Note: This wasn't beta'd so please excuse any typos. I'm a horrible self-editor. Also, this was written PRIOR to the spoilers about 04x17, however, it could definitely be considered spoilery about it.
It was inching past two in the morning and Blaine Anderson couldn't sleep. He'd tried. He'd been lying on his bed, sheet pulled up to his armpits, staring at the swaying tree limbs outside his window for a solid hour.
He'd counted sheep until his mind had gone on a tangent about why people count sheep instead of other animals. Then he'd pulled out his phone and searched Google for how long people had been doing that. It'd been an interesting diversion, but didn't make him tired.
He'd tried closing his eyes and taking calming breaths (ridiculously trying to apply Sam's broga meditation to real life). Nothing. The sheep had been more helpful. Nothing was working.
It wasn't like earlier in the year where he went through periods of not being able to rest followed by just wanting to sleep all the time. He wasn't sad. He wasn't angry or agitated. He was just busy.
Blaine's mind was like a hyperactive night owl roommate at the moment and it was killing him. He had a student council meeting at seven-thirty in the morning. He had promised to pick up donuts beforehand, though he hoped with enough smiling emoticons he could convince Tina to do it instead; he had a French quiz in second period; and he and Artie were supposed to meet at lunch for an emergency What the Hell Is Wrong with Glee Club This Year meeting.
The lunch meeting was, understandably, causing more stress because Blaine knew it would result in adding four thousand items to his to-do list. He wasn't delusional. He knew they weren't going to win Nationals this year. This time last year they'd been in dance rehearsals for nearing three months. This year it was obvious Mr. Schue had gotten his win and checked out, then left Glee Club in the hands of someone who cared, but didn't have experience. The new kids didn't have dance practice. The older kids rarely had weekly competitions or assignments.
When they'd lost at Sectionals Blaine had shrugged it off as something that wasn't his concern anymore. Now it was right back on his plate. Mr. Schue, and Finn, may rely on coming up with songs and routines at the last minute, but that only ever worked because the club was constantly performing. Bits and pieces of routines that they'd liked from previous performances would make it onto a set list. People would find songs based on other songs they thought had worked. Blaine was fine with rushing to arrange music if they were well trained. Being unprepared and untrained was not okay with him.
Nor was it okay with Artie, and they'd agreed to get together and come up with an emergency practice schedule. Blaine could already imagine everything they'd need to accomplishment – begging Mike to do some videos of dance routines for the boys to practice, convincing Brittany to give up her afternoons to work with the girls. Blaine would have to get Marley, Tina and Unique practicing for a female lead spot. He needed to practice himself. Someone was going to have to sort through all of the costumes and fabrics… it made his brain buzz and his heart race.
This was not conducive to sleep. Blaine kicked the top sheet off of himself and tried to force himself to not repeat the same mental rant over and over again.
He'd even vented about all this earlier over Xbox Live to Sam. They'd played an hour of Castle Crashers and Sam had listened, patently, like he always did. Then he'd given Blaine the most ridiculous advice of their friendship.
"Whenever I get stressed like that I just make myself stop thinking about it. Turn the off switch in my head," he'd said.
Blaine's little blue avatar froze on the screen and he sat on his bedroom floor gaping. The wide eyes, mouth partially open look was one he made at Sam frequently. He adored Sam but, now and then, he just said things that made Blaine's brain misfire. "Just…stop? Isn't that the point? I can't stop thinking about it."
"I dunno, man. I just do something that won't let me think about it or I say 'stop thinking about it' and things quiet down. Pick up that weapon drop."
Blain took a few deep breathes, his eyes staring at the white ceiling above him, and tried to imagine what Sam would do in this situation. It's not like Sam literally had an on and off switch in his brain. Maybe he did. Maybe Sam didn't even go to bed at night, he just powered down in some corner of the room to wait until morning. If Blaine hadn't seen Sam sleeping before, that theory would have some merit, but it did make him wonder. Did Sam ever have trouble sleeping? Did he ever lie in bed at night, lips pursed, sheets twisted and t-shirt rumpled, watching the clock? A warm feeling tingled through Blaine's body to accompany that mental image and he shifted on the bed, listening to the mattress squeak below him.
He was starting to realize one way to shut down his mind – even if it probably wasn't the way Sam was suggesting.
Though, actually, Blaine could imagine it was the way Sam was suggesting. He could imagine Sam lying in his messy bed at the Hummel-Hudson household, fingers tracing along his boxers while he tried to pull up some fantasy to distract. Would it be about Brittany? Blaine could see that. Brittany had legs to die for and he could definitely see the appeal. How hard would it be to get lost in some fantasy of kissing Brittany's little smile? Blaine could picture Sam getting just enough into it that Sam's body wouldn't be able to help but respond, and he'd end up panting from imaginary kisses.
Maybe it was some old girlfriend that night, reliving past conquests, or some nameless woman from a redtube video. Someone who could be a pretty body or mouth for Sam to picture as he teased himself, just enough to keep the distraction going, before sliding a hand beneath his boxers and—
Blaine squeezed his fist tightly and clenched his eyes shut. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be thinking about this or evening thinking about how he shouldn't be thinking about it. This was just inappropriate, and the reminder of how inappropriate was now tenting his pajama pants. Sam was his best friend not some… sex object or fantasy he could use as he pleased.
But he did wonder how many women thought of him that way back in his stripping days. Probably men too.
That line of thought was not helping.
With some effort, Blaine relaxed his hand and winced when he realized his nails had been digging into the fleshy part of his palm. He shook his hand to chase away the discomfort and lifted his head to view his newly arisen problem. If he was having trouble sleeping before, it would be damn near impossible now with an erection standing proud, reminding him that he was just fantasizing about his friend jerking off.
And oh god, he had to stop thinking about that.
He was an 18-year-old, healthy, hormonal teenager. So he wanted to get off. That was fine. He had a vivid imagination and didn't need to picture Sam's teeth biting down on his lower lip or Sam absently running a hand down his stomach while his pulled on his -
No. This needed to stop. Blaine could stop this.
Blaine sighed, rolling slightly on to his side and reaching into his nightstand drawer to pull out a small tube of lubricant. It was mostly gone and Blaine tried, really hard, to not add that to his mental to-do list. Instead, he popped the cap with one hand, squeezed out a dollop, then closed the container and tossed it back in the partially opened drawer. Blaine squeezed his hand into a fist and smeared the clear, chemically vanilla scented gel over his palm and fingers. Meanwhile, his clean hand tugged his sleep shirt up his chest, and carefully pulled down his own pajama pants and boxers. He held back a wince at the fabric tugging over the head of his cock. At least that made him remember a time when he used to have someone else eager to help strip his pants off.
Blaine's slick right hand was now at the base of his cock, rubbing in a circle before sliding up the shaft to massage at the head. He concentrated on not thoughts of his best friend, but on one of the last time someone had been eager and frantic to get his pants off –just a few weeks ago at Ms. Pillsbury's aborted wedding.
Before the ceremony, Blaine had spilt a few drops of coffee on his shirt and Kurt had gone with him to get a Tide pen out of his car. Then Blaine had somehow ended up on his back in the rear of the Prius, his knee wedged between Kurt's legs and Kurt's hands tugging at his belt. That has been fun and lighthearted. Kurt had been giggling and Blaine had been nothing but surprised until he was far too into it to think about anything else. Kurt's long fingers had brushed the fabric of his boxers, creating a friction that was welcome and not enough, and Blaine had tried to return the favor by grinding his leg against Kurt. They'd laughed between kisses, like their bodies were just playing catch-up over coffee, and then –
Tina had knocked on the car door looking horrified and angry that her "date" had vanished to make out in a car. They'd stopped for a moment, embarrassed, and Kurt had pushed him back down into the seat the second she'd rolled her eyes and stormed away, but…
Blaine bit his lip. Thinking about the messy emotional ball around Tina was not going to get him off right now.
Instead, he thought about a faceless man with long fingers, maybe sandy brown hair and enough height to loom over him. He slid his hand up the length of cock, pulling and squeezing, as he thought about pressing his lips and tracing his tongue over well-defined abs, and hip bones, and…now he was hitting it.
Blaine's free hand wrapped in the top sheet that was in a bundled mess next to him, tugging it and clenching even as he worked his other hand over himself – his thumb brushing under the ridge of cock, his palm wrapped tight around him. The feel of smooth skin through lubricant made it easier to pretend it was someone else's hand or mouth on him. His tongue darted out and wetted his lips as the images in his head shifted to those of him and Kurt, legs tangled together on a hotel bed, Kurt's hand between them, working Blaine over in a way that only familiarity could bring. He knew where to slide his fingers, where and when to put pressure and, more importantly, the best time to sneak forward and scrape teeth or lips across the thin skin on Blaine's neck.
Blaine knew how to get himself off, but it was impossible to not miss having a partner. Particular a partner he'd be fooling around with since he'd first started having sex.
Guilt over using an ex-boyfriend as wank fodder, or the need to distance himself from the melancholy thoughts that would surely follow it, made Blaine replace the image of Kurt with another random CW celebrity. Cute smile, nice ass, and warm hands were enough for this - and if he imagined the guy knew just the right time to squeeze and stroke, or knew how to do the flirty thing Kurt did where he fluttered his eyes and rubbed his cheek against Blaine's thigh in the middle of a blow job, that was okay. If he imagined the guy had Sam's stomach and loud laugh, or looked at him with the pure want that Sebastian did and that same teasing grin, that was okay too. It wasn't hurting anyone.
Blaine worried his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to keep any grunts or moans muffled, even as his hips bucked up to fuck into the loose grip of his hand. He could feel sweat building on his temples, and his fingers dug deeper into the sheets with every thrust and squeeze.
It was weird, but his legs were always the first to know when an orgasm was coming. His calf muscles would tense, and his knees would bend slightly just right before the rest of his body got the message. It was like his body was always preparing to sprint, or jump, at the crack of a gun. His legs tensed then, and his spine arched as the first jolt of his orgasm hit him. He came fairly quietly, all things considered; just a quick gasp followed by a long exhale of air, and clenched muscles accompanying the mess that splattered across his hands and up his wrist.
Blaine panted for a few seconds, his head dizzy and his body tingling, before he grabbed a handful of tissues from the nightstand for a quick clean up. The crumpled tissues made their way (barely) to the bin, and Blaine slumped against his pillow, his body still warm and pliant in a way that only jerking off could offer. He'd pulled his t-shirt back down, but the pajama pants were still riding low around his hips and Blaine couldn't be bothered to do more than half-heartedly tug on them as he pulled a blanket up his body.
On their own accord, Blaine's eyes slid close. The room was quiet, and so, thankfully, was the constant to-do list in his head. For a few precious moments, any guilt about Sam, or Kurt, or ridiculous school politics and expectations became just a buzzing noise in the back of his mind.
His breathing evened out, and, at least for the few minutes it took him to fall asleep, even that French quiz in the morning really just didn't seem that important.