A/N: this plot bunny grabbed me by the throat and refused to let go until i wrote this. enjoy.
I don't own glee.
A bottle of whiskey, lemon juice, gomme syrup. Blaine had the recipe down to a science. 3-2-1, shake it up. Or, when he was feeling particularly hasty, just stick with the 3 and knock it back. The whiskey left a searing trail down his throat as he slammed his glass onto the counter. The voice in the back of his head was telling him to slow down, be rational, but that voice had grown increasingly faint in the past few years and was barely a whisper now. Blaine had only one goal- get excessively and entirely drunk.
His head in his hands, Blaine could already feel the heat rushing to his face as the alcohol buzzed in his veins. He stared at the counter, willing himself not to think. The colors ran together as his vision blurred. But- oh- he remembered, and that was the cue for another drink.
And it was back to the counter. He focused decidedly on the grey- Dior grey- and oh, fuck, there it was again, stronger this time.
The bottle was inching closer to empty, but that hardly mattered now. Blaine's mind had left him- finally. He sat sprawling on the kitchen tile, glass abandoned, bottle lying between his knees. The fridge felt cool on his back where he leaned against it. There was music playing dimly in the background. He couldn't recall putting anything on, but it was playing nonetheless.
He was taking another pull off the bottle when- oh, not that song, anything but that song. It needed to stop- he didn't want to hear it- Blaine really needed to make it stop. The bottle was flying toward the wall- oh, was that him?- but the music wasn't stopping. Spurred on by some deep anger, Blaine flung himself out to the stereo and desperately punched at the buttons.
And then- finally- quiet. But there it was, already in his head, and now he couldn't stop remembering. He sank into the carpet, and his mind was reeling with memories, and he must've been crying because his face was wet and it wasn't fair. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to think about this day, or that night, or that time he- no, he definitely didn't want to remember any of it.
It wasn't fucking fair, he thought. He didn't remember, he was a blank slate, he was free to sleep without his mind being haunted by pictures and thoughts and that heartbreaking nostalgia. Blaine was stuck with all of these reminders scattered throughout his life, all of these images cycling through his brain. Well, he mused with a watery attempt at a chuckle, at least one of us can remember.
He found himself the next morning with his cheek in the carpet. His head was pounding, but that was to be expected. He gathered up his limbs before making his way to the shower.
40 minutes later, he was clean shaven and neatly pressed, knocking on a door as he had every day for the past three years.
"Oh Mr. Anderson, sweetheart, you know you never have to knock. Come in, come in. I think today might be a good day." Blaine followed her into the room, taking a seat in the chair by the window.
And there he was, staring out into the gardens, the sunlight glowing blue, grey, green in his eyes. He tracked a bird as it flew into the birdbath and ruffled its feathers in the water.
Blaine laid a hand across his, the silver band on his finger cool to the touch. He glanced toward Blaine, studying his features for a moment before giving a small smile and turning back to the window.
That was all Blaine needed, that spark of recognition. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't forgotten it all yet.