Wasn't the Micheal episode just wow! I walked round in a state of shock and indignation for about two days after :') how could they do that to poor Blaine! How could they even attempt to do that to the awesome figure that is Kurt?
Anyway, watching it, the one thing that struct me the most was: why aren't the original Warblers (Nick, Jeff, Trent) doing anything! Blaine was their friend and soloist, the Warblers as a whole practically treated him as a demi god or something, so how could they turn against him with no feeling? It really bugged me. So at about 2 O'clock in the morning, inspiration struct and this was eventually born.
Another thing that shocked me, when rewatching the Jackson-off between ND and the Warblers, was that Nick actually handles the bag, passing it off to someone, aswell as Flint! My opinion of him shot through the floor, and got me thinking, he must have been either manipulated or pressurised into doing it.
In this story, though Nick and Jeff's interactions clearly boast something more, they do not as yet veiw themselves as anything but friends.
But seriously, what kind of person throws ROCK SALT in peoples face, i mean, come on!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything, I profit from nothing but my own enjoyment.
From the shadows, a flash of crimson; a sunset in the night. Between friends of ignorance, a paper bag exchanged. And then, Blaine fell to the floor screaming, gripping hands shielding his eyes as food colouring #25 dripped like blood from his face, pooling upon the concrete beneath.
For the single stutter of a heartbeat, neither Warblers nor New Directions alike betrayed any sign of animation, each clamouring to comprehend the series of events which had culminated in this noisome result – to tease truth from a scene of peripheral confusion.
At the vanguard of the accapella choir stood, alone, Sebastian Smythe; arm outstretched and suspended in what would appear a mockery of thrust, were it not for the presence of one, now empty, Styrofoam cup, stained guilt red.
Though the current situation permitted no modicum of doubt concerning his intentions, an expression of mild surprise marred his stone-cut features, and the whisper of something more profound; each out of place in the violence.
And at his feet, Blaine lay writhing, calling out in agony.
The wan strips of greasy light massed at ten meter intervals, paired with the monochromatic constitute and relative no-man's land of an unnamed city car park, instilled the horrendous sight with still graduated macabre. A battle-ground of friends and enemies who never should have been.
And then life caught up. Kurt dropped instantly to Blaine's side, tears already glistening in his soulful eyes, woeful stars in the night. Frightened, confused and physically pained by the wrenching sounds of Blaine's chocked torment. Never in his life had he heard anybody scream like that. The fingers of one hand were lost in Blaine's hair, their stroking motion counter-acting the products hold, until tress by tress, dark, wayward curls shed their restraint and fell across his forehead, while Kurt's other gripped his arm like a vice, trying to console where whispers of comfort failed.
Wordlessly he endeavoured to tempt his fallen partner from the constrains of his rigid fetal position, but Blaine was unreachable, incarcerated in a world of pain.
A slushie had done this?
Too disoriented to reward the Warblers in kind (for even self-proclaimed badass, Noah Puckerman struggled to affirm credulity in the disproportionate motives) the remainder of New Directions gathered around their distraught comrades in a defensive half perimeter; numb with mute horror. The single exclamatory; 'oh my god!' adequately summarising the careless brutality of the scene in a way more sophisticated terms could not equal.
Sebastian retreated almost as promptly, trivially tossing aside the tarnished Styrofoam. It clattered and echoed like the facsimile of a heart without moral directive, without integrity, without conscience.
Forgoing concern, he turned his back on the pandemonium he had instigated with a satisfied expression.
"Let's go." And in his wake, the larger portion of the Warblers pursued; eager footed and downcast eyed – like criminals fleeing the location of a heist.
But Nick could not move an inch. What had he done? What had he condoned to be done? Too affronted by aggressive and tumultuous distress he remained, to effect a timely exit. Moreover, he could feel Jeff shaking beside him, even as each stood alone. Without looking he knew the blonde was as physically sickened as himself, maybe more.
What the hell had just happened? That was Blaine who Sebastian had assaulted.
Anger, betrayal, consternation, incredulity, horror, regret, fear, concern and a plethora of other discordant emotions fought and conquered like rampant forces within, for the soloist who had been to him, like a brother. The loathing, however, Nick retained for himself.
Beside him, Jeff made a convulsive movement, as if intending to converge upon his stricken friend, momentarily discounting the prospective less than accommodating reactions of the New Directions as a whole. Their positions had been marked. The game commenced. It was this threat which stirred Nick from his morose brooding, and he reached out to prevent its fruition, but restraint was unnecessary, for in the next moment, Jeff faltered, seemingly belatedly to think better of the impulse.
Blaine's moans continued unabated, even as Kurt hushed him, reassuring fervently. Not even for Kurt's comfort could Blaine be mollified, indicating that something was most severely wrong. Then, loud and clear, like the lash of retribution exacted for unsavoury affiliation, one word conquered the turgid divide; 'hospital,' spoken fretfully by the Latina.
As one Nick and Jeff regarded each other with fearful expressions, while harsh reality imposed itself with magnanimity. Every action bore a consequence, whether it was contrived in unawares or not.
Then, there came an insistent pressure upon their sleeves, as Trent urged them forwards with few words and a haunted expression.
The usually high-spirited Warbler could not look them in the eye, even as they could not bare to hold his gaze in return. His touch relented as soon as they complied.
Each felt dirty, cold and cruel, despite the fact that they had been proportionally ignorant of Sebastian's ulterior motives. By the action of his self-instated vendetta, he had blackened all their names.
There was something in his conscience which compelled Nick to look back, but the instant he did, he wished he had not, for in that infinitesimal moment, his gaze levelled with Kurt's. Tear-tracks marred his porcelain cheeks, like rivers struck by moonlight – and the vision seemed a sacrilege – as he cradled Blaine against him, protectively. He regarded Nick with such hurt and betrayal as left the latter unable to breath.
Nick stumbled out into the open air, which was cold and damp, though somewhat mild for mid-January. A listless wind stirred the laconic environment, and high above, the stars, without discretion boasted their repugnance by turning out their lights, leaving in their wake only a judgemental moon.
Though he knew he was cold, s sticky sheen of perspiration coated his skin. His legs were weak and his mind was racing.
Jeff was beside him instantly, looking considerably worse than Nick felt. His already pale skin was almost transparent in the hold of shock, and were it not for the verdant tincture which pervaded it, it would have been. His eyes were wild, those of a frightened animal caught in a hunters snare, and he was shaking so hard that the vibration was perceptible even in his intake and expulsion of air.
But, notwithstanding, there was something of grim determination and inspiring resilience in the set of his brow, and the hard line of his mouth, which lent steel to his limbs.
His hand shot out and twisted unforgivingly into the fabric of Nick's sleeve, anchoring there, thought whether the gesture offered or sought comfort defied the determine of either.
"I know," Nick sympathised, gripping his shoulder in turn for an instant; bracing. Rather, instead, he would have reassured him that everything was okay, or by some marvel would be. But there was no comfort in a lie.
Some at Dalton knew violence in their pasts – the pains of which were subdued in the words of a song until banished from conscious thought. Some still carried the scars – whether visible, or not – and it was those individuals; like Jeff, like himself, like Trent and several others who were most prominently affected and unsettled by that which had suffered inception as a harmless prank. Those individuals who listed with lost expressions, and looked with hollow eyes upon a suddenly uncivilised world, abruptly unsure of themselves.
Dalton was their haven. The one place in the world where they felt safe, had found acceptance; freedom. The liberty to be, without restraint, without shame, and above all, true to themselves. A novelty even now. To sing and dance in a show-choir with famous credentials, and be celebrated for doing something they loved. Without fear of ridicule, violence or hate. No prejudice. No discrimination. No tolerance.
In the span of a single night, by the accursed actions of a single perpetrator, that century old virtue had been desecrated.
That policy represented hope for a better future, and how dare someone like Sebastian Smythe take that from them!
White hot anger courted the fickle mistress of molten injustice, lending fortitude to Nick's will, and instigating within him an irrepressible compulsion – to hurt Sebastian as much as he had hurt Blaine, as much as he had betrayed them all.
He moved forward with purposeful strides, breathing raggedly, schooling his strength. Jeff moved with him, though his hold rapidly transitioned into one of restraint as he caught sight of Nick's tenebrous expression.
The taller would not stand idly by and see another of his friends injured that nigh, not while he had strength and forewarning enough to prevent it. The world had disowned the embrace of sanity. Sebastian was as dangerous as he was charming, and in the few months since his arrival, he had certainly been that. For a while Jeff was convinced he was the only one to perceive the ficade, but now it appeared others were growing wise.
Parked to the side of the single carriageway were five vehicles: sleek, contoured, powerful, fierce, imposing. No alignment of cars had ever spoken; money more conspicuously. And at their centre, fore-piece to their back-drop, stood Sebastian, grinning.
He was surrounded by a circle of loyalists, who, in turn, commended his efforts heartily – new Warblers, all of them. Without question, Jeff knew that each and every one had at some point applauded Blaine's solo's during one of the Warbler's many impromptu performances. And worst of all, they knew it too, though their actions thereafter would have belied it.
He felt his stomach lurch, and bile burn the back of his throat even just to look at them. The Warblers were a single being: one heart, one mind; no individual greater than the team, or that's what they professed at least, for in that moment, they stood divided. Wes and David would never have allowed this to happen.
Sebastian barely had opportunity to register Nick's approach, before the latter's fist connected, hard, with his jaw. It was testament to the amount force Nick extolled in the blow that Sebastian stumbled backwards, blinking dazedly for a handful of seconds, before recovering.
Immediately, the two were forcefully separated. Trent, who had since lingered close to the pair, feeling otherwise disconcerted, without hesitation took custody of Nick's swing arm, incapacitating it in a vice-like grip. Together he and Jeff restrained Nick – an endeavour which, without doubt, required their culminate efforts.
Sebastian shrugged off the hold of his restrainers easily, composure un-riled. To Jeff's disgust, he threw back his head and laughed bodily, as if highly amused.
Maybe he had built up a resistance to blows, thought the blonde Warbler sourly, because he couldn't imagine anyone, after meeting Sebastian, not wanting to punch him.
"What the hell was that?" Nick demanded, wrestling violently against Jeff and Trent's detainment, determined, desperate to land another punch. To wipe that smug smile off his face, once and for all.
The Warbler's retreat was abandoned. An army of blue and red blazers stood poised to intercede, watching enraptured the decent into animosity portrayed so flawlessly by two of their own. A paradox of old and new, original and novel, disquiet and relish.
Had either Jeff or Trent solicitously believed that Nick could best Sebastian, they would have permitted him his elected course of avengement; his opportunity to strike back. But Sebastian played dirty, that they had witnessed already, and there was a fine line between honour and idiocy. After all, they were, all of them, angry.
"Take it easy, Duval," Sebastian warned, scornful, suave and smooth as ever, though there was a certain malice to his tone, "you really don't want to test me." The assurance was punctuated with that infuriating, ever-present grin.
"The hell I don't!" spat Nick, acidly. "What did you do?"
"Nothing."
It was said with such succinct arrogance and self-righteous conceit that even Jeff's deferential reserve broke. Presently, he found himself talking to back to Sebastian in a way his gentle nature would not otherwise have permitted. Fear, adversely, could also make one brave.
"Nobody screams like that for no reason, Sebastian. Blaine doesn't." His tone was clipped, accusing. "For once in your life just tell the damn truth!"
A terse silence descended upon the congregation, and a few members shifted uneasily. Rather than being intimidated by Jeff's abrupt and uncompromising verboseness, however, Sebastian seemed only to find the spectacle humorous, coming to regard him with ever heightening derision.
Even Nick's vigorous resistance waned momentarily as he gazed upon his pacifistic and still evidently disquieted friend with an expression akin to pride. Almost as if he were seeing Jeff, really seeing him, for the first time.
Jeff's cheeks burned with indignation under the scrutiny of his peers, and though his heart brutally assaulted his ribcage with a fervency that was almost painful, his vehement gaze never wavered.
"Alright. Alright. You got me." Sebastian held up his hands in mock surrender, arrogance enduring even in forced confession, "all I did was send out a message: the Warbler's are through playing nice. Blaine clearly just overacted." The implication was maddening.
"You threw shards of ice in his face," Trent emphasized with curt attitude. "How was that an overreaction?"
Sebastian turned upon the sassy Warbler, as serene as ever, and Trent tensed reflexively, his hold on Nick's arm becoming almost intolerable. Nick tried without avail to shake him off and preserve feeling in his fingers.
"Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Trent," he winked, before lowering his voice to little above a monotone, as if confiding a secret unto multiple listeners, "being such an expert on public schools." He arched his eyebrows in two sharp movements even as Trent scowled.
A person who makes a point of seeking inferiorities in his equals in order to satisfy his own insecurities, eventually becomes so consumed by the practice that those natural flaws of humanity, which are there to be seen, cease to be enough, and he has to found his own, searching for that ever elusive self-acceptance. So Sebastian had penalized public school education.
But Trent was nothing if not able to read people, and though Sebastian's tone was as smooth as satin, there was something in his eyes which betrayed disingenuity. A lie was always damasked by the culprits own conduct, a subconscious dictator; one just had to know where to look. He mentally filed that particular titbit away for further consideration.
For an instant, he earnestly considered releasing Nick's arm, just to have him punch Sebastian one last time, before;
"You didn't aim that slushie at Blaine," Jeff realized, growing again abruptly cold and weak, as seemingly insignificant memory schooled revelation. Three seconds, at the close of a lyrical dual – realization, reaction, protection – a witness otherwise discounted. "Blaine just got in the way."
Hushed whispers resonated through the close ranks of the Warblers, as winds voice through the boughs of a dense forest – the warning hiss of a coiled snake.
Trent and Nick alone watched Jeff with unwavering glances, their stance equally guarded, on edge. Meanwhile, the remainder of the Warblers had eyes for Sebastian only. As before; their positions were marked, and the game commenced.
Jeff grew tall with defiance, until Nick deigned within him a sense of nobleness.
"You're real target was Kurt."
To the newer Warblers, the name meant nothing, but to those original members: Nick, Jeff, Trent, Thad, Flint, it waxed uneasy. To Flint, most especially, for, so far as Jeff could conjecture, he had been as prominent a presence in the attack as Sebastian himself.
Trent gaped, open-mouthed, his gaze rapidly traded between Sebastian and his accuser. But what he and Jeff alike, had failed to notice was that, in the lieu of revelation, the conviction of their restraint adequately dwindled, and as Sebastian cocked an eyebrow, clearly impressedby and appreciative of Jeff's deduction, Nick broke free.
Aiming lower this time, he drove his fist, with the violence of a bullet into Sebastian's stomach, causing him to double over, wheezing.
Warbler practice was not the only extra-curricular over which Blaine and Nick had bonded. Both, in their time had been adept boxers.
With increasing desperation, Trent and Jeff recaptured him, their inexpert companions beginning to look hostile.
"Calm down," Jeff pleaded. He had never seen Nick like this before, and it stirred something within him, something not entirely owed to fear. Nick was protective, certainly, but Jeff had afore underestimated its ardency.
Sebastian recovered at an inordinately rapid rate, smoothing the creases from his blazer.
Seriously, was the guy invulnerable to pain thought Trent, irritably.
"Keep doing that and you might eventually get somewhere," he mocked sagely.
Nick snorted. Oh, but he was getting somewhere. Perhaps Sebastian could deny it now, high on adrenaline, but he would certainly feel the burn of those blows tomorrow. Nick had been a competent study.
"You think that makes it better: because you intended to get Kurt instead of Blaine?" Nick challenged, too provoked to be deterred by Sebastian's misdirection techniques. They only demonstrated his insecurity at the conversations direction.
Nonetheless, Sebastian's entire demeanour exuded self-righteous conviction, and to the united trio's fury; he smiled. That smile being answer enough in its own right.
"Kurt's one of us!" defended Jeff with feeling, "as much as Blaine is. We don't turn on each other like animals." His tone was condescending.
"Yeah, once a Warbler, always a Warbler," Trent chimed in with superiority, "a little thing called integrity, Seb."
Nick smirked before adding:
"Not that you'd know anything about that."
Though there was murmuring throughout the ranks, none of the congregation came forward to defend their idol as he was slandered, even as the three true friends defended one-another. Favour was fickle, while friendship, forever.
Sebastian just rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Would you guys relax. It was a joke. Lighten up."
But it wasn't a joke, had never been a joke. Anyone with the slightest inclination of common sense could perceive that. But common sense, it seemed somehow, just wasn't as common any more.
"Funny," Nick snipped, "I don't see anyone laughing."
Sebastian yawned, infusing the feigned gesture with overstated effrontery;
"Okay, whatever. As fun as this has been, and its been a riot," his eyes gleamed momentarily in the darkness, "I'd like to go home now. So Trent, Jeff, if you're done calling my honour into question, and Nick you're done trying to assault me, we can be on our way."
He made a pantomime of extricating his car keys and spinning them once, deftly around his left index finger, while some of the newer Warblers sniggered.
"I don't ride with jerks."
Nick mentally cringed at how childish his argument sounded, but even the most witty controversies were just a sophisticated 'he said, she said,' and similar synonyms such as 'tyrant' and 'oppressor,' seemed a little melodramatic for Sebastian's mind games.
Sebastian's lip quirked as he turned towards Trent and Jeff, each of whom regarded him with defiance, loyalties established.
"Enjoy the walk home then," he shrugged, before brashly sliding into the drivers seat of his acid black Hummer, easily the most conspicuous and ostentatious car in the line up.
There was a moment of indecision. Was Sebastian seriously just going to leave them in Lima?
The immense engine purred into life like some territorial feline as the Hummer, a glittering carapace in the moonlight, pulled away smoothly from the kerb … Yes. Yes he was.
Trent and Jeff maintained their hold upon Nick until the five status symbols were out of sight, each markedly bewildered by all that had just came to pass. How could one night so effectively call into question everything you thought you knew? About yourself, about the people around you, about the world at large. It seemed foolish and presumptuous, that one hour out of a million, could hold such sway, but yet it did. Turgid with doubt and disquiet.
Even those without sin were stung by vicarious guilt. It was Blaine, but it should have been Kurt … Neither eventuality was favourable. The means were evident, but where was reason? Why had Sebastian deigned to turn upon his equals, engineering war from cohabitation?
"Are you finished hulking out on us now?" Trent quibbled, raising an eyebrow in lieu of Nick's macho display.
He appeared marginally calmer in Sebastian's absence – and didn't everyone – but there still endured a dark echo of brooding in his delicate eyes; a gentle sea in the throes of a storm – wrong somehow.
Jeff had grown quiet again, in the aftermath of confrontation, and what little colour his visage had attained in indignation had been forcefully abdicated. He looked vaguely faint.
Aware of the incumbent tension, Trent hid his own emotional instability with humour, a poor defence mechanism.
"Yeah. Let go of me." He shrugged free of their hold, strolled forward a few paces and impulsively kicked out at a discarded soda can on the pavement. It sailed 200 yards high and landed soundlessly in a field. When he turned back to them he was composed and in control.
"You know, you guys didn't have to … Just because I didn't want -" He faltered as Jeff shook his head mutely. That was all the conviction he needed.
"Personally, I'd rather walk home barefoot than carpool with Sebastian right now," Trent assured him, and the three smiled weakly. They were taking a stand, whether the victory won was only moral or not.
"How far is Dalton from here, anyway?" Nick mused aloud, frowning. Impulse truly was inconsiderate to logic.
"Nine miles, or thereabout," Trent supplied.
"We'd better get walking then."
As each of their initial footsteps faded subsequently in monument, the tyres of a car travelling at high speed screeched to the rear, heading towards town.
In unison, their expressions darkened, their concern for Blaine increasingly paramount. They did not, as in other circumstances, however, trade glances with one-another. This time, their sorrow and bitter feeling remained entirely private.
Five lives pulled in opposite directions, each a puppet of fate, and manipulated by one who would seek to usurp even that omniscience.
Things at Dalton had changed, that much was unmistakeable. Or perhaps, more specifically, the Warblers had changed.
Following their loss at Sectionals to the McKinley High, New Directions after a novel use of original songs, the Warblers were forced to concede defeat. The first time since 1997 that the acapella choir had failed to secure a place at Nationals, Wes had so deflatedly informed them.
The already disparaged Warblers were further disheartened to learn of the re-transfer of their counter-tenor and friend, Kurt – who had brought so much vibrancy and character to the ornate hallways. An unforgettable presence.
After which, Blaine smiled less, spent more time in solitude and even defected a solo or two. Though he remained as kind and compassionate as ever, his longing was evident, and the loyalty in his self-denial, heartbreaking.
Wes and David graduated without the acclaim they deserved, for none before or since, had or would equal the proficiency, equality and above all else, equanimity with which they governed the interests of their team. It was a victory they should have won, and its denial was bitter indeed. Though outwardly they accepted it with only the highest deference as was true to their spirit and sense of camaraderie.
It was not until the new scholastic year dawned that the remaining Warblers fully comprehended, and concurrently appreciated the breadth of Wes and David's organisation, and above all else, just how much they had done for the Warblers as a whole, and what they had sacrificed and gained off their own merits, solely. Those were imposing and difficult shoes to fill.
A team is only as strong, righteous, cohesive and just as its leader. And those were the glory days – spent.
Thad retained his station as council member, and Flint, the longest serving Warbler under Thad himself, took up the responsibility with relish, democracy abandoned, to widespread malcontent.
Blaine succeeded also to the position by popular vote – a retaliation strike – and though he laboured persistently to keep order and instill reason, it was clear that his heart wasn't in it.
The Warblers were not surprised, therefore, if not wholly supportive (in the case of a few particular members) when Blaine announced his imminent transfer to McKinley.
With the loss of its four most prominent figures, the collective heart of the Warblers fell into disrepute. The need for new members necessitated recruitment, while the original veterans could no longer identify common ground. And so the situation worsened, while Nick, Jeff, Trent and two others, it seemed were the only ones to retain any semblance of sanity, observing the scene with helplessness.
The title of head Warbler, was one which imbued much honour and grandeur, and many thought that they were entitled to it with woefully few credentials.
The weeks crept by, and rehearsals became a habit only history would tell, as the Warblers descended into a second-rate debate team, concerned with narrow minded issues.
They were one ill turned phrase short of disbanding when Sebastian arrived.
He was a mystery encased in an enigma. Though to the Warblers he accordingly presented himself as charming, diplomatic and inclined to sympathise with every commiseration no matter how seemingly insignificant. Traits which won him loyalties quickly.
The Warblers learned little enough of him, except that he had lived in Paris before coming to Dalton. He seemed disinclined to discuss his past, and the Warblers excepted his silence without question or judgement.
Jeff, however, for reasons undetermined even to himself, took an almost instant distrust to him, which in time grew into dislike. None of these concerns, however, he outwardly expressed, for Nick and Sebastian soon became fast friends, which almost certainly had everything to do with the preponderance of solos which came Nick's way courtesy of Sebastian's nudges. Trent, for the most part, remained indifferent to their new shining member, opinion reserved.
Sebastian took an active part in the Warblers meetings to general insistence, though he never campaigned to secure a position of responsibility, or so he made it seem, and in the end, it was this modesty which secured him the position anyway.
He eagerly spearheaded the recruitment process, with questionable yield.
The Warblers were a celebrated sensation at Dalton. Their voices brought great reverence and acclaim to the school and board of governors alike, and won them considerable privileges among students and faculty. Not to mention, a certain amount of leeway, where otherwise, retribution would be swift. It was to these advantages he pandered … and attracted the wrong kind of people.
The Warblers dissatisfaction diminished instantly when they discovered the cohesive and layered melody the newer voices added to their own, and that the influx of members meant that they could legitimately compete again. Sebastian was commended and his prominent role in the Warblers consummated. Thus began his rise into leadership.
In the four months since he had been at Dalton, he had given few reason to doubt him … that was, until tonight.
They stuck, so far as landscape would allow, almost religiously to the course that they had followed while driving, none of them being familiar enough with Lima to digress in hopes of a short-cut. This meant that they maintained the almost continual companion of civilization in some form or another, which though provided no marker for destination, at least gave them the impression that they were heading in the right direction. Just rebellion or not, this had not been their finest idea, even if it did negate their sensations of guilt.
The sky remained unfriendly, even given their defection. The moon still prejudice against their cause. A film of tendril mist began to roll in about them, settling like a cloud bank over the fields of farmers, whose homesteads affronted the highway with befuddling contrast.
The wind, which gathered little strength in the night, was an intermittent presence as they passed alternately between the buffer of houses and stretches of open highway.
And though the temperature viciously dispatched another degree or two, they did not feel the cold.
They had been walking perhaps an hour in easy silence, each pursuing their own trains of thought in a mission for clarity, when Jeff's arm, quite by accident, brushed against Nick's. Upon any other occasion, the latter would have thought nothing of it, but the sensation it boasted, if only perceptible for a second, was unmistakable.
Concerned, he reached out a hand and laid it on Jeff's shoulder, frowning when the blonde to startled slightly at the sudden contact, as he had not done in years. And without doubt, Nick could feel it.
"You're still shaking?" Unbidden moisture pooled in his eyes at this spoken revelation.
Instantly he stripped off his own blazer and held out the warm garment to Jeff, indicating him to take it. Jeff smiled a little at his compassion before shaking his head in decline, speaking aloud the truth Nick already knew;
"I'm not cold. Don't worry, it'll stop soon," he spoke as if Nick was the one who needed reassurance.
Soon, maybe, but not soon enough for Nick's liking. And so he insisted with more fervency, because already that night he had watched a friend suffer needlessly, when perhaps he could have done something to avert it, and once was once too many.
"Please? At least let me pretend like I've done something to help," he pushed the garment gently into Jeff's hands, and to his relief, Jeff acquiesced, pulling it on.
It was a couple of inches short in the body and the sleeves than Jeff's own blazer, but that didn't matter – what it was, was a physical representation of sentiment, a pledge: that whatever happened, Nick was looking out for him.
"Thanks," Jeff smiled. It even smelt like Nick; homely.
Trent observed them with keen interest, experiencing a small thrill of elation that was almost certainly vicarious, for an instant feeling like an integral part of their lives, even though he watched from the outside. Trust Jeff to be the one who coaxed Nick from his brooding silence, even in the absence of conscious intention.
"Just … take it easy, okay?" Nick was saying softly, regarding Jeff with doleful eyes, as if by some convoluted mischance, everything was his fault.
There was no need to ask what passed between them, for the answer was self evident. The violence of that night had resurged some unsavoury memories for them all, and once dredged they were hard to rebury. It just seemed that Jeff's sensitive and untarnished soul was more susceptible to their echo.
"Yeah, don't worry," Trent assured them both, because in truth, though Nick fought to hide it, they could each use the comfort, "Whatever happens, the three of us'll stick together. For Blaine and Kurt, right?"
"Right!" Nick grinned; his first earnest expression that night, while Jeff nodded his sincere accord.
Friendship was a bond which conquered all but the most well founded and vicious denouncements – it grew as greatly in strife as in happiness. It was unpredictable, unprecedented, unschooled, answerable to all and none, equally as different and equally the same between any flavoursome combination of people. And besides love, the most fierce, fastidious, coveted and beautiful union in the world.
Walking home that night, in the shadow of noisome and confusing events, unified in their rebellious cause, their friendship grew and melded upon levels too profound for consideration.
In their occurrence, we often do not acknowledge the significance of a moment.
Away from the painted scene; a vision of vivid crimson offset harshly by an indifferent grey, it was perhaps easier than it should have been to subdue the memory of betrayal, for with each subsequent step its clarity degenerated, until it became more like a second hand whisper than a witness.
Their peaceful surround belied the existence hold of cruelty, as if it were the sin of another world less advanced. It calmed them in its stillness, therapy for their uneasy souls, until even the most temperamental passions were soothed to a mere shade of their former glory. However, it did not deny truth, and steadfastly their thoughts returned to encompass Blaine again and again and again. Concern characterising their minds.
After a while, their course became more rural, removed from the comfort of civilizations presence, and they were forced to pick their way across field and hedge in order to remain parallel with the road, the conviction holding out that it was the right one. It was at this point that Trent began to limp pitifully, muttering intermittent curses of; 'stupid shoes,' 'bloody blisters,' and 'kill Sebastian,' every few paces.
Fighting back amusement and attempting to remain singularly sympathetic towards his friends plight, despite the fact that Trent was unintentionally humorous in almost everything he did, Nick looked down at his shoes. The rigid, unmallable and certainly unforgiving shape of new leather was evident.
"Why did you wear new shoes anyway?" Because surely, tight-fitting footwear was not conducive to an effective (and un-crippled) Jackson-off.
"Well, for one, I didn't think I'd be walking home," intoned Trent with inflection, while Nick smiled sheepishly, "and two, Sebastian was last in line when they handed out patience." That part was a grumble.
By now, Jeff had recovered composure enough to part take in their repartee, though he still appeared too pale in the night to adequately satisfy Nick's peace of mind.
"Maybe it would have been better to go barefoot," he suggested while Nick smirked. Trent simply levelled a glare at the blonde, though there was no malevolence in it.
"Oh, you're such a comedian," he said dryly.
Their path promptly evened out once again when the road cut through an estate; a tarmac ribbon in the shadows. The concrete was easier underfoot if not any less unforgiving. Trent filled his time by silently denouncing the injustice of suffering torment for doing something noble, as he counted the miles with increasing despair. Four down, five to go. Five down, four to go. He was seriously never wearing these shoes again.
As the prolonged assail of lax temperature finally secured purchase, seeping into their bones like rheumatism, the knuckles of Nick's right hand began to throb and ache persistently. So far he had negligently discounted the abuse they had suffered, and perhaps that had been an oversight.
Discreetly, he opened and closed his fingers a few times as if clasping and realising something unseen. He almost groaned as the action sent a lance of pain snaking down his entire arm; like a brand of liquid fire. But he could do it, which was evidence enough that they were not broken, just bruised. He knew he deserved it and worse, the world was perverse if it permitted him to walk away without maim.
Again he ruthlessly dragged the palms of his hands over the rough material of his trousers in a movement that was almost convulsive; ignoring the pangs of agony it cost him.
He could feel it – the gritty cold of fractured ice, contaminating his skin with shame and guilt. He wanted to confess, to relieve his conscience of the burden it carried, but he feared their reprisal, and above all, their disappointment. Jeff meant the world to him, and what he had done contravened everything he had ever pledged, his nature included.
Jeff witnessed the repetitive movement with growing unease. In Nick, there was a sense of terrible preoccupation, of unrest and inner struggle. It had been obvious the instant they stepped out into the night, and had only gained body since. It assumed the guise of a haunted, hollow expression, particularly prevalent in the window of his eyes, which usually so vivid and vibrant were as painted voids. He had watched it come to fruition in Nick's confrontation with Sebastian, a sort of savagery unrestrained, which was in noisome paradox to Nick's characteristically charismatic accommodation. Had seen it fuel retaliate violence, which even justification could not excuse, and thereafter, foster distance and reserve, as unfamiliar to Nick's temperament as brutality.
Something evidently troubled Nick greatly, but as to what, Jeff could not surmise, and that resultant inability to afford relief frustrated him endlessly.
And so, he reached out to Nick, even as Nick had to him. Often times, it is not the words which people say that bare the greatest meaning, but the ones which they do not. The unfathomable sentiments imbued within a gesture, within a glance, within a touch. Too inconvertible to speak aloud.
As they passed beneath the halo of a street-light, Jeff drew up short, forcing the other two to halt and gaze at him questioningly. Making no effort of explanation, he simply held out his hands;
"Let me see." No words had ever sounded so pleading and non-negotiable in concurrence. No expression so innocent and experienced.
"It's okay," Nick assured him, hesitant, though without knowing why, "It's just bruised."
"I wouldn't be so sure," scoffed Trent, "Sebastian's kind of hard faced."
"Please?" Jeff tried again. And how could Nick refuse that look anything? Lost puppy wasn't in it.
With resign, though enduring hesitancy, he placed his injured hand in the cradle of Jeff's, marvelling at how their frozen skin felt warm on contact, and how that warmth spread like an inferno to encapsulate the remainder of his being.
The solicitous light revealed the skin surround Nick's knuckles to be swollen and discoloured, an unattractive mottle of blue, green and purple. These things always tended to look worse than what they actually were, he thought off-handedly, although belatedly he wished he had been wise enough to use the other hand, because attempting to write with that tomorrow was going to be hell.
Jeff was exceedingly gentle in his ministrations, as if Nick were a rare and delicate trinket which would shatter at the mere thought of manhandling. It made Nick feel strange, in a way that was not at all unpleasant, nervous even, if the butterflies in his stomach were anything to go by, and though Jeff did not look at his face for the duration of his attentions, Nick could feel his gaze, heavy with sadness and confusion.
Jeff manipulated his fingers, first individually and then all at once, while Nick bit his lip without sympathy, trying to ignore the discomfort. Such admirable composure was broken, however, when Jeff ran the tips of his own fingers lightly over the ridges of Nick's knuckles, seeking any indication of hairline fracture, and Nick groaned without meaning to.
"Sorry," Jeff whispered breathlessly, his touch immediately retracting. "You're right, however. It isn't broken, but you need to try and keep it warm, the cold will only make the pain worse."
He deftly shrugged out of Nick's loaned blazer and returned it to its owner, fixing the brunette with an un-humouring glance when he attempted to refuse. Comfort was reciprocal: a promise returned.
Nick pulled on his blazer, fastening both buttons; necessity trumping etiquette every time. Then Jeff, as gentle and caring as ever, guided his hand until it was nestled just inside the lapel, arm braced against the hold of the buttons so as to maintain the position with minimal jostling.
Almost instantly the throbbing began to subside, soothed by Nick's own body heat, which was rebounded from the dark material. He sighed in pleasurable relief. Not that he had ever doubted it, but Jeff was a genius.
"Doctor Sterling there," grinned Trent, intrigued. The things you learnt about a person defied even imaginations expendant ability to predict.
Jeff just smiled shyly. Sometimes negative experiences could yield some virtue.
Though it occupied the forefront of each of their minds like some taboo thought, even more potent for it forbiddence, none ventured to broach it in open discussion: that which they had witnessed – the action and the fallout. Conversation only made it seem more inescapably real, when they longed for denial, and the implications it bore were unsavoury to say the least: that the Warbler's, despite their zero-tolerence directive condoned violence against a perceived inferior, that they were, in fact, hypocrites. Honour was the most unsettling aspect of a person to be called into question.
Was Blaine okay? Had he been taken to the hospital? What damage had the slushie rendered? Each concern could have been absolved by a simple phone call, but yet none volunteered to make it. They knew Kurt wouldn't answer, not to them at least. Had Sebastian cost them friendship also?
If there was ever a sight more uplifting and glorious, they could not recall, than when the ashen silhouette and numerous-windowed breadth of Dalton Academy, like so many absent stars, came into view in the distance. It lent resolve to their failing stamina, and ease to their burdened conscience, because, for all of Sebastian's scorn, they had done it. And thought the victory was only moral, it represented a stand for traditional values, for friendship and for integrity. They had done it for Kurt and Blaine, despite the fact that the pair would never know their sacrifice.
As they wearily traversed the remaining mile, Trent stove to distract himself from the agony of each step, and the uncomfortable knowledge that the heels of his socks were more probable to be damp with blood than any other bodily fluid, by pondering at length, that expression he had perceived for an infinitesimal moment in Sebastian's eyes.
But the puzzle-maker was a fool, because the pieces, such as they were, could not formulate a cohesive whole. There was one key element that had gone astray, upon which the entire enigma was dependant. He didn't want to consider it, but after exhausting every other avenue of possibility in a quest of avoidance, and drawing a blank, he found himself distastefully resigned. Surely Nick and Jeff had wondered, even as he had?
Turning to the pair, who walked side-by-side, in the grips of a hitherto unobserved content born from proximity, Trent begged a question:
"If I told you guys something, would you swear to keep it a secret? Just between us?" His heart knew they would, but caution demanded satisfaction, and peace of mind was a luxury in which he was keen to indulge.
"Sure, man –"
" – of course," they answered simultaneously, frowning as one.
Trent sighed heavily, knowing that speaking the aspersions aloud could afford unpleasant repercussions, but unable to retain the implications of conjecture within the vessel of himself alone.
"I've been going over and over it in my head, and it doesn't make any sense. Not unless you factor in something else."
"Which doesn't?" asked Nick, confounded, while Jeff simply looked between them.
"I think Sebastian put something in that slushie. I don't know what exactly, something bad. Something bad enough to make Blaine scream in agony, lemon juice, vinegar, maybe; something acidic. There was just some sort of … expression in his eyes; a defensiveness, like he knew it had gone to far. I don't know. I can't describe it, but it was there."
To his surprise, Jeff nodded seriously, his expression darkening as he confronted that very thought which he had been endeavouring to subdue, because, surely, not even Sebastian would stoop so low for the sake of competition? Nick, meanwhile, began to look sickened again.
"I've been thinking the same thing," the blonde admitted tightly, "a slushie would hurt, but not that much. Not on its own."
"And that slushie was aimed specifically at Kurt," Nick chimed in, throatily, as if dredging up his voice from a great depth, swallowing thickly, "which meant Sebastian wanted to hurt him, and he didn't care who witnessed it, either. That's a pretty violent grudge."
"But … do Sebastian and Kurt even know each other?" asked Trent raising an eyebrow.
After all, Sebastian was after Blaine and Kurt's time, and though Kurt kept in meticulous contact with Trent, Nick and Jeff, the former counter-tenor had never returned to visit Dalton as Blaine had. And with Regionals looming, even that persistent contact between the two rival teams lulled perceptibly in the build up. So, to Trent's logic, it seemed highly improbable that situations would arise which allowed the two to meet once, never mind frequently enough to establish a vendetta.
"Sebastian met Blaine at the Lima Bean often enough," shrugged Nick, recalling some boastful remark imposed upon conversation, which now, as he thought about it, had been as much a slight on the strength his and Blaine's friendship, as a brag concerning Sebastian's and Blaine's. Nice.
"It's likely that Kurt would have ran into them at some point."
Jeff and Trent regarded him for a moment with peculiar expressions. Apparently, it seemed Sebastian had been selective with whom he shared information concerning his coffee appointments. Meaning once again, Nick had been played. If, however, the other two thought anything of it, they reserved comment.
"What if Sebastian likes Blaine?" Jeff asked, perceptive as always. "What if Kurt warned him off and Sebastian didn't appreciate it?"
"But Blaine's in a relationship," Trent pointed out matter-of-factly, feeling that this was all getting a little convoluted, "he'd hardly leave Kurt for Sebastian." The idea was so ludicrous that he laughed. The pair were like Danny and Sandy; destined to be together.
"Sure, we know that," countered Nick, instantly seeing the truth in Jeff's assumption, and as if from it, everything else fell into place, "but I doubt anyone has ever told Sebastian 'no' before … about anything. And he doesn't exactly strike me as the kind of guy to be deterred simply because somebody is already in a relationship."
"That's true," Trent assented. When did their lives turn into a soap-opera?
"It's also unsettling," mumbled Jeff quietly, taken by a new train of thought, as Trent and Nick regarded him affectedly, "that he'd willingly go so far, just for the sake of a disagreement." He spoke as if to himself, and his gaze was distant; vacant.
Then, his features twisted in devastation. A rabbit caught in the headlights, as if realizing some preordained fortune, the enlightenment of which triggered by a careless phrase. Turning to Nick, he implored with ardency:
"You have to stay away from him! I wont see you hurt, Nick, not even for Blaine."
Those words tasted bitter, and he hated himself for meaning them. But, if anything were to ever happen to Nick …
"Jeff …" Nick's tone was soft and soothing as he moved towards the blond, a lullaby to quell the tumultuous soul. But Jeff just shook his head vigorously; retreating. He would not yield to empty reassurance.
"Okay, okay. I'll stay away from him, I promise, and when I don't have the option, I'll be the height of civility, even if it kills me. Alright? Nothing bad is going to happen to me, you're worrying for no reason, silly."
Jeff was not entirely convinced, nor reassured, there still lingered a shadow of threat in the back of his mind, as persistent as rainfall. Nick didn't honestly believe that Sebastian would make a move on him, but seeing first hand, what the disingenuous Warbler had done to Blaine, what he had intended to do to Kurt, had birthed latent insecurities within them all. But he would never dream of dismissing something that Jeff was genuinely concerned about, especially when he was the vessel of that concern, even if he didn't necessarily share the same sentiments.
In the four months since he had been at Dalton, Jeff had thought Sebastian many things – dangerous wasn't one of them, though he was quickly amending that oversight. Vindictive, bakcbiting and smoothly corrupt, certainly – someone to be avoided and fauxly appeased, but not feared.
Little enough was known about Sebastian that he still exuded an air of infinite intrigue. Did he have family in Paris? Had he come to Ohio alone? - The fact that he boarded permanently suggested so. What would have convinced him to leave all that he had known for uncertainty? What lay in his past? Where did he go each night, while the rest of the boys shared the common-room in camaraderie? Had he loved and lost, or was he still waiting for that first time? - The things which defined a person, which made them who they were, were marked absent in him.
To Jeff, those unknown qualities seemed only to make him more formidable, more unpredictable. He was a serpent in their midst, just as likely to strike at them as allow them to charm him.
"Of course nothings going to happen!" Trent lent his support to the cause, before being so bold as to presume Jeff's assent in anticipation of his next utterance:
"Not while we're watching out for him, huh?"
Jeff's brow furrowed uncertainly, and it took him a few seconds to really identify the earnestness of Trent's words, and admittedly, slightly taken aback, his features broke into a smile like summer.
"Right."
"What," Nick scoffed with all the good humour of someone startled by the fierceness of friendship, "now I've got body guards? Well, this should be interesting, at least."
"Dalton's finest body guards," corrected Jeff with a mock air of self importance, while Nick looked suitably chastised.
"Yep. No snore, breath or whisper will go unaccounted," pledged Trent passionately, laying a hand over his heart as if in the process of swearing an oath.
"Wow, that's … thorough."
Their laughter carried like ordnance in the still night.
Trent understood Nick and Jeff in a way few others comprehended, and so was able to interact with them on a more meaningful level than any of the other Warblers, able to breach the fortitude of their friendship and gain admittance to a private sanctum in a way which only four before him had succeeded in accomplishing. He saw them as they were, completely individual, but also, markedly counter-dependant, a subtly few were adequately able to grasp.
He understood when to distance himself from them, and leave the pair to their own devices; when and how to offer support to one without affronting the nature of the other, or else to reassure, lending his conviction in voice when one speaking alone simply wasn't sufficient; and when the situation demanded tact, as oppose to characteristic humour. In short, he understood them, the real them. And sometimes, maybe even better than they understood themselves.
The sound of white gravel beneath their feet was surely the most beautiful symphony in the world. A whispering stream would have presented no superior balm to their aching feet, nor their weary minds. Nine miles, and three and a half laborious hours later, they were home.
Curfew was at twelve, and they were eighteen minutes past. Their triumphant return would necessitate some underhand measures if they were to avoid the wrath of a certain warden, and her notoriety for doling out detentions first and asking questions never.
As a right of passage, every Dalton student knew and had made advantageous use, of three fail-safe routes. Even as Nick, Jeff and Trent had that night, at the close of their noble rebellion, and Sebastian presumably had every night.
The warm air which permeated Dalton's interior had them all shivering in an instant, as feeling rushed back into their extremities. Being brutally frank, Nick had found the numbness preferable, because with feeling re-flared the intense ache.
The parted ways on the third floor corridor. Trent to his single room on the left, and Nick and Jeff to their shared accommodation on the right. Even the familiar hallways, which should have been a comfort, an anchor to all that was good, appeared warped and fatalistic. How could a single event bare such far-reaching consequences?
Jeff fell into the embrace of his duvet instantly, shivering, breathing deeply, eyes closed, while Nick blundered around his own considerably untidier portion of their room, gathering up sweatpants, three pairs of socks and as many hoodies as he could reasonably lay his hands on in a ten meter radius – unconcerned with differentiating whether they were his or Jeff's.
Conversely, Jeff made no effort to warm himself, and just shivered where he lay, too exhausted to care.
Without a word, for a strange aversion had come momentarily between them, Nick retreated into the bathroom, pulling off his uniform with great abandon. Suddenly, they were without purpose, and memory suffocated them in their idleness, for the cessation of movement liberated all which had been held at bay. He luxuriated in warmth and comfort for an extended time, concepts which had become alien to him in the last four hours alone. Then, for the first time, he properly regarded his injured hand, in the absence of pretence. It wasn't a pretty sight, and he only hoped that Sebastian's jaw was equally as swollen and discoloured. He grimaced, dry swallowed two pain-killers, balled up his uniform and walked hesitantly back into their room.
In his absence Jeff had manoeuvred so that he now sat upon the extreme edge of the mattress, a bird, poised, ready to take flight – a boy burdened under great injustice. His position was tight, rigid; knees drawn to his chest, chin resting between their crests, as he stared with distant intensity at the screen of his phone, as if the sheer ardency of a wish would bring fruition. Troubled. His fingers drummed a percussion of repeated rhythm; three down, four up.
As Nick passed him, he mumbled something; a defeated thought, a reminder of conviction.
"He won't answer. Not to us." Kurt.
Nick instantly felt his heart sink, and snagging up a heavy blanket, draped it around Jeff's shoulders, pulling it close around him. It was the best comfort he could offer.
"Thanks," Jeff smiled, though the expression negated his eyes from its constitution, gratefully burrowing his way further into the fabric.
"Don't mention it."
Nick alighted upon Jeff's bed as well, needing that subtle closeness, and pushing his feet under one of the blankets trailing ends.
The television droned monotonously in the background, like the persistent undertone mutters of life, alternately washing their otherwise unlit room in shadow and illumination. Neither of them watched it, but they needed its presence, even as they sat there, listening to the sound of the others breath, as if it was their one saving grace.
"Do you think Blaine will be okay?" Jeff asked in a small voice, as if asking the question made what it portended uncertain.
"I hope so." It was the best and only sincere reassurance he could offer, and even then, it was paltry to say the least.
"Just … Where did everything go so wrong?" Jeff sighed with equal parts frustration and resign.
" … I don't know."
There was a question to keep a man up at night. When had the Warblers betrayed everything they believed in? Traded morality, conscience, and integrity for petty grudges and violence? Sold out on friendship and loyalty, only to reap the reward of selfish compulsions? When had it became about winning, at the sacrifice of all else?
… When Sebastian came? … When he gained their favour and rose to the top? … Or were those considerations to myopic? Had the implications been even more far-reaching, perhaps even set into motion before one momentous arrival? Just because he was that spearhead, that didn't necessary mean that he was the instigator also.
When Nick has been coerced into part-taking in a plot whose yield he abhorred. For him, personally, that was exactly where everything has gone so wrong. When he put his trust blindly in a liar, and got burned.
He looked at Jeff. His amazing, selfless, upstanding and magnanimous friend, who would never have had the naivety to fall for Sebastian's honey trap, and he felt ashamed. Deep down, he had known his actions were wrong, so why had that not stopped him? It was a question of character which would require much introspection.
"I wish Wes and David were here. We could use their cool voice of reason right about now," murmured Jeff wistfully. His posture adopted more elasticity, as exhaustion began to weigh heavily upon him, and he began to blink heavily and frequently in a way that Nick found adorable. Each time his eyes fell closed, it seemed like a greater effort to reopen them.
"Yeah, they'd soon put Sebastian in his place," agreed Nick yawning. He maintained a light tone, and even allowed appreciation for that particular idea to colour it, though his heart was heavy – hoping that his feigned fatigue would convince Jeff to sleep. For himself, rest would be a long time coming, if it came at all. "Wes would probably make him transcribe all the minutes of the last six Warbler meetings twice. Actually I would have loved to see that. Somehow, I don't think Sebastian would be quite so outspoken after."
"I wish Blaine and Kurt were still here too," Jeff continued undeterred, his tone thick, "Things were so much better when they were. I hate change."
Nick had to chuckle, because in all the years he had known him, he had never seen Jeff pout before. Though he got the impression the blonde was serious.
"Some change is good, I guess," he argued half-heatedly. What was he even talking about, change sucked, isn't that how they had wound up here.
"Nuh-uh." Jeff's head settled upon Nick's shoulder, and Nick breathed in the scent of his shampoo with relish.
"Okay, change that doesn't involve Sebastian, then," he amended with a little more steel to his tone than he had intended, not that the sleepy Jeff noticed. He was a warm, malleable presence that was all too comforting. "Though, admittedly, we're more than a little biased."
Suddenly, Jeff bolted upright, tiredness forgotten, and made a wild grab for the phone he had so recently disregarded, face alight with glorious revelation.
"What's wrong?" Nick queried, startled by the sudden transcendence from slow sense to vibrancy.
"Kurt won't answer if we call him, right?" Jeff ploughed on, heedless of an answer, even though his speech would appear to necessitate some form of accord, "but if we text him, he's got to read it."
Nick opened his mouth to argue gently and tactfully that, no, Kurt didn't necessarily have to read the message, he could just delete it un-opened, but he saw how much that one simple gesture meant to Jeff, the hope it represented, so he quelled his resistance. Maybe Kurt would text back, when things had settled down. He had to believe so, for Jeff's sake at least.
The blonde was already busy typing out a message; erasing a line here and there, rephrasing a word of sentence as he went, until the message he revealed to Nick read thus:
Kurt, we're so sorry! :(
We had no idea what Sebastian was planning! Hope you're both okay …
It was brief and unpresuming, Jeff obviously taking it as axiomatical that asking after Blaine's condition would seem insensitive given the circumstances surrounding it. Nick respected his restraint, though the not knowing was killing them both.
He nodded once, for it seemed Jeff sought his consent to send it.
"There," he murmured, when confirmation of deliverance flashed upon the screen. "Now they know the truth, even if they don't want to believe it yet."
If only he knew how ardently Nick wished it was the truth.
Finally, Jeff forsook the crook of Nick's shoulder for the comfort of his own pillow beneath his head. Nick manoeuvred slightly so the taller could stretch out more comfortably, though he did not give up his position.
The way the moonlight fell upon Jeff's hair as he lay there breathing delicately, made him appear beautiful, like a portrait rendered in oils.
"You're amazing."
Nick blanched. He hadn't meant to say that.
Jeff turned onto his side, cotton moving against cotton the only sound in the significant silence, his eyes never opening.
"Mmm, you're amazing too," she smiled docilely, "the way you punched Sebastian in the face – was amazing. I'm gonna remember that forever."
When Jeff fell asleep, Nick retreated to his own bed, which by comparison, seemed cold and desolate.
He had to tell him. He owed Jeff the truth, even though he knew it would break him.
That was the problem in dealing with Sebastian; it was the people around you who always wound up getting hurt.
SOMEONE had to punch Sebastain in the face, so Nick got the honour, and I refuse to believe that the Warblers would have been okay with what he did, even if at the time, they were too shocked to react.
This idea sort of ran rampant, and gave me some idea's for subsequent chapters all through 'Micheal' and a little beyond. It's in the pipe-line now, but i prefare to write things out on paper and then type them up when I'm finished; unnessicarly prolonged process I know :') but it's just the way i like to do it. So if anyone is in the least interested, maybe look for it in a couple of weeks. Have to see how it turns out before i consider posting.
As always, thank you very much for reading :)
- One Wish Magic.