Work Text:
In the weeks since he’s joined Pamela Lansbury, Elliott feels like his entire world has opened up.
It’s silly, he knows it, because he’s been at NYU for two years now, and he’s been coming to the city much longer than that, but somehow hanging out with the Bushwick crew has made the city seem new again. In his more honest moments, the kind that mostly come at two a.m., he can admit that most of that is due to one bandmate in particular.
He’s never met anyone like Kurt before.
It’s not the fashion thing, or the unique voice, or the fact the Kurt is pretty much singlehandedly the hottest person Elliott has ever seen in real life. It’s that there’s a passion inside of Kurt that goes beyond wanting success, that’s about proving oneself to the world. Elliott knows what that’s like, knows what it feels like to need to be a part of something bigger and better than what he comes from. He knows what it feels like to worry about never being good enough.
They don’t actually even talk about it, at least not in so many words. Most of the time when they hang out they’re talking about the band, or about classes, or about what shows they want to see when they can scrape together enough money for a ticket. But there’s an undercurrent there, in a few words here, a shared story there, that speaks louder than a million heart to hearts. They’re kindred spirits, or at least that’s what it feels like to Elliott.
So maybe he hangs around more than he actually has time for. Like the fact that he’s started blowing off his Tuesday lectures for psych class to hang out at the Spotlight because Kurt works the late shift and when it gets slow will slide into the booth across from him and steal his fries. And maybe he lingers after band practice too, until most nights Kurt ends up telling him to just crash on the couch rather than make the trip back to Manhattan where Elliott’s dorm is. It’s just that he’s excited to have this friendship with someone who gets him, with someone who shares his taste in music and argues with him about fashion and makes the most adorable grumpy face when Elliott insists that Wicked is not the end all and be all of musical theatre.
Okay, so he’s maybe a little in love with Kurt Hummel, but Elliott’s okay with that.
He’s even okay with the fact that Kurt is strictly off limits. Kurt’s never made any secret about the fact that he’s very taken. Blaine’s name comes up in many conversations, and if the ring glinting on Kurt’s finger wasn’t warning enough, Santana’s pointed comments whenever she catches Elliott staring just a little too long would be.
But it’s easy, sometimes, to pretend that Blaine doesn’t really exist. Because, to Elliott, he doesn’t really. He’s a name, a picture by Kurt’s bed, a character in the stories Rachel and Santana and Kurt sometimes share about high school. What Blaine isn’t is here. Not yet at least.
Elliott isn’t fooling himself into thinking he has a chance because of that fact. He isn’t harboring anything more than late night fantasies about him and Kurt being more than bandmates and friends. He certainly isn’t looking to break up what he’s sure is a perfectly wonderful relationship, because if Kurt loves Blaine enough to marry him then he must be a good guy. And Blaine will be here, sooner than later, and Elliott won’t even be able to pretend he isn’t a real person any more.
It’s hard sometimes, though, to remember all of that.
Like when Kurt gets his tattoo, shows up at Elliott’s dorm drunk out of his mind and pulling his shirt off to show Elliott what he’s done. Elliott is so distracted by the long expanse of skin suddenly before him that he doesn’t even notice the misspelling, and it isn’t until Kurt bares his shoulder in band practice the next week more demurely and shows off the updated ink that he hears the story. Apparently Kurt had also had a tongue piercing for a full 48 hours before deciding it wasn’t really him, and Elliott’s kind of sad he missed that.
Or like the way sometimes Elliott will look up from his laptop that he brings along to the diner when he absolutely has to work on homework instead of just watching Kurt, and finds the Kurt is watching him instead. If he looks back too long Kurt will usually throw him a wink and a goofy smile, but sometimes Kurt goes a little pink high up on his cheeks. It’s those times that Elliott finds himself staring at the same article for the rest of the night, unable to focus on anything but that particular shade of color on Kurt’s skin.
How sometimes when they go exploring Kurt will link his arm through Elliott’s to pull him along and then just…not let go. They’ve spent hours at the Met, arm in arm, just strolling from exhibit to exhibit. Elliott’s not sure he even remembers what the inside of the damn museum looks like anymore, because most of those days he spends concentrating on the feeling of the boy beside him.
Or the times they are all lying around the loft after band practice, watching a movie or listening to music or just talking, and Kurt’s foot will brush against his under a table or Kurt’s leg will press against his own when they’re sitting on the couch. Or how sometimes when he’s lying on Kurt’s bed reading sheet music and watching Kurt put together outfits for the week, Kurt will put down the vest he’s holding and stretch out next to Elliott to read the lines with him, humming along so that the notes fall warm and soft against Elliott’s cheek and the whole world is just the two of them.
All of those times and a million more make it really hard to remember that they are only friends. It makes it hard to remember that this is just a silly crush mixed with maybe a tiny case of hero worship and not anything as serious as forever-love. Certainly it can’t compare to what Kurt has with his fiancé.
So he has to be strict with himself about it, as the weeks go by, because if he doesn’t it would be all too easy to start reading into those things, and start wondering if maybe he isn’t entirely alone in this feeling.
And he is definitely all alone in this feeling.
Isn’t he?