disclaimer: without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
author's notes: written for day 1+2 of Seblaine Week: alternative meeting + wet t-shirt contest
Whatever I Do Tonight;;
The club swelters hot and heavy, an oppressive heat pressing down on his sternum while he tries to muster the strength to draw in a breath. Sebastian lingers mere inches away and his fingertips itch to touch, coax him onto the dance floor and show everyone how it's done, feel Sebastian's hands everywhere, hair and chest and neck, because once they get going they lose themselves completely.
"Hey, pretty boys!" Santana's voice sounds to his left, but Sebastian doesn't hear and he chooses to ignore her, drowned in a sweet sorrow of his own making.
Bodies move and writhe as one all around them, jumping up and down to the beat of the music, cheering, laughing, having the night of their lives … until all that lags into slow-motion.
The exact moment Santana tips the pitcher of water over Sebastian's head.
Whatever oxygen remains rushes out of him as a sympathetic reaction at first, and Sebastian draws up his shoulders under the assault of the cold water, droplets of it braving the distance and splashing on his own shirt, nowhere near the amount Sebastian's treated to.
Sebastian's white shirt absorbs the water, gently tracing down his body and he turns lightheaded at the sight of him, soaked down to the waist, water unforgivingly outlining his abs, clearly defined through the thin fabric of the shirt sticking to his skin.
Damn.
"Santana, what the fuck!" Sebastian's voice barely reaches over the music. Somewhere vaguely he's aware Santana answers, probably with a carefully constructed bite to it, but he stands anchored to the floor by one of the most stunning images of Sebastian he's ever witnessed. He hasn't seen Sebastian naked or half-naked, which seemed odd given his friend's startling lack of inhibitions or boundaries, and he wasn't prepared for his physique so brazenly silhouetted by the extremely wet shirt sticking to his body, lines of water caressing paths down his face, drops clinging to clunks of hair that have dislodged from a carefully styled bangs.
And it all proves to be a little too much for his smitten nervous system to process.
He couldn't tell anyone how he'd ended up here.
Knowing what he knows now, he supposes it all truly started the day he met Sebastian.
.
(184 days earlier)
In an effort to lose the pounds he gained in his first few months at NYADA he'd taken up cycling. He travelled around the city by bike rather than the subway, he ate healthier, exercised regularly and soon lost the weight, but he'd kept up the habit of cycling to school. Healthy habits promoted healthy living and he resolved to keep up his new routines; it would only be beneficial in the long run.
He'd spent all afternoon in rehearsals with June after his morning classes, the weather precociously teetering between cloudy and clear. Now that he finally makes it outside the sky turns gray and gloomy, rain not far off. He pedals fast and weaves through traffic easily, determined to make it home on time to watch the rain from the comfort of the new couch he bought last week. He'll put together some leftovers and settle in front of the television for some cheesy reality show, but it's as perfect a night if ever there was one.
Unfortunately the chain on his bike slips off halfway on his way home. He stops on the sidewalk and finds support for his bike, hunkering down to put the chain back in its place.
Thunder sounds overhead, rain soon pitter-pattering down from the sky.
"Great," he mutters, while the chain grease stains his fingers. At least he isn't far from home; instead of admiring the rain he'll take a long bath and make some hot chocolate, which sounds like an even better plan.
Try as he might though, the bike chain refuses to cooperate, and the rain-turned-torrent soaks through his every layer of clothing within seconds, no doubt ruining his leather shoulder bag. He can't see much of what he's doing anymore either.
He's about to give up when the rain in his direct vicinity disappears–he looks up to find a big black umbrella protecting him from the foul weather.
"Need a hand, handsome?" a voice above him asks.
"Y-Yeah." He staggers upright, blinking drops of rain from his eyes and lashes–once they're gone he doesn't blink, afraid it might chase away the perfect stranger facing him, tall and lanky, beautiful green eyes, freckles caught below his eyebrows. Something flutters in his stomach, a gentle hint of warmth while the rest of him cools down drastically. "I can walk home, but–"
"Nonsense." The stranger inclines his head. "It would be highly irresponsible of me to let you walk home with a broken bike in this weather. Why don't you come upstairs for a while?"
"Oh!" He turns and looks up at the building, the entrance of which he's blocking. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to get in anyone's way."
The other boy smiles, while his eyes travel boldly down his body. "You're not. What you are is soaking wet and dirty and it would be remiss of me not to let you warm up in the comfort of my luxury home."
He breathes a shuddery laugh as cold sinks into his bones, a shiver making his chest ache. On a regular day he wouldn't even think to consider the offer, but if he walks home he's sure to catch a cold and June wouldn't appreciate the assault on his vocal chords so close to a performance. Besides, it would mean getting grease all over his bike and he doesn't like the prospect of having to clean anything but himself today.
"I swear I'm not a serial killer," the tall boy adds.
Something tells him this articulate stranger will pose a whole different set of trouble, yet he nods, "Okay. But only until the rain lets up", his belly warmer again when green eyes find his.
Soon he hands over his bike to a complete stranger and totes up the front steps behind him; hypothermia must've lost him a marble or two because this isn't his usual candor–he checks the lock on his front door three times before he's confident no one can get in, what's he thinking walking into a total stranger's apartment and warm up, whatever the hell that means?
The tall boy turns and smiles, "Name's Sebastian, by the way. Sebastian Smythe."
He fastens his bike to one of the radiators in the hallway.
"You're at NYADA, right?" Sebastian asks before he can offer his name in return, leading the way up the stairs. "I've seen you play at Callbacks."
He frowns and tries to place Sebastian at Callbacks, but he wouldn't forget a face like that–he also knows most of the upper classmen by either name or face, and Sebastian's definitely not one of them.
"Are you a freshman?" he asks, as they halt in front of apartment 2A.
Sebastian grins and unlocks the door. "I'm a junior at NYU. But I have friends at NYADA."
His face heats up. "I'm Blaine."
"Nice to meet you, Blaine," Sebastian says, leaving him a little breathless when he adds a suggestive wink.
The door opens into a short hallway that leads further into the apartment, but he stays outside, his coat dripping a small pool of water down on a welcome mat that reads 'oh merde, encore toi!', which beats Cooper's 'namaste' by a mile.
"I'll get you a towel." Sebastian inspects him closely. "Or two."
He has no clue what he's doing here, he's soaking wet and freezing on some mostly-stranger's doorstep with less and less intention of actually leaving–Sebastian's charming and clearly knows it and he suspects that if their paths hadn't crossed today they would have eventually, by a scheme of Sebastian's making.
Sebastian returns a few moments later with a large towel and a laundry basket to dump his wet clothes in. "The ones you're comfortable shedding in front of me, that is," he clarifies with another wink.
He decides there and then that Sebastian isn't a serial killer, he's just a guy who doesn't hear no very often.
He sheds his bag, takes off his coat and sweater, shoes and socks, rubbing the rest of him dry before closing the door. Any doubt in his mind about whether or not Sebastian was kidding when he used the words 'luxury home' dissipates the moment he lays eyes on the place–tall windows dominate the walls facing the street, an open kitchen to his left that runs into a large living room with a sizeable L-shaped couch to match, adjacent a dining room area.
"Don't mind the mess." Sebastian gestures towards the blankets and pillows thrown all over the couch and the liquor bottles decorating half the kitchen island. "I have a crazy lesbian coming over and I need to hide all the sharp objects."
"And the alcohol?"
"God no." Sebastian laughs. "That's exactly where it needs to be."
Sebastian shows him to the bathroom and hands him some sweats and a shirt, leaving him to his own devices for a while. The bathroom has a shower, no bathtub, but it's one of those large walk-in ones with a rainshower head–when it comes to relaxing he's usually a bathtub kind of guy, but if he wasn't in a strange boy's shower (a boy he hadn't even slept with) he could waste a decent hour in here.
Only a few staple items line the sink, cologne, soap, toothpaste, and he resists the urge to rifle through the cupboards in search of trinkets that might teach him more about Sebastian as a person–but that's not exactly why he's here.
He showers quickly to warm up, soaps up and rinses, putting on the clothes Sebastian provided, grateful to find a jar of hair gel among Sebastian's toiletries.
"I thought you said you were a college student," he says when he finds Sebastian in the kitchen, who's washing his hands carefully with a scrub pad. Junior or not, Sebastian must be seriously loaded to be able to afford a place like this in the city.
"With very generous parents."
That's when he notices leftover traces of grease on Sebastian's other hand. "Did you–"
"I fixed your bike," Sebastian says. "Hell of a lot easier out of the rain. Your clothes are in the dryer, which you'll be surprised to discover, no, I don't employ anyone to do for me."
He blinks a few times, wondering if he slipped and hit his head when his bike chain came off. Is he in a coma?
Sebastian catches him staring. "What?"
"I don't know you and here you are–" He folds his arms over his chest, though it fails to offer him the protection he craves; he's totally off-script here, Sebastian caught him in a moment of whimsy and managed to lure him inside–Hansel and Gretel went through the same ordeal and they ended up paying for that, but in this case he can't figure out why he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe Sebastian was simply being nice. "Why are you helping me out?"
"It's hard for me to see guys with asses like yours helpless and alone."
A laugh escaped him unintended, his cheeks burning, but for some reason he can live with the idea of all this being some kind of elaborate seduction, one he's not altogether sure isn't working. But if Sebastian thinks this is all it takes he's gravely mistaken; maybe it's old-fashioned but he likes going out on traditional dates, sit across the table from an interested party and slowly get to know him. Sebastian clearly has different ideas.
"You're very sure of yourself."
Sebastian grins, "Runs in the family," and leans forward, staring long enough for him to get uncomfortable.
He averts his eyes. "I should probably get going."
It's not that he doesn't like the attention, on the contrary, anyone who knows him grants him the spotlight because he's comfortable being the center of attention, but this is a whole different kind of stage. He's out in the open and he's left himself exposed to this shameless flirtation.
"Without your clothes?"
He shuffles a little and squirms underneath Sebastian's attentive gaze–he would like his own clothes back, that's true, and it's still raining, but he refuses to come across as easy.
"I made us some hot chocolate." Sebastian offers the final temptation, one so specific he's left to wonder if Sebastian's somehow reading his mind.
He releases a slow breath. "I have a boyfriend," he says, just to create a little more space to breathe, because the promise of hot chocolate proves too tempting to decline.
"No, you don't." Sebastian smiles easily and grabs two mugs. "But I'm not seducing you. I don't know what gave you that idea."
He laughs and shakes his head, both embarrassed and enchanted, two emotions he expected wouldn't combine but strangely they do.
They don't talk about much of anything. Sebastian tidies up the couch to serve as a bed for his friend, while he stands staring out the window, rain assaulting the glass in patterns his eyes aren't quick enough to follow. He sits with his legs hugged close to his body, hot cup of chocolate cupped between his hands, and he hands on Sebastian's every word; Sebastian asks about school and they talk about the showcase June engineered for him, about the best cup of coffee in town (a point they woefully disagree on) and Sebastian's past in Paris.
In the short time it takes for his clothes to dry and the rain to stop he gets to know Sebastian fairly well–it doesn't happen at a restaurant sitting across the table from him, but a whole new format he doesn't particularly dislike. His 'boyfriend' comment made Sebastian ease off a bit, and it creates a much more comfortable space for them to talk.
He gives Sebastian his phone number, unprompted.
"So I can repay you sometime," he says, but he's not sure he means that.
.
.
.
(now)
It's been six months. Six months of a seemingly endless crush that showed up rather unexpected, but here he was, in love with Sebastian Smythe, a boy whose interest he once held but tossed aside because he wanted to be wooed. And it's been torture, the constant struggle between being Sebastian's friend and wanting more, because Sebastian turned out to be a decent guy who happened to have a different philosophy on life and love.
"I'm young. And I'm not hurting anyone," Sebastian once explained, lounged back long and lanky on the couch. He found little to object to, but his youthful spirit had grown so attached to the idea of dating Sebastian that seeing him hook up with other boys had started leaving small marks all over his heart.
"You never think about dating?" he'd asked tentatively, the dull ache of all the wounds culminating in a constant companion.
Sebastian had smiled that smile, the one that admitted to a deeper flighty desire of meeting his match and settling down, and winked, "He'd have to be pretty special."
He considered Sebastian someone special for a while now, someone blinded to the opportunities in front of him and even his own potential, yet he cherished every moment he got to spend with him. Sebastian was crazy and spontaneous, flirtatious and smart and funny, articulate and guarded, and for some reason he'd been allowed to realize all of that. He wouldn't recognize a life without Sebastian anymore.
Every once in a while hanging out with Sebastian meant hanging out with the crazy lesbian he'd known since kindergarten, Santana Lopez. The two met as kids on the playground, Santana had kicked Sebastian in the shins and Sebastian pulled her hair fighting over one of the free swings; somehow that had resulted in a life long friendship. Santana's visits were always hectic, like small bursts of hyperactivity where one (if not all three) of them ended up drunk, punched in the face, or arrested. But for Sebastian's best friend he was willing to brave a great many things he might not have considered otherwise.
Tonight, however, Santana pushes her luck.
They start with drinks at Sebastian's place, and somehow, he couldn't tell you how, they tumble into a game of Never Have I Ever–he never played before but the rules were simple enough: one player professes to never having done something, and if one of the other players has, they drink; if the player asking fails to get anyone to drink, he (or she) must drink themselves.
He never sees it coming.
"Never have I ever…" Santana starts, graciously lining up three fresh shots, "… had romantic feelings for a close friend," after which her eyes land on him for a conspicuously long time.
His eyes narrow on Santana's face and his heart races, but he sticks to the rules of the game; he puts the shot glass to his lips and drinks, tequila burning in his throat. He doesn't plan on admitting to his feelings for Sebastian, not tonight and maybe not ever, but he fears Santana might have figured out his heart and that chills him to the bone–Santana lacks as many inhibitions and boundaries as Sebastian does, and there's no way she'll keep her mouth shut.
But it's Sebastian who breaks the silence first. "Got me there, San," he says, and slams back the shot in one gulp.
He and Santana stare at Sebastian dumbfounded, while every beat of his battered heart thuds a desperate spark of hope.
Sebastian fails to notice their surprise, because he fills up the two empty shot glasses again. "Never have I ever … gone skinny dipping," he says, before laughing and taking a drink himself.
The rest of the drinking game passes him by in a haze, Santana and Sebastian drinking most of the tequila. His mind races with all the possibilities; Sebastian admitted to having romantic feelings for a close friend and he's not nearly delusional enough to think it's him. It could be someone from his past, or someone he'd missed, but he can't help but see a whole world of possibilities open up for him. This is the hardest part of having a crush on someone, the never-ending hope that something might happen, that something could change, that Sebastian might see him in a whole new light.
What he wouldn't give for the courage to actually say something.
"Okay, how long have you known?" he asks when he gets Santana alone for a few minutes, Sebastian in the bathroom putting the finishing touches to his outfit.
Santana smiles that smile, one that tells him she knows exactly what he's talking about but she's not about to make the first move. "Know what, Frodo?"
"About–" He lowers his voice and takes a step closer, as if the walls have ears and might repeat everything to Sebastian later. "About my feelings for Sebastian."
"Please, baby boy," Santana scoffs, "the way you look at him I'm surprised he hasn't planted one on you already."
"What do you mean?" His face falls, hope extinguished by a few choice words. "You think– he doesn't feel the same way?"
Of course he's prepared for that possibility too, Sebastian might consider him a friend only and harbor no romantic inclinations towards him, but that's not a possibility he's willing to face, even if that might be the healthier thing to do.
Santana merely rolls her eyes. "I think you're both idiots."
And arguably, yes, he is an idiot, he must have been the day he told Sebastian he had a boyfriend in the effort of getting him to back off a little, a warning Sebastian had taken to heart with the utmost respect–he still flirted with him mercilessly, but nowhere near as forward as when they met.
"Hey, killer," Sebastian's voice draws him back to reality. "You ready?"
He nods and follows his friends out the door, lagging a few steps behind as they walk to Santana's surprise location.
He doesn't know if Sebastian's an idiot too, maybe he thinks they work better as friends, maybe he imagined the chemistry between them, maybe the two of them simply don't match up; and that's a really difficult truth to face.
Much to Sebastian's dissatisfaction Santana doesn't take them to any of the high end clubs they normally frequent–they make their way inside a bar with no line outside and a single bouncer, but once he lays eyes on the place he understands why Santana seemed so keen to come here. Every nook and cranny of the room stands filled with women.
"San–" Sebastian's eyes scan the room. "Please, tell me this isn't a lesbian bar."
"Sorry, Lurch." Santana throws an arm around each of them. "But it's my vacation and I deserve some scantily clad women in see-through shirts."
Sebastian cringes a step back when two girls start making out and feeling each other up in front of him, but doesn't complain; he rarely denies Santana anything. "Okay, but you're buying the first round."
A few drinks later the fact that they're surrounded by boobs and vaginas ceases to matter, and they return to their usual mischief. Before he knows it he's dancing with two sisters who are visiting from out of town, and Santana ropes them into grading a wet t-shirt contest the club organizes every Friday night. He's laughing and cheering, off to one side of the room with Sebastian, while Santana throws the occasional one-dollar bill at one of the candidates.
He always has the time of his life with Sebastian, and it's never the way he thinks it will be, or the way he once dreamed it would be–Sebastian came with a different set of instructions, or one of those chocolate Kinder eggs that had a surprise toy inside. Tradition went out the window and he realized long ago he's willing to make a whole lot of concessions if it meant getting close to Sebastian.
"Hey, pretty boys!" Santana's voice sounds to his left, but Sebastian doesn't hear and he chooses to ignore her, drowned in a sweet sorrow of his own making. Sebastian lingers mere inches away and his fingertips itch to touch, coax him onto the dance floor and show everyone how it's done, feel Sebastian's hands everywhere, because once they get going they lose themselves completely.
Bodies move and writhe as one all around them, jumping up and down to the beat of the music, cheering, laughing, having the night of their lives … until all that lags into slow-motion.
The exact moment Santana tips the pitcher of water over Sebastian's head, presumably as payback for having ignored her.
Whatever oxygen remains rushes out of him as a sympathetic reaction at first, and Sebastian draws up his shoulders under the assault of the cold water, droplets of it braving the distance and splashing on his own shirt, nowhere near the amount Sebastian's treated to.
Sebastian's white shirt absorbs the water, gently tracing down his body and he turns lightheaded at the sight of him, soaked down to the waist, water unforgivingly outlining his abs, clearly defined through the thin fabric of the shirt sticking to his skin.
Damn.
"Santana, what the fuck!" Sebastian's voice barely reaches over the music. Somewhere vaguely he's aware Santana answers, probably with a carefully constructed bite to it, but he stands anchored to the floor by one of the most stunning images of Sebastian he's ever witnessed. He hasn't seen Sebastian naked or half-naked, which seemed odd given his friend's startling lack of inhibitions or boundaries, but he wasn't prepared for his physique so brazenly silhouetted by the extremely wet shirt sticking to his hot body, lines of water caressing paths down his face, drops clinging to clunks of hair that have dislodged from a carefully styled coif.
And it all proves to be a little too much for his smitten nervous system to process.
"Blaine." Sebastian calls before shaking at his shoulder. "Blaine, what's wrong with you?"
"I'm–" He blinks, but his eyes remain transfixed on Sebastian's wet chest. "What?"
"Can you believe this?" Sebastian pulls his shirt away from his skin, which releases with a disturbing sucking sound. "I'm gonna kill her."
But when they try to locate Santana in the crowded and rowdy room they locate her sandwiched in between two devastatingly beautiful blondes, and not he nor Sebastian are brave enough to break that up even in their drunken state.
Sebastian winks. "This reminds me of the day we met, though."
He breathes a laugh and turns into that boy again, whimsical and naïve, overwhelmed by another boy who moved at an entirely different pace than he did. He'd questioned his state of mind that day, why a stranger of all people lured a more daring side out of him. Maybe it was meant to be.
"Are you okay?" Sebastian asks. "Did you drink too much?"
"No, I'm okay." He shakes his head. "I swear."
"I'm gonna try and salvage this." Sebastian shivers. "Be right back."
He watches Sebastian weave through the crowd and disappear into the men's room, and finally manages to catch a breath–he's so screwed, so incredibly in love and Sebastian doesn't even know it. His eyes drift over the room until they catch Santana's, which drill holes in him and say, what the fuck, tiny man, do you need a bigger invitation?
And no, he really doesn't.
They're the only two gay guys in a bar filled with people of the opposite sex so there's literally no other potential hook-up standing in his way. What's he waiting for? Didn't he want the courage to say something, do something, act on his feelings?
Six months is too long to live in uncertainty, assaulted by constant doubt and the fear that Sebastian's heart proved less convinced of what kind of connection they have, could have, should have. He's going to talk to Sebastian right now, settle this once and for all–if Sebastian doesn't feel the same his heart will wilt into molten sadness but at least he'll know. Who knows, maybe they'll even be able to stay friends.
By the time he makes it into the bathroom he's so pumped he's shaking, fear and excitement another strange combination fuelling him.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees the state Sebastian's in; Sebastian has stripped out of his shirt and stands wringing it out over one of the sinks lining the wall, the lines in his back pulling around his shoulder blades, strong muscles buzzing underneath flawless skin.
"Hey, killer." Sebastian catches his eyes in the mirror. "I'll be right out."
He swallows hard, love twisting into lust down his spine and he's never been more sure of anything; he's in love with Sebastian, and if he doesn't do something about it now he'll burn up from the inside.
"I can forgive her for the shirt." Sebastian combs sloppy fingers through his hair and turns around. "But she ruined my hair."
A laugh stutters uncertainly to a corner of his mouth, but the solid sight of Sebastian draws him closer. And once he's taken that first step there's no going back, he places one foot in front of the other and closes the distance between them, his heartbeat pulses through every part of him, especially once he pushes his lips up against Sebastian's.
For a few blissful moments it happens exactly the way he fantasized it would, he pushes a single kiss to Sebastian's lips and pulls back half an inch, prepared to gauge Sebastian's reaction. He's ready for just about anything, but then Sebastian's body gives, hands slipping clumsy around his waist and he's pulled closer again–Sebastian's lips are soft and undemanding, they push lazily into his every other beat of his heart, and he can't imagine ever wanting to kiss any other lips.
Until Sebastian eases him back gently, and whispers, "What are you doing?"
Reality crashes back over him like a cold tidal wave.
His hope evaporates; he's an idiot, he's seen Sebastian kiss so many boys, one gentler than the other, and none of them had lasted, it'd been one boy after the other and he won't be one in a long string of lovers. "I'm sorry," he breathes, and pulls away, "I thought–"
He turns, the whole world spinning as Sebastian calls, "Blaine," a hand closes around his arm and he's forced to face his best friend again. "Hey."
"No, it's fine." He closes his eyes. "Santana's right, if you knew–"
But what would Sebastian have done? If he knew maybe he chose to ignore it, maybe he'd caught his lingering looks and discarded them as folly, a naïve boy's dream that a boy so starkly different could feel anything but friendship for him.
"Know what?" Sebastian asks. "What does Santana have to do with this?"
He opens his eyes to the cold hard truth. "You don't want me."
An undecipherable silence follows, confusion, fear, imminent ridicule, he couldn't stand to hear much.
"I do want you," Sebastian says.
He looks up, and no matter how often he blinks it doesn't chase away the perfect boy facing him, it doesn't drown out the words just spoken, and it doesn't make him question them, either. Sebastian turns five years younger right in front of his eyes and it's stunning.
"Just not as another notch on my bedpost." Sebastian finally releases his arm. "I want more with you."
"But?" he asks, because it's been six long never-ending months. Has he been selfish? Has he been that big of an idiot? When did he decide Sebastian should make the first move?
"No but." Sebastian shrugs, the confusion slowly draining from his green eyes. "Whatever you thought I knew… You can't take your cues from Santana." Sebastian smiles and comes a step closer, placing his hands on his shoulders. "I'm going to stop talking now. Come dance with me."
His heart all but explodes inside his chest. "I'm–"
Any protest he was about to make up meanders into Sebastian's lips and disappears altogether–Sebastian's tongue pushes past his eager lips and his hands are on his face, soft and whole and demanding. It's the kind of kiss that lasts, that imprints itself onto his skin, that makes everything lag into slow-motion.
"Blaine Anderson." Sebastian presses their foreheads together. "Come dance with me."
It's harder to breathe again all of a sudden, but his heart heals around scars that never really mattered.
He steals another kiss off Sebastian. "In a room full of lesbians?"
Sebastian grins. "Let's show them how it's done."
#
if you can, please let me know what you think!