dorothy's slippers.

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So here's what you missed on Glee:

Puck and Santana have been stranded on an island that kind of reminds them of Lost, except without the cool polar bears and the smoke monster, and both of them are missing home and feeling way out of their league, even if neither will admit to it. ( "Not your type of party, is it?" "If I say no, you're going to

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[turnedtoproust]

Scripps had been at the bench of the piano, debating which Rachmaninoff piece to play and deciding whether it was even worth it without Timms and Lockwood about to knock off an old classic to Scripps' tune. When the bloke finishes (and lord, but it's like Poz all over, right down to the tone of voice), Scripps peeks over the edge of the piano, leaning sideways. "Don't suppose you know Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered?"

[highf]

Although Kurt immediately tensed at the voice, not having realized that there was anyone else with him in the room, his expression immediately brightened at the man's question. "Don't suppose I do," he replied with a slight shimmy of his shoulders, more from excitement than anything else as he stepped towards the piano with a spring in his step. He hadn't really been expecting to find anyone on the island capable of providing the background instrumentation that he'd grown accustomed to as part of the McKinley glee club (even Dalton, for all its funds and gracious alumni, had nothing of the sort), and the very chance to sing with an accompaniment again had his heart beating madly inside his chest.

"My favorite rendition is, naturally, Barbra Streisand's performance on the Judy Garland show. In D Major?" he asked, standing taller and hoping, against all odds, that the pianist would work some magic. There was very little in the world that Kurt enjoyed more, after all, than a good Broadway show tune.

[turnedtoproust]

Christ, even the voice is roundabout the same. Scripps adjusts back to the piano, cracks his knuckles, and returns to an old familiar tune in D Major that he hardly needs the sheet music for. There are some tunes which they've revisited time and time again in general studies that are burned in his mind. "I hope you don't expect a singing harmony," he says, ruefully. "I've very little talent of the sort."

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"Oh, believe me," Kurt reassures as he clears his throat, brushing nonexistent dust off his shoulders, if only to surreptitiously work away the tension there, "if you just work on getting those magic fingers to tickle the ivories, I'm pretty sure that I can handle the rest." It's a rare opportunity, to get to play with an accompanist who wants to hear the specific song being sung. An accompanist who ends up being as much audience as aid. And somehow, the joining of the two art forms has Kurt's chest filling out more than ever as he closes his eyes to feel the melody as it hums through every nerve in his body.

"He's a fool and don't I know it," he sang, the volume of his voice low, tone sweet. "But a fool can have her charms. I'm in love and don't I show it... like a babe in arms."

[turnedtoproust]

Scripps keeps along easily, making sure to pace the melody along with the singing. He's had ample amounts of practice and this is something that he could practically get into Oxford for, alone -- not that he would. This is private, this is personal. This isn't one of Irwin's gobbits to be played out for his own benefit.

He smiles warmly as he plays, falling back into old habits and old delights.

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Time passes by all too quickly as Kurt loses himself in the song. In the smooth melodies that envelop him, coaxing his eyes to a close. In the way that he can imagine the lights shining down with their warmth, can remember the way Barbra's voice was, strong and yet tentative at the same time. Subconsciously, he mirrors every step. Even lowers his hand to rest on the piano, feeling the notes thrum through his fingers with a sudden jolt borne of the knowledge that this, this more than anything else, is what he was born for. When the last note ends on a lingering vibrato, Kurt takes a deep breath, feeling tears stand in his eyes.

"Thank you," is all that he can manage at first. Because what else does one say to someone who understands the art, and allows it to roam freely? "That... has been my best experience since arriving here. Which, by the way, includes the hot springs in the caves, so that's no small feat."

[turnedtoproust]

Scripps leans his elbow against the frame of the piano, a complacent and pleased smile on his lips. "Honestly, it's the least I can do. I play on my own, but it feels bereft," he confesses to a man he's just met. "Usually, I've people running through endings or singing or we're doing monologues. A melody without a voice to join it is beautiful, but lacking," he intones, seriously.

He extends his hand, a polite smile on his face. "I'm Scripps."

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Of all the instruments that there are in the world, Kurt can't help thinking that the piano is the most versatile. (Aside from the human voice, perhaps.) Melodies and harmonies, a range higher than any single person can manage, the need to use both hands at once- Kurt won't trade his voice for anything, too comforted by the fact that he can belt out a tune anywhere, that his singing can be woven into a performance from head to toe, but if there's an instrument for him to pick up, piano would be it.

"Well, I won't try to argue with you there if it means that I get a regular accompanist," Kurt replies honestly with a small smirk on his lips. "I do think that you're selling yourself a little short, but today it's for my gain, and I've never been able to turn that down easily." He takes the hand, giving it an enthusiastic shake. "Kurt Hummel."

[turnedtoproust]

"Kurt Hummel, a man with a beautiful voice," Scripps says, as if appointing a descriptor to Kurt to call back on in times of the future. Maybe it's just old habits dying hard, but he's been writing essays for so long that he can't have a fact without a proof, not anymore. "So where did you sing before this, then? I can't imagine it was always here. If what I'm told is true, no one is originally from the island."

[highf]

"You flatter me," Kurt replies first, before pausing and conceding with a nod. "Or, alright- I confess, I've been gifted with a rather unusual range for a boy of my age, and that opens me up to any number of possibilities that my peers wouldn't have, and my voice certainly does take up a rather unusual quality which many people might envy. But still, I'm sure that you must have heard plenty of beautiful voices in your time. Your skills aren't limited to those of a pianist; I found it quite easy to sing along with your playing, and that isn't something I can say for soloists."

Sitting down in a nearby chair and crossing his legs neatly, Kurt smiles, this time taking on a bit of a rueful air. "Anyway, no, definitely not a native of this crazy island. I sang in Lima, Ohio- if singing in a high school choir room counts much."

[turnedtoproust]

Scripps is still leaning his elbow on the piano with a dazed grin on his face, like he can't quite believe he's found someone to accompany in these parts. "I had a mate back home who sang like you," Scripps informs him in the casual way that one brings up mutual facts when comparing acquaintances. "He was young, voice hadn't broken, but he could perform the most beautiful of songs," Scripps admits, thinking with fondness of Poz's abilities. "All I did for the last six years of my life have been accompanying other people's whims and madness. Which isn't to say I didn't participate," he confesses. "Not in a choir, not in Ohio, surely, but I dabbled my fair share in the arts."

"Which, yes, I think singing in a high school choir counts as."

[highf]

"Fortunately, I'll have you know that my voice has already broken," Kurt admits with a grin. It's not something to be especially proud of, but there's no doubt that Kurt feels the relief seeping through him whenever he gets up to sing, glad that his range has remained so wide and versatile in spite of the fact that puberty is all too often the final act that pushes chlid stars and young adults into obscurity. Even now, he can still hit that high F, can still belt out Broadway with the best of them (Rachel Berry herself included). "So if there's any fear of losing my voice, you can scrap that now; with enough practice, I should remain young and relatable for years yet."

His smile widens a touch at the thought of the glee club, of what New Directions would say in response to this man. And not for the first time, he wonders if this is, perhaps, what draws the jazz orchestra to playing background for New Directions in the first place.

"You may be one of the few who would credit me for high school work, then."

[turnedtoproust]

"Well, I like to think that what we do before we set out to our actual lives holds some meaning," he says with a half-sad smile. After all, if there is no meaning to it, then what's the point of any of it? That's what Scripps wants to know. "So, Ohio. What's America like, really? I've only seen it through media forms."

[highf]

"Oh, no doubt. But reviewing committees for universities and even community theaters aren't in the habit of looking beyond the actual resume. Which... well, when the glee club at your high school accepts every single student who wants to join, is a piece of paper I haven't managed to impressively fill out quite yet," Kurt replies with a small grin, eyebrow raising to emphasize the point. It's not something that he's too concerned about yet. Auditions are still on the horizon, are still a very necessary component to any arts application. Even if he hasn't stuck that gold star to the paper yet, it's coming.

In time.

"And, honestly? I wouldn't say that Ohio is very representative of the US as a whole. At least, I hope it isn't. But... I haven't had much of an opportunity to travel past the borders."

[turnedtoproust]

"We had a little class," Scripps explains with a gesture of his hand. "You had to read history to be in it, but the lot of us just faffed about in general studies. We sang songs and did endings and read poetry. I suppose you could say it was exclusive, but we paid our dues in the work we devoted to it," he muses, always keeping an eye on Kurt. "I haven't travelled much at all, either. The great wide world looms out there, but all I know of it is the poetry.

"They ask me where I've been, and what I've done and seen. But what can I reply who know it wasn't I," he recites, with heavy intonation and a private smile on his lips.

[highf]

"Wilfred Gibson," Kurt immediately replies, though he's nothing short of taken aback by the fact that, in such a short amount of time, he's managed to come across someone whose interests align so closely with his own. It feels like he'd been waiting years before he finally found Blaine, and even then, there was a different color between their interests, Kurt ever caught in the past, and Blaine trying his best to push forward and into the future. "But someone just like me, who went across the sea, and with my head and hands-"

He pauses, pressing his lips together, not sure that whether those words are supposed to have a deeper implication right now, implications that he's simply missing.

"Kind of an... interesting choice in quote, right there."