burnwithus | (every fire is a lesson learned)

Entry tags:

kurt hummel

(every fire is a lesson learned)

She finds herself singing lately, more often than not, and Katniss doesn't really know why. It feels as if suddenly, everything comes rushing back to her. All of the songs her father taught her; old ballads and the songs coal miners used to sing. Love songs and those that tell stories alike. She sits and sings, hands busy with the knot of a snare or the sharpened point of an arrow while she does. And if asked, Katniss could honestly not say why this was. She'd shunned music entirely after her father's death, dismissing it to the point where she was half-convinced that she'd never loved it at all.

But some things always come back, even if they're not entirely welcome.

Katniss sits there for hours, running through songs - she likes the ones that tell stories the most.

There was a youth, a cruel youth,
Who lived beside the sea,
Six little maidens he drowned there
By the lonely willow tree.

The morbid ones remind her of 'The Hanging Tree', and how oddly she was drawn to it, and not only because it was forbidden. This story, at least, has a happier ending than the others she'd sung that morning with the backdrop of the waves accompanying her. The good thing about the beach was that it was so vast, and it wasn't hard to find a secluded area here or there.

He turned around, that false young man,
And faced the the willow tree,
And seizing him boldly in both her arms,
She threw him into the sea.

Lie there, lie there, you false young man,
Lie there, lie there, cried she,
Six little maidens you've drowned here,
Now keep them company.

He sank beneath the icy waves,
He sank down into the sea,
And no living thing wept a tear for him,
Save the lonely willow tree.

When she'd first arrived, her voice had been raspy and terrible. Destroyed from inhaling too much smoke, from screaming too loudly and too often. But like the redness of the burn scars, even that's faded.

There's a metaphor to be found there, she supposes, but she never liked those anyways.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For all that Broadway is about the bright lights, the animated dance routines, make-up and choreography, performers singing at the top of their lungs, there's one thing that most people don't realize: Broadway is actually, in many ways, about subtlety. About finding beauty in the little things— the brush of fingers, the wonder of an orphaned girl singing to all those around her, the joy of a young boy as he discovers all that dance opens up in his world. The accent of a flower peddler. The way hands link when a couple goes to dance. On the stage, Broadway doesn't center on all else there is in the world, the dirt and the grime, the blood shed. Broadway is a place where people are encouraged to live to the fullest, and in many ways, it's this philosophy that Kurt has taken up in his personal life as well as in the spotlight, refusing to let himself be dragged down.

Still, there are times when reality hits one square in the face, making it impossible to look away. This might be one of those times. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, finding the sun a little relentless. The beach, however, provides a nice breeze that takes the edge of the heat off.

It also comes with, apparently, a voice.

He's within a few feet of her when he finally speaks up, as soon as the last note of hers has faded into silence. "Nicely sung. Though the choice of song's a bit... morbid," he remarks, tone soft and considering.

People don't normally end up drifting this far out. Katniss has watched them, at times, mapping out patterns like she would do with wild animals. Most of the island's citizens preferred to stay near their safe places and populated areas like the Compound. It wasn't too different from District 12 in that sense. Stay away from the fence, stay safe.

She'd come out here on purpose, mostly because conversation on a good day was exhausting. Katniss shrugs the critique of being 'morbid' off, the motion of her hands that were skinning the rabbit stilling. "It probably really happened, and they made a song out of it,"

It wouldn't surprise her.

A brief brush of his gaze over the young woman— or perhaps girl would be more accurate, if not for that aged look in her eyes, like someone who's been forced to grow too much, too fast, too thoroughly in ways that no one from Lima can really ever know— lands his eyes on the splash of crimson over her hands, and Kurt's eyes immediately flutter to a close. He feels the blood drain from his face and tries to fight the nausea down, but if there's anything that he knows, it's that animals die and are butchered all the time. And he shouldn't resent it. And if he plans, indeed, to make his way easily around an island where most of their food sources are hunted down on a daily basis, then he'd better start sucking it up now and dealing with the sight of carrion.

"I'm more inclined to think that it's probably a metaphor, but god only knows we've had plenty of bloodshed among our race over the years," Kurt exhales softly, before walking closer, frowning at the sand before he attempts to lower himself down without getting too much stuck to his clothes. "But even if there really was this kind of hanging tree, that doesn't make the choice of song any less morbid, does it? It's a shame to use a nice voice on that."

The blood unnerves him. Katniss can see that, and in a way it marks him as someone who was like the rest of the island. Jason wouldn't have blinked an eye at it, she was sure. That isn't exactly a bad thing, but Katniss is waiting to see if he'll make a big deal out of it. Animal rights, and all. The term sounded ridiculous to a girl who came from a place where people didn't even have rights, let alone animals.

"I guess," she says dubiously, not quite seeing the point where 'morbid' meant bad. "Would you rather want sappy love songs?" she knows a few of those. As a child, Katniss had loved them. Before everything went wrong.

"Well... frankly, yes," Kurt nods with a light raise of his brows. There's no point denying it, that Kurt's vision of an ideal world is one where chivalry hasn't died away, where people believe in the notion of true love, where courtship is a lengthy and devoted dance. He knows that it's possible. Of course, he wasn't there to see how everything had progressed between his parents back in the day, but there are photo albums that Kurt kept in his room, faded images of beaming smiles and tender touches. And he remembers, better than anything else, the way it felt to have a parent holding each hand, happy days spent anywhere from the local carnival to the local supermarket. "Which isn't to say that I would spend all day, every day singing songs by Fred Astaire, but I think that there is something to be said for singing songs that are uplifting, help one look ahead."

Hoping that he isn't overstepping boundaries, Kurt slowly lowers himself to the ground next to the girl, eying her thoughtfully. With a bit of work, she could easily be among the most beautiful of girls on the island.

It's hard not to flinch when he sits down next to her - in fact, she does but manages to hide it. Not very well, but it's better than where she was a year ago, lashing out left and right at anyone who moved too close, too suddenly. And it helped that the boy looked like one good punch would knock him out.

He's watching her, though. It's unnerving. Katniss has stayed away from mirrors during her time on the island, which had been easy enough. But she still remembers how her skin looks, and the extended looks are starting to make her cranky.

"I know it's bad, but you can always just look away," she snaps, tightly wound and not knowing why. It's not like any of this matters, anyways. All thoughts of songs and ballads are gone - so much for the morning's placid mood. All things considered, Katniss knows that she should be used to the stares, but still.

"Honey, if you're under the impression that your facial structure is best described as 'bad,' you are... deluded central," Kurt breathes with a soft laugh, shaking his head at the reaction. His gaze drops a little further to catch glimpses of what he's tried his best to avoid lingering on, the bright and smooth scars which are littered all over her body. Some of them look like burns, long healed over, but never restored. To Kurt, they're unfamiliar at best; for all of the boredom that riddles the citizens of Lima, the area is, at least, fairly safe. Hatred and prejudice can be found at any turn, but save for a few exceptions, Kurt knows that there are very few people who actually go through with plans concocted in the darker parts of their minds.

He can be glad for that.

"And if you're talking about the scars, I've seen what true ugliness looks like, and it's not something that reveals itself on your skin."

That's something to think about. Food for thought, and it isn't often that it happens to Katniss, who is purposefully trying to make herself so busy that she doesn't think. It also isn't a reaction that she's familiar with. Most people don't look at her skin. They're uncomfortable with it because it reminds them of a different world. They don't say a word, in order to keep from being rude.

She appreciates the honesty, anyways.

"Sorry," Katniss mutters, and it's apologetic enough, if quiet and hoarse. This isn't something that normally happens, and it's an indication of the changes that are slowly being made in her mind.

There are words that lodge themselves in his throat. A question that he doesn't dare ask. A request for her to sing again, because for all that it's clear that she hasn't had professional training, nor even perhaps the supposedly helpful and rather heavy hand of a once-been high school glee instructor, there's something beautiful in the raw quality of it. Something that he wants to hear again and commit to memory, for all of its flaws and imperfections, before deciding to help wear them away. But he's not a fool, and far less self-centered than the world might believe.

The scars outweigh his desire. Maybe that's a problem.

"Why apologize? Heck, sister, I'm not going to blame you for responding to how dozens of people must have already responded. We make assumptions for a reason, after all," he replies, as lightly as he can, biting down on his lip soon after.

"It bothers you, doesn't it?"

She shrugs it off, as if it's no big deal. Her words before had been the slip up, the anomaly. The thing about Katniss is that she might be screaming on the inside, but her face is a mask. Emotionless. After all these years, it has a couple of cracks.

"I don't care how I look, anyways. Those things are stupid," it's deeper than that. The scars are a visible reminder etched on her skin - that's what this is about. The ugliness of them doesn't bother a girl who never considered herself pretty in the first place.

But Katniss would rather talk about anything else right now. So she roots around inside of that empty head of hers, trying to figure it out.

"...Who's Fred Astaire?"

"They're not stupid," he says first, voice quiet, though he quickly bites down on his lip soon after, as though he knows that he's done wrong. Knows that this isn't the direction that she wants the conversation to go. And can he blame her? No doubt that there was something traumatic that resulted in all of those burns. They're not the type that look like they were caused years ago, before her memory would really serve. If anything, they look fresh, in the sense that he can see the smallest of details there, a jagged stone not yet worn down with time. "I mean, probably sounds obvious coming from a guy who's dressed the way I am, but clothes are... they're a way of expressing yourself. And taking care of your skin, your hair, it's another way of caring for yourself. I could probably whip up something for yours. If for no other reason than the fact that your skin probably shouldn't be taking that daily beatdown by the sun."

Feeling uneasy at the sight of her blank expression, the taut line of her lips, Kurt takes a small breath and continues on.

"As for Fred Astaire... we might be better off heading into the Compound and finding a reel. I don't think I'm at the point where I could do him justice. But suffice to say, he mastered the art of dance and song, makes it look like it's the only thing in life that makes him happy."

It results in a flash of irritation that she doesn't bother to hide, maybe only brought on because those things reminded her more of the Capitol than anything else. When you're trying to scrape up enough to buy bread every month, fancy clothes and other things aren't really high up on the list of priorities. Maybe Katniss pretends that she's above these things because it hurts, a little bit. The scars. Even though on the whole she doesn't care. "It's not going to help," she shrugs, once again trying to disassociate herself from that world, the one which most of the islanders seemed to inhabit.

"Do you sing?"

The response earns a frown from Kurt. All too often, he's had the idea of song, of dance, of being part of a glee club tossed in his face, like it's just a chance for him to be gay, or like it's an entirely frivolous activity that has no bearing on real life, that moving beyond high school in that respect is out of his reach entirely. Even on the island, he's encountered a couple of people so dismissive of the act of song that it very truly angers him, makes him feel defensive. He doesn't suspect that this girl falls exactly in line with all of them, but there's still something about her attitude that rubs him the wrong way. It's one thing to have experienced a great deal of trauma, and to be hesitant as a result. It's another thing to be entirely dismissive, and the latter is what Kurt can never personally tolerate. Everyone has problems. Everyone can be hurt, and the only thing that will keep a person continually weighed down is the inability to acknowledge the pains of others, and the inability to work past one's own.

"You don't know that," he says first, before trying to answer her question. "Look, I will fully grant that Fred Astaire isn't everyone's cup of tea, crazy though that may seem to me, being the fan that I am. Just like your original choice of song strikes me as incredibly depressing. But that doesn't mean you should just shrug away the idea that watching someone have fun just with his voice, just with what he can do in a pair of good shoes. You might find yourself surprised, and it's worth a shot. The most you lose is a couple of hours."

Pausing, he sighs, tilting his head. "But yes, I sing. A lot. So I'm kind of defensive when it comes to that, and the theater."

Unfortunately for Kurt, he would get much of the same kind of reaction from Katniss, whose personal view on life was practical or bust. In fact, for so many years she'd pretended to hate music on the same grounds, calling it about as useful as hair ribbons many times, even though she knew inwardly that these negative reactions were only because it reminded her of her father. Truthfully, Katniss loved music, because it was practically in her blood to do so. And there were few things the people of District 12 better than dancing, even if they weren't the choreographed song and dance of Kurt's world. So she hides it all under the hard line of her mouth and even harder eyes, pretending that it means nothing when nothing could be further than the truth.

Katniss isn't as good of a liar as she thinks she is, though. And there's something in his demeanor that reminds her of Cinna, who had passion, too. Cinna, who'd had an eye for beauty in the most unexpected places. Kurt even dressed like her old stylist, and she thinks that maybe it's these unusual associations that draw her to certain people, like that girl who reminds her so much of prim. It's so stupid, and sentimental, but she can't help it.

"What were you suggesting?" her shoulders slump for a moment, body language less tense for that single second. Stupid, the practical side of her dictates.

There's still a prickliness around the girl, but Kurt finds that he can't hold that entirely against her. Not after all of the things that she must have been through, given the scars that litter her skin, given that hard edge in her eye. Kurt doesn't want to go so far as to call her damaged goods (she's got more spitfire than most of the people on the island, as far as he's concerned), but there's something that tells him that even months of wheedling probably won't get her to come entirely out of this general pessimistic stance that she seems to be mired in. She'd call it realistic. Kurt just thinks that it's probably both unnecessary, and a hit to her happiness.

The only problem being whether or not there's any way to change that, whether or not he can help to raise her happiness and expectations alike, just with a little bit of work. A little exposure to the arts.

"I'm suggesting that we take some time to go over some of the most famous and beloved singers and dancers over history. See if there's anything that touches you. Because, believe me, and I have met someone who fits this description, but someone without any interest at all in music wouldn't be humming in their spare time. Period," Kurt notes with an arch of his brow. "If the jukebox complies, that could be a start. If not, the Hub has a pretty awesome karaoke machine, great selection."

"Karaoke?" she has no idea what the word means, and like all of the references Kurt has made in the last short while, it goes completely over her head. But despite this, there is a change here. It's been a whole year, and nobody on this island has tried to attack her. The island itself was different, but its inhabitants were...well. Katniss wasn't going to change overnight, but sometimes she finds herself thinking, what could the harm be? To which the cautious part of her replies, everything.

Questioning it's the real progress here.

"Why don't you sing, then?" he's all caught up in trying to get her to choose something cheerier (better, in his opinion, when she liked her songs just fine) and this was the response. "You could show me. Whoever those people are."

"I could. I mean, if it's karaoke," Kurt considers, tilting his head and surveying her more closely, trying to decide what caused the slight shift in her mannerism. It almost feels like she's watching him, trying to figure out every reason for the choices he made, for the ideas he shared. And while Kurt isn't usually a person who alters the way he behavs thanks to a sense of self-consciousness, there's something about the girl's gaze that's so pointed, sharp, like documenting every last detail is necessary to her on a more personal level than Kurt can understand.

Or perhaps he's reading too much into it. At least, though, he can't picture anyone at McKinley or Dalton being so invested.

"If it's karaoke," he continues with a tilt of his head, "then you won't really be seeing who the people are, because the idea is that I sing in their stead. It's fun, but not quite as educational. So whichever you want to go with is... largely up to you. If you just want to hear the song, I could even manage it a cappella, probably. If it's in my range."

A capella. Yet another term that's unfamiliar to her; a girl that has had very little musical training beyond the few songs her father taught her. So she sticks to what she does know - how to watch people, and animals. How to figure out where they'll go based on the actions they display. How to lure them into snares. Gale was always better at that part, though.

She doesn't think about that.

"Or you could just sing it here," Katniss quips, totally missing the point and not even knowing it. "And not bother with the acapella thing," she shrugs directly after, though. Important to make sure that she's not too invested in this. Otherwise, he'd know that she cared.

The truth is, Katniss has never met anyone else who could sing, who loved it, other than her father. And this is momentous.

"If you want. I don't really care."

"That's... what a capella means," Kurt says first, tone soft. It isn't her fault that she doesn't know, after all. But with a soft exhale, he stares down at his knees, before deciding to take advantage of her momentary willingness to listen. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he can find a song that sings to her but inspires all at once. A combination that Kurt himself has only ever managed to find in song, rather than a book, rather than on the silver screen.

Exhaling briefly, he clears his throat, then starts to sing.

"There was a time when men were kind, and their voices were soft, and their words inviting," he begins, barely above a whisper, glancing over at Katniss, drawing more strength from within. "There was a time when love was blind, and the world was a song, and the song was exciting. There was a time when it all went wrong..."

Shaking his head, he presses on, voice growing more insistent.

"I dreamed a dream in time gone by, when hope was high and life, worth living. I dreamed that love would never die, I dreamed that God would be forgiving. Then I was young and unafraid, and dreams were made and used and wasted. There was no ransom to be paid, no song unsung, no wine untasted."

He sounds a little like a girl. That's the first thing Katniss thinks, but she's also drawn to it somehow. There's something about his voice that she can't quite pin down, something that soothes her - clear and high and sounding nothing like her father's but reminding her of him all the same.

But the song is sad. That much she can discern from the soft, wistful tone of it and the words that she can make out. It tugs at something in her, and that's frightening - Katniss blames it on the music, and that's precisely why she's avoided it for so long.

She waits until his song has drifted into silence - she waits a few very long moments.

"I thought you told me to sing happy songs," Katniss mutters, knees drawn up to her chest, chin resting on the jutting bones there.

In a way, he understands the slight protest in her words, not so much accusatory as simply stating a fact, dwelling perhaps a second too long. The song itself isn't the happiest, but Kurt thinks that such a song wouldn't suit her, just now. He isn't about to sing of endless dances and revelry when it feels very much like the girl sitting in front of him has lost all hope. One doesn't inspire its return with jewels and glittering gold. One strikes a single spark. A single flame.

"It's happier than you might think," Kurt replies, and the smile on his lips is strained, not forced as much as it is trying to encourage where hope runs thin. "It's... realistic. Tells us not to float away in dreams that simply don't exist, but I wouldn't say that it's completely unhappy. We learn what we can expect from life, and we chase after that. The sooner we know our absolute limits, the better, the more we're able to nudge lightly at the ceiling rather than running into it and falling."

His smile widens just a touch. "If you catch my drift."

For all of Kurt's rational points, Katniss doesn't think they do her much good because despite all of the nuances of her time on the island, she still expects nothing good from life. Things like the sunsets, the food she eats and the trees that surround her are exceptions. Anomalies. Unable to tip the balance of scales in which the default is grief and terror. Maybe one day, but that is not today. She nods anyways, because in spite of their differences, she does understand.

"...You're a good singer," she says it because she has nothing constructive to say on the subject of life and expectations. Because Katniss is grasping for something bright, despite her innately pessimistic nature. "For what it's worth."

"Thanks," he replies quietly, and somehow, the compliment means a great deal. Of course, all compliments are colored differently. Those that come from people who toss compliments left and right aren't necessarily meaningless. Sometimes, that kind of fervor is inspiring in of itself, learning that there's some good to be found in almost anything. Compliments from close friends and family mean all the more for the unconditional love that they make a show of. Compliments from experts, from professionals, they leave his ego boosted.

But it's compliments like these, from people who haven't shown any inclination for music, or dance, or fashion— somehow, these hit him closest to the chest. Isn't all that he's been working on been in the effort to reach these people, after all?

You step on a stage to reach a wider audience.

Tonight, he feels like maybe he has.

"It's what I want to do, eventually. Professionally. One of those dreams set for the distant future."

"Right."

The distant future. It sounds strange, because she isn't from a world in which people chose their careers, or even one in which there was any variety at all. In District 12, there were either the mines or becoming a merchant, and you had to be lucky enough to be born into that. There were exceptions, of course. There was the Hob. Some people sold themselves. Some people worked for the Peacekeepers, or for the Mayor or some of the other rich citizens of 12. But all in all, there were no dreams. Especially not towards anything as frivolous as music. Maybe in the Capitol, with all of their celebrities.

But Kurt doesn't seem like that type of person. Maybe on the outside. He might dress ridiculously, but he didn't poke at her like some specimen like most of them did.

Ultimately, though, Katniss' gauge is basically that once, when she might have felt things like this, she wouldn't want him dead. Which is a good scale on how he measures up.

"Good luck with that."

She half means it, too.

There's something in it, the worn look of her expression, that has Kurt suspecting that she's never really been able to dream. That her life's caged her in, dusty and worn, chaining her to a reality that doesn't leave enough space to stand, to imagine, to run wild with possibility. Her personality might put as much of a damper on it as anything else, but at the end of the day, personalities are always shaped by situations. Kurt knows that he wouldn't be half as bold as he is now, half as proud of who he is, were it not for the acceptance of his father, the love of his friends. He wouldn't be capable of even thinking about Broadway without his father supporting him over time.

Here, though, things are supposed to be possible. Here, they're supposed to get a blank slate. So Kurt peers over at her, the luck that she's sent his way, and decides that he doesn't need it. Not half as much as she does.

"I'm hoping that I won't require luck to get where I'm going, but..." Kurt smiles thinly, just for a fraction of a second. "Maybe you should keep the luck for yourself. And learn to dream a little."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(every fire is a lesson learned)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject