Eyes of Stone

[sunmontue]

Title: Eyes of Stone

Pairing: Kurt Hummel/David Karofsky
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~2,500 words
Warnings: None. 
Summary: What started out as a very short 5+1 fic of when a building saw Kurt alone five times, and one time he wasn't. Then it got expanded. Very fluffy and possibly weird. I mean, it's a building.


EYES OF STONE
The first time it’s snowing. It gathers in clumps on overhangs, architraves and mouldings, and I feel nice and clean and my original colour before it’s all either washed off or made grey again from the smog of the city. It’s the first time I notice him, bent over against the cold, a brightly striped scarf wrapped tight around his neck, hat pulled down so that his eyes are all that can be seen. He’s clutching a coffee cup between his hands as if he’s trying to draw the warmth into him.

The second time I can only recognise him because of the scarf. It’s warmer now, and it’s artfully draped around his neck and shoulders like some type of Christmas decoration. His head is held high, his eyes sweeping the street, walking briskly to keep up with the other humans, but he looks as if he wants to stop and stare and take things in a bit more than he can. He disappears into a throng of people and I wonder if I’ll see him again.

When he uses one of my lower ledges to rest his foot so he can tie his shoelace I get a proper look at his face. He’s a pretty man, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of pretty men in my time. When he’s finished he pauses to look back at me, all the way up and around and I can tell an admiring glance when I see one. He lays a hand on my front, pats once, and then walks away.

He comes back in summer, brushes one of the ledges clear and sits down. He’s smiling and drinking coffee again. It’s the middle of the day and it’s sunny, he’s wearing sunglasses, and even though I can’t see his eyes I can tell he’s finally taking the time to appreciate the beauty of the street that he’s in, his head turning slowly from right to left, heading moving up and down ever so slightly. I don’t usually pay much attention to humans. But this one is special.

I start paying extra attention but I don’t see him until the leaves start turning different colours and collecting around my foundations, tickling. He’s striding down the street, wearing the same brightly colours stripy scarf that caught my attention the first time. He walks past me without even a perfunctory hello, which I feel hurt about for all of a second before he returns with a coffee and sits on what I now consider his ledge. When it starts to rain I wish that I could cover him, but he rushes away.

The next time I see him he isn’t alone, he’s tugging someone along behind him, looking excited. When they walk past and then return with steaming hot drinks, they both sit on his ledge, and whoever he has with him looks shy, a hand resting a scarce inch away from his gloved one. He is talking, a lot. The new one is listening, watching, and looks to where he points. When he isn’t looking the new one watches him with old soulful eyes. He knows he is special too.

  -------  

I’ve never seen him at night before. For good reason too, this isn’t the safest of streets when the sun sinks below the horizon. He isn’t alone though, hand clasping the other’s, their bodies huddled together as if it’s much colder than it really is, then again I suppose they feel the cold more than I do. It’s the same other person as before, and they’re smiling at each other with the flush of new love. It’s quieter, less traffic and people this time of night, and I can actually hear voices, muffled, whipped away by the strong wind as it blusters down the street.

            “Here…”

            “Really? Never…jealous…building…”

            “…fabulous building…to appreciate it…”

I don’t think I’ve ever been talked about. Not that I’ve heard anyway, and it’s quite nice really, being talked about. I am fabulous. He’s being nudged against my side, and I can hear his laughter, so I know this isn’t a violent encounter, because I have seen too many of those in my time. There’s answering laughter. Deeper. Hands are sliding around his waist and his hands are sliding around a neck. Then they’re kissing. I’ve had a lot more explicit things happen against my side, but I’ve never been so emotional vested. Before, with other humans, I’ve just wanted them to fuck off and leave me in peace, but I want him to stay, keep me company.

            “…want…come…my place?”

The other one nods, kisses him again, and they walk away, arms wrapped around each other.

It’s snowing again.

-------

I feel like my insides are being ripped out. They are. Walls inside me are being knocked down, windows on the outside replaced, I am washed, scoured and repainted, and I don’t know what is happening but it is nerve wracking feeling so abused after so many year of almost emptiness. There’s a constant stream of people, in and out, all day long. I hear words, often repeated. Beautification project. Renovation. Apartments. I can take a guess at what all this means, but I am already fabulous, what are they doing to me?

It takes longer than they planned, and costs more as well. But they have finished giving me whatever makeover they thought I needed. I do feel better. The whole street looks better, I am not the only one who has been forced to undergo this indignity. I have been too self-absorbed, in shock, to notice if he has come past. It has been another year. It’s snowing again. This is how I count the time usually, with the changing of the seasons.

I’m not paying attention to the street, so when I hear his voice, coming from somewhere inside me, my consciousness scatters before reforming. He’s near the top, and at the front, looking out of a window down the street.

            “You sure about this Kurt?”

            “Definitely.”

            “It’s not the safest of neighbourhoods you know…”

            “I don’t care. Anyway, I think that will all change in a few years. And we can afford this place. It’s a blank slate, we can really make it our own. Put our mark on it.”

            “You mean your mark.”

            “No. I mean our mark.”

When he moves in, standing imperiously outside my doors and directing people with boxes I can’t help but feel happy. I will be seeing him everyday. Hearing him. He sings. They came and painted their apartment, and he sung pretty much the entire time. The other one smiles when he does, and hums along under his breath. There have been a lot of apartments being painted, and I know I am bias, but I like theirs the best.

They have sex quite often. They also argue. Then have even more sex. I stay away then, try to give them some privacy, but the noises they make are distracting, and I can always hear them. He’s finicky. And he spends much longer in the bathroom. The hours he comes and goes are odd, always changing. I can tell when he’s running late because the other paces before giving in and calling him. It’s nice to know someone else worries about him.

They’ve been living here for three full changes of the seasons when it happens. He doesn’t come home. They have always been together before. Always. Both of them there for the night, or neither of them, and I try not to be jealous of wherever they go when they’re not staying with me. Tonight though, he isn’t here. I’d panic, except for the fact that the other one is walking around. Calmly. I need to wait it out.

I don’t need to wait long. Just the next day the other one dresses in a full suit, and he looks very smart. He’d look smarter if he could tie his tie properly, and I amuse myself by watching him try to tie it several times before he swears and shoves it in his pocket. I don’t think he would be impressed. He leaves the building looking nervous but happy.

They’re both back that afternoon, with many others, and there is one person with a camera, continually taking photos as he and all the others strike more and more ridiculous poses against the front of me. Then it is just the two of them, kissing each other like they did however many seasons ago, followed by catcalls and whistling, and the clicking sound of a camera. Then they are throwing fake snow at them, it showers all over them, being caught by the wind and dances around them. It’s snowing, and it’s warm.

-------

Seasons flow, and he and his other develop a rhythm similar to that of the seasons. Every season there is a change to the decorations in their apartment. Something only he cares about. They host parties and celebrations, seemingly content with their world. After they have been living there for five full cycles there is more paint, walls moved again and the apartment made bigger. He was right, the street has changed. There are families and couples everywhere, many living in me; they are no longer an anomaly.

They have let a woman move in with them. I do not approve. She eats a lot and cries and gets all of their attention. I suppose after a few years of their undivided attention I may be a bit spoilt, however she is noisy. She just doesn’t stop talking, even if it’s just her, alone in the apartment, she talks as if there is someone who can hear her. I’m not stupid enough to think she’s talking to me. She does have a nice singing voice though, something I have come to appreciate because he sings so well. The other sings fairly well, but only when he’s alone, or thinks that he is.

They come home one day with a baby. It is worse than the woman. He carries it around like precious cargo, singing to it, which seems to be one of the few positives I have discovered so far. The other watches with warm eyes, the same soulful eyes I remember from when I first saw him. I am close one day, when the child opens its’ eyes, and I see the same eyes peering from a much smaller face. If I didn’t know better I would swear it could see me.

It’s older now. A little boy, who starts off the day dressed impeccably and by the end of it is in his third change of clothes. He doesn’t cry much anymore, instead he will lie in his crib, hand reached out to touch one of my inner walls. It’s peaceful, and I know I am not imagining it anymore when his eyes follow me around the room. He notices as well, often musing out loud as to what his child is looking at.

I am horrified the first time he draws on my walls, but as I watch him draw the outline of a building I know he’s drawing a picture for me. It’s big. He reaches all the way up on his toes to draw the roof. Inside he draws him, the other, himself, and the newest family member, as well as the kitten he wants but has so far been denied. He pays more attention to me, marking in the steps and windows, and he is truly gifted.

His father does not agree, eyes going wide, baby clutched to his chest.

            “Taylor! What have you done…”

I would have thought it was fairly obvious, and the other is looking amused, clearly thinking the same thing. He lets the other take the baby so that he can kneel beside the picture. The boy is quiet, not sure if he is in trouble, but looking proud of his masterpiece regardless. He runs his hand over the wall. Over the picture.

            “I don’t even know how to get that off the paint without ruining it…”

            “Seems like he has your same fixation for the building… I think we should leave it. You can just decorate around it can’t you?”

            “I…okay. Okay. It stays. For now.”

It stays. Forever.

Sometime in the next day or so, when I am not looking, someone writes a series of numbers and letter, small and hardly noticeable, just underneath the picture.

Many more seasons slip by, and when the next series of renovation comes, one of my walls is cut open. He lays a hand and watches the other carefully, as he brandishes the moving blade slowly, carefully cutting around the picture made so many years before.