In all his years living in Ohio, Wes never truly understood the absolute, full-blown need to drive what was almost one whole hour to grab a simple cup of coffee. The Westerville Café was perfectly palatable so long as you had a muffin or biscotti close by to help you choke it down. The Song Bird coffee shop within Dalton was better, save for the fact that it was reserved for students of Dalton only, but the line was always too long and the machine never quite got the water to coffee ratio down. But if he was to be honest –and if he was capable of functioning so early in the morning without caffeine in his system—Wes really couldn't image a better place than the Lima Bean. So when the former Warbler and current Dalton graduate walked through the doors of the Lima Bean, the gentle scent of roasted coffee wrapped around him and warmed him from the inside out.
He decided to go a little crazy today and detour from his usual drip coffee, a favourite among the Warblers. After ordering a peppermint mocha, he turned around to survey the morning crowd. The surprisingly large café was almost completely vacant today, sparse in the way it always was at this hour. It was the brief calm before the storm where one could take the time to breathe before the morning rush of students, staff, and teachers came rushing in with all their chaotic glory.
Wes shivered.
He weaved his way around the empty tables near the front entrance and up the small steps to the raised level near the back of the shop. It wasn't much off the ground, but it was their usual spot and old habits die hard. That, and any vantage point no matter how small was always a useful thing indeed. You never knew who would sneak up on you during a quiet sit-down.
Ducking under the arched doorway of another room, Hunter was already waiting for him when he arrived. The sunbeams skittered through the towering windows in streams constantly interrupted by the passing cars on the street, but Wes turned away from the bothersome flickers and walked up to the table in the corner. It was his favourite corner; a window overlooking a little forest and a comforting spot where one could appreciate the sun while not suffering under its rays.
"Looks like Stanford's not cracking the whip down hard enough. You're late."
"It's early." Wes yawned to prove his point.
"You're late," Hunter mused. He cocked his head to the side, studying the older boy with a heavy gaze. "You're never late. You've never been late. 'Late' isn't even in your dictionary unless directing it at another party."
Wes didn't bother looking at his watch. He knew he was on time just like he always was, even with taking into consideration morning traffic and the time taken to order his crazy drink. So instead of rising to the bait, Wes rolled his eyes, slid into the booth opposite to the blond-slash-brunet and waited.
Hunter took his time, playing the game he always did before finally rolling around to the point of things, but Wes was already prepared for this—that's why he had bought himself a large instead of his usual medium-sized caffeine fix. So once Hunter was finish with his first brief look-over of Wes, the boy knew what was the come next: Hunter would finish his coffee with a single tip of his head, he'd roll the empty cup in small circles and play with the too-thin cardboard sleeve about ten or thirteen times before getting bored with it and pushing it away altogether.
He knew what to expect with the younger man crossed his arms and leaned forward onto the table, regarding Wes with a second evaluating glance. Wes never flinched, knowing minute calculations were being made with every little detail Hunter was seeing that Wes could never understand.
It had been years since he figured out how Hunter's mind worked. The games, the schemes, the use of even the smallest and seemingly mundane details to form complex and shockingly in-depth conclusions. Hunter could piece it all together in his mind's eye, and it was something that Wes admired. And yet because he knew they were so alike, Wes knew why he'd been called upon even before Hunter spoke:
"Blaine Anderson."
The Dalton graduate blinked before taking a sip of his mocha. "Good man."
"I've heard a lot about him, and I mean a lot. Vocals to die for?"
"One of the best I've heard in my four years."
"Carried the Warblers a long way in his time."
"First place in Sectionals, and second place for Regionals two years consecutively."
"Former Warbler."
"Transferred a year ago."
"Why?"
"Why are you asking me questions you already know the answers to?"
Hunter smiled and leaned back in his chair. Their eyes met and for a moment in time Wes could see the schematics and calculations of battle plans to come. Hunter's eyes always got that crystal clear shine when his mood was high, and Wes could've swore he saw flecks of green flare out around his irises. I bet he still has that cat skulking around. "The New Directions have been living life as champions for much too long. I think it time we took them down a peg or two."
Wes narrowed his eyes at the mention of we. "What are you planning this time?"
"Blaine transferred once. What's to stop him from transferring again? It can't be much fun in that school now that his better half has gone and left him for New York."
"I'm not even going to ask how you found that out. What do you expect me to do?"
"Wes," Hunter pushed on. "Blaine was a jewel the Warblers never should've let go. You know. I know it. Hell, even Sebastian knew it!"
Wes allowed for the smallest of nods. "Blaine made the Warblers who they were. Sebastian changed all of that."
Hunter snorted and spoke with resounding snarl, "Sebastian Smythe was never fit to lead the Warblers."
"And you are?"
"I've already talked to the others. Nick, Jeff, David, Trent—all of them." And of course Wes knew this too. Once a Warbler, always a Warbler. That was their mantra and rule of life. Even being away at Stanford, Wes still talked to his Warbler brothers every now and then. He knew how devastated they all were when Blaine transferred and it even took a week, and a very long Skype chat, to calm everyone down and pull the team back on track for Sectionals. As much as he hated what Sebastian did last year, he had to admit that he gave the boys the swift kick they needed. "Do you really think that if they thought for one second Blaine was teetering on the decision of transferring back, that they wouldn't take it and run with it?"
Wes looked away, not wanting to answer because he knew Hunter knew what he would be forced to say. Yes. Yes, of course they would. Of course the Warblers would do anything in their power to bring Blaine back. They were all brothers after all and if one knew a fellow Warbler was hurting, they all would. Wes had seen the videos of McKinley's rendition of Grease. He'd heard the unbridled, hollowed, stripped-to-the-bone hurt that thickened the air when he sang. He knew the others would've heard it too.
Blaine hadn't been the same since Kurt graduated. He hadn't been the same since transferring away from the care and safety of Dalton to the harsh world of McKinley. Wes knew what kind of cruelty there was in the world, and though Kurt spent his life thriving and adapting to said world, Blaine had no such luck. Sadie Hawkins had taken that away from him, left him with deep scars, shrouding him in fear and pain and tears that left nothing more than a hollowed shell of a young, frightened boy who ran to Dalton for safety. It wasn't that Blaine wasn't strong; he'd just been broken and shattered a thousand times too many.
It took some time, but when Wes and David finally convinced Blaine to join Dalton's glee club, the world lit up and shone a new light on what they could do. Little by little the veil lifted, revealing a confidence not even Blaine realized he possessed. Wes had stepped back, knowing the Warblers were in good hands under Blaine's lead. Of course the council would be there to make the final calls, and Wes had always been there to catch Blaine when he found the boy reeling in disbelief at where he was or what he was doing. Dalton wasn't just a school for him. It was his home.
For all his rolling eyes and sarcastic snipes at the term, Wes never truly dismissed it when his Warblers called him the mother hen. All his boys were special to him, but Blaine had always held a special place in his heart. The careful nudges for auditions, the subtle hints during vocal practices, it was all to build Blaine up to take over once Wes had left. Because though all the Warblers were equally talented, none of them held a candle to what Blaine had become in those short years at Dalton. But Blaine had flown the proverbial coup, leaving Dalton for the world he'd initially fled from.
And here he was breaking once again.
"Blaine," Wes took a sip on his mocha before speaking, "is capable of making his own decisions. If he wants to transfer back he will. If not, then I suggest you respect his wishes."
"You're no fun, Wes," Hunter said with a shake of his head.
Wes snapped his cup down. "Would you rather me say to throw all caution to the wind? To push and pressure and connive your way into people's lives like you always do? I won't just stand by and let you force Blaine into a corner until he cracks."
"Nobility is a thing of the past, Wes. Get over yourself." The young Warbler waved a dismissive hand, his eyes half-lidded, unbothered. "Besides, Blaine will be visiting in due time, and if he should feel a little homesick during his visit…well, let's just say we may have an extra blazer lying around with his name on it."
"Luring him back by stealing New Direction's trophy isn't going to win you any points." Wes glanced up from another sip of his drink. He made a mental note deciding that peppermint in his coffee wasn't as crazy as it seemed. Either that or it was just crazy good. He laughed at the shocked expression on the face before him.
"How'd you know about that?"
"I know everything," Wes stated, finishing his drink with a final gulp. Yes, he thought, peppermint mocha will make a suitable replacement for his morning cup of caffeine –medium drips always made him a little homesick anyways. "Do as you will, Hunter, obviously you've set your pieces down on the board already. But if you hurt my boys…"
"Can't be afraid to get your hands a little dirty, Wes."
"I prefer a clean conscious. Thank you."
They glared at each other across the table until the sunbeams shifted. Feline eyes fixed their gaze of Wes' dark brown, intimidation rolling off with a raise of a chin. Wes could've laughed at the attempt, but the drumming of his heart kept the frown on his lips. He stepped in when Sebastian took things too far. He didn't want to have to do it again. But he would. He always would.
The morning rush came and went. Students stopped and starred, cooing and giggling at the boys in uniform, but neither Wes nor Hunter turned to face them.
"So I guess asking you for help would be a moot point, then?"
"Don't pull me into your games, Hunter." Wes rose from his seat and walked around to the young Warbler, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders and pushing down the tension. It wasn't until he felt the resigned slump of surrender did he released his grip. He knew he'd never be able to figure out every part of Hunter's plans, but he could only hope for the best. To have Blaine back with the Warblers would indeed bring balance back amongst them, Wes was sure of this, but some things were never certain and that was something Wes had to get used to.
He picked up their empty cups and, after tossing both into the bin, dragged him and Hunter out into the brisk outdoors. Hunter laughed, light and hearty, and Wes was happy to know the subject had been dropped until further notice. "Play nice now."
"You sure you're not hiding a Superman suit under all those layers?" Hunter turned on the sidewalk, leaning against his friend, and yawned. Wes smiled down at him before a chuckle bubbled its way to the surface. Hunter never could get enough caffeine in him to start the day off, and today was going to be a long one indeed—Wednesdays were Warbler practice days. Wes nudged him gently, tousling his soft blond-brown hair.
"You'll never know," Wes said with a wink, walking off. "C'mon, I'll give you a drive back."
He never turned around to see the beaming smile on Hunter's face, but he could hear it in every little bouncing step he took as the boy galloped to Wes' car. "You know, we could talk contrivance on the drive—"
"Shut up, Hunter."