This is different than my usual fare, in the sense that this entire thing is centered around a single song, instead of a bunch of songs being centered around the story. In this version of the future, Kurt owns his own design company, Santana's his secretary, Blaine is Rachel's agent, and Puck coaches young kids (6-8) in sports. And everyone lives in New York.
And yes, familiar OCs will appear.
(Words in parenthesis are thoughts the characters don't dare to think, but also can't avoid.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or "Angel," by Sarah McLachlan. I also have never been addicted to heroin, but have a loved one who has.
Chapter I: Spend All Your Time Waiting
"You have to stop this," Kurt startled Santana out of her reverie at the beginning of May. "You're working too much, and this is coming from the kid who spends weekends at the office."
"Well, there's not a lot else I can do, is there?" Santana knew her tone was biting away at everyone's patience, but she also didn't care.
"Brittany isn't the only person out there for you!" Kurt insisted. "There's plenty more fish in the sea!"
"You and Blaine are still together!" Santana pointed out.
"But Rachel and Finn aren't, and even Blaine and I thought they'd last longer than we would," Kurt added.
Santana rolled her eyes. "You did?" she asked sarcastically. "Even Britt and I could tell-"
Kurt held up a hand. "Tana, stop." He reached across the table. "Remember why you left Brittany?"
"She wants kids, I don't, it's unfair to make either of us resentful of the other," Santana repeated the mantra that had been in her head since she had first realized that this was a fundamental difference and she had to break the two of them up to save both of them from a much more painful break-up later on.
But it still hurt. She was alone, at thirty-six, in New York, with nothing but a job as a secretary for Kurt's fashion company. It paid well, but left very little time for socialization, which was possibly why she had been with Brittany for so long; neither of them saw each other long enough to realize the extent of their anger at each other. That was why, one instead of offering to work over the Christmas holidays like she usually did, Santana asked for the next six weeks off.
"What's brought this on?" Kurt asked.
"I just ordered a giant box of sex toys that aren't going to play with themselves," Santana replied. She colored, because it wasn't a complete lie.
Kurt smiled at her and nodded. "I'll see you when you get back, Tana."
Santana smiled back, her features softening. "See you later, Twink. And don't send me pictures of you and Blaine in the Philippines. I'm going to puke if I see one more lovey-dovey date you two go on," she added.
Kurt laughed and waved goodbye as Santana got ready to go home. She changed into a crimson dress she stole from the West Side Storyperformance so long ago, put on lipstick, slipped on midnight-blue stilettos, carefully applied purple nail polish, and her purse—the very first one designed by one Mister Kurt Hummel.
She checked herself once more in the mirror before nodding in satisfaction and walking out on her way to the club, smirking at every person whose eyes lingered, male or female. (The pairs of eyes as she got to the new club scared her a little.) She had just sat down at a table quite far from the bar—no one looked very willing to let her cut in front of them—and was choosing what to drink when she caught the green eyes of a very familiar person across the room.
Sure, the eyes were familiar, but the face was anything but. It was bony and thin, like someone had stretched a piece of plastic wrap over a skull and painted it pink.
"Santana?" Sebastian wore a mixture of surprise, delight, and fear on his face upon seeing her. The reason for the surprise was obvious, the delight Santana chose to ignore, and the fear she attributed to his obvious dislike of being seen as anything but the coldest, fiercest bitch there was. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I haven't been here before," Santana answered, shrugging. "What does it matter?"
Sebastian scowled. "It doesn't. Just want to be sure you know the kinds of people who go here, that's all."
Santana outright laughed at that. "Are you kidding me, Horse-face? I'm from Lima Heights, or have you starved that particular fact out of your mind?"
Sebastian glared at her. "You know what, fine. Ignore everything I say. Just don't come crying to me when-" he suddenly clenched his jaw and turned away, moving as if he was about to leave.
Santana felt as though she had been hit in the gut by Sebastian's fist, something which would have undoubtedly hurt, seeing as how she could count each individual bone in said fist. Forcing herself to speak more softly, she put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey," she said, "we got off to a bad start." She put her purse down and sat next to him. "So, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"
Sebastian chuckled. "Don't feel sorry for me, Auntie Snix."
"You remembered," Santana nodded approvingly. "Can I get a gin and tonic?" she nodded at the bartender who looked her up and down before immediate going to make her drink.
"Good choice," Sebastian said, holding up his own.
Santana brushed his hand away. "Seriously, what the hell, Sebastian?"
Sebastian shrugged, taking a sip of his drink and clearly not in the mood to answer. Santana sighed inwardly. If she wanted information out of him—wanted Sebastian to make himself vulnerable—she would have to do it first. She took a sip of her newly-arrived drink, preparing herself and not noticing the way the bartender looked at her, nor the way Sebastian looked at the bartender.
"I broke up with Brittany," she said, wincing at the memory of a particularly nasty fight. "She wanted to be a mom and, well, look at me," she gestured at herself. "I'm not mom material."
"You'd be a great mother," Sebastian sounded a little funny as he turned his attention back to, but she couldn't put her finger on why, nor could she pinpoint his strange expression. He smirked, and Santana realized she had been staring at him.
"Didn't you hear me, Smythe?" she made her tone as annoyed as it could be without being obnoxious. "I said I didn't want kids."
Sebastian held up his hands in surrender. "I didn't say you had to have them," he replied defensively. There! There was the Sebastian Santana knew and loved to (fuck) hate.
A woman Santana had never seen before tapped Sebastian on the shoulder, someone who caused a defeated look to spread across Sebastian's face when he saw him.
"Hey, slugface," Santana stood up and got right in the woman's face. "Back away from him, alright?" she demanded aggressively.
The woman just laughed and grabbed Santana's shoulder. She felt a flash of cold panic run through her, stopping and pooling in her stomach and almost making her throw up when she tried to tug her arm back and he refused to let go, until Sebastian put one hand where Santana's shoulder met her neck and another on the woman's wrist. The cold melted under his hand, and she took a subconscious step toward him.
"She's nothing, Alodia," Sebastian said, and the warmth immediately dissipated, but Santana found herself unable to take her eyes off Sebastian as he coaxed Alodia to slowly release her, and not just because of the insult.
His body, which had grown stiffer and stiffer throughout their conversation, was now pliant and seductive. She wondered if Sebastian was offering himself up in her place, but just the thought made her want to shower.
Sebastian and Alodia disappeared for some time, during which Santana did her best to forget that she had ever seen his smarmy face, and failed miserably. She ended up dancing with someone who got a little handy, and she had started to fight him off when Sebastian had come to her rescue yet again, standing up to Tod as if he weren't able to snap Sebastian's neck in half like a twig. Tod had left Santana alone after that, but Santana had a feeling it was more because the sight of Sebastian getting angry on her behalf was amusing and less because Sebastian was a genuine threat.
"Last call!" the bartender yelled.
"That's it," Sebastian said, taking her arm and steering her out, grabbing her coat on the way. "We're going. You're not making a fool of me in front of my friends anymore."
"They aren't your friends," Santana said harshly, expecting a retort just as harsh.
To her surprise, Sebastian merely wrapped himself tightly in her coat. "Yeah, I know," he said softly.
Santana was starting to shiver too. It was New York City, it was dark, and she had only brought that one coat for herself. She rubbed her hands on her arms to smooth down the goosebumps that rose on her flesh.
"Oh, sorry," Sebastian said, stopping to take it off and handing it to her with blue, trembling fingers.
"Don't be stupid, Smythe," Santana said as she kept walking. "Just give it back to me tomorrow."
Sebastian shook his head and started walking after her. "It'll either get ruined or stolen if you leave it with me tonight."
Santana snorted. "What, do you live in a crackhouse or something?" When Sebastian didn't answer, she stopped dead in her tracks. "Oh my god, you totally do, don't you?" she stared at Sebastian until the boy—the man, he was nearly twenty-three, but damn, he looked so young—started to squirm. "Okay," she said, snapping out of it. "We're going to my place, you're going to have a crappy TV dinner and warm yourself up next to my radiator."
"Stop being stupid," Sebastian said, trying to pull away. "People are going to be expecting me, and if they find me with you-"
"Then I'll deal with them," Santana said. "It'd be better, seeing as you look like a moderate gust of wind would win against you in a fight."
"No!" Sebastian glared at her.
"You just told me you live in a crackhouse! I'm offering you a safe fucking place to live! Why are you being so stubborn?"
"Because there's a reason I live in that crackhouse, okay?"
Santana opened her mouth to shoot off a nasty retort, when a sudden epiphany left her reeling. "Oh my god," she gaped. "You're an addict."
Sebastian laughed. "You make it sound dirty," he said.
"It is dirty," and Santana forgot how cover herself up. "You always acted like you were better than us," she admitted.
Sebastian shrugged. "It doesn't really matter now, does it?"
Santana decided to forgo her interrogation in favor of starting to drag Sebastian toward her apartment. When he began to protest, she answered, "You really expect me to let you shoot up again?"
"Santana Lopez, if you don't let go of me right now, I will scream for the cops," Sebastian hissed.
"And I'll keep you here until they get here and arrest you," Santana replied smugly. "It's either a jail cell or my place, Sebas, and only one of those places won't have you looking over your shoulder in the shower—that I'm totally making you take, by the way, you stink—every time you drop the soap."
Something flickered over Sebastian's face that made Santana feel sick from the very thought of what it might entail, so she pushed the thought into the furthest corners of her mind. "Well?" she asked in an imperial tone.
Sebastian momentarily looked devious before turning his expression into one of utter compliance that Santana didn't trust in the least. "Keep the talking to a minimum, okay?" he snapped. "The less I have to remember how indebted I am to you, the better."
"Fine," Santana let out a breath just as huffy as Sebastian had been acting.
'Sebas?' What the hell had she been thinking?
"Probably dirty thoughts," Sebastian replied. Had she said that out loud?
She had little time to feel embarrassed; Sebastian's walk was getting slower and slower, and Santana (was afraid) thought he was going to faint when, to her (horror) lack of surprise, he did. Santana made sure the coat was securely wrapped around him before carrying him to her apartment. It took a while, but not as long as it should have; she could feel every rib in Sebastian's torso, even through her coat—the first one designed by one Kurt Hummel—and wondered how little weight was too little. The strange looks she was getting from people on the sidewalk barely even registered.
She laid Sebastian out on her bed, wrinkling her nose as she stripped him of his her coat and (tucked him in) covered him with the blankets. She took her coat with her onto the couch next to the kitchen. The coat smelled awful as she pulled it over herself, like blood, tears, vomit, and something Santana couldn't name where Sebastian had worn it.
But underneath it all, underneath everything, she could smell the boy who had given her back the tape, apologizing for the slushie before….
Oh, shit. It took a ridiculous amount of shaking before Sebastian actually looked up at Santana, and even then he seemed to look through her with huge pupils. Santana groaned inwardly when she realized he was high as a kite. Clearly, Alodia had given him something.
"Sebastian," Santana began anyway, "I don't remember seeing you after Regionals. Did you run away?"
Sebastian simply blinked at her. Disgusted, Santana got off the bed, not even unrumpling her sheets, and curled back up on the couch.
She walks up to the counter at the Lima Bean and orders a cinnamon latte with uncharacteristic solemnity. Chatting with Brittany takes her mind off the fact that this is probably the last time she's getting coffee with the rest of the Glee Club. It's a cloudy day. To her right is a huge parking lot. To her left is a weather-faded poster on a pole, screaming HAVE YOU SEEN ME? It barely registers, but the face seems familiar and she drifts closer to it as she talks with the Cheerios. She bids Rachel good luck in New York, and shrugs it off when Kurt, nearby, gets a little choked up.
"You're still going to have fashion," Hobbit tells Baby Gay. "That's something no one can take away from you."
"But I didn't apply to any fashion schools!" Kurt protests.
"That's not what NYU says," Blaine holds up an envelope. "I wasn't going to show you this, because I was sure you were going to get into NYADA, but I applied to New York University in Stony Brook to get you this design scholarship."
Kurt stares at Blaine like he doesn't know whether to smack him or snog him. Santana turns around, not wanting to (intrude on a private moment) watch two guys make out. Then her eyes fall on the poster. It tells her that Sebastian Smythe has been missing since Regionals. She opens her mouth to talk about it, but Brittany says something about dolphins and she sees Sam bidding Quinn good luck at Yale and Mercedes giving Puck a goodbye hug and that lump comes back to her throat. Emotion crowds out her concern for a boy she barely knows and she calls for a group hug. She doesn't see the poster again, nor does she think about it that night.
In her bedroom, someone fell with a crash. Santana burst inside, but Sebastian didn't appear injured, just nauseous. Wordlessly, Santana pointed to her bathroom and Sebastian ran inside to throw up. Santana followed, wondering when she had gone soft.
She didn't have much time to wonder, because she saw that Sebastian's vomit was a clearish fluid, her heart stopped. "Jesus," she said irritably. "When the fuck was the last time you ate?"
Sebastian shrugged. "I don't feel hungry. I get too heavy to get food when the snow starts kicking in."
Santana sighed and walked to her refrigerator to find a couple Jimmy Deans she had been too tired—just because Sebastian was far, far lighter than he should have been didn't mean he was light—to heat a few hours ago and put them in the oven before an insane idea came to her. She had sat down in front of her laptop, looking up the symptoms of withdrawal as the sounds of Sebastian retching again reached her ears and she sat back down beside him as he continued to throw up bile and look pathetic. Not entirely sure her gesture would be welcome, Santana reached over to rub Sebastian's back.
Next chapter should be up tomorrow.