A/N: Before you start reading I think I should clear this out. Nuit Blanche means white night and is an huge art event. It happens in Paris once at year since 2002. Countless galleries, museums, city halls, and even swimming pools open their doors all night to visitors, with free entry showing all kinds of arts as painting, light installations, edgy performances, concerts, and unclassifiable happenings of all sorts.

This is also posted on my LiveJournal (ouestmonesprit . livejournal . com )

As always thanks so much to my friend and beta Flo.

Hope you like it, and don't forget let me know what you think (:


Three cigarettes gone by now. He searches for another one.

He places the cigarette in his mouth and draw his lips inwards slightly to hold it in place. He takes the lighter an inch away from the end bringing the flame almost to the tip and sucks on the cigarette in short bursts. As he removes it from his mouth, he inhales and allows the smoke to flow smoothly into his lungs. Finally relaxing himself.

He puts the lighter on the coffee table and reclines back onto the couch. Head leaning against the armrest, his limbs hanging off one side and his phone dropped on his chest. Sebastian has been there for the past two hours or so smoking his anxiety away and basically cursing the world, and their stupid ways of fate that conspire against him.

It was all because that damn sentence: 'Good news, Robert Hughes will be there.' He heard from his publicist while he was painting—or trying to. She was nice and had good intentions, but clearly stupid because in what world would that be good news? That was in no way something good. It was horribly nerve wrecking.

He checked out the second he heard the name; dropping the brush on the floor, incapable of continuing to work. He left the room the moment his publicist left, not even caring about the mess he had made, and plopped down on the couch. Smoking like a chimney, trying to calm down his hasty heartbeats.

A while later, Sebastian hears the front door fly open. He turns his head to the right to find Kurt staring at him with an annoyed look on his face.

"Why can't you smoke on the balcony?" He says, fully stepping into the apartment, carrying four big garment bags.

"Can't today," Sebastian huffed turning his head back to the ceiling. As if that would stop Kurt from grumble about the smoking. Fuck.

"I specifically told you I was going to bring home pieces of the new collection today. And I'd appreciated if they ended up not smelling like nicotine." He rushes away to his room carefully carrying the bags with what Sebastian supposes is the clothes with him.

"Not in the mood." Sebastian yells from across the room taking a small drag before shout again, "Want your clothes smell like fucking spring? Spray some of that women's perfume I know you have in bulk on them." He breathed the smoke out with a sigh and relaxes his head into the armrest.

Kurt comes out seconds later arms crossed against his chest, "What the hell happened to you?" He chuckles a bit, using his knee to nudge and Sebastian's leg on the couch so he could make room for him, "You were fine this morning."

"Robert Hughes happened to me." He says frustrated taking another drag.

"Who is— ?" Kurt asks, sitting down and placing his friend's legs on top of his lap. Face suddenly twisted into a sneer, "Please don't tell me he's some stranger you just had sex with that had no stamina whatsoever."

"Kurt," Sebastian sat up and brought his hands up to emphasize his questioning expression. "Do I look like I just got laid?" He stared at the brunette with an bewildering glance waiting for the obvious answer.

"Well if he was a Cum Quick you technically wouldn't have," Kurt teases and then sighs, running a hand over Sebastian's leg, "Okay, who's the guy who has got your panties in a bunch?"

Sebastian lift the cigarette to his lips and draws a huge amount of smoke down his lungs before replying. "Robert Hughes is probably the best and most fucking known art critic of our generation and he is going to be in at Nuit Blanche this year. And he is really interested in what's in my showroom."

"Seb, that's—" Kurt starts with a grin.

"Don't you dare to be as stupid as Emmy and tell me it's a good thing," he cuts him off leaning suspiciously close to Kurt's face and letting out the smoke in his personal space.

"It's not?" Kurt asks shaking his hands dissipating the contaminated air away from his clothes, his face contorted into a grimace.

"The fuck it's not" He growled coming back to his past position, "He is an art blogger. He is the most influential guy in the whole art world… and he is going to criticize my work; my work which, by the way, is not even close to finished. Everything has to be perfect."

"But you know it's—"

"No, just— can you please not talk about this? I already listened to my publicist talk for over an hour about the damn guy and how much it's such a 'once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity' and frankly, I'm not in the mood to hear more."

Kurt raises a hand in surrender and smiles, "Okay, okay, you're stressed. So, no dinner tonight?"

"That depends." Sebastian replies, letting out a small cough, "Do I have to cook?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Thankfully, dinner had no mention of Robert Hughes or the Nuit Blanche. Sebastian is grateful that Kurt is smart enough to just leave the subject alone and talk about other things. He stays silent throughout most of the meal, listening to Kurt's anecdote about the latest photoshoot and two Russian models Kurt was responsible for dressing.

"…I was looking for them everywhere because Maria needed them in hair and makeup and just when she was about to throw a curling iron at me, I found them making out behind a curtain." He brought up another forkful of pasta to his mouth.

Sebastian took a sip of his wine, "So what'd they do? Did they scream? Flip you the finger?"

Kurt swallowed and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a linen cloth, "No, they asked if I wanted to join." Sebastian laughed at that.

"Do you think I can get their numbers?" he jokes, earning him Kurt's napkin thrown at his face. But Kurt's smiling.

The rest of dinner is easy. The rest of the night is easy. Their friendship is easy. Easier than any other relationship Sebastian has ever had.

After the credits roll on their TV, Kurt retires to his room claiming to be tired. Sebastian spends another half hour smoking on the balcony before goes to sleep as well.

He gets to his room without turning on the lights. He likes it better dark; his surroundings peaceful and quiet. The room has a huge window that allows the soft moonlight glow above his bed. It's calming, and he need this after a dreadfully stressing day.

He strips and leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor before climbing into bed, drawing up the covers. Sebastian reaches over to his nightstand where his iPod is docked and selects his nighttime playlist.

As soft notes starts to play, Sebastian drops his head onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling and the beautiful shadows of the night there. He may use it as an inspiration for his art work, because as it seems like he isn't going to have another anytime soon.

It sucks, having only a month before the biggest night of his career to have an artist's block. How he supposed to get through this? It's the Nuit Blanche. This is suppose to be his best work; his amazing, breathtaking work. But instead he has two and a half finished pieces and a blank imagination.

And it sucks, because Robert fucking Hughes is going to be there, ready to nitpick every piece in the gallery. The guy had never being able to fully like any work before. Something in the back of Sebastian's mind is telling him Robert Hughes will probably kick him out of the art world forever when he sees his paintings. Ending his career when it's just starting to take off.

He breathes out, still watching the shadows. Why can't he do this? He has been painting his whole life, and now everything is drawn a blank.

The song turns to another one increasing the tempo. It was still somehow calming but not calm enough. He stands up hastily in the dark room, fidgety.

He is not going to sleep tonight, not with a thousand things going through his mind.

Sebastian puts his clothes back on and storms out. He walks down the hall to his art room, maybe tonight he could be able to do something. Whatever, maybe just two lines to start. Just to get some progress.

He thinks about it twice, before diving in. He could have, the best working night of his life or the most frustrating.

He turns on the lights and carefully steps in avoiding tripping over the stained tarps. The room has a big old chandelier hanging down, giving a sophisticated atmosphere to the place. This is his safe haven. The place Sebastian spends most of his time. The place he gets lost in himself.

The room is filled with his earlier works; some from when he was a child to when he started high school and stopped, thinking becoming an artist was crazy. He smiles softly and runs a finger through some oil paint on the table. He had once dreamed of this. Of this perfect, quiet sanctuary where no matter how bad things were, or how fucked up his world was, he could escape to. Just give him a brush and some music and he'll paint all the angst away. He doesn't want this room to go to waste. Now that he has it, he's not going to ruin everything just because of his nerves.

He takes a quick look of the unfinished painting leaning against the wall. Sebastian shakes his head, he's not going to finish it tonight. Not with this mood.

Who the hell is he kidding? He is not going to do anything tonight.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck this whole thing. He curses alone to the blank canvases.

Sebastian takes a cigarette from his pocket and places it between his lips before lighting it up. He inhales deeply and tilts his head back sighing out the smoke.

Definitely a frustrating night.

Two or five hours later, he doesn't even bother at how much time has passed, nothing much has changed. Sebastian still has the same two paintings in front of him, mocking him. He takes a long drag from his cigarette and slides two fingers along the edges of one of the canvases.

It's almost six o' clock in the morning, he notes looking at the clock nailed to an easel, and the room is illuminated by the soft glow of the beginning sunrise. He had spent the whole night there, staring, waiting for something to appear. But alas, nothing. This whole situation surpassed frustrating twenty minutes into the night; it was from then on exasperating.

Never in his life has he ever not known what to do. Even with sex, he had done some shameless research to make sure he knew what he was doing his first time. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Fuck.

Yesterday he took one of the canvases and swore to himself he was going to finish the damn piece that night—two hours later and it was the exact same fucking thing besides two new red lines that were painted on as an experimental addition. It was progress, though. Shitty progress, but still progress.

Twenty-seven days. Twenty-fucking-seven days and only two unfinished paintings.

"FUCK!" Sebastian exploded. "What the hell was I thinking?" He flailed around, groaning in frustration. It seemed childish, but maybe being childish is what he needed. He threw the paintbrush he kept wedged behind his hear across the room, wincing a bit as it hit a vase with a clang. "Fuck this shit, I'm going to law school."

"Don't lie to yourself, babe." Sebastian turned around. "I think I've heard you say that at least ten times in the past few years and not once did you go throw with it." Kurt put a hand on his hip, his slender body leaning against the door frame. His voice was still croaky and deep from sleep and his hair was sticking up at the back.

Morning Kurt was Sebastian's favourite Kurt. It was when he was the most easily agitated and vulnerable. Mornings made Kurt seem more common though he constantly thrived to be different. It made Kurt not lesser, but the same. Equal.

Sebastian slumped into the cloth-covered armchair in the corner, "I will this time. And you'll have to take care of me when I'm too stressed to do shit." He stubbed out the last of his cigarette into the ashtray.

Kurt snorted, "I do that already." He crossed the room and sat down on the armrest, carding his hand through Sebastian's hair the way he knew he liked when he just needed it. "And I know you too well to know that you won't go through with it."

The other boy sighed and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands. "Some days I just want to forget about everything, curl up in bed and sleep," he shakes his head. 'Or maybe I just need to get laid."

He heard his best friend laugh and felt a hand rub circles onto his back. "And here I thought you were turning into a profound, sentimental wuss." Kurt stood up and Sebastian couldn't help but whine a bit when his hand disappeared. "C'mon, I'll make you breakfast."

Sebastian followed and was startled when Kurt stopped in front of the doorway and turned. He scrunched his nose up, "You know this place smells now right?"

"Cigarettes: l'arôme d'un artiste," he says.

"The smell of an addict," Kurt corrects.

Sebastian gestured to the cluttered work room, "This is the small of my sanity deteriorating." Kurt couldn't help but snigger and walked out of the room, Sebastian trailing behind.

"Sebastian, just calm the fuck down," Kurt said washing his hands in the kitchen sink. "You are going to be okay."

"Oh really?" Sebastian asked, "Do you know I only have twenty-seven days left before the biggest night of my fucking career and I don't have one finished piece for my portion of the gallery? I'm fucked. Done. Poof. This is the end."

Kurt took a bowl out of the cupboard and scavenged around for cooking utensils, "You're being melodramatic—and that's coming from me. I miss the Sebby who didn't give a fuck about what anyone else said about his art, whether it was a critic or a random guy on the street, because he was the genius that landed a spot in the Nuit Blanche."

"Fuck you," he huffed from his spot on the counter. Sebastian hated it when Kurt was right. "And don't call me Sebby."

"No thanks, I'll pass, but I have those models' contact information if you still want that," Kurt grinned, "Sebby."

Sebastian crossed his arms in front of him and put his head down, slipping his eyes closed for a bit while he heard the sounds of Kurt making breakfast. He didn't know he dozed off until Kurt slid a plate in front of him, the inviting scent of French toast beaming up at him.

"Here," Sebastian raised his head as Kurt handed him a cup of tea.

"I don't get coffee?" he asked raising an eyebrow.

"Not today," Kurt took a sip of his own tea and set to eat. "You're going to eat and then go to bed."

"When did you become Maman?" Sebastian smirked, taking a tentative sip. He felt the warmth wash over him from his head to his toes. It wasn't coffee, but it was comforting.

"If you're going to throw tantrums and throw things that I have to eventually clean up and cook for you, I have every right to order you around."

He narrows his eyes at Kurt and starts to eat his breakfast, his thoughts starting to haze over again. Sooner or later he's going to have to face the truth: he's not ready for the kind of exposure and fame that comes from the gallery and he sure won't be able to finish it in twenty-seven days. It's all driving him nuts and he has no idea what he's going to say about the lack of work.

Kurt seemed to have read his mind, "You know you're going to be okay, right?"

"I should tell Emmy I can't do it. It'll be a bitch, but she can probably pull me out."

"No, you're not. Bas, everyone has blocks. I get them too—it's normal." Kurt wiped the corner of his mouth, "Did you know DaVinci only did 32 paintings in his whole life? I'm sure he had his fair share of artist blocks."

"Yeah, but DaVinci was also a scientist/philosopher/inventor. I'm not ready."

Kurt shrugged, "You're never going to be. But that shouldn't stop you."