed. He continued to destroy the painting.
When he was satisfied with its destruction, he turned to his wooden easel, a half completed painting perched jauntily upon it. It was mocking him as well.
Gasping for air and shaking with sobs, Kurt threw that canvas onto the ground as well. As it flew across the room, the canvas knocked over a glass vase, sending it shattering to the ground in shards. He then kicked over the easel, stomping on the wooden frame with his feet, feeling the wood splinter and dig into his bare heels.
It hurt, and he was bleeding, but he didn't care. It felt good to destroy the paintings. They only served as a reminder of what Blaine had given him. Maybe, if he could go back to a time before he started painting again, he could go back to a time before Blaine, before this, a time before everything hurt.
The stupid paintings had been the reason they'd been fighting anyway. Blaine had just wanted him to pursue his goddamned painting. If it wasn't for them, Blaine never would have left. He would there, in Kurt's arms.
Shaking, he fell down into the mess of wood, canvas and glass, letting the sobs wrack his body.
"I love you" he whispered one last time into the empty silence.
No one answered.