chapter nineteen
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
interlude: from the outside looking in
chapter eleven
chapter twelve; part one
chapter twelve; part two
chapter thirteen
interlude: a long stretch of present
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
It’s on a translucent September morning when Blaine Anderson, Finn Hudson and Clare Smith stand beneath a tree in what was once Kurt and Blaine’s garden. It’s the one they used to lie beneath in the summer - Clare remembered Kurt telling her - where they’d find harmonies in notes and in bodies. Clare holds a small urn, which Finn takes a handful of ashes from, and she encourages Blaine to do the same before she takes hers.
“On three?”
“Yeah.”
Blaine stands in silence, waiting for what to do.
“One - two - three,” Finn and Clare say simultaneously before slowly opening their palms, scattering the ashes into the freedom of the wind. Blaine, taking their lead, does the same, bringing his palm to his mouth before blowing them away as if with a kiss.
Clare hands the urn to Finn, who turns the last ones out.
“Would anyone like to say anything before we go inside?”
Finn, oddly steadfast, lowers himself to his knees between the old summer petals which have now fallen, and kisses the ground.
“Bye, Kurt,” he whispers, so soft that Blaine can’t hear him.
Clare takes Blaine’s hand.
“Why isn’t Kurt here?” he asks her.
“Kurt’s always with us, Blaine,” Finn smiles at him.
-
“Hello?”
“Kurt? - Wait, you’re not Kurt - ”
“No, no, I’m not Kurt, Rachel.”
“How do you know my - Finn, is that you? What are you doing up in New York?”
“Caring for Blaine.”
“Where’s Kurt? I sent him a letter about two weeks ago and he hasn’t replied. Has he been away?”
“You could say that.”
“What do you mean? Finn, is everything okay?”
“No, Rachel! Everything’s not okay - !”
“Finn, hey, hey, what’s wrong?”
“Kurt’s dead! That’s what’s wrong. And now I am left to look after Blaine because he has no one else to care for him and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing! That’s what’s wrong.”
Rachel stares, wanting to reach through and comfort Finn as he unravels, but not knowing what to say.
“I’m coming over.”
-
They sit together that afternoon and talk, go out to the tree they stood under that morning, holding hands, just in case of they-don’t-know-what.
All the while, through the open window to the music room, they hear the slow, slow creeping of an out-of-tune cello, trying its best to sound beautiful. It almost does.
-
“Will you be okay?” Rachel asks Finn as she’s about to leave, standing framed in the doorway
“No idea. I managed three days last time and it was fine. Blaine was fine.”
Finn looks back down the hallway to where Blaine and Clare are in the music room, before turning back and smiling at her, reminiscent of their high school years and fading photographs.
“Yeah, we’ll be okay,” Finn tells her with a slight nod before she leaves and heads back to the city, to the bright lights and a character that’s not herself.
-
They stay out that night, lie beneath the tree and breathe speechlessness into the air, look to the sky wearing stars like an antique wedding dress. Finn spots Ursa Minor and Orion, tracing the dots like a child with the tip of his finger while Blaine leans back on his arm, clutching at his shirt and at the edges of sleep.
Finn rolls over onto his side, leans his head above Blaine’s, travels over each vertebra with his fingers.
“Kurt?” Blaine whispers into Finn’s chest, seemingly elsewhere, and Finn looks up at the sky, hoping he can meet Kurt’s eyes amongst the stars.
-
“How is everything up there?” Carole’s voice is comforting even over the phone.
“Not too bad, so far. Blaine’s asleep now and so yeah, that’s what’s been going on. Also we scattered Kurt’s ashes this morning, and Rachel came over this afternoon, and there’s been no trouble.”
“Glad to hear it. Oh, sweetheart, I wish we could both be up there with you, help you out a bit. It must be so hard for one person.”
“It’s not just me - Blaine’s doctor, Clare, she’s helping me too.”
“But she’s not a full time carer like you are. She has her own life. A husband. Children too - ?”
“No, no children.”
“Anyway, you’re doing this all on your own. I’m so proud of you, Finn.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You really are your father’s son. In fact, both of your fathers’. Chris would be just as proud as Burt and I am of you.”
Finn almost manages to stop himself from crying.
-
That night, Finn sleeps next to Blaine, his arm around Blaine’s chest somewhat subconsciously, their breathing a slow ebb and flow as the tide of safety and the current of dreams washes over them.
And, not for the first time since it happened, he dreams of Kurt; together with his father, drinking coffee at a bare table in a white room and laughing.
-
The drum kit hasn’t been used in years. Probably not since the last time he was here, Finn thinks as he blows pillows of dust from the seat and off the skins. He starts with a slow beat on the bass, adds the rippling of the cymbal, gets a rhythm going until the door to the music room opens and Blaine walks in, his hair a mess and his eyes still a little fluttery from sleep.
“You’re not Kurt,” he says simply.
“No, I’m not.” Finn cautiously places the drumsticks down, ready for any reaction.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? Where’s Kurt?”
“Kurt’s not here, Blaine.”
“How do you know my name? You’re not Kurt.”
“No, I’m his brother, Blaine, and - ”
“Where’s Kurt? What have you done with him?”
“Nothing, Blaine, hey, hey, calm down, Blaine - ow!”
Finn catches a breath as a fist lands on his stomach, another to his shoulder and oh shit I forgot Blaine used to box and that’s still in there somewhere I bet and he reaches out to grab Blaine by the elbow to stop the next fist coming but then there’s a kick at his shins instead and screaming screaming raw raw screaming I want Kurt I want Kurt where’s Kurt and Finn’s hesitant to use force but in the end he has to twist Blaine’s arm and he lets out a yell and falls to the floor where Finn takes him into his arms and rocks him slowly while he cries, stroking his hair and whispering shh shh like a lullaby.
-
Carefully, when his tears have dried and he’s fallen asleep again, Finn cradles Blaine in his arms and carries him upstairs, laying him down again in the bed and folding the cover. Each touch is wind-light, almost afraid he might break Blaine who, at that moment, seems so fragile.
But then, Finn thinks, Blaine’s probably already broken somewhere in there.
-
Finn had forgotten this from last time. Well, not forgotten completely, but he didn’t remember it being so bad. And he doesn’t recall getting any physical injuries at Blaine’s last breakdown.
He dabs some arnica on the bruises before going outside into the icy sunshine, walking through the garden. The leaves sparkle beneath his feet, and
Finally, he stops beneath the tree in the centre, the one they had gathered under yesterday morning, and lets himself breathe, and think, and remember.
“Hey Kurt, just one question. How did you do it?”
Part of him expects Kurt to talk back to him somehow. A secret in the breeze or a pattern in the rain. But instead, with the breathing and the thinking and the remembering, an answer comes to him, the same as last time:
He’s not Kurt. He’ll never be Kurt.
But he can do everything he can to be like Kurt.
-
He’s just tidying up the bedroom, Blaine still sleeping, when he comes to the desk, sees the diary open at the right page.
And each line reads the same. They’re steadfast and safe and comforting in a way, remembering the phrase from last time with a half-smile; the same sentiment. The one that tells him that yeah, they’re going to be fine.
Hurry here, sweetheart, faster than the speed of light.
Hurry here, sweetheart, faster than the speed of light.
Hurry here, sweetheart, faster than the speed of light.