A/N: I don't own Glee (Ryan Murphy and Fox do) or anything else you might recognize here, but I use them here with love. Spoilers for 5x14.
Blaine put the guitar back down again.
"Hey, man, you sure you don't want to have a sandwich or something?" Elliott asked.
Both of them were much more relaxed after their jam session, or at least Elliott hoped so. It turned out that the conservative-looking Blaine could really rock out if he tried, and they'd both laughed as he composed 'Glitter Rock Vampire' out of nothing. When they'd had a break in the music and he tried to get Blaine to talk about what was troubling him, Blaine had deflected, and he hadn't wanted to push.
Blaine shifted his gaze towards the door and frowned. "No. Thanks, but I still feel really stupid, the way I yelled at you and everything. I gotta get going."
Elliott put his hands up in front of his chest. "Hey, look, I get it. You've got some stuff to work out with Kurt. Okay, but don't forget what I said." Blaine looked at him blankly, prompting Elliott to nod his head. "He does love you, you know."
"I know," Blaine answered in a small voice, his eyes trained on his shoes.
"Look, I'm glad you didn't ask to move in here or anything," Elliott smiled, following Blaine as he walked towards the door. He noticed when Blaine smirked at this; Elliott may have shared a few tales today of his misadventures as Rachel's accidental landlord. "But, you know, in spite of the initial weirdness," he paused as Blaine gave a nervous chuckle, "it's still good that we cleared the air."
"Yeah. Thanks." Blaine cleared his throat, and massaged the back of his neck with one hand. "I can see why Kurt thinks so highly of you."
He really does have a formal way of talking, Elliott thought. Looking at his eyes, he could see the sincerity there. "Just go talk to him. And breathe."
"Will do," Blaine answered, fastening his coat.
Walking down the street moments later Blaine felt like he could barely see the pavement in front of him, let alone know what to do next. It was freezing, and the wind whipped through the canyons created by the tall buildings. Without noticing which station it was, he ducked into the closest subway, and soon hopped on board the next car, figuring he'd take it to the end of the line, hoping that by then he'd have a plan.
Some time later, he blinked, realizing the train had stopped for more than just a moment, and that everyone had to get off. He followed the crowd, noticing that he was at the Bowling Green stop. He didn't have any idea what part of the city Bowling Green was in, or even which borough. It didn't matter; his head was no clearer than it had been when he'd gone down the stairs, so he decided to try going outside to look around.
He attempted to get his bearings and not look like a lost tourist at the same time. To his left, a short walk away, was the big glass facade with a large sign for the Staten Island Ferry. To his right, a park alongside the harbor. He squinted in the bright sunlight, and decided to check the park out.
Even in winter, the trees lent him a little bit of serenity, and he took in a deep breath and started walking. The views of the harbor were excellent here, and he wondered why he and Kurt had never visited this place yet. He placed a hand over his eyebrows, trying to soften the glare bouncing off of the water to see her better – the Statue of Liberty. Maybe a boat ride would help him clear his head, help him come up with a plan. He saw a sign for the Water Taxis, and waited in line.
He was relieved to get off the boat about an hour later. In no mood to hear the chipper travelogue down in the main passenger area of the boat, he'd escaped to the top deck early on. It was still freezing out, so in spite of the crowds inside, he'd been almost alone up there. If the wind and the cold made everyone else teary too, so much the better. Just surviving the boat ride had felt like an accomplishment.
He exited back into the park, and stopped to take a picture for a couple that asked him to get a pose of the two of them in front of a giant bronze eagle monument. Giving the happy couple back their camera, he drifted over to a bench to sit down, leaning forward and burying his head in his hands.
"You don't mind if I join you?"
He looked over at the smiling old woman, huddled in one of those enormous calf length poufy parkas. "No, of course not."
He didn't know how much time had passed when she spoke to him again.
"Young man, are you all right?"
He looked down and shook his head before looking back at her. "I guess," he lied.
She looked old, eighties probably, he thought. She turned to him, her face arranging itself into wrinkles all around her smile and chuckled before answering. "I think I have enough children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to know a person who's upset when I see one. 'The devil is not wise because he is the devil,'" she paused a beat before continuing. "'The devil is wise because he is old.'" She smiled at him again, looking at him closely. "Not from around here, I'm guessing."
"Is it that obvious?" He shrugged and tried to smile back.
"I was just making polite conversation," she waved her hand. "I mean, I was born in Manhattan and I still come here to get some peace sometimes." She looked over at him encouragingly, but the boy didn't seem willing to discuss his troubles.
Blaine cleared his throat and tried to think of something to say. He looked out at the water, then back to her. "Is this a good spot for that?" he wondered.
She chuckled again. "Well, let's see. It's a train ride and a ferry ride away from my daughter in law, and with a return trip and a little walk here, a couple of coffees and cigarettes later and it's good for about three hours. Enough time for us both to cool off." She rolled her eyes. "Living together can be tough. Sometimes my son and his little family need a little less grandma time."
Blaine nodded. Was that was he was doing? He remembered their argument, how quickly it had turned ugly. He'd been so happy, planning out the work space, and then hearing that Sam got a job (and he did look so much better with the haircut). Between Sam moving out and him finally taking some initiative in using the space in the loft, he'd figured Kurt would be pleased. Then it happened; Kurt came home and was immediately pissed, accused him of barging in and doing whatever he wanted. At the time he hadn't thought to say that no, it had been only after months of him living there that he'd done that, and besides, it was just some marking ideas out with tape, hardly written in stone!
Kurt's angry, "You could've at least consulted me before making design decisions in my home," had stung so much. His insecurities came roaring to life, along with the baggage borne of living with parents who were every bit as controlling, design-wise, as Kurt was, and who could be just as condescending. "Let's just be adults and put everything back where it's supposed to go." And where was that, exactly; that's what he felt like he should have asked him but couldn't think to, at the time. How could a loft full of college students not have even one desk in it? And a tidy stack by his side of the bed wasn't his idea of a lasting place for his school things.
His mother had redecorated his room while he was away during semesters at Dalton – twice. He'd never gotten to choose a paint color, or select furniture, and it was only at Dalton that he finally had a desk and work space that he could leave whatever way he needed to. Kurt's angry words came back again. "You can't just barge in here and do whatever you want whenever you want." When had he done that?
Talking to Elliott had at least quelled his fear that he might lose Kurt to his band mate. But how could he go home, when he wasn't even sure what that meant right now?
"You've had an argument with someone," the woman said, interrupting his thoughts.
"How – how did you know that?" Blaine spluttered.
She could see the tears making his eyes sparkle and shuffled a little closer to him on the bench so she could lay a hand on his arm. "Like I said, experience." She watched as he nodded his head, and seemed maybe to be comforted by her gesture. She exhaled, looked up to the heavens, then looked at him again before continuing. "I feel bad for you, in a way. I really do. You kids, you take everything so hard, and everything feels like the end of the world, every time. Whoever it is, you must care about them an awful lot." She squeezed his arm gently.
"I do. The most. We're supposed to be getting married," he blurted out, "and it's like we can't even agree on where to put a desk all of a sudden!"
"Maybe there's more to it than that," she agreed. "Maybe when you've both cooled off you can work it out."
"I'm not sure I should even be living with him," Blaine murmured.
She nodded. "Maybe not. The old ways weren't all bad, you know. Whether you decide to get married or not, there's a lot you should work out before you decide to share a roof." She chuckled. "And even when you agree on the ground rules, that doesn't mean you won't need to get some time alone now and then."
"Should I bring home flowers?" Blaine wondered aloud, already visualizing red and yellow roses; or should he go with something different?
"Did you do something awful?"
He looked at her, and stopped himself from saying, no, not this time. Even Elliott had told him to stop being guilty about that. He cleared his throat and looked straight at her, his voice stronger. "No. I didn't."
She smiled approvingly. "Well, no flowers then. Talk to each other as equals, and maybe later you can go out for dinner or whatever you kids do nowadays." She stood up. "But, for now, you need to eat something, maybe walk some more to clear your head. I always find that a ride on the ferry does wonders for me," she added, gesturing for him to get up.
"I tried the Water Taxi thing," he admitted.
She laughed a light laugh, suddenly sounding much younger. "You don't have a real New Yorker showing you around, do you?"
An hour and a half later, he was in almost the same spot, but feeling much less lost. She'd insisted on buying him a coffee and a hard roll with lots of butter (and had the same herself) at the Staten Island Ferry terminal, and he'd gone with her on her voyage back to Staten Island. A quick walk on the other side, and he'd headed back to Manhattan. The trip back had been much quieter once he was alone again, but whether it was the food, the company, the ferry, or her grandmotherly presence, but he at least felt like he could breathe again.
Sam was moving out; news that had made him happy and then slightly sad when he'd heard it. He didn't know where he was going to go, exactly, but surely Sam would return the favor and let him do the couch surfing this time. Sure, he was hurt by Kurt's words, but he knew he needed to get his bearings: live somewhere where he could decide what his boundaries were, learn what his needs were, so that when they did come back together (and he really believed in them, still) they could work out what that would look like, together.
He found himself at the entrance to the subway and found the closest map. Now that he knew where he needed to go, he didn't want to spend any more time being lost.
A/N: I hope you've enjoyed this, and if so, I'd love to hear from you. Life has gotten in the way of me and my writing for far too long (and I'll be honest and confess I love hearing from my readers, and thrive on encouragement).