author's notes: written for the Seblaine Snowball 2017, prompt: holiday travel. title taken from Lost Boys Life by Computer Games.
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Take Whatever Time Will Allow
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His eyes open to a dark fairy white landscape he's unable to identify, somewhere in the void between Columbus and Westerville, all alike now that it's doused under a thick coat of snow. An involuntary shiver rolls along his shoulders, grateful for once that he's not out in the winter cold at this time of night.
New York winters were a different matter; the city's vibrant rhythm stilled, calmed to a sudden stop, opening space to breathe in a city of millions. No New Yorker enjoyed winter as much as he did, even if the subway grinding to a chilly halt meant walking twenty blocks to work.
Not this year, though.
As many fresh starts as the summer brought with it, –on the heels of a bad breakup, divvying up the spoils including mutual friends and favorite haunts–, the past few months in the city of his dreams were far lonelier than he'd planned. School kept him busy along with his part-time job at the bakery, and it'd been too easy to let that all consume him, to forget about the Ex and the friends torn between them and be on his own for a while.
Somewhere along the way he'd forgotten being alone had never done him any good.
He'd moved on, but not in any healthy manner.
Balled up scarf propped a little higher against the window his head falls back into the makeshift pillow, and he closes his eyes again hoping to catch some sleep. Soon he'll be back in his childhood home, in the room that'd barely changed, and he could sink back into it; home and his mom's fussing would be like an old ratty blanket no one could stand to lose. Back in Westerville maybe he could stop worrying about getting his life back on track. He could allow himself to be taken care of, rather than worry about everyone else for a change.
Sadly the click of the train's wheels keeps him awake, too irregular to lull him to sleep, along with the occasional whoosh of a train whirring by in the opposite direction.
It's too cold, anyway. He'd wrapped his coat around his legs, his turtleneck sweater enough to keep him warm otherwise, yet a persistent chill clung to the train car. He blamed it on the lack of passengers, not enough body heat or carbon dioxide circulating through the entirety of the train, but he's not about to lament that. On the plane from New York to Columbus he sat next to a young mom and her toddler son, who found no better way to entertain himself than singing along to Frozen at the top of his lungs, one of the many animated movies available on the in-flight-entertainment.
Blaine reaches inside his duffel bag and unearths a small folder along with his address book, intent on finishing his Christmas cards. If he can't get any rest he might as well do something useful, rather than stare out the window for the next two hours.
Dearest Tina, he writes, before the tip of the fountain pen stills over the white of the next line, at a loss for how to continue.
How can he dote out well wishes when he can't muster even the slightest of holiday cheer?
Few of his friends had thought to invite him for the holidays this year, and he hates to think that's because he's been less than courteous toward them these past months.
But like winter in the city and all his usual favorite things about the season, Christmas hasn't been on his mind. He failed to decorate his small studio with the picturesque ornaments he kept in storage in the basement, nor did he buy a Christmas tree to hang all the DIY baubles he kept on hand, and even though the bakery more than made up for his lack of contribution, he just hadn't caught the holiday bug like every previous year.
Christmas jingles didn't catch his attention, nor did the scent of pine or a warm chai latte, and every sugary treat was no more than an exercise in wish fulfilment.
Going it all alone put him in a state of melancholy he hadn't felt since that one Christmas he and Cooper went around the neighborhood carolling, right after his big brother announced he'd be moving to Los Angeles to start building his acting career.
No. Being alone had never done him any good.
A door slides open at the other end of the car, carrying the hungry cries of a baby inside with it. He straightens in his seat and watches the door close again, another passenger joining him in the otherwise empty car.
"Offspring," the passenger spits under his breath, the voice sparking thoughts of a chance meeting in the city, of green eyes over a cocky grin, and a terribly observant kind of gaze that could still harmful thoughts. That voice tasted like the memory of two medium drips with a side of earnest conversation, stained Dalton blue with red piping.
"Sebastian?" he calls, his own voice hopeful in ways incongruent with his mood a mere moment ago.
Footsteps near his seat and Sebastian appears, conjuring a blinding smile the moment he lays eyes on him. "Blaine Anderson."
No two months ago, in that big city of millions upon millions, Sebastian walked into the bakery, carrying at his heels the same old promise a previous lifetime had held. High school seemed so long ago, but time hadn't eaten away at the ease the two of them fell into. They started talking again, and got together for coffee like old times, at some new places Sebastian was intent on showing him.
It was nice, to have at least one friend who didn't carry the specific baggage he'd been trying so hard to avoid.
"Y–" eah, he thinks as the word dies at the back of his throat, because of course that's his name, but the way Sebastian exhales it makes it sound like his night just started looking up too.
"H-Hi," he stutters, cheeks heating up around that realization, how his world's started calming down around Sebastian all the same, how it all ground to a halt and opened up space in his lungs to breathe; like Sebastian Smythe was a bottled dose of winter.
"Your parents rope you into the holiday season too?" Sebastian asks, lithe frame sinking smoothly into the seat opposite him, his bag beside him in the aisle, a steaming cup of hot chocolate cupped in his hands.
"Weren't you headed to Paris?"
Green eyes soften with a smile, almost like Sebastian's surprised he remembered at all.
Like Sebastian's lonely too.
"Last minute change of plans." Sebastian shrugs. "My stepmom insisted she get Christmas this year. Her maniacal attempts at bonding notwithstanding, she makes a mean pumpkin pie."
Leave it to Sebastian to use a word like 'maniacal' in an actual sentence.
Head tilting he leans forward toward the small table between them, coming far closer to Sebastian than he thinks he's ever been, and his heart picks up an expected faster pace.
He props a hand under his chin. "I never knew you were such a sweet tooth."
Only, he does, doesn't he? He rekindled a friendship with Sebastian after he came into the bakery one indecently hot summer day. At the time he thought Sebastian bought the selection of Danish for a friend, or maybe even some lavish brunch befitting a Parisian globetrotter, until he started coming by like clockwork, each Saturday morning.
Maybe he'd fooled himself into thinking Sebastian dropped by to see him.
"I would think there's plenty of things you don't know about me" –a slow smile emboldens Sebastian's features, and he leans another inch closer, playing with the sparse space between their bodies– "yet."
"You haven't changed, have you?"
His knee knocks against one of Sebastian's.
"This is news?" Sebastian teases with a mischievous glint in his eyes, even though they both know better. Sebastian has changed a lot since high school, time eaten away at some of his more delinquent edges, and he's not entirely sure the same can be said about him.
He's glad this hasn't changed though, the shameless flirting, the recognition on both their parts that it is flirting and not anything more frivolous.
Their hyper awareness of the fact that –this time around– they're both single.
Another shiver rushes through him, his quickened pulse still not enough to warm him up.
"Here," Sebastian prompts, before sliding the cup of hot chocolate his way, steam curling in a seductive come-hither kind of way he's unable to resist.
Before he can fold a single finger around the paper cup, however, Sebastian retrieves the cup and pulls it back to his side of the table.
"Before you drink, I feel it's my duty to let you know that I put in a little something extra." Sebastian's nose scrunches up in the most adorable manner, equally irresistible, "and if I recall correctly, I'm not the one who can't hold his liquor."
Blaine rolls his eyes, but there's none of the usual exasperation behind it. "That hasn't changed either."
"That is extremely good to know." Sebastian winks, sitting forward and leaning his arms down on the table too, so close he can almost feel Sebastian's eyes sweeping along his lips; it traps his laughter somewhere in the void between his tongue and his heart, where it lodges indistinguishable from his sudden anxiety.
"You're..." He shakes his head, hiding whatever he meant to say inside a sip of the warm chocolate milk, a palpable burn down his throat.
Courvoisier. What else could it have been?
"–incorrigible?" Sebastian cocks an eyebrow, "–devilishly charming? –about to join the Mile Post Club?"
He snorts and realizes, "You're here," as if that's news to him as well. Because it's not. Sebastian is present in the same way he always is, and always has been, even back in high school when he still pulled horrible pranks like lacing slushies with rock salt. Within the comfort of the Lima Bean and his distance from Kurt he'd let his guard down around Sebastian, and that never felt to him like a bad thing. Not then. Not now.
Sebastian's here, and that's more than can be said for a whole lot of other people.
"Everything okay, killer?" Sebastian asks, eyes narrowing on his face with a concern he's allowed Sebastian from the day they met. For some inexplicably inconvenient reason, he's translucent around Sebastian. That scares him nearly as much as the thought of no longer having Sebastian in his life altogether. He thought they'd done this dance in high school, left it there to gather dust and whither in the wake of life happening around them, but here they are together again, like nothing's changed at all. Learning new paces.
He sighs as guilt rips through him over feeling this sorry for himself. All things considered he's not doing too bad. He's getting by, picking his life back together one piece at a time, along with some old forgotten pieces he's discovering anew.
"Merry Christmas, Sebastian," he says, letting go of some of the bad. Between the sugary sweet scent of hot chocolate and the slightest hint of alcohol, the warmth spreading to his limbs, and the red blush in his cheeks, it's starting to feel a lot like Christmas.
Sebastian smiles. "Merry Christmas, Blaine."
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