author's notes: written for my darling Yiota, she knows why : )
A CATALOGUE OF INTIMACIES;;
(Stories are funny things, saturated with the assumption of a clear structure, beginning, middle, end; a first and last time, an opening that leads to an inevitable close.)
.
i.
The first time he's cocky, considers himself mature at sixteen after every push and pull and kiss that's led to the proverbial 'experience' required to set up a certain reputation (just like his father taught him, though maybe not how he intended). He draws the boy who's own reputation precedes him into a sea of blue blazers with red piping and doesn't question the initial touch – it's brief and almost sickeningly sweet, but all things have small beginnings and he's not above a little sentimentality if it gets him what he wants.
His eyes have already provided the most vital information, scanning up and down the shorter's frame, beautiful eyes, gorgeous smile, great ass, and most importantly, still very much a Warbler.
It's a game he plays well, learned the ins and outs of it by a trial-and-error process, but he's weeded out bad results over the years – Blaine Anderson seems easy pickings, big naïve eyes that smile right alongside the rest of him, wide in wonder at key terms like 'broken hearts', 'lacrosse,' 'Paris', and 'super hot'. Unfortunately his eyes do much the same thing around something called 'Kurt', but the boyfriend fails to dissuade his desires.
He stands to learn from Blaine, about the Warblers, about how to lead them, about the infinitesimal weakness that starts at the back of his right knee every time Blaine looks at him.
.
ii.
The second time will haunt him for much longer than he'll admit to anyone. He never tells Blaine, he'll never tell a soul, afraid it might expose a part of him he denies even exists – it's a place filled with shame and heartache and he's done everything in his power to shield it from the outside world, circled it with barbed wire and tall walls lacking doors.
It's well past visiting hours but he slipped the nurse a twenty-dollar bill and she lets him in no questions asked. Blaine's sound asleep when he enters the room, so peaceful he almost turns tail and runs – he's reminded of all the times he sat opposite Blaine at the Lima Bean, their late night texting and incredibly pricey phone calls, how talking to Blaine came easy and uncomplicated. He became himself around Blaine, let down any artificial obstacles, even though 'Kurt' lurked in the background of all their conversations.
'Kurt and I' echoed whenever they talked about NYADA or New York, so he started avoiding the subject, 'Kurt thinks' lay underneath every opinion Blaine created, 'Kurt feels' transcribed into every excuse not to head out the Scandals again.
So he acted out, meant to erase some of the bad taste 'Kurt' left behind, and he ended up hurting the one boy who could've been good for him.
His fingers curl around Blaine's motionless hand, the words, "I'm so sorry," stuck somewhere at the back of his throat while he tries to keep from crying.
.
iii.
The third time follows fresh off the coattails of devastating news, an act he had a hand in, in a way, even though he's not the one who tightened the noose around Dave Karofsky's neck.
He's less than half the boy he thought himself to be, but right there and then, Facebook notification flagged red on his iPhone he swears to remedy that – life's all fun and games until you realize it's really not, not when words have power over life and death, a lame prank could've cost Blaine his eye, and dealt him a fate that could've gotten him disowned.
"First of all, Blaine," – he looks up and hope fills him to the brim, cascades through his every nerve ending until he fears it might actually show – "I'm sorry about your eye."
"That means nothing to me," Blaine says, Kurt by his side, and all his hope filters out of his pores like it's liquid.
"Just give me a chance," he begs, and he vows to beg forever if it means Blaine might one day change his mind.
They shake hands the next day, the Warblers defeated but he's regained some confidence – Blaine won't start texting him again, and the phone resting next to his pillow night after night won't ring with the promise of heedless conversations about not much of anything, but at least Blaine doesn't hate him.
At least Blaine doesn't hate him.
.
iv.
The fourth time comes engineered by someone else.
"Sebastian," Blaine exasperates, while the sound of his name falling from such innocent lips travels down his spine and twists somewhere around his entire sense of self. "Of course it was you."
Any sense of self simmers to a low lonely flame and he allows Blaine's disappointment to touch him, even if he had nothing to do with McKinley's missing National trophy. Now that it's brought Blaine back home, he makes a mental note to thank Hunter later.
But Blaine's heart lies entrapped by heartbreak of his own making, the pain marks his demeanor and responses and his heart aches around the sharp edge of razorblades that have steadily sunk their way past any defense.
He slips the blazer around Blaine's shoulders and his fingertips tingle, even though intimacy has ben a concept absent from the overlarge portion of his life.
"What did I tell you?" same old Sebastian asks, though he's actually matured after almost two years of self-reflection. "Flawless."
But Blaine doesn't return to Dalton. Not until it's too late.
.
v.
The last time he accepts as his penance. He keeps his mouth shut and reserves any judgment, he's lost the right to any opinion on Blaine's relationship and he won't plant the seed of doubt hours before the engagement. It's clear Blaine needs to learn for himself not to make his home inside another person, make his every hope and dream dependent or in line with that person's – no, that's something Blaine should realize himself, before the wedding or after, years down the line weighted by his regrets and all the missed opportunities. But he hopes it happens sooner rather than later, for Blaine's sake.
Blaine moves closer and wraps his arms around him and he tries to make it count as a goodbye, to all the times he's wanted to kiss Blaine, to every opportunity he missed to tell Blaine how he really felt, to every time he told himself he didn't deserve Blaine, and to all the times he ignored the flutter in his pulse whenever Blaine so much as looked at him.
It's the lesson he needs to learn.
It's a goodbye to the past, the present, to the sixteen-year old cocky boy he once was.
But it's hope for better things to come.
.
(Not all stories come with a clear set of instructions, what some would consider closure might be a brand new beginning, the start of something new.
He moves on, starts college an enlightened boy who still stands so much to learn, but there's a shot at reinvention and a clean slate – his father claims people don't change, it's your perception of them that shifts, and even though he called bullshit on most of his father's wisdom years ago there's some credence to the thought; people don't change, but they do grow into the person they were always meant to be.
He puts stock in that thought, never had much problems keeping up his grades, moderates his drinking, but still has flings with boys in dark rooms. A leopard can't change its stripes overnight, until one summer eve he meets Alexander, who's hard and damaged in a way he once was – they date for a little over a year, when he decides he doesn't deserve destructive relationships either, can't mend prejudice rooted in ignorance, and he's learned intimacy in a painful yet hopeful way.
He bumps into Blaine his senior year at college. And Blaine has learned his lesson.)
.
i.
The first time happens months after running into each other at a club downtown.
They've rekindled a friendship that's turned stronger than anything they had before, there's no echo of their past recalling past indiscretions or terrible mistakes, there's no name that comes up every two seconds because 'Kurt' tried his luck with someone else and somehow Blaine manages to be happy for him, and there's a silent agreement that 'now' is where they start from, not 'then' or 'soon' but right here, right now they're two people growing into the person they're supposed to be, together.
He feels privileged to witness it, see Blaine smile until his lungs give out at parties they attend together, sing at showcases some suspiciously creepy benefactor keeps setting up for him, shake his pretty little ass in the middle of the dance floor, where he joins him more often than not. Blaine has this way of looking at him like he's the center of the universe, like he's all that matters when they're alone and he's valued beyond reason.
"Sebastian," Blaine whispers one night in the backseat of a taxi cab, his head lolling back and forth where it rests on his shoulder – he's wonderfully drunk but happily so, and for a second, one split second within so many he never thought he'd get, he's convinced it's the only word Blaine knows.
.
ii.
The second time they spend the night together at a film screening in Central Park – Blaine tells him to bring the blanket and himself while he packed a basket filled with snacks, two glasses, and a nice bottle of wine. He's prudent enough to snag two throw pillows before he heads out the door, and almost trips over his own feet running down the stairs.
His heart beats fast in his chest and doesn't really stop for the rest of the night, not when he sits down close to Blaine, their thighs touching; not when they laugh and cry at some silly movie, the title of which he can't even remember; not when they stick around for hours, long after the movie's finished and people start heading home, and they talk like they used to, about things he never told anyone, about 'Kurt' and the end of the engagement, about school and work, about absent friends and distant relatives, about plans and hopes for the future.
He's lying down next to Blaine, but that same years-old weakness has crept back into his right knee, threatening to infect the other.
He shivers, not because of the wind or because the temperature has dropped, but because he can't remember the last time he felt like this – Blaine came with a spontaneity different from his own, one that held the promise for more rather than a satisfaction that wouldn't last beyond one night.
And he could settle for this, for being Blaine's friend, for the comfort of knowing there'll always be one person there for him he can trust and confide in.
.
iii.
The third time he treats Blaine to a special night; dinner, Broadway, and drinks afterwards, for no reason other than they're friends and sometimes friends go all out for each other – he's well aware Blaine doesn't buy it and he stopped fooling himself quite some time ago. There's no settling for friendship, his feelings have developed beyond that, his heart does this thing where it can't slow down, a patternless rhythm he would be concerned about, but when it only happens around Blaine he realizes what's happening.
He can only hope Blaine knows it too.
But then at the bar later that night, some stand-up comedian attempting to rouse the crowd, Blaine reaches for his hand underneath the table, their palms fit together and Blaine wriggles his fingers until they fit perfectly between his – Blaine doesn't get a coherent word out of him for the rest of the night, he doesn't laugh when the comedian actually turns out to be funny and he barely hears the waiters when they ask him if he'd like another drink.
All his attention shifts to Blaine's hand and how it's entwined with his, the negated space alive with hope and promise and something sickeningly sweet he wants with Blaine.
.
iv.
The fourth time Blaine kisses him on the lips, one time, short and sweet, a corner of his mouth stuttering hesitant and uncertain as he settles back down on his heels, but eyes big and expectant in an extremely beautiful kind of way.
He leans in unafraid and applies a similar kiss to Blaine's lips, but before he can pull back one of Blaine's hands hooks around the back of his neck and keeps him close, until they're kissing, really kissing, not like they do in the movies, but a desperate and unchaste kiss that would've made him jealous if he wasn't currently experiencing it.
And in the whole process of clashing mouths and flailing limbs, he forgets to ask Blaine.
He forgets to ask why.
.
v.
The fifth time Blaine falls asleep in his lap at two in the morning – he cards his fingers through his curls, quietly appreciative of the rhythm his heart learned around this effortlessly beautiful boy, and he smiles because he realizes that somewhere in the middle of it all, or maybe at the very beginning of the first act, the boy with the hazel eyes has taught him how to drown, how to let go and let every touch be exactly that, a tiny universe with its own set of meanings that doesn't always need explaining, it just needs a little attention.
He's in love with Blaine (and the thing is, he never bothers to swim his way up.)
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