based on a really cute Cornetto commercial.
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Forty - Love
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Love stories always have a beginning. They just don't always begin the way you imagine.
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The move to Florida had been a long and tedious one following in the wake of his parents' messy divorce. Pamela and Rick Anderson had loved each other once, he'd stitched those stories inside love tales of his own making, but so many years later, thirteen and a half to be exact, his parents' love for each other had soured into petty arguments over the littlest things, a disconnect both inherent to them as it was a symptom of the general disinterest in each other's lives.
They signed the papers eleven months ago, after a legal battle that dragged on for weeks and made him uncomfortably familiar with his parents' love for him – his older brother Cooper had already ventured out on his own years before, but he was still underage; his parents wanted him to decide who to live with. It'd felt like an impossible decision at the time, he loved both his parents and they hadn't allowed their deteriorating relationship to affect their relationship with him, so how was he supposed to know the right choice? His dad would stay in Ohio because of work while his mom would move back to Florida to live with her sister.
In hindsight, his decision hadn't been too hard.
Ohio had lost a lot of its charm, if it ever had any to begin with; the Lima of his youth remained painted in bright colors, his memories happy and cheerful, filled with smiles and laughter that never stopped. High school had paled those colors until blacks and grays replaced them. The Lima of his teenage years turned intolerant of his sexual orientation and pushed him out of the ranks of what the established order deemed normal.
Parkland, Florida held new and exciting things; he'd spent many of his summers here so he knew the gentle weave of the city streets, the ebb and flow of the people, the way they talked, their sunny dispositions and their overall non-Ohioan-ness. Which wasn't to say school wasn't still hard at times.
He built a new life alongside his mom's; he made friends at a new school who insulated him from any imaginable kind of wrongdoing. Friday and Saturday nights he went down to the beach with Tina and Marley, or they browsed through the local mall, talking, gossiping, laughing until their cheeks hurt. Every night he made dinner with his mom and they talked about their days, before they watched reality television they both enjoyed, the two of them thick as thieves.
Upending his life hadn't been easy, but he felt happier, more able to be himself around the people he cared about, and he missed few things about his life back in Ohio.
There was still only one thing missing.
Despite everything he believed in the idea of love, like the bedtime stories of princes in shining armor helping those in need, the kind of love that consumed and left behind a particular kind of hurt, love that transcended social boundaries – everybody wanted to be loved, and everyone wanted to be in love, and that love could appear in many different forms.
He was no different; he just didn't know what love looked like. It might've looked like Johnny from the first grade, his cute ginger curls a whimsical mop on his head, red freckles in two clouds on his cheeks, round glasses making his big green eyes seem even bigger; they shared juice boxes during recess and had play dates Cooper often interrupted, but it wasn't love. It might've looked like Andy in sixth grade, thick brown hair that swooped down over one eye, a smile that twisted his insides like a Gordian knot; he's not sure what this was, they never really talked. It most definitely looked like seventh grade Kevin, the first boy he ever kissed; well, their lips touched in a game of Spin The Bottle, Kevin had spit right after and everyone had giggled, but he knew beyond all doubt that he'd found something special, something new, something entirely different than what other people might call love. But love all the same.
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He just wasn't sure what love looked like.
Until he saw Sebastian.
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In between his steady routine of school and hanging out with his friends he dedicated his time to a local tennis club that held several tournaments throughout the year, Dalton Center – he'd previously served as a ball boy during the summers his mom moved the entire family to Florida, but now he spent time there several times a week.
He'd been a tennis enthusiast ever since that first glimpse of Andre Agassi defending his Australian Open title in 2001. Since then one discovery followed the other – Lleyton Hewitt and Roger Federer, Andy Roddick and a handful of female tennis players whose careers he followed. He'd stay up late to catch games from the French and Australian Open, he taped games to rewatch later, and last year his mom got him tickets to go to select matches of the US Open in New York. There wasn't any aspect of tennis he didn't love; from the carefully choreographed movements of all the people on the field to the organization it took to get it all done; he liked how every year the woman's outfits strived to become more fashionable, and he most definitely loved the gleam of strong shins and thighs revealed by the men's shorts. He loved everything about tennis.
His ball boy outfit came close to the players' outfits; the shorts ended right above his knees, the matching polo shirt adorned with the club's emblem, a tennis racket surrounded by laurels. He put a lot of time in his job, but since he kept up his grades and he wasn't prone to complaining his mom let him do his thing, so most days after school he took the bus, arriving at the club half hour later.
That's when he saw him.
Most days the bus got pretty crowded, high schoolers leaving school, senior citizens going home after lunch, and he usually spent his rides standing up. That particular day, his hand clutched around one of the plastic handles that lined the bus front to back he glanced up on a whim–
... and found the love of his life staring right back at him.
Be yourself, the billboard said, right next to the picture of a boy no doubt photoshopped and airbrushed down to the freckle, but the intensity of his eyes threatened to burn a hole straight through whatever material his new shirt was made of (it was cotton, he'd washed it last week). The inside of the bus displayed several ads, but this one caught his eye like none other, the intense catch of green eyes, the barely-there smile on thin lips, a freckle caught right below the boy's left eyebrow.
He'd never gotten close enough to get a proper look, and he didn't follow many of the competitions beyond those his job required him to, much to his shame, so he'd only heard whispers up until now.
Sebastian Smythe.
The name spun along a longing he'd taken for granted since he was a young boy. Sebastian was one of the boys at Dalton who'd attracted sponsors because he'd won several competitions in a row; a rising star respected and envied by his peers for his tremendous talent; admired, fanned over and loved by his female fans because he was, for lack of any other phrase, drop dead gorgeous.
"Damn," he whispers, the warmth he'd previously located right below his sternum travelling in a downward spiral into his navy blue Brooks Brothers shorts.
This feeling, of course, wasn't something new; he didn't experience an epiphany in the middle of a crowded bus, he knows what hot boys can do to his body – like the half-naked ones in the videos he opens in incognito windows on his computer, the ones that make it into sweaty dreams and feature in his most secret fantasies.
This, however, the precipitous fall into something he can scarcely put into words, he wasn't prepared for. All of a sudden it was like Sebastian became all he could see, the canvas pulled up in front of his eyes on a constant loop like a highlight reel.
He liked his job, in fact he's probably one of the few who could say he loved his job.
But this would make it infinitely more enjoyable.
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His job's simple enough, his hours at the club long but steady, and he revels in the luxury of the daily routine; he changes into his polo shirt and shorts in the locker room, the small chamber at the end of a long hallway buzzing with gossip; and then he's off to one of the courts, a different one depending on how many were reserved for the tournament and how many days it would take up in the club's busy schedule. Once on the court he would huddle together with the other ball boys and girls and either took his place by the net or at the back of the court; Dalton liked them to agree between themselves what positions they would take, and experience taught him his peers liked seeing a different side of the court from time to time.
Today, he asks Sam, his best friend, if they can switch courts. Besides working at the club they go to school together too, and Sam's one of the many people who's painted his life in the same bright colors of his childhood, someone he can always count on, someone to goof around with or talk to whenever either of them gets a little down. But that doesn't happen all too often.
"Why?" Sam winked at him. "You want to see the new golden boy in action?"
Sam had a point, as he usually does; he did want to see Sebastian in action, though not entirely for all the reasons his friend might think. Golden boy or not, he was still interested in tennis too, and he did want to see Sebastian do his thing.
He ducked his head as his cheeks heated. Maybe it wasn't just about seeing Sebastian play tennis, he'd had a weird dream about Sebastian's long legs wrapped around his waist, one of his long fingers slipped into his mouth and he sucked on it hard; he'd woken in clammy sheets and a pulse that wouldn't stop racing, mind saturated with thoughts of Sebastian.
"Do you mind?"
Sam clasps a hand around his shoulder. "No problem, dude."
Some people might call his job easy, running after stray tennis balls on an open court sounded straightforward, but it wasn't quite the word he would use. There was a reason he actually got paid; it might not have been much, but Dalton treated its employees fairly, and they all labored for their paychecks. Not just anyone could stroll into this job – every applicant underwent a series of physical tests on the court, their reaction times and speed carefully monitored, because only the fastest and most coordinated contenders earned themselves a place in the ranks of support staff at Dalton.
Dalton prided itself on its prestige and standing within the community, and had already produced several ATP-ranking tennis players since its founding in 1967. It was a lot more than just a club; Dalton often housed foreign guests, like Sebastian and his coach, and offered the kind of professional support ranking (or future ranking) tennis players got on a day-to-day basis. He loved the decade-old feel of the club, the country club-like decor with its dark oak wooden beams, the carefully maintained grass courts along with the new and improved hard courts, the etiquette among the staff, the uniforms, it somehow all fit like the pieces of a living bustling jigsaw puzzle.
Now that he switched places with Sam he makes his way down to Court 5 on the East side of the complex. His palms turn sweaty the closer he gets, his stomach knotting together in that same old jumble of emotion. Would Sebastian notice him? Would it matter if he did? What would he do?
Sebastian walks onto the field waving at all the fans, grinning from ear to ear and it's as if clouds part overhead and the sun shines brighter; he's known other boys with a smile like that, he is a boy with a smile like that, and if at all possible he falls for Sebastian even harder. He's on the opposite side of the court but his heart starts in an exciting kind of panic, the soft squiggly outlines of a crush drawing around it.
Love stories always have a beginning, once upon a time, and then a boy meets a girl, or a boy meets a boy, or a girl meets a girl, it doesn't really matter – love stories surpassed the same boundaries that he once thought himself bound by, social or temporal, geographical or otherwise. All love stories begin somewhere, and theirs could be so cute, a chance encounter on the tennis court, their eyes will meet and their world would settle on the proverbial perfect balance.
But he's not sure this is a love story.
Sebastian's eyes scan across the court and their eyes meet, one frozen moment in time that has encapsulated all his day-old hope, but Sebastian's gaze disappears as quickly as it's granted. And strange but true, disappointment washes over him. He didn't actually expect Sebastian to fall in love with him, he's a lot more rational than that despite his romantic dispositions, but it's because of his romantic disposition that the truth hurts to face; what would Sebastian Smythe ever see in him? Sebastian's on his way to becoming a star and he's a mere ball boy in a small sea of others. Why would Sebastian Smythe lower himself with the likes of him?
"Out!" the line's umpire to his right calls, outstretching his left arm. The game's three sets in, two for Sebastian, one for his opponent, and this could be the winning match for Sebastian. Sebastian's played nothing but exemplary tennis so far, even though his serve leaves a lot to be desired, but he can see what the talent sponsors were drawn to.
"Oh, come on! That was in!" Sebastian shouts, waving his arms around like a madman; he's not the first player to lose his cool in the midst of such an important point.
He smiles despite himself, even though he's not meant to show any preference, but there's something vaguely alluring about seeing Sebastian all wound up, the trickle of sweat down his temple, the way his hair bounces against the sweatband that keeps it from falling into his eyes.
Sebastian calms down again before the umpire can caution him, though judging by the way he rolls back on his heels when he lines the ball with his racket, this next serve is going to come in hard.
And it does.
It doesn't seem to happen fast, in his mind's eye it doesn't happen fast at all; one moment he's thinking about how absolutely delectable Sebastian looks when he's angry and the next the ball's coming at him, closer and closer in a series of photography snapshots.
The tennis ball hits him smack on the head.
The world goes dark.
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"Mr Anderson?" a voice sounds in the distance. "Mr Anderson?"
He comes to in another room, though he couldn't say how he got there, it was all a blur of excruciating pain, a headache, and the crowd wincing in unison. He's heard stories about this from the staff, of a player's serve coming in so fast they couldn't duck out of the way, but never in a million years did he think he would be on the receiving end of it. And a serve from Sebastian of all people.
"Can you sit up for me?" the doctor asks, and as he sits up he sees any and all chances he had with Sebastian spinning along with the room. He's pretty sure Sebastian hadn't meant to hit him, but what kind of a story does this make? Once upon a time there was a boy, in love with another boy from afar. As a token of his love, his crush hits him in the face with a tennis ball.
"Blaine, are you okay?" Sam asks. "Quinn told me what happened. You're famous, dude!"
He winces when the doctor applies an icepack to the bump on his head, which will no doubt bruise. "Famous?"
"You're all over the news!" Sam points up at the flatscreen in a corner of the room, where a local newscaster is talking about the match (Sebastian won) and footage of his accident plays in the background. It looks too ridiculous to be real; he's standing there like an idiot, rather cute in his outfit he might add, and out of nowhere a tennis ball hits him in the face.
He covers a hand over his eyes. "Oh, God."
Everyone's going to see this. Forget Sebastian, what about his friends at school, everyone at school, and his mom, and he can imagine Cooper would find out too. He'll never hear the end of this.
"Look on the bright side."
He blinks up at Sam.
"There's absolutely no way Sebastian can ignore you now."
A small laugh escapes him, but only because it's Sam; he has a different way of looking at life, rosy and carefree, everything a little easier for his straight tall blonde jock friend with lips begging to be kissed. It's not that he's bitter about his lot in life or that he's not an altogether positive person, but his job was something he could enjoy outside of school, something no one could touch with any snide remarks or could make him enjoy any less. Now he'll more than likely be facing an unhealthy dose of hit-in-the-face jokes, by a ball no less.
The locker room is all but abandoned by the time he gets the doctor to release him. He talked to his mom on the phone and assured her he'd be okay taking the bus; he has a headache but the walls have stopped coming at him and he's not dizzy. He takes his time to change into regular clothes again and studies his face in the mirror – there's a clear bump right below his hairline on the left side of his face, and if he doesn't keep ice on it it'll turn black and blue by morning. At least the swelling would be down.
He missed his bus, so he has time to wander about the complex undisturbed, to breathe in some of that crisp misty air pervading the courts as the sun sets behind the horizon. He's not usually here this late, but it's fun to see all the courts empty, the overhead lighting still on in case any players feel motivated. There's something almost eerie about it, the emptiness, the quiet, while the distant roar of a city street plays like background static.
Tonight, it's not the only sound accompanying his train of thought. Every few seconds he's treated to the crack of a fresh serve, a tennis racket hitting a ball at mindboggling speed. He's curious to see who's practicing this late so he finds his way to the court in question, and who should he find but Sebastian Smythe.
It almost sounds like the start of a love story. Boy sees boy, boy falls in love, other boy … well, that remains to be seen.
He pulls the strap of his backpack tighter around his shoulder and wanders over, hooking three fingers into the chain-link fence around the court, Sebastian cut up into diamond shapes behind it. Sebastian has his back turned, and he seems pretty focused on his serve, so he allows his eyes to wander, to discover Sebastian inch by inch, strong muscles moving beneath mesh fabric, the lines of his body long, graceful, choreographed to create the perfect conditions. Sebastian rocks back on his heel, weight forward, he tosses the ball to the peak of his reach and hits it with a force that reverberates from this court to the next.
His serve misses its intended target, the ball landing well outside the cross-court service box.
A sympathetic little twitch pulls at a corner of his mouth.
Sebastian hangs his head and takes a few calming breaths, body making a half turn before he freezes, slowly taking notice of him in his peripheral vision. His eyes widen and he swears his heart stops beating for about 3.2 seconds.
"You're that guy." Sebastian's racket dangles loosely beside him. "The ball boy I knocked out."
"Blaine," he hears himself say, earning him a small smile from the tall boy some distance away. It's a nice and gentle smile, not the big wide grin Sebastian reserved for his fans earlier; this one's imbued with earnesty, an almost shyness.
"I'm Sebastian."
He glances down at his shoes, hoping his infatuation with a boy he met two seconds ago hasn't painted his cheeks red.
"How's your head?"
He looks up, Sebastian wandered a few steps closer. His fingers tighten around a single thread of the fence, his headache a distant memory. "I'll live."
Sebastian purses his lips in the cutesiest way he could've possibly imagined and scratches the back of his head. "I'm really sorry, by the way. It's my serve. It sucks."
Something sympathetic stutters in his chest and threatens to spill right out of him; Sebastian's reaching new stages of cute and oddly hot where he stands and he wishes this fence didn't separate them – then again, he might embarrass himself by taking Sebastian's hand unprompted, so maybe the fence isn't a bad idea for now.
"It's– pretty terrible," a voice not his own says, and he swallows hard around the realization he just dissed a tennis player's serve to his face. But he had taken one of said serves to his noggin; he can't be held responsible for anything that comes out of his mouth right now.
Luckily Sebastian doesn't seem offended; green eyes gaze up at him from beneath thick eyebrows while a devious hint of a smile breaks out across Sebastian's face. "You could've moved," Sebastian says, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.
Heat tiptoes into his cheeks and he smiles involuntarily, trying to look away but only halfway succeeding. "I'm not that fast."
There's a moment of silence where Sebastian's eyes narrow on him, his gaze purposely travelling down his body, and there's that heat again, burning in the dead center of his chest. No one's ever looked at him like this.
"You're fast enough," Sebastian remarks, eyes fixed somewhere around his mid section, and he clucks his tongue. "I've seen you around the court. The way you fill out those shorts–"
His stomach bottoms out, a heedless dive straight back into fantasies best kept to himself; his hands down Sebastian's naked chest, their hips skating together, body throbbing along the joint beating of their hearts, spinning out of control while lips catch clumsy at sweaty skin, and–
"Sebastien!" a voice travels across the entire court, loud and entirely unwelcome. "Au boulot!"
An older man invades his field of vision and continues to shout at Sebastian in French, though he can't tell if Sebastian understands a word after the first few commands.
"Ouais, d'accord," Sebastian seemingly concedes, and turns to focus on his serve again. He loses Sebastian's attention faster than it was granted, and he can't help the short twinge of disenchantment – his hand falls away from the fence as the first crack of a serve follows.
So he leaves, a little heart-burnt.
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Turns out, one day makes all the difference.
The video of his all-but-heroic catch goes viral at school; people who hadn't caught it the day before watch it on the cellphones of everyone who had taken the time to download it. Several people had uploaded it to Facebook and felt free to share it on his Wall, and one person had even gone so far as to make a music video that showed him getting hit in the head over, and over, and over again.
"Hey, Anderson," someone calls behind him, but the jock's voice is unmistakable. "Finally get why you like your job so much. Can't get enough of those balls, huh?"
He cringes a step closer to his locker and waits for the inevitable shove to follow, but it never comes – he looks back in time to see Sam slap the back of one of his teammates' heads, Tina glaring at the football player as if her eyes could shoot daggers. The momentary panic that had started his heart abates, more than ever grateful for his choice in friends.
"Don't listen to them," Tina says, hooking her arm in his as they make their way to their next class.
"You're not the first ball boy who's taken a tennis ball to the face." Sam's brow sets low and serious. "I looked it up."
He sighs. "I must be the first gay one, then."
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself." Tina hits him in the shoulder, a friendly gesture that speaks more to her inability to say something to soothe his ails than it does her overwhelming care for him. At the end of the day he has some amazing people in his corner that have his back; sometimes he just wishes he knew some other gay boys; not just to date, but to relate to. "Tell me more about this Sebastian."
He laughs wholeheartedly and walks Tina to class, describing Sebastian in exquisite detail.
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As the days pass he begins to understand that people recognizing him doesn't give him the contentment he thought it might. Deep down he harbored schoolboy fantasies of being on a stage, of singing and dancing on Broadway, of having his name and face on billboards and playbills and for people to chant his name. He's not on Broadway now, but the more people call him by his name, the more insulated he starts to feel.
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Someone with a sharpie attacks the ad with Sebastian's face on the bus; a whimsical moustache now adorns his pretty face, curly at the ends.
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A hand taps at his shoulder, an elderly woman seated behind him. "You're the one all over the Googles," she croaks, and he offers her the best approximation of a smile he can.
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He feels lonely, all eyes directed at him, and in his mind a small voice starts chanting louder and louder: is this what Sebastian's life feels like? People recognizing him? People wanting a piece of him?
Did a life lived in the spotlights make Sebastian feel lonely too?
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That same week someone defiles Sebastian's face further by adding massive eyebrows to the picture, a black outlined cigarette protruding from his lips.
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By week's end he's gone viral, the most viewed YouTube video of him (because there are several) has over three million views and he's pretty sure he's become an Internet meme too. He's exhausted and sad, probably for the first time since he moved to Florida, and he can't wait to get home and crawl underneath a blanket with his mom, eat his way through half a tub of ice cream, forget this week ever happened. He wonders how long it will take for the world to forget.
He's on his way out, down the hallway, past the infirmary, when something stops him in his tracks. He frowns, one peculiar image etched into his mind's eye. Did he just–?
He tracks a few steps back and peers into the infirmary, and blinks a few times to make sure he's not hallucinating; he thought the doctor gave him a clean bill of health, no concussion or permanent damage, but he must be imagining things. In the far corner of the room there's a life-sized cardboard cutout… of him. The picture isn't hard to recognize, it was part of an information folder about the club and the staff all had their pictures taken. But no one ever told him the club was allowed to use it for something like this. What the hell?
He toes inside the room carefully, as if treading any harder might chase away the hallucination – what were they thinking? Not only is there a life-sized cutout of him for everyone to see now, there was a speech bubble hovering near his mouth that said: Head injuries … don't be a target! and there he stands with a proud goofy smile on his face as if getting hit in the head was a fun experience for him. He doesn't want to be anyone's cautionary tale.
And suddenly, after all the name-calling and practical jokes, after the Internet meme and the Facebook messages, he has the overwhelming urge to do something stupid.
… so he steals the thing.
Just like that. He walks over and –quite literally– grabs himself by the shoulders, dragging the cutout along with him. He rips off the speech bubble when it gets in the way, losing it in the garbage right outside the doctor's station.
Now what?
His breathing deepens at a sudden thought, a crazy thought, surely he can't– but what's stopping him? Who is going to stop him from dragging this thing out of here, straight to the same court he found Sebastian earlier this week. Who knows, Sebastian might even think it's funny. He could do with some fun after the week he's had, some laughter, or simply the company of someone who knows what he's going through.
"Psst," he calls, even though there's no one around but Sebastian. "Hey."
Sebastian turns towards his voice, eyes softening when recognition sets in. "Blaine," he says, while a warm excitement trips up his spine. Sebastian remembered his name.
He pushes through the chain-link gate before his nerve has the chance to flee and runs to the other side of the court, placing the cardboard cutout in the cross-court service box.
"Shit." Sebastian grimaces, clearly already having seen the ridiculous thing. "I'm sorry about that."
His entire body buzzes; he's never done anything so impulsive – it's not exactly breaking any major rules but he's not behaving according to the club's code of conduct. Dalton doesn't look too kindly on destruction of property. But in light of everything that's happened, in light of this silly sudden crush he seems to have developed, why not be a little crazy?
"I thought it might help your serve."
Sebastian blinks a few times. "Excuse me?"
He points up at his face cut out in thick carton. "Target practice."
Sebastian's eyes narrow for a few seconds, carefully trying to decipher his face. "You're serious."
"Like a tennis ball to the face."
"The head's– too high." Sebastian's surprised demeanor slips into a laugh. "I don't know."
"Just aim for my head." He smiles proudly. "You didn't miss last time."
A giggle escapes Sebastian as he bounces the tennis ball on the hard-court. "All right, killer," he mutters, lining his arm with his racket before tossing the ball, taking a hard swing towards cardboard Blaine. Lo and behold, the tennis ball hits him square between the eyes, the serve landing exactly where it's supposed to. And for a moment he's pretty sure he hadn't actually expected that to work. Huh.
"What do you know." Sebastian huffs. "It works."
He runs over quickly and rights the cardboard cutout. "Again," he says, moving out of the way.
Sebastian smiles wide and dutifully does as he's told. Serve after serve hits the cardboard, almost all inside the service box, a higher percentage than Sebastian has so far managed on the court. Pride swells in his chest even though Sebastian draws most of his focus, the determination set in his eyes, the lines of his body, muscles moving, the hot grunt that starts following his serves, it all starts a wonderful panic; here's this boy he likes and he's taken a step forward, the first step, and it's all rather frightening.
Yet exhilarating.
They're at it half an hour before Sebastian's arm tires and they settle down on the ground together by the side of the court. He idly wonders where Sebastian's coach is, who he now knows to be his dad too, but he's grateful the older man hasn't interrupted their night so far. It can't be easy to be trained by one of your parents, it somehow sounds conflicting; a coach would push Sebastian to be all he can be but a parent might hush caution in case Sebastian's prone to injuries. Fifteen years old or not, he's seen enough young talent drop out of the rankings because they overestimated their own abilities.
"Do you do this for all the players here?"
"No," he answers indignantly, heart aching around the insinuation. "Not at all, I–"
"Relax." Sebastian bumps shoulders with him. "You'll make me jealous."
An uneven breath stutters out of him after the brief contact between their bodies, something akin electricity rooting down the veins in his arm, leaving his hand warm and tingly; the same warmth settles in his tummy at the thought of the first lines of a love story, his own love story, even though his parents would call that young and foolish. But he is young, and probably more than foolish, and hopelessly longing for a love story.
He grabs a sharpie from his backpack to distract himself with, drawing a curly moustache on the cardboard him. "I wouldn't want you to get conditioned to hitting me in the face every time you see me," he explains when he feels Sebastian lean closer again, robbed of oxygen once he finds Sebastian staring at him; the billboard on the bus hadn't done him justice, what picture could when the real deal proves so much more lively, lovely all around. His breathing deepens, fantasy nipping at his eyesight and oddly specific muscles in his body.
He blushes and faces away, smile curling in his lips, the cartoon hearts in his eyes thrumming alongside the mess in his chest.
"What do you do when you're not at the club?" Sebastian prompts. He likes that Sebastian makes a concessive step too, that he seems interested in getting to know him as much as he wants to know Sebastian. That's how it's supposed to work.
"I go to school." He shrugs. "I hang out with my friends or my mom. Nothing special."
"And your dad?"
"He's a doctor, back in Ohio. I see him during the holidays."
"So you live with your mom?" Sebastian rests back against the fence, eyes off in the distance. "Maybe I should have done the same."
It's not clear whether it's a sorrowful wish or a what-if Sebastian's played with, but his heart aches with a similar conflict; his parents love him but his family's broken all the same – he doesn't have the option of seeing his dad whenever he wants, nor does he want the luxury of leaving his mom behind whenever it pleases him. He's not that kind of person.
"Where is your mom?"
"She stayed in France after the divorce. She's not a big fan of America." Sebastian looks at him sideways, reading the question in his eyes clearly. It sounds like Sebastian could have remained in France too, but made a choice similar to his. "I love tennis, despite my shitty serve." Sebastian smiles. "My dad gets on my case, but he wants what's best for me."
"You're good," he blurts out, more surprised than Sebastian seems to be, a barely there line of amusement coloring a corner of his mouth. "You wouldn't have gotten sponsors if you weren't."
If Sebastian smiles in the six seconds of silence that follow he doesn't see it; he stares ahead while his skin tingles, heat drawn into every part of his body as Sebastian's eyes rest on him. Is it possible that Sebastian looks at him the way he's been watching Sebastian? That somehow they've fallen into the same precipitous thing at the same time? He's too scared to find out.
"Do you play?"
"Oh, no." He snaps to. "I'm just an admirer."
Sebastian scrambles up from the ground, grabbing a spare racket from one of his bags. "Come on."
"No, please, I–" but when Sebastian stretches out a hand for him any protest he might've offered drowns in a longing steadily building to a crisis. He reaches for Sebastian's hand, a familiar snap photography languor in his movements as their palms brush together, and then a rush as Sebastian pulls him upright.
"I'll go easy on you, killer." Sebastian winks. "I promise."
Lucky for him, Sebastian sticks to his promise. They run through a few rallies, Sebastian providing soft and gentle serves he can easily receive and return, because he's an amateur at best. Tennis is a whole lot more fun watching from the sidelines. He offers Sebastian a few underhanded serves, much easier for him, and Sebastian returns every single one of them at a speed he can manage.
He giggles as he misses his own try at a flat serve, the ball dropping down by his feet without his racket coming close to it. "I don't know how you do this."
"It's all about speed," Sebastian says. "Action, reaction. You might have fast feet, but your arm needs work."
He clucks his tongue. "Good thing I'm not a professional, then."
"All right, killer." Sebastian laughs, and shakes his head. "That's enough for tonight, don't you think?"
Disappointment traipses whimsically along every fantasy scenario that has this night lasting until dawn, but he understands. Sebastian needs his rest and probably sticks to a rigorous training schedule every day. How else would he ever make it to the big leagues? It sounds like the recipe to an awfully lonely life.
Sebastian gathers his things; bottles of water, a towel, both of his rackets, while he collects the tennis balls around the court and puts them back in the right container. The purpose of his rule breaking had been served; he'd sought out Sebastian and had a great time, and managed to forget about his own troubles for an hour or two. Not too bad for a day that started out sad and lonely.
The sun has set, though the overhead lighting leaves the abandoned courts eerie and bright.
He picks up his cardboard self, somewhat bruised in the chest and head area.
"I'm really sorry for hitting you in the head."
"It's not like it was on purpose." He shrugs, shedding some of his disappointment with it. Tonight's been magical; he doubts Sebastian will start ignoring him after they go their separate ways. Getting hit in the head was a fortunate accident; he's almost glad it happened. "Besides, we wouldn't be talking if you hadn't."
Sebastian wanders over, bags flung over both his shoulders. "I've– heard people talk."
"It's just words," he says, even though the conviction hasn't set as sternly as he means. The thought that it bothers Sebastian though, the thought that what people are saying about him might affect Sebastian, that cements itself in his long-term memory. "They can be hurtful but–"
Sebastian nods. "You're the only one who can give them power."
"You don't care what people think of you?"
Sebastian's eyes soften. "Not if I can help it."
Somewhere in his question he admits to the vulnerability he tried denying not a minute ago. He does care what people say about him, this past week is all the proof anyone needs. He doesn't need everyone to like him, he doesn't even need to be the center of attention, but he doesn't need people talking behind his back, making a part of him out to be something he should be ashamed of.
"You up for some real trouble, killer?"
He blinks up in confusion. "You don't have to– be somewhere?"
Sebastian leans in closer. "I'm exactly where I need to be, Blaine Anderson."
His eyes widen, drawn to Sebastian's lips for half a second before he's once again caught in Sebastian's beaming smile.
"Come on," Sebastian says and turns, headed off the court.
And it takes him another few seconds to question it: how does Sebastian know his last name? Did he look it up? Did he ask around? Either way Sebastian took the time to get to know him and that makes him giddy beyond belief. There's hope and there's joy and there's a hot fifteen-year old tennis prodigy interested in spending time with him. This is the best day of his life.
He quickly skips after Sebastian.
"Do you do this with all the ball boys around here?" he asks once he catches up, emboldened by his realization.
Sebastian giggles. "I want to say 'only the ones I hit in the head' but I don't want you to think I'm doing this because I feel sorry for you. This is completely selfish on my part."
"Selfish?"
"You are super hot."
He faces away, whispering, "Oh God," while the widest smile breaks out across his face. This is so much better than watching from the sidelines, than seeing his life pass by without ever actively taking part in it; no, he took a chance on a boy, on himself, and look at him now. He's falling in love.
"Too much?"
He nods, but doesn't mean it. "Too much."
"Well, if this is how you respond to compliments I'm not sure I should dial it back."
"You're the worst."
"Now you're just being nice."
He loses all sense of containment, laughing freely alongside Sebastian, his footsteps lighter, his heartbeat louder, his sense of self altogether stronger. He never wants this night to end.
Sebastian brings his things back to the club and locks them away in a room that carries his name.
Then, they do break the rules.
They sneak into the main complex, still open for maintenance, and Sebastian steals some coffee in the cafeteria. He follows behind because he doesn't want the night to end, and frankly, no one can touch him as long as he's with Sebastian. Together, they could probably take on the world, be knights together.
They wander around the building, a place they both know intimately well yet seem to be discovering for the first time all over again; he loses track of time, the unforgiving ticking of the clock losing meaning in the ever-louder beat of his heart, stuttering to a halt whenever his eyes catch Sebastian's, whenever another compliment follows, whenever he realizes Sebastian likes him back.
Making their way to the main court, where the most important matches take place, they settle down in the tip-up seats, quietly watching fog dance over the field.
"I didn't know you were allowed to drink coffee."
"I'm European." Sebastian scoffs, hoisting his legs up to rest on the next row of seats. "I practically have this stuff running through my veins."
"You're a real man of the world."
"And you are far better at this flirting thing than you give yourself credit for."
He laughs and shakes his head but drinks up the compliment like he's parched.
"So do you have a boyfriend?" Sebastian asks, his voice deeper now, as if it was the question at the tip of his tongue for the better part of a week. Could this be? Could Sebastian really like him like that?
"No." He looks at Sebastian, wide-eyed and wondering, "You?"
Sebastian casts down his eyes. "Don't– really have the time."
In that moment Sebastian's loneliness calls out to him like a siren, and it's so obvious they've led lives that have run parallel to each other in very specific ways; parents divorced, few friends, both tempted by boys rather than girls like the world expects them to. But if he's learned he doesn't have to be alone than why shouldn't Sebastian learn that too? Why wouldn't he help Sebastian learn that same lesson?
He's close to reaching over and holding Sebastian's hand, show him he's not alone, but–
"Sebastien!" a familiar voice interrupts their moment, though this time around he fails to mind; he's already gotten more than he could have hoped for. And he doubts Sebastian will ever disappear from his life again. "Tu devrais être en train d'entraîner."
He and Sebastian get up out of their seats, exchanging uncomfortable glances. They haven't exactly been caught in the act, but they're not supposed to be here.
"Qui est-ce?" Sebastian's dad asks.
"C'est un ami, papa."
"I should go," he says. The last thing he wants is to come between Sebastian and his dad. He's had more than his allotted time, and there's always tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.
"No, please," Sebastian says, a desperation in his voice that's been tugging at him for a few hours now too. "I mean–" Sebastian points at the mangled cardboard cutout. "Could you leave that here?"
His eyes fall down to a face he barely recognizes as his own, and he nods; if it helps Sebastian practice he wouldn't even mind the club replacing the one they vandalized. He'll simply steal that one too.
"Hey." Sebastian calls softly. "I lied earlier."
A frowns spins between his eyebrows.
"I care what you think of me."
He tries to contain a smile because Sebastian's dad is right there watching them, but he does a poor job of it. "See you tomorrow," he whispers, and they go their separate ways, Sebastian leaving with his dad, he quickly finding his way out of the building before someone catches him.
He has to run to catch the last bus out, adrenaline fuelling his legs, but even once he's settled in a seat he can't keep still, his limbs restless, a permanent smile etched into his face, the night's events replaying in front of his eyes over and over again. How did this happen? How did his life turn upside down in a matter of a week and have such a positive outcome? The boy he likes likes him back.
"Where have you been?!" His mother's in hysterics when he gets home. "I've been worried sick."
And all he can really manage is that goofy smile the cardboard cutout donned too, and sigh, "I was with a boy."
His mom's worry abates like snow to the sun and she pulls him into a hug. She mutters something like, "Baby boy," into his hair and adds a kiss, before urging him to go to bed.
He falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow, dreaming of Cheshire cat grins and a knight in shining armor.
.
For the first time in as far back as he can remember, he's happy. He's certain he's been happy before, he's lead an overall happy life with the occasional pitfalls to drag him down. But this, this shaky feeling beneath his feet, like he's walking on clouds, or water, or quicksand, surely this is what everyone exalted in the bedtime stories of his childhood, in the fairytales, in every romantic story written since the dawn of time.
"Dude, are you okay?" Sam asks him the next day at work, eyeing him suspiciously. "You're acting weird."
"It's just a really beautiful day, Samwise."
He finishes tying his shoelaces and leaves behind a dumbfounded best friend, a trip in his step as he makes it out of the locker room – he can't wait to see Sebastian, talk to him again like they did last night, experience the same exciteful buzz of being in the presence of a boy he really likes. A boy who could be so much more than just a friend, and even though he refuses to get ahead of himself, what if Sebastian feels the same way? Should he take a chance again and tell him? Or should he wait for Sebastian to make a move this time?
Passing the infirmary he casts one look inside, finding it wonderfully empty of any other cardboard cutouts of him, but he stops in his tracks as his eyes catch on the trash cans outside. A corner of carton peeks out from the black lid and he reaches for it instinctually; he pulls it out all the way and identifies it as the same cutout he'd stolen from the infirmary the night before.
Only the head is missing. His head is missing.
Why would Sebastian throw this away? Hadn't he asked to keep this last night? Would his dad have made him get rid of it if it proved to help his serve?
Or was he simply as easily discarded as garbage?
He drops the carton down on the floor and leaves it there for someone else to clean up, his feet getting heavier again as he makes his way down the hallway, down to where he's expected to be.
"Blaine," he hears behind him, Sebastian's voice causing a small storm of a panic all over again. He's sure he's overreacting. He must be. "Hey, wait up."
A hand on his shoulder finally stops him. He turns only halfway to meet Sebastian, though once he does he's struck by his presence once again, a solid mass of talent, and somehow any more physical fantasies transform into images of him cuddled up to Sebastian's body, strong arms holding him to his chest, close, intimate. Loving.
Sebastian smiles. "Hi."
He rubs at his arm. "Hi."
He doesn't know what to say, it's not really that big of a deal; it was just carton, and maybe the head came off after Sebastian practiced on it some more, but it'd looked torn off. If it was some sort of cosmic metaphor the universe was trying to reveal to him, he's at a loss for what it could mean.
"What's wrong?"
He understands, not all love stories have a happy ending, he's seen that first hand – his friends breaking up with their boyfriends of girlfriend, his parents calling it quits after thirteen years of marriage, but would the universe be so cruel to take this away from him before the prologue has been written?
So he decides to come clean.
"I found a decapitated body in the garbage," he says, raising a hand over his head. "This tall. Kinda looks like me."
Sebastian's eyes rake over his face, his expression going from shocked, to worried, to amused.
And then he starts to laugh.
He really doesn't see what's so funny.
Sebastian reaches back in one of his bags and pulls out a piece of carton, holding it up in front of his own face; a proud goofy smile stares back at him. "I liked the moustache too much to part with it." Sebastian's eyes peek over the carton's curved edge, shining with laughter.
He blushes embarrassingly deep and averts his gaze, unable to look at his own face anymore.
"Hey," Sebastian calls softly, and moments later he's caught in the splendor of Sebastian's green eyes, fifteen years old completely, drawn heart first to the first boy who's ever paid attention, who's ever cared enough to ask the big questions, who sees him so clearly he feels like he exists. "I like you. You know that, right?"
Yes, he did know that, somewhere deep down in a place he hardly ever allows any hope, but one Sebastian's touched in the most delicate of ways. This is more than just a crush. He's in love with Sebastian.
"It's– nice to hear," he says, a little out of breath, his heart starting summersaults when Sebastian secrets a smile to a corner of his mouth. This is more than he ever could've wished for, getting to know Sebastian like he has, Sebastian liking him back, understanding the hidden parts of him so few others around him ever could.
So when Sebastian leans in he decides it's a love story after all, one that started in an unexpected place in a less than conventional way. Sebastian's lips brush his briefly, the kisses that follow slow and short and hesitant, but they last for hours, for years, for a moment lost in time between the breath that escapes him, the stutter of his heart and the stutter of Sebastian's underneath the palm of his hand. Somewhere in the distance, far far away, a crowd cheers, fans await, but he's in love with a boy. He knows what love looks like; and it looks a lot like this.
.
Love stories always have a beginning. They just don't always begin the way you imagined.
Sometimes love just hits you.
Right between the eyes.
.
.
fin
.