Cut the Cord
Chapter 29

Blaine dreams he’s in his bed at home, lying like a starfishon top of his double duvet. He’s rocking ever so slightly from side to side,his head still on the pillow as his body rhythmically shifts his weight. He’ssuspended in that hazy, tired state that he’s come to know so well. He’s alwaysgotten over-emotional when he’s tired—it was the cause of many pointless fightswith Cooper when he was little. Yet, now, he’s learnt to control that raw,overwrought feeling and it affords him a strange sense of clarity. He stillbecomes upset really easily, but the superficial and reflective ideas ofhappiness are also stripped away. Thoughts of pleasing anyone else, or conforming to societal expectations,or even conforming to his own ideals, they all disappear; this is about him,fragile and vulnerable, paradoxically both powerless to affect his emotions andcompletely in control of them. Of course, since he doesn’t actually sleep, he’seven more exhausted when he stirs, but he’s used to that, too.

Suddenly,Blaine is reminded that he is actually asleep and dreaming as the walls of hisbedroom fall outwards like cardboard components of a film set exploding. Hereplaces himself sat cross-legged on the deck of a boat, the rocking motion notfrom his own body, but from the waves underneath. He sits there in a tranceuntil he starts to feel nauseous and then stands up, takes in his surroundingsproperly. The boat is smaller than it had seemed sitting down and then, justlike that, it’s nothing more than a rubber dinghy, dwarfed by the body of waterit’s resting on.

There’s a seagull to his left, frantically ducking under thewater again and again. Is it attempting to submerge itself or wash somethingoff its back? Strangely, Blaine feels more connected to this seagull than hehas to any person in weeks. He can understand its overwhelming desire,bordering on panic, to overcome its own skin, to cleanse without beingsubmerged, to breathe air and water simultaneously. The bird looks up and itseyes are too familiar so Blaine blinks and turns away.

Across from the bird, on a distant embankment, a weddingceremony is beginning. A blurry blot in a white dress walks across the sand,between rows of white wooden chairs, faceless guests perched atop them, theirblank heads swivelling to catch a glimpse. He can’t tell from across the water,but he imagines that she is smiling as she clutches her father’s arm, blushingunder the gazes of adoring friends and family. He wonders whether she has felt thesame displacement that he and the seagull have at some point in her life, whetherthis union is the way she has chosen to overcome it. Or, perhaps she hascontented herself and her husband-to-be is just someone she has swept up alongthe way.

With a splash, the seagull dips its head under the ripplingsurface for such a long time that Blaine feels sure it has drowned. It hasn’t.Its beak pops up again, none of that coughing and spluttering that a humandoes. He thinks how beautifully a seagull could die if it so chose – if itsimply decided to stop struggling on the surface and surrender to nature’smurky depths. For a fraction of second, he feels jealously simmering up in hischest, but then movement on the other side of the water catches his attention.His eyes and thoughts turn back to the wedding where the newly-weds are walkingback down the aisle as man and wife.

And then he feels someone’s gaze on the back of his neck andspins precariously to see there’s somehow a food vendor in front of him,shouting too loudly about bagels and cream cheese. He can smell coffee, it’s strong, overpoweringalmost—

“Mornin’ sleeping beauties!” Burt’s voice is deliberatelyjust a notch too loud as he leans over the bed, holding a cup of coffee, andBlaine wakes with a start.

Kurt groans next to him and—oh—apparently Kurt is right next to him. Blaine blushesinstinctively as he realises that Burt knows they shared the bed. Kurt,however, seems apathetic as he nuzzles against Blaine’s arm, murmuring at hisdad to leave them alone.

“Kurt, it’s eleven,” Burt tries and receives a muffled gruntfrom Kurt which cuts off as Blaine sits up, attempting to flatten his hair withone hand. “And it’s Christmas Day.”

“Sorry, sir, it’s my fault, I kept him up and—not like that!” Blaine is mortified at Burt’s raised eyebrows. “I just—I wasn’t—we were justtalking, I swear—”

“Hey, relax! I know you were; I’m only messingwith you, kid.”

Blainelooks down, waits for the heat in his cheeks to fade and wishes Kurt would saysomething.

“Isthat coffee?”

Blainehad sort of been hoping for something a bit more enlightening than that, buthe’ll take it.

“Yup,here you go.” Burt passes the mug to Kurt. “Yours is in the kitchen, Blaine,and I’ve made brunch. I figured we can just eat the beef later and fill up onthat.”

Blaine nods, his left ankle crackingembarrassingly as he shuffles out into the living area. He looks at themussed-up couch from last night and carefully folds the blanket up, placing itneatly on top of the pillow at one end. He surveys the food littering thetable, the croissants and pancakes and fruit and bacon, the latter lookingsomewhat depleted — Burt has presumably eaten more of that than the otherstuff. Blaine might never have subscribed to the whole Bible thing, but theidea of the forbidden fruit is undeniable. Kurt doesn’t let Burt have bacon sonaturally he wants it more; that’s just the fatal flaw of human psychology.

He wonders if that’s why Kurtalways seems to want Blaine more when he doesn’t have him. Kurt was pining overBlaine long before Blaine got his head out of his ass and realised he hadfeelings for Kurt too, and when Sebastian was texting him, Kurt was desperateto hang out with Blaine all the time, to outdo the competition and keep thetrophy. But then, when Kurt left for New York, Blaine missed him too much,clung too tightly — he was clingy, whatever Kurt says to the contrary — andsuddenly he wasn’t the forbidden fruit anymore. He tried too hard and became amundane apple from a run-of-the-mill grocery store.

By that logic, he only becameappealing again because he stopped trying so hard—he stopped trying completely,to be honest. He shakes his head as he tears a piece off a croissant; he’d toldhimself he would stop the overanalysing.

It’s only because he’s worriedabout the conversation going on behind the curtains. It’s suspiciously quiet,but Blaine doesn’t need burning ears to know they’re talking about him. Part ofhim is still mildly concerned that Burt has the wrong idea, but that’s sort ofeclipsed by the other part of him which is, well, panicking. He is worried thatKurt will actually think things through now that he’s fully awake and realisethat he extended too much to Blaine last night. He’s scared that everythingthat passed between them last night—the hurt and the forgiveness and thenewfound secrets and soft touches—all of it will mean something different indaylight. Or, worse, it won’t mean anything at all. His life can’t be void ofmeaning just when he got it back; please, God, don’t let Kurt snatch it back.

Right on cue, Kurt opens thecurtains and moves to the table, eyes narrowing at the sight of the bacon.

“Did you eat some of this?” Heasks, gesturing at the offending meat before pouring himself another cup ofcoffee.

“Yes.” Blaine lies. It slips offhis tongue so easily.

“Hmm…”

Blaine can’t tell if it was theanswer Kurt wanted or not. He puts the remainder of the croissant down for amoment, his appetite tapering off.

“You alright?” Kurt’s voicechanges suddenly, becomes more alert as he peers at Blaine’s face. “You looksort of pale.”

Blaine shrugs, picks up hiscroissant again. “Just tired.”

Kurt doesn’t answer for a momentand Blaine thinks he’s lost interest, but then there are fingers on his own,pulling them away from his plate. He glances down and notices that he’s donethat thing where he shreds all his food into little pieces but doesn’t eat anyof it.

“Oops, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it; you don’thave to eat if you’re not hungry.”

“Really? Because at home I’m notallowed to leave the table unless I’ve eaten everything, especially thevegetables.”

Kurt snorts, but cuts himself offwhen he realises Blaine isn’t really joking. “Well, you’re not at home.” Heempties the shredded croissant onto his own plate and begins eating themassacred remains. “Did you have anything in particular you wanted to do whileyou were here? In the city, I mean?”

“Oh, um, nope.” Blaine watchesKurt dip a piece of croissant in Nutella, the spread curling temptingly aroundthe flaky pastry.

“May I make a suggestion?” Kurtwaits for Blaine to nod before continuing, Burt pulling out the chair next tohim and oh-so-casually reaching for another slice of bacon.

“My friend Caleb from work owns apenthouse in midtown Manhattan—yes, he’s a trust fund baby, dad, don’tstart—and he sort of said I could use it while he’s out of town for theholidays. I mean, I was going to take you up the Empire State, but it’s crazybusy and expensive today so I thoughtwe could just take in the view from Caleb’s apartment instead…if you want to?”

Blaine nods, cheering upconsiderably at the idea. Kurt still wants to spend time with him; that’s agood sign, right? He watches as Kurt spreads Nutella on the last piece ofcroissant and holds it out to Blaine who raises an eyebrow.

“Come on, you’ve been staring atit the whole time I was speaking.”

“I have not!” Blaine protests; hecan’t help it if chocolate spread on buttery pastry looks delicious.

“Have to!” Kurt singsongs,shoving it towards Blaine’s face while simultaneously slapping his dad’s handaway where it’s creeping towards yet another slice of bacon. “No, you have mostdefinitely had enough—I don’t care if it’s Christmas!”

Blaine hadn’t been sure what toexpect from Kurt’s co-worker’s apartment. Maybe more golden fountains anddiamond-encrusted counters and priceless pieces of art. The owner is clearlyrich—he’d have to be to own a tenth of this apartment given its location—butthe interior décor is tasteful, not over-done for the sake of it.

“I’ll go get us some drinks?”Kurt half-queries, half-states, and Blaine nods distractedly, already movingtowards the double doors which seem to lead out onto some sort of platform.

He wrestles with the lock for amoment and stumbles forward as it finally gives. The first thing that hits himas he steps onto the balcony is the air, cold but not unwelcome as it poursinto his lungs. Then, his eyes widen of their own accord as he takes in theview; it’s nothing short of breath-taking.

New York City looks pretty inpictures and movies, but it looks impossibly prettier in reality. Up here, thetraffic and crowds fade away, leaving just the buildings, magnificently stoicin the afternoon sun as they rise up out of the messiness below. People saythat the city thrums with energy, and Blaine has always attributed this to itsdiverse, constantly evolving population, but now he realises that it’s thebuildings which are alive, that vibrate with energy as they stretch upwards, perpetuallycraving more from the sky.

For a moment, he’s overwhelmed byit. He feels like some sort of crazed arrow spinning off into a vacuum with nodirection and no magnetism to guide him. His chest tightens in triumph as hisgaze ricochets between buildings; he has nothing to hold onto and nothing toaim for, like the gull currently circling the skyscrapers in a well-practisedroutine. Soon, Blaine will be able to vanish into the view completely, a speckamongst all this stability, and finally — finally— he’ll drift away.

He blinks and just like that, the realisation hits him: hedoesn’t want to float off into the sunset any more than he wants to plunge ontoone of the many spiked buildings—because that would mean he just fades away, hewouldn’t even get the chance to burn out. Slowly, he unfurls his fingers fromwhere they’re clinging on to the railing, his white knuckles appearing toreflect the outdoor brightness.

So what if people can see the gashes and scars litteringhim? So what if people watch him shrivel then expand in repetitive,well-practiced motions? So what if bobbing too close makes them uncomfortable?He’s a balloon and he’s tired of fighting it, of pretending that he isn’t anddrifting out of sight just to appease those around him.

He can embrace his weightlessness. The string may no longerbe an anchor, but it doesn’t have to choke him either. He can be free withoutlosing control, like the gull still circling above the buildings, out of placein the metropolis, yet perfectly at home in the fading glow of the sun.

Sometimes, when the wind drops, he can fall downwards andthat’s okay, but he doesn’t have to wait for someone else to catch the stringbefore he lands in that mangled heap, the one he spent so many weeks afraid of.All this time, he has been convinced that he’s stuck in reverse, that he needsto start moving forwards again, even if that motion is to drift off intoobscurity. But he hasn’t wildly displaced himself; he has simply been hoveringdownwards for a while. And he can propel himself upwards just as much as he canmake himself fall—and that’s what he’s going to do. Because he might have grownaccustomed to the view from below, his stomach desensitised to the sickness offalling, but he prefers the view from up here.

Kurt joins him on the balcony, two glasses of somethingsparkling clutched in his hands, and Blaine experiences a new sort ofadrenaline rush as the gull wheels out of sight. The buildings below give him asense of invincibility and he doesn’t mind if it’s impermanent; right now, inthis moment, he feels alive.

They drink a couple of glasses each and then decide it’sgetting too chilly and Burt is probably hungry. They have their Christmasdinner when they get in and then open the few presents they have to exchange whilehalf-singing carols and it’s wonderful. Blaine doesn’t have to fake anycheeriness, he doesn’t have to fix a smile in place, because he feels happy. Itreally is as simple as that, just like Dr Marissa said it should be. He remainssuspended in this feeling all evening—no, not suspended; he’s not precariouslybalanced, he’s just beautifully submerged—and he barely stops smiling for therest of the trip.