characters: Blaine Anderson, Sebastian Smythe; appearance by Rachel Berry, Kurt Hummel, Santana Lopez and featuring my OCs
pairing: Blaine Anderson/Sebastian Smythe
disclaimer: I don't own Glee or its characters only the glorious mess inside my head.
authors' notes:
Prequel to my Remember Tonight (For It Is The Beginning Of Always) fic;
This turned out much longer than I'd expected. I tried to address most if not all canon-related issues (even that hair-pulling steroids fiasco of the story); whether or not I succeeded – you'll be the judge of that my dear readers. What I can say is that I'll probably never write another story so close to the reality of Glee.
This story is in 3 parts and this first one is by far the shortest. The other 2 parts will be up in a few hours since they're already written.
I want to say thank you in advance to anyone who goes through all 3 parts.
English is not my native language so I apologize for all and any grammar mistakes.
The title is borrowed from Snow Patrol.
Part One (Intro): Dead
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Blaine is standing in the tub, motionless, almost lifeless as the hot water gently hits his body. The slow, uneven rise and fall of his chest and slow, heavy blinking of his eyes are only signs of life.
He's been standing in the same position for a while now although it is hard to tell exactly for how long; the only measure of time is the steam filled bathroom and droplets of water covering every available surface.
He knows he should move, he should reach behind him, grab a soup and actually shower but even that seems like too much so he just continues standing, unmoving.
The water turns cold without warning and it takes him one long moment to react, to actually process the sudden change in temperature. But once he does, he is spurred into action, finally. He snatches a soup and a shampoo bottle and washes himself as fast as possible. Once he's done and out of the tub, with the towel draped around his waist, he's shaking. But he doesn't mind. It's an odd thing, but it makes him feel alive; something of a rare sensation these days.
He moves over to the sink and leans into it. Arms outstretched, palms pressed against the cold surface, head bowed down while he tries to breathe, to shake this seemingly unfading tiredness that had settled itself inside his body.
It takes him a few long moments but he wills his one hand to wipe the fog from the mirror; two swipes of his palm across the surface, not nearly enough for the clear reflection but it will do. He prefers if he doesn't get a good look at himself anyway because every time he does, when he really looks at himself he doesn't recognize the person staring back at him. That person seems drained, void of everything, with dead eyes and dark circles under them. That person frightens him so he avoids him; he mastered the ability of looking at the edges of his reflection.
He moves slowly, opening a cabinet - that's hanging on the wall left of the sink - in search of a comb and his hair gel; he'll skip on shaving today. It's terrifying how much energy it takes him nowadays to do even simplest of things. Like gelling his hair. He is so painfully aware of every second that his limbs are moving. They are heavy like lead and while he's combing through his hair and slicking it back he needs to actively keep reminding himself to keep his arm up and moving. He has never before had this kind of comprehension of gravity. It was always a little more than a theory. A force that kept him from flying, that made his pens drop onto the floor too many times than he can even count, but he never felt himself needing to fight against it. Until now.
When his hair is done he opens the small window on the opposite side of the bathroom and the cold December air rushes inside. He leans against the sink, closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath. It stops somewhere along the way, never fully reaching his lungs; nothing new there. It's like something is lodged behind his ribcage, permanently squeezing his lungs, making it impossible to inhale with full force.
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It's been like this for months now. He's been like this. And he hates it. He hates how hard it is to get out of bed, to put his body into motion, to speak and to think. Everything is too much. Too heavy.
And he doesn't understand it.
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He should be happy. He is out of Ohio. He's in New York. With Kurt. He should be ecstatic. Except he's not. He is so far away from ecstatic that sometimes he feels like he's never even experienced that particular emotion. He knows he has but he just can't recall it.
What he is though, is numb. Empty and utterly exhausted. From everything.
But he tries, god, he tries so hard not to be like that. He puts on a smile and tries to go on as though nothing is wrong. Dwelling on things has never gotten anyone anywhere, but it's not working. He thought, he hoped that if he just ignores this dull, constantly growing, hollow feeling inside his chest it will simply go away. It didn't. It doesn't.
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There's a knock on the door.
"I'm making eggs, do you want some?" Rachel asks from the other side.
"Sure, sounds great," Blaine replies with a fake cheer. He even smiles even though she can't see him. It's a habit. That's what he's been doing lately, smiling fake smiles, saying fake words.
"Okay, you have ten minutes," she informs him.
Blaine brushes his teeth and puts his things away before going to his room so he can get dressed.
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Room, however, is a generous description. Room implies a door with a lock – not a cotton curtain - and a window. What he has can be best described as an alcove. It is big enough to be compared to a small room, sure but that still doesn't make it one.
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It was supposed to be just a temporary solution to a supposed temporary situation when he'd moved in with Kurt and Rachel back in August. He didn't mind at first. He understood where Kurt was coming from. They went from not being together to being engaged to breaking the engagement to being sort of boyfriends all in a span of three months. It made sense that Kurt wanted them to take things slow. Until they could trust each other, that was the reason Kurt offered anyway; although it was clear who of the two had something to prove.
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But that was almost five months ago. And in that time Blaine went from understanding to being silently annoyed and frustrated to just being too tired to care.
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Now he doesn't know what he wants.
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It's a limbo that they're stuck in, a place with no sense of direction, momentum or purpose. He is tired of the same conversations, sick of rehashing memories rewriting the past, pretending things are fine when they so clearly aren't. Pretending didn't mend anything. They are together again but there is still so much distance between them, so much of what shouldn't be there, so much of something he can't keep escaping.
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He doesn't know what is keeping them together anymore.
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He searches the small dresser for a sweater. Some of his clothes are already packed for his trip home.
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He is relieved that the winter break is here. He is still hoping that the break is all he needs, just some time to regroup, to recharge his battery. The truth is he doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't manage to pull himself together.
He wishes he could pause his life. Just for a little while. For a minute, an hour, or a day. Just a little time so that he can try and clear his mind, or go to sleep.
He just wants to breathe.
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This first semester was hell. He didn't manage anything more than a C on any of his finals. And it might have shocked him - he is pretty sure that he's never gotten anything below B in his life - if he hadn't seen it coming weeks before the finals came around. He had trouble concentrating. He was unable to focus; nothing seemed to stick, words he read kept flying away from him, not attaching itself inside his brain. And the worst thing of all - he seems to have lost the ability to write music.
And that staggeringly terrifying loss has mired him in despair and quiet agony.
Music always came easy to him, as naturally as breathing. There was hard work involved, of course, hours of practicing and writing, but it flew, without thinking. Music was always there, as much a part of him as anything else - blood or bones. Only true constant in his life. Now all of that seems to have disappeared.
He feels empty, like he has nothing inside of him worth expressing, as if the very essence of him is gone. And even when he gets the feeling, or the idea he is unable to hold onto it long enough for it to become something more. Something lasting. Now all he has is just the memory, just the thought that there was a time when he had the ability, the talent. Something had absorbed and suffocated his creativity and his passions and left him with this terrible blankness and hollowness.
He has never felt so lonely in all of his life.
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They - Kurt, Rachel and himself - are flying to Ohio the day after tomorrow, on twenty-third; that's the plan anyway. The plane ticket is in his table drawer.
Alongside another one.
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His grandmother sent him a round way ticket to Italy three weeks ago; the ticket is for the twenty-second - tomorrow - five p.m. flight. He was surprised, he'd always paid for the tickets himself - well, his parents did - so he couldn't help but wonder if she was trying to say something to him, something more than the obvious I miss you, I haven't seen you in a long time, come visit so you can tell me all about your life while I spoil you silly. The last time he was in Venice was during winter break his sophomore year and the realization of how long it has been since he's seen her makes him feel guilty for being such a bad grandson. He got so caught up in his life and in the process failed to keep in proper touch with the one person who knows him best of all; or at least she did.
He didn't tell anyone about the ticket.
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"Blaine!" Rachel calls him.
The moment he steps outside the smell from the kitchen invades his nostrils and makes his stomach churn unpleasantly. He isn't hungry; well, he probably is but when he sees the food spread out on the island he realizes he has no appetite.
"Thanks, looks great," he compliments with a smile.
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He read somewhere how it's easier to smile than to frown; something about taking more muscles to form a later. That's what he's thinking while Rachel is smiling back at him and handing him a toast. He tries to ignore how gravity is again pulling on him.
"Kurt went out while you were still in the shower. He said he has an errand to run but he'll be back soon," Rachel informs him.
Isn't it harder to hold something up then let it fall? That makes more sense to him.
"Okay," is all he says back and shoves a fork with eggs into his mouth - even though his stomach keeps constricting, rebelling against the idea of being filled - because he sees the way Rachel is looking at him, like she wants to ask him something or say something. But she doesn't. She never does. All she offers sometimes is a small, soft, worried Are you okay? and when Blaine answers with a too quick, too hurried to be honest I'm fine she doesn't press on.
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And he's always relieved.
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Because he doesn't know what he would say to her if he did decide to be honest. No, I'm not okay. Nothing is okay. Everything feels wrong. He doesn't know how to articulate the empty heaviness of it all.
How do you explain what you don't understand? How do you explain breathing but feeling like you're suffocating? How do you explain that your heart doesn't even pulse with the same beat anymore? That its sound is dull now; rhythm monotonous and befogged? How do you explain that you're expanding with nothingness?
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"I'll get it," Rachel says and before Blaine can ask anything he sees her walking towards the front door; clearly there was a knock or a ring that he's missed.
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tbc
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author's note: there was no Sebastian in this chapter I know and I'm sorry about that. but he'll make an appearance - this is a seblaine story - in an unique way.
thank you for reading
if you can please let me know what you think