Our Hearts Beat in Reverse

by define-serenity

[Sebastian/Blaine] He completed all the lifeguard courses before finals, took all the requisite modules and received his two-year certification after taking first aid classes, professional-level CPR and AED training. That's how he'd met one Blaine Devon Anderson.

1. Chapter 1

author's notes: written for seblaineaffairs' Spring Fling challenge. title taken from Rat-A-Tat by Fall Out Boy.

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& Our Hearts Beat In Reverse

part one

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We watched the sun set,

and we woke to the sunrise;

what's between was ours.

—Tyler Knott Gregson

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Summer spread hot and heavy over the entire park, cabins left abandoned in favor of outdoor activities like hiking, rock-climbing, swimming... Jetties bobbed up and down in the water, all run empty with every available boat out on the water, wood cracking from the heat. On the other side of the lake a broad beach pushed back the tree line, providing the space and opportunity for campers and locals to swim and work on their tans.

This is where Sebastian had determined to pass his summer, bestowing his exceptional aquatic skills upon those in need.

It's not that he needed the money; his trust fund had been his primary source of income for the past few years and continued to provide ample coverage on all his expenses, but since his father checked that account on a semi-regular basis - well, as adept as he'd gotten at lying, his father didn't need to know about everything he spent his money on.

He completed all the lifeguard courses before finals, took all the requisite modules and received his two-year certification after taking first aid classes, professional-level CPR and AED training.

That's how he'd met one Blaine Devon Anderson.

Recertifying for all the lifeguard courses himself, Blaine had been pointed out to be him from afar by one of the instructors, because they'd be working the same shifts at the lake.

Blaine, a few inches shorter than him, seemed like an all-round American sweetheart, a smile at the ready for everyone, lent a helping hand when necessary, great with kids, and wasn't too hard on the eyes either. He quickly learned more about Blaine Anderson Googling one rainy Sunday afternoon; as upstanding citizen Blaine was a pillar of the community, member of several societies and advocate for many charities all over Westerville, Ohio, the town that most often referred to Blaine as the mayor's son.

Blaine was the proverbial goody-two-shoes, out to save the world, with a trip in his step and an inspirational word for every single one of his father's constituents.

He knew this type of boy.

The jury was still out on whether or not he and Blaine would get along.

.

Somehow he gets lucky and catches the afternoon shifts – Kitty and Quinn, two girls he met at training, and some blond guy whose name he failed to learn, drew the short straw and ended up with the morning shift, while he and Blaine got stuck with Sugar Motta, the daughter of one of his father's old clients. A third group came in over the weekends, but he never met any of them. Covering the afternoon shift meant his mornings remained open for other things, like sleeping off a buzz, or actual productive things like read or boss workers around at his parents' house, which had been undergoing renovations for the past few months.

A cabin at the entrance to the beach was reserved for the lifeguards, one small square room with a row of six lockers where they could keep their things and change clothes, a shower behind the cabin with a barely-there privacy curtain in case they needed it, and a plastic picnic table out in front that could seat four, and got too hot to sit on when the afternoon sun caught it.

The uniforms were, arguably, the one upside to the whole setup; bright red swim shorts made to order, and if they so chose, a white shirt with the logo of the camp printed on it. After an entire year of wearing the Dalton Academy uniform, however, a white long-sleeved shirt under a warm blue blazer with red piping and a tie, he needed to work on his tan. So stepping out on his first day, the beach filled with screaming children and their parents, exhausted grandparents, and hormone-crazed teenagers, he braves the stinging heat with his pale skin, bare feet, and a stylish new pair of sunglasses.

"You should probably invest in some flip-flops," a voice sounds behind him.

He frowns. Strange first words.

"Excuse me?" he asks and turns in the same breath, coming face to face with none other than Blaine Anderson, his hazel eyes wide and bright, accompanied by a smile that could turn the foulest of moods. Sadly, Blaine's also wearing the aforementioned shirt that complemented the uniform.

"Flip-flops." Blaine points at his own feet, adorned with red flip-flops that match his shorts, the Y-shaped strap snug between his big and second toe. "They're not practical, but they don't teach you about stray toys in training. It's like stepping on a Lego, but with sand in the mix. You want to avoid those."

"Alright. Thanks."

"It's Sebastian, right?" Blaine asks, lingering at his side.

He takes special note that Blaine wears the short version of the swim shorts, the fabric ending several inches above the knee, while he'd opted for longer ones himself – he has skinny legs; a dancer's legs his mother insisted, but he often felt self-conscious about them.

He holds out a hand. "Sebastian Smythe."

"Blaine Anderson," Blaine offers, and shakes his hand. "Don't hesitate to ask me any questions. I've been doing this for three years, so I know the ropes."

He quickly does the math in his head – the program they entered allowed candidates that were fifteen or older, but that could still make Blaine older than him. He could be home from college.

"You're eighteen?" he asks, intentionally overshooting.

"I will be in September."

He watches Blaine swagger off toward one of the two lifeguard chairs on the beach, his shorts stretching enticingly around his perky ass, and one of his eyebrows rises involuntarily. Over the years he's done a lot of stupid things for boys with asses like those, but he gave up on wholesome boys out to please their fathers – their personalities went hand in hand with identity crises and some level of closeted-ness, and he wasn't interested in being anyone's secret fuck in between family obligations and charity fundraisers again.

"Heyyy, Sebastian," a raspy voice grates behind him, followed by a prompt slap to his ass.

He jumps and whirls around, greeted by Sugar Motta's big smile, who has the extraordinary ability to creep up on people – for some reason she set her eyes on him some time ago, even though she knew he was gay, but that never stopped her from catching him unaware.

Sugar pushes into his personal space and taps her fingers against his abdomen. "You want to lather up those pecs, cutie." She winks and shimmies a bottle of sunscreen into one of his pockets, her hand lingering long enough to make him cringe a step back. "Wouldn't want you to get sunburnt on your first day."

She saunters away before he can tell her off, and he's left uncomfortable and violated – there were girls who could hold his interest, who he could talk to and have fun with in a purely amicable way, but there were other girls who acted like they could turn him straight, make him see the appeal of their voluptuous curves both up-top and down-under; the kind of girls who chilled him to the bone. Even if Sugar meant no harm, that wasn't the kind of attention he enjoyed.

Maybe that's why he gives his eyes leave to find Blaine again and why he makes his way over.

Blaine catches him off guard by speaking first. "Need a hand with that?" he asks, motioning toward the tube of sunscreen sticking out of his pocket.

He cracks a smile, "Sure", and turns around to give Blaine access to his back.

Blaine squirts some of the cream onto the back of his neck, his fingers soon working the moisture into his skin, small circular movements that don't leave a single patch of his skin unattended, and he relaxes under Blaine's careful gentle care.

"You're good at this, killer."

Blaine breathes a smile. "You really can't afford sunburn on your first day."

Wholesome – the word spins around his self-respect as he stares out over the lake. His life doesn't revolve around chasing relationships or boys with great abs, least of all a mayor's son who lives by every rule his parents set and provides an example to others; he can't stand those holier-than-thou attitudes from some of his fellow preppies at Dalton either, so he prefers avoiding it in other everyday interactions. Too bad though; Blaine could've been an exciting summer fling.

"There you go."

Blaine finishes with a final touch to his hip.

"Thanks," he says, and leaves before Blaine can wish him a jolly good day, or something similarly joyful.

Nothing much happens during his first shift. Six hours pass routinely; Blaine takes two hours in the lifeguard chair while Sugar walks up and down the waterline, and he swims back and forth between the shore and the swim platforms drifting stagnant in the water.

"Good form, Sebastian." Sugar winks when she takes her seat in the lifeguard chair, all of them rotating positions; the only reason he smiles is because he sees Blaine looking their way, lovingly shaking his head, clearly accustomed to Sugar's coquetry.

By the time he takes his turn in the chair the crowd has thinned out significantly, most of the families gone home for dinner and elaborate bath time rituals, though some of the teenagers straggle on the beach, trying to hide the bottles of liquor they finally feel safe enough to pull out. Blaine puts a stop to that with a polite, "Not on my watch, guys. Put it away or take it somewhere else, okay?"

Much to his surprise the group complies immediately.

Saint Anderson, he thinks, or some kind of Captain America type superhero, fighting juvenile delinquency with a wink and a smile, and the power of positive! thinking! It's amusing to watch, and entertaining the thought of getting his hands all over Blaine's ass won't do any harm; it might even help him get through a lot of sleepless nights back at his parents' house. It felt weird being home full-time after all his months at school, where he often stayed over the weekend; as much as his mom liked having him back for the summer, he preferred the freedom private school –ironically– offered.

"He's single, you know," Sugar's voice sounds from below as she wraps herself around one of the legs of the chair, fresh out of the water – their shift's coming to a close and the sun's dipped behind the tree line, quickly bathing the beach in twilight, if not for the remaining light refracting off the water and a series of lanterns guiding pathways into the forest.

He climbs down the chair. "He's not my type."

Sugar smiles knowingly. "Liar."

.

On his second day he comes home to find his mom halfway down the stairs in the hallway, studiously inspecting the construction workers' progress on the plastering; she did this every night, because a day yelling at them was useless if she couldn't yell at them the next day over something they missed.

"How was your first day, honey?"

After six hours in the blistering sun, he's too tired to correct his mother's misassumption.

"Fine, mom."

Though, arguably, he may have underestimated what it took to be a lifeguard. Sugar had been right to make him use sunscreen, and Blaine hadn't been wrong about the flip-flops; he'd bought a pair on his way home. He'd been in the water for most of his life, but this proved next level.

His mom turns, her green eyes identical to his. "Meet any cute boys?" she asks, which she'd label as her way of being hip to his life, but it's really an attempt at getting to know him again. According to all the parenting books she subscribes to, teenagers are tough to fathom, and showing an interest in their day-to-day activities will help establish a new layer of trust.

"Yeah, actually, I did." He crosses his arms over his chest. "5'8". Hazel eyes. Great ass. He might be the love of my life."

"And does my future son-in-law have a name?"

He huffs a laugh, caught off guard by how easy it is to slip back into a scenario where he's the little boy tucked tight beneath the bed covers at night telling his mom everything about his day.

Maybe the books were right.

"Blaine."

.

Temperatures peak high and the beach fills up with big crowds every single day, the weather far too tempting to keep people locked inside. Between the six of them they have their work cut out, but other than some fatigued swimmers and a few cuts that need treating the week passes without incident.

Friday afternoon rain starts halfway into their shift, emptying the beach within twenty minutes and forcing them back to their assigned hut for shelter.

Blaine and Sugar play cards – apparently they know this drill – while he watches the beach for stragglers under the shelter of a tiny canopy. They've all been forced into their custom-made red hoodies for warmth, which turn out to be deceptively comfortable, and as the rain falls, the fresh crisp air comes as a welcome relief.

Exhausting though the week has been it's turned out strangely rewarding too – he'd gone back and forth on getting a summer job for some time, weighing the idea of having as much freedom as he wanted against the reality of what he might do with that freedom, and he hadn't put it past him to sleep in late, play video games all day, and go back to bed, all under the prying eyes of his mom. This job keeps him on his toes, keeps him focused, and –like Dalton– didn't tolerate any slackers. He's not sure slacking is in his genes.

As soon as the rain stops Sugar announces she's heading home, making it a point to wink at him, before he starts scouring the beach for stray toys or any other items for the lost-and-found.

"Smythe!"

The camp manager's shrill voice leaves tiny pinpricks at the back of his neck.

"Get these chairs outta here 'fore they rust into place!"

April Rhodes, camp director, appeared harmless and tiny, but the woman hulked out every time she shouted across a room, or a field, or a beach in this case, which happened more often than one would think. Her voice carried, and she never missed an opportunity to use it.

He takes his time making his way back to the cabin, finding Blaine adding gel to his hair inside, ducking to peer into a tiny mirror nailed to the wall. The boy was handsome, he had to give him that; good genes and exceptional personal grooming made Blaine quite the catch, and he can't figure out how he remained single – there were plenty of rich eligible bachelors out there who'd be lucky to snare an Anderson.

"Boss wants us to move the chairs in case it rains tonight."

Blaine follows him outside and helps him roll the lifeguard chairs to the other side of the beach, where they chain them to rings in the ground, though he has no idea who in their right minds would steal the things.

He could go home, but given the unexpected length of this first week tonight entailed nothing more but another evening home alone; take-away dinner and a rental from the local DVD store. As far as Friday nights went it wasn't the worst-case scenario, but the house smelled of plaster and the air-conditioning was out; the beach was as good a place as any to kick back.

He sits down on top of the picnic table, watching the sun fade into a muddy orange line on the horizon, and lights a joint. It's not something he indulged in on a daily basis, but he enjoyed how the weed severed ties to any stress and blurred the edges of his perception – even if the sensations were drug induced he liked that suddenly nothing mattered, he didn't have any obligations, and wasn't beholden to anyone.

"So what's your story?" he asks, catching Blaine on his way out.

If at all possible, the red hoodie looks even more comfortable on Blaine, and all he can think about is curling up against his chest, breathing in cologne and sweat and sun-kissed skin, sneak his hands underneath the jersey knit cotton and fall asleep with his arms around the boy on the cusp of adulthood.

"My story?"

He takes a long drag from the cigarette. "You're the mayor's son, right?"

"That's not my story." Blaine stills, digging his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, and as his eyes darken, he fears he royally fucked up. People like Blaine don't need their backgrounds pointed out, and maybe Blaine doesn't like how his reputation or his father's title precedes him in social interactions.

Blaine settles down on the table next to him, daintily plucking the joint from between his index and middle finger.

He blinks a few times, in case he got so blazed he started hallucinating, but Blaine doesn't disappear into thin air. Blaine Devon Anderson, son of Mayor Westerville, savior of the universe, defender of the faith and all creatures big and small, smoked pot?

"Why did you take this job?" Blaine asks, inhaling deeply, savoring the burn in his lungs before expelling the smoke again, his breath clouds of vapor that curl into the dark like soft caresses or bodies writhing in clean white sheets.

"Needed to get out of the house." He swallows hard, eyes tracing the bob of Blaine's throat and his lips puckering around the butt of the joint. "Needed some extra cash. Needed a tan. And I'm a really good swimmer."

Blaine nods. "You are."

"My mom was one of those new-age housewives?" he says, the weed loosening his lips – he leans back on his hands, crosses his legs at the ankles. "She wanted to give birth in the living room in one of those kiddie pools. Thankfully, I decided otherwise, and showed up early."

"You were cocky even in the womb."

He snorts, demanding back his cigarette. "Anyway, she signed me up for swimming lessons when I was six months old."

"And now?" Blaine asks, staring at him sideways.

His eyes glow golden in the fast fading daylight.

"You used the past tense."

"I guess my dad became a hotshot lawyer or something." He shrugs. "Mom followed suit. Dressed the part, looked the part, etcetera."

There's more to the story than that, like his father's career blooming into a position as State's Attorney, which even he considers a big deal, but he's steadily putting the overlarge portion of his brain cells to sleep, and it's as concise a summary as he can manage.

He struggles upright, stubbing out the joint against the side of the table. "Why did you? Take the job."

Blaine falls silent and stares at him, a few inches separating them, and his lips tingle at the thought that if he leaned in Blaine wouldn't move; he'd taste like the raspberries processed into his hair gel, sugar-coated donuts and a hint of sea salt, even if that didn't make any sense. His tongue would run along the inside of Blaine's upper lip and the shorter would sigh into his mouth, relax into his body, edges of them evanescing until they were a mess of comfy sweaters and loose-lipped confessions.

"My parents hate the water," Blaine says.

He blinks, but doesn't sober up, though any pretense between them falls away and darkness fully sets in, the sun setting along with any hope of where this night might've ended. Yet a different kind of promise saturates the air, molecules and atoms combusting. Blaine's not the boy he made him out to be.

Blaine gets up. "Goodnight, Sebastian."

His tongue feels too big for his mouth. "Night."

.

That Saturday he wakes up around eleven, the house blissfully quiet and free of any unwanted strangers. Try as she might, once the unions threatened to get involved his mother backed off trying to keep construction going over the weekend. She was off getting her hair or nails done, maybe both, while his father took his buddies golfing.

His head's hazy with pleasant memories from last night, of a boy a little more recognizable, and as his hand slips back underneath the sheets, past the waistband of his boxers, he remembers full lips and a lazy smile, cigarette smoke billowing like a secret act between two willing bodies—

No, he wants to take this slow, savor the same sensations that cascaded through him like fireworks last night, surface-raced for an escape. Sneaking out his hand again he turns on his stomach, his sheets whispering highlights of his conversation with Blaine. He moves his arms under the pillow and settles on his right hip, left leg providing the leverage he needs.

There's no one around and his thoughts swim with would-be kisses, his hips tilting against the mattress as he strips Blaine out of his clothes, cotton revealing a madness twisted by soft touches and lips nipping at immaculate skin. He takes his time, hips rutting against the sheets paced and steady, body ravaged by unkempt fantasies of hands slipping carelessly inside red swim shorts, clumsy fingers catching around a hard itch that clambered for release.

His breathing picks up, heat pools in his stomach and he comes with a sweet sigh, euphoria scintillating in his thighs and up his hips, toes curling, body melting slack into the bed.

He dozes for another hour, haunted by the startling realization that his world has come to revolve around a single boy after only one week, and he probably doesn't stand a chance in hell with him. What did Blaine even mean by 'my parents hate the water'? Was this job his way of running from his obligations as the mayor's son, to be Blaine rather than the son of? If so, he did fuck up, but he honestly didn't mean any harm. He just took a shot at getting to know Blaine.

He turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, the back of his eyelids plagued by images of hazel eyes.

Last time he felt like this – shit, he can't remember; the past six months lay eclipsed by a relationship where he'd been used and thrown away the moment someone more exciting crossed his boyfriend's path. As much as he liked to claim the bad boy moniker, that meant little at a prestigious prep school he fit into perfectly. He got a kick out of breaking the rules, sneaking booze onto campus, getting a fake ID to go partying and drinking until the early morning hours, but at the start of each new day he still had all his homework finished and got the grades to show for his hard work. He's not a bad boy, but he likes to pretend he is.

Maybe he and Blaine weren't so different after all.

.

He starts his second week by apologizing to Blaine. His curiosity got the better of him, and he'd pushed buttons he hadn't been aware were sore spots. But he's not above setting aside his pride and admitting he went too far.

He finds Blaine in the cabin changing clothes, shedding his polo shirt and applying sunscreen to his arms and chest. His eyes trace over flawless olive skin shining brilliantly with sunscreen – he hates to admit this, but he's taken a particular liking to this boy, one colored the spectrum of summer, bright reds and yellows, maybe some oranges too, and permeated with the potential of summer love, sweet whispers in the dead of night while it's still warm out, uncomplicated fun, no strings attached.

He checks himself in exactly three point five seconds.

Love? Where did that come from?

"You need me to get your back, killer?"

Blaine startles at the sound of his voice, but relaxes quickly, and tosses him the bottle of sunscreen. He moves in closer and treats Blaine's back to a generous amount of lotion, his skin clean, and warmer than he expected.

"I'm sorry about Friday."

"Why?"

Fingers lingering over a pronounced birthmark where Blaine's shoulder meets his neck, a sloppy smear slightly darker than the skin surrounding it, he loses his train of thought, his hand skimming down to the small of Blaine's back.

"Well-"

He's sure he had something to say.

"I know my reputation, Sebastian," Blaine says. "I like my reputation."

The words Blaine omits ring loudest, how upholding a reputation, a moniker, doesn't mean there isn't room for crossing the line from time to time – life's pretty boring without an outlet for its frustrations. That's why he broke the rules, why he smoked pot and drank expensive cocktails, and dated boys far too old for him. He'd love to see what Blaine looks like loose and out of control.

"I wasn't trying to give you crap about it," he says, his own effort at a hidden meaning falling short of achieving its purpose, and he can't even blame it on being high this time. Blaine got under his skin when he wasn't looking, and he's not too keen on changing that.

Blaine faces around, nose wrinkling adorably as he scolds, "You were messing around a little."

"I was-"

Blaine pushes past him and onto the sun soaked beach, his flip-flops scooping up small buckets of sand with every step. His head snaps back and forth between the place Blaine occupied to the new trajectory he's on and he almost trips over his own feet trailing behind the older boy.

"-high," he adds, before a whole rainstorm of words torrents past his lips: "Hey-do-you-want-to-grab-a-drink-after-work?"

Blaine turns around, eyes ticking haphazardly down his bare chest as if trying to divine from his freckles whether or not he's worth the effort.

"Can't. This mayor's son has duties to fulfill."

He scoffs, but accepts the rejection, because he decides there and then that Blaine Devon Anderson is a bit of a tease, and the boy is well worth some of his own effort; the sight of the red swim shorts straining around his ass as he stalks away also gives him ample reason to keep pursuing this. It's not like he has anything better to do.

"Not your type, huh?" Sugar wanders into his field of vision; it's clear she's been well within earshot the length of his conversation with Blaine.

"What's his deal?"

"Take me out for a drink tonight." Sugar smiles. "I'll tell you all about it."

He catches Sugar's eyes, about to turn her down with an equal parts mean and clever line, when it occurs to him he does want to learn what makes Blaine tick, who the rule breaker is behind the façade of a picture perfect boy. So why not?

"Okay, let's get one thing straight," he says, the irony in the statement not lost on him. "I'm gay. I have been and always will be 100% into dick. So if this is your way of trying to get me to stray for whatever you've got going on, you will fall short of achieving that goal."

"Got it." Sugar salutes. "Pick me up at eight."

He's left watching an empty patch of sand where Sugar stood, sighing.

Of all the summer camps in Ohio, how did he get stuck in the one with these two drama queens?

At nine, a full hour after he picked Sugar up at her house, he's had time to regret his decision to accept her help a dozen times over – he schleps after her at the mall, ducking into every high-end clothing store, because apparently there was some big party, and if she showed up in a dress she'd worn before she'd be kicked off the A-list before she could recite her ABCs.

He can't for the life of him figure out when exactly this became his life, when his need to find out more about Blaine started outweighing his intense dislike for girl parts, of which he's definitely seen enough to last him a lifetime; unlike most people, Sugar did not understand the concept of a changing room, or closing its doors.

"Can you zip me up?" Sugar waddles toward him, holding up the strapless dress by cupping her hands around her breasts.

He sighs, but zips up the dress in the back, which fits Sugar like a glove.

"What do you think?"

"I think this isn't what we agreed."

Sugar narrows her eyes at him in the mirror, but quickly concedes. "Blaine was in a long-term relationship with this boy from school up until a few months ago. They were set to move in together after the summer and everything."

He catches Sugar's gaze, looming several inches taller than her yet somehow seeming small – she knows exactly what to withhold and how. "And?"

"The guy cheated on him."

He frowns.

"I know, right?" Sugar says, mistaking his expression for confusion. "Who'd wanna cheat on that cutie?"

For all of Hunter's shortcomings at least he never cheated on him, even if Hunter liked reminding him he'd found someone a lot more willing to go around with in secret. Whatever, he never shed any tears over Hunter Clarington, and he didn't need that kind of internalized homophobia in his life. What's far more interesting, and the reason for the question marks crossing his eyes, is that Blaine appears to be out and proud and not about to tiptoe back into the closet. He's just been hurt, and that would make anyone reluctant to start anything new.

"You think he's over it?"

Sugar's eyes light up. "Only one way to find out."

As far as that goes, he and Sugar agree.

"How about we get that drink now?" he asks, offering Sugar his arm. Sugar might've twisted the situation to her advantage, but at least she hadn't lied about knowing something; that deserved a treat.

They're well on their way back from the food court when something catches in the corner of his eye – a boy he's outlined with his eyes several times now, while his fingers completed the deed in his most secret fantasies; Blaine, accompanied by Quinn, exits the mall's JCrew store, both of them carrying about as many bags as Sugar forced on him.

Didn't Blaine have mayoral duties to perform?

Blaine takes note of him right away, a smile skipping to a corner of his mouth, before he returns to whatever conversation he was having with Quinn; he and Quinn continue on their way without sparing them another glance.

"Eesh," Sugar comments, before she starts slurping her smoothie again.

But he smiles. Blaine used an age-old excuse on him earlier, claiming family obligations instead of mentioning a trip to the mall with Quinn. Was Blaine playing hard to get, or was he simply not interested?

Either way, he's determined to get to the bottom of this.

.

"You lied to me," are the first words past his lips the next morning, his eyes caught on Blaine's ass and the curve of his back as he's squatting to pull on his flip-flops.

Not a week ago he determined not to pursue Blaine or any potential summer fling, and now look at him, pretty much falling over himself to catch even the slightest bit of attention. His mother's books might quote his youth, interested in the latest thing or the most exciting conquest, but he hopes (as much as he fears it) that Blaine will prove to be different.

Blaine turns toward his voice and cracks a smile, a smile of all things, as if he means to take a part of his heart with it. "Technically Quinn is one of my dad's constituents."

He cocks an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest. "Her father's money probably helps too," he says, a hip set against the doorframe, confounded as to why his mouth keeps doing things he doesn't want it to do around Blaine; the Fabray family represents old money in this town, though pointing that out could be taken as yet another slight he means to lay at Blaine's feet.

"Huh." Blaine's tongue pushes at the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing on his face. "You're a sore loser."

A laugh bellows out of him and he dares a step closer, encouraged by the lilt in Blaine's voice, the tiniest hint of surprise prying at the distance between them, growing shorter every day. "Only when it comes to guys with asses like yours."

Blaine faces away, a blush setting in his cheeks. "You're incorrigible."

"That's a big word, Anderson."

He advances another step, one that ensures Blaine catches his eyes again. God does he like this boy; he's drawn closer with every word they exchange, and he's fairly certain it's Blaine's intention to unravel him.

"Your daddy teach you that?"

Blaine's quick to answer, "Books, Sebastian," before one of his hands lands hot on his torso, pressing ever so gently against his abdomen. Blood rushes through his veins faster that the speed of light, pins and needles spiraling up his spine; they're skin to skin and he can't think, the gesture so sudden and unexpected his breath flits out of him. "Books taught me that."

His head spins with witty turns of phrase that never reach his lips, along with the ridges of Blaine's fingerprints.

This boy is more than a tease.

He's exactly his kind of trouble.

With another smile, Blaine skips away, off to start his shift like the dutiful employee he is.

He huffs a laugh, heat he can't blame on summer descending steadily beneath his skin, Blaine's hand an imprint his memory won't soon lose. Never before has he been on the receiving end of this kind of teasing, the patience that informs Blaine's words and actions, the calm and quiet that gives way to jolts of abrupt change in his demeanor. He'd thought Hunter to be a challenge; coaxing the poor military school boy out of the closet would've been a feat to be proud of, yet Hunter proved to be a bitter mistake.

What could be more fun than this, chasing after an older boy who clearly enjoyed a certain amount of push-and-pull.

It's hard to think of much else for the duration of his shift, even when Blaine remains focused as ever – Sugar throws him a few pointed stares as if she'd been in that cabin with them, but he won't give her the satisfaction of hearing it from him. His skin crawls, but in a weirdly good way, and that doesn't make any sense. He's not usually the one on the receiving end of flirtatious banter that caught him unaware.

After his shift he heads home to wash up, the pathetic excuse of a shower behind the cabin too exposed for what he has in mind. He locks the bathroom door and sheds the few items of clothing he has on, stepping under the water seconds later, the cold spray offering relief for the heat – but the itch beneath his skin grows more intense.

He conjures up Blaine in his mind's eye, his eyes dark, his eyes bright, his eyes a golden hue, and hands moving over his smooth tanned skin. Then, that hand on his chest, pushing up against his abdomen, only now it slips down and grabs gently around him. While his grip tightens Blaine's lips settle near his ear, whispering dirty talk of all kinds, and digs the fingers of his other hand into his ass.

That's it, baby, Blaine might say, just like that.

His hand picks up speed, and he bites down Blaine's neck, nips at skin scented by the forest and the sand and the water – he comes with a groan that echoes along the bathroom walls, and falls forward against the cold tiles.

A laugh escapes him. This is ridiculous, he thinks as his breathing comes down and the water steadily unspools what little tension still left in his body.

Since when did he develop crushes?

.

By Thursday things have settled again, and most of his time comprises sleeping in, long and tedious six-hour shifts at the beach, and coming to terms with the idea that he may have a crush on Blaine. As far as firsts go most probably wouldn't complain; he gets to see Blaine every day in those shorts that leave little to his imagination, gets to rub sunscreen lotion all over his back -one favor for another, and all that-, yet this gnaws at his insides like a hunger he can't satiate.

He wonders what his mom's parenting books would say about teenagers who don't get their way, or trust fund kids who are used to getting what they want – he's never thought of himself as a walking talking cliché but lately he's not sure.

"Blaine!" Sugar shrieks all of a sudden, and one second he's watching her stand up in the lifeguard chair, pointing out over the water, and next he catches a glimpse of Blaine diving off one of the swim platforms, swimming toward a girl in the water clearly in distress.

His training kicks in and he runs for the shoreline, meeting Blaine halfway to help him carry the girl onto the sand, a small and skinny little thing, struggling to catch her breath. At least that means she didn't take in any water, but that gives them little information on what caused her distress in the first place.

"She's having trouble breathing," Blaine says as he lies her down.

A small crowd gathers around the three of them, like most people are wont to do when there's disaster involved.

"Her name's Dottie!" Sugar shrieks, and pushes through the mass of people all huffy and perturbed; the nerve these people have getting in her way. Honestly.

"Okay, Dottie," he says, helping the girl sit up, and like his training dictated tries to calm her down first, "we're not going to panic. We're going to figure this out together, and get you better, okay?"

Big Bambi-like dark eyes find his, and the girl nods her understanding. Then, like he practiced, he takes note of her symptoms, while Blaine's stern, "Give her space," sounds at his back. The circle of onlookers doesn't widen in the least.

Dottie wheezes and coughs, a hand on her chest as if it feels tight.

"Dottie, do you have asthma?"

Sugar gasps. What a plot twist.

"Do you have an asthma action plan?"

Dottie nods frantically, choking out, "In-"

"Your inhaler?" he prompts. "Is it in your stuff?"

Dottie nods again.

"I'll get it," Sugar says, and stumbles backward into the crowd again, running like the wind to where he assumes Dottie's stuff is. He never knew her to be that observant.

He seeks out Blaine, surprised to find his Captain America worrying his lower lip with his teeth, clearly stressed. He's inclined to ask what's wrong, sit Blaine down and talk this through, but they have more urgent matters to attend.

"Let's get her to the cabin," he urges, worried that too many people might make Dottie more anxious, and close her windpipe up further.

With Blaine's help he gets Dottie standing, her left arm swung around his neck and her right around Blaine's, so she has to make as little effort as possible to walk. Once at the cabin Blaine runs inside and collects his hoodie, draping it over the bench so Dottie doesn't burn anything to boot.

A few moments later Sugar comes running with a backpack in one hand and an inhaler in the other. He shakes the inhaler and watches Dottie breathe out, quickly siphoning it her way to relieve her distress.

Sugar's hands wind around his arm, and for once doesn't push her away, because his own heart races counting down the seconds after Dottie breathes in, holding her breath to make sure the medicine reaches into her lungs as deep as possible. This isn't the first time he's helped someone through an asthma attack, and it hasn't gotten any easier.

Minutes pass, and Dottie's wheezing disappears, her breathing slowly evening out.

Sugar's grip loosens.

"Thank you," Dottie squeaks, ducking with a small smile.

At that, Sugar jumps up and throws her arms around his neck, squealing, "My Superman!" at a pitch probably dogs could hear. He laughs, and looks to Blaine, but their commander-in-chief has taken to the beach again, patrolling up and down the waterline for any other potential incidents; something about this spun anxiety into Blaine's shoulders he hasn't seen him carry before, and he's curious as to what could be the cause of it. Surely this had nothing to do with professional jealousy.

Sugar returns to work as well, and he calls someone for Dottie.

"Sorry for being so much trouble," Dottie says, tapping her bare feet up and down in the sand as they wait for her mom to arrive. She's cute, in her own sheepish kind of way, with the cute dimple in her cheek when she smiles, and the large glasses she dug out of her backpack – he also loves that she's no longer dying on him.

From what he read years before, he learned swimming could be beneficial to people with asthma, but heat's been known to have adverse effects on people with respiratory problems. Dottie shouldn't be at the beach on her own.

"Yes" –he crosses his arms– "saving your life will prove extremely detrimental to my reputation."

Dottie giggles.

Half an hour later Dottie's in the safe care of her mom and on her way to see a doctor, and the final hour of his shift ends without further incidents.

Blaine, on his part, remains high-strung and leaves him and Sugar to pick up stray items on the beach, while he disappears into the cabin.

"What's got his panties all twisted?" Sugar turns up her nose. "We saved a girl's life today."

It's a comfort to hear he's not alone in noticing something's remiss with their fearless leader, but it brings him no closer to finding out what that is.

"May-be" –Sugar pokes at his side, fixing him with a pointed stare- "one of us should go talk to him before he skedaddles."

Leave it to Sugar Motta to turn into the voice of reason.

He heads for the cabin, bone tired in a way the past two weeks hadn't yet left him, giving into the pull of his curiosity. He finds Blaine sitting on the short bench near the lockers, elbows on his knees, hands in his perfectly gelled hair. Was this good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress? Things like this don't happen every day, but Blaine's been here three summers running – he must have navigated his share of crises.

"Are you okay?"

"No," Blaine mutters, mussing up his hair further. "I've been doing this for three years and nothing like that has ever happened."

As the senior lifeguard Blaine's also the head lifeguard, in charge of things around here absent anyone higher-ranking, and as Blaine Anderson, the boy very much attached to his reputation, he can see why that responsibility weighs on him. But there's a reason there are three of them, why today was the perfect example of a team working in tandem to relief Dottie's stress, and why none of them would ever be left in charge of the beach on their own.

"If this had happened last year I wouldn't have known what to do."

"You did your job," he says, and sits down next to Blaine. Blaine did exactly what he was trained to do; he responded to the situation without a second thought, and that's all anyone could've asked. "You got her out of the water."

Blaine shakes his head. "But you-"

"I got lucky."

"You knew exactly what to do."

He shrugs. "I knew this boy in middle school who had asthma."

"You were amazing," Blaine breathes, curls escaped their imprisonment along his hairline, and it makes him look older, put together, however ironic that seemed. Another one of those moments passes between them, staring at each other longer than the situation requires, a gravitational pull he wished he could navigate properly.

He winks, ruining their moment. "You sound surprised."

Blaine snorts, and pushes their shoulders together. "You're the worst."

.

Windows rolled down and the radio blasting some Imagine Dragons he pulls into the employee parking lot an hour and a half before his shift is set to start, but with drills and hammers incessantly roaring through the entirety of the house, he refused to spend another minute at home. Sitting out in the fresh air accompanied by the sound of water and his favorite lifeguard was a no-brainer trade.

Despite his usual aptitude for these kinds of things, he still hasn't been able to gauge Blaine's interest. Blaine flirts with him in that maddeningly endearing way he has, but it's gone no further than that. If Sugar's right, and Blaine's single, maybe it's about time he took his shot and stopped dancing around this.

"Hey, Sebastian," he hears as soon as he climbs out of the car, and he barely catches thick lips, blue eyes, and a mop of blond hair over the hood of the next car.

"Hey-y," he calls at his morning shift colleague, eyebrows knitting together in a frown. He should really learn this guy's name. He talked to Quinn and Kitty a few times at training, but given the intense focus their job required the morning crew never stuck around long after they arrived to relieve them. It's uncommon for anyone to duck out an hour early though.

Most visitors had vacated the beach to grab some lunch, but Kitty and Quinn remained on post guarding the handful that remained.

"You're here early." Blaine appears from the cabin as he sits down at the picnic table, the plastic seats still tolerable to sit on. "I didn't take you for the eager beaver type."

"House is under construction," he says. After all the assumptions he's made about Blaine he's not about to take that as an insult, but if Blaine's here this early every day he might have to take that eager beaver attitude to heart.

Blaine settles opposite him at the table with an orange and a bottle of water. "So this kid you knew who has asthma," he says, picking at the peel of the orange.

His mouth freezes around a bite of his sandwich. "What about him?"

"Was he cute?"

"I am deeply offended by that assumption, Anderson." He smiles, and swallows. "Looks aren't everything."

"But was he?" Blaine's nose scrunches, while the sweet bite of citrus disseminates any preconceptions between them. All at once, any playfulness wanes from their conversation, almost as if his gallantry yesterday placed him in a different light. But why should it have; he didn't do anything anyone else in his position wouldn't have done before, during, or after, and he'd hate to think Blaine thought that low of him.

"He was my first boyfriend," he confesses, and brings to mind the sweet face, the pink of his lips. "Flaming red curls. Freckles on his nose and cheeks."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen."

One of Blaine's eyebrows rises almost imperceptibly, before his eyes fall to the orange in his hands, and he can't read his expression. Is Blaine impressed? Surprised? Shocked? Thirteen isn't that young, but it leaves him to wonder when Blaine came out, or if he's out to his parents at all – he's taken most of his information about Blaine's love life from Sugar, and all of a sudden it dawns on him that he may be repeating a pattern here. Is Blaine still in the closet, like Hunter was? Were all those plans about moving in with his ex-boyfriend made behind his parents' backs?

"How long were you together?" Blaine asks next, still peeling his orange, still focused on his task, still just asking innocuous questions.

"About as long as it took for our parents to figure it out."

This makes Blaine pause. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

He faces away.

Getting caught kissing a boy wasn't the ideal way for him to come out, but it got the message across. He never regretted how it went down, or how it was received; he learned from an early age to decide the kind of man he wanted to be, even if being gay wasn't what his father had in mind when he taught him that lesson. "We still keep in touch."

"That's nice."

Somewhere behind him a kid screams, and the waves of the water lap at the shore, and he can't remember the last time he felt this way about another boy. It can't have been three years; this memory of a feeling can't trace back all the way to Harry and his innumerable tiny freckles, his soft lips, and cute dimpled smile. He must've at some point felt something similar to this that didn't end in miserable heartbreak.

Fuck.

"Are you free tonight, by any chance?" he asks, at the risk of falling into a tried-and-true pattern that will end up hurting him again.

"I have plans."

"What about tomorrow night?"

Lips parting, Blaine bites the inside of his cheek.

"One date, killer," he insists, "that's all I'm asking."

Blaine casts down his eyes. "I really can't."

"Because of your dad?"

"No, that's..." -Blaine frowns- "He's not thrilled that I'm gay, but he's accepted it."

No longer in the closet, then. But if that's not the problem he can't fathom what is; he's been sending clear signals – signals, he likes to believe, he's gotten pretty good at interpreting, and Blaine didn't strike him as the kind of guy to toy with someone.

"Then what's the problem?"

Blaine draws in a deep breath and sits up straighter. "Look, Sebastian," he breathes, "you're a great guy, and I'm really flattered, but we work together."

"No one has to know."

"No, I really like this job," Blaine urges, "and it's my last year before college. I just- think we should be friends."

And at that point he's not mature enough not to let the words, "Are you serious?" slip past his lips like the rejection doesn't hit him like an insult, like being friendzoned is an actual thing and not some backward way for people to justify their entitlement. Because, seriously, what the fuck?

A pained expression crosses Blaine's eyes. "I'm really sorry," he says, and gets up, leaving him to stew in his own confusion.

He can't have read this so wrong. Was he too young? too forward? not forward enough? Or was this all painfully simple: did that asshole ex of Blaine's do such a number on him he's not ready to start dating again?

Two hands land on his shoulders, making him jump.

"Jeez Louise, Sebastian" -Sugar taps at his shoulders a few times more, and starts massaging- "You need to relax. I don't have room for second-hand stress in my life."

"Sugar," he growls, but holds back on the snarky comments, not trusting his mouth to say anything else, "not now."

Sugar's hands still, and she falls silent, which is more than he hoped for.

"Everything okay?"

"No." He shakes his head, shocked to hear himself admit it. "No, it's not."

With another squeeze of her hands, but a respectful silence, Sugar leaves him alone with his thoughts the same way Blaine had. Talk about a plot twist; Blaine's not into him, and Sugar Motta's become an unlikely ally – the end must be nigh.

His Friday in ruins he tries to get into the swing of things; he changes into his signature lifeguard gear, catching Quinn and Kitty on their way out, and joins Sugar and Blaine on the beach. He doesn't look Blaine's way, they don't exchange barbs when they rotate positions on the beach, and he most definitely doesn't start focusing on the idea that this is somehow all his fault. There's no way he's attracted solely to emotionally unavailable guys. He can't be that much of a cliché.

Then again, at the end of the day the blonde's back, waiting by the cabin for Blaine to change clothes – he vaguely catches a name, Sam or something, but pays him little more attention than he had Blaine for the past six hours.

That is until he watches the two of them swagger toward the forest together, and Sam throws an arm around Blaine's neck and pulls him closer, while Blaine pokes at Sam's side and it's all he can do before he can't stand to see another second of it.

His tongue clicks off the roof of his mouth. Some closeted American sweetheart.

Clearly Blaine's not worried about that relationship interfering with his job.

What a joke.

.

"What are you doing?" comes his mom's voice that Sunday, followed by the quick tick of her heels on the patio tiles. Wind sweeps through the trees flanking the backyard, raising goosebumps on his skin.

Behind his sunglasses he cracks open one eye, and moves a few inches when his mom sits down next to him on the lounge chair. He's idled by the pool with a book for almost two days straight, and he's not at all shocked to find his mom bringing him one of her infamous mojitos. As long as his dad isn't home, his mom likes enabling his vices.

"I believe the kids these days call it" –he raises both hands to add the air quotations- "'chillaxing'."

"You're moping."

He huffs. Semantics.

"Is it that boy you told me about?" she asks, pinpointing the exact cause of his current ennui. Whatever books she's reading seemed to be doing the trick, because she's never made such astute observations about his life before.

She strokes a hand across his forehead, and he leans into it.

There was a time, back when his family's life came built around the wonder of a first-born son and not his dad's career, he and his mom were a lot closer, he told her everything about his day, and there were no secrets between them. Those times were long gone. She had her life, and he lived his, and there wasn't much room for bonding in the places where those lives overlapped.

Now, for the first time that summer, he feels closer to his mom than he's felt to anyone, and he realizes that maybe his biggest problem isn't this crush, it isn't his confusion regarding Blaine, but it's the simple fact that he's lonely. He hasn't had someone to talk to since school ended, and none of his friends from Dalton lived nearby.

He sighs. "He's not into me."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"It's okay."

But he thinks his mom hears the lie clear as day. His heart's weary of secrets and empty promises; he may have thought Hunter an interesting challenge but truth is Hunter Clarington turned him into his plaything, his to boss around at will, and for a long time –too long– he kept crawling back for more. Blaine's not worth this cat-and-mouse game any more than Hunter was.

There's something to be said about self-respect and 'fool me twice's, and all that.

What's worse is Blaine could've told him the truth; he could've told him he had a boyfriend. He can handle rejection. What he can't handle is secrecy, lies, deception, and to be honest, given how his last relationship ended he expected more from Blaine.

"Us Smythes never- mope around for long."

"Is that so?" his mom muses, before kissing his forehead, her fingers lingering in his hair.

No. He doesn't believe that either.

.

At the beginning of his third week he vows things will be different. He managed to get over Hunter, so he's bound to put this crush on Blaine behind him sometime before the end of the summer. That's going to start today. He bears Blaine no ill will and he can't ignore him for the next five weeks – that kind of behavior is for children or people whose pride gets in the way, and his has had ample reign since last Friday.

He gets out of his car and means to head straight to the beach, running late as it is, when a town car pulls up, the windows in the back rolled all the way down. Did it take a wrong turn somewhere?

His eyes narrow on the back windows, but the passenger's profile is unmistakable. "Blaine?"

A town car with a private driver.

It must pay to be a mayor's son.

He walks over and ducks to have a look inside, at the black leather upholstery and cup holders, the ample legroom and the partition in between the backseat and the driver's seat; a car like this must have air-conditioning. There's no reason for the windows to be rolled down, unless—

His eyes tick over Blaine again, sat small in the backseat, his curls disheveled and skin ashen, and he bets if it weren't for the sunglasses Blaine's eyes would be bloodshot. When he fantasized about seeing Blaine loose and out of control, this isn't what he had in mind. Had he partied all weekend?

"Don't take this the wrong way, Anderson, but you look like shit."

Blaine groans.

"You know," he says, unable to stifle a smile, "most Star Employees like yourself have the decency not to show up hung-over on a Monday morning."

"Shhh, I'm fine." Blaine brings his fingers to his lips, before unsuccessfully fumbling around for the car door handle. "Once I get into the water I'll be as good as new."

"Blaine, you're a mess." He pushes up against the door so that Blaine couldn't get out if he did locate the handle – he can't believe he's even entertaining the thought of working like this. "Go home before anyone sees you. I'll get Quinn to cover for you."

It's a testament to Blaine's current state of mind that he raises no immediate objection. "Are you sure?" he mumbles, speech slurred like he's still drunk. "Because I can-"

"I'm sure." He laughs. "You'll scare away all the children like this. Go sleep it off."

He may have vowed to get over Blaine, but that doesn't have to stand in the way of him being a decent person. There's no way Blaine can work like this, and if any of the beachgoers were to notice one of the lifeguards was still technically drunk, that could mean the end of Blaine's prestigious summer career. Perish the thought.

This probably shouldn't amuse him as much as it does, but given the situation they're in it's good to remember Blaine's still human, that he's capable of making mistakes and he pays for them the exact same way the rest of them mere mortals do. The hard way.

"Thanks, Sebastian," Blaine says before groaning again, his head falling back against the backseat headrest.

.

It comes as no surprise to see Blaine on post again on Tuesday, bright and chipper, and any signs of a hangover gone with the morning sun. He can't fathom how he does it; how he goes from that mess of a boy he caught in the car yesterday, to this meticulous and put-together young man who more than likely has a five-year plan for the future stashed in a day planner somewhere. He deals with his fair share of preppies at Dalton, and arguably belongs to the same category, but he's never met anyone like Blaine.

Fuck. He wasn't going to do this anymore.

He leans up against the doorframe of the cabin, determined to find a different sense of camaraderie that will last them the rest of the summer, and won't involve picturing Blaine naked all the time. "Exactly how hard does one have to party during the weekend to still be hung-over on Monday?"

On his part, Blaine seems to have anticipated his presence, because he calmly closes his locker before turning to him. "I'm so sorry about yesterday."

An amused smile curls around his mouth.

"I'm never drinking again."

"Now don't go saying things you don't mean."

Blaine laughs.

"Your boyfriend should take better care of you," he says, dropping his backpack to the floor, and he's none too sure if it's some underhanded comment toward Sam, or genuine care for Blaine's wellbeing. Maybe it's a bit of both.

Hazel eyes set around that same pained expression he identified last Friday. What's up with that?

"Sam isn't-" Blaine shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, and as he glances around the cabin for God knows what, a sure slope of defeat sets across his shoulders. "I don't have a boyfriend."

He trips an involuntary step closer. So that public display of affection he witnessed on Friday wasn't an exchange between boyfriends – but bros?

That shouldn't draw him closer. He made up his mind about this.

"Anyway," Blaine sighs, "it's not even about that."

Blaine pats over barefooted, somehow filtering some of the oxygen out of the cabin – he wasn't going to do that anymore; he's not about to let Blaine dictate when he can or can't breathe around him, but that's exactly what happens. His pulse quickens and whatever ambient sound came in over the water lowers to white noise.

"I'm supposed to-"

"Set an example?" His eyebrows rise. "Be the dutiful mayor's son?"

Blaine shrugs. "I guess."

He gets it. He does. Being his father's son entailed a great many responsibilities too; the zero-tolerance policy on discussing his sexuality aside, he's meant to enjoy every benefit of his education, look and act the part during those few work functions that required the whole family to be present, and, of course, always, uphold the good Smythe name. But his father's job doesn't define him; he's not just his father's son.

"Doesn't a state's attorney's son have obligations too?"

"How do you-?"

He never told Blaine the details of his dad's job.

His eyes narrow. "Did you Google me, Anderson?"

"What exactly does a state's attorney do?" Blaine answers with another question, not confirming or denying if he did in fact go through the trouble of researching him online, and draws closer too. "And what is a Dalton Academy Warbler?"

Whatever unspoken thing he's been trying to deny hits him like a cold front – Blaine's doing it again, he's flirting, and he's so taken by its warmth he chases after it, chases after Blaine, traversing the small cabin in a few quick steps. He may as well be a butterfly about to be captured unaware, stuffed inside a mason jar with barely any holes poked through the lid.

Blaine flees, and cackles, "Can you show me some of your dance moves, Sebastian Warbler?" soon finding himself pinned between his body and his locker – their breathing comes hard and heavy, turning him a little lightheaded, his hands pinned on either side of Blaine's head, and all he wants to do is kiss this boy, kiss him hard, kiss him silly, kiss him until the sun sets. But maybe not in this ramshackle little hut that could come down on them any moment.

"Now what?" Blaine asks, before any playfulness fades again, and his eyes skip down to his lips.

His lips part.

"I thought-" he stutters, all words lost to him, because he thought he figured this out, he thought he understood Blaine's motivation for turning him down, for leaving with Sam, for holding back on this kind of flirting once he noticed his interest. But now, what's he supposed to think? He's been toyed with before, and he won't go through that again.

"You thought wrong," Blaine says softly, and places both his hands on his chest, burning hotter than the sun, straight through the thin layer of cotton. His heart must be beating out the craziest rhythm Blaine has ever felt; he's surprised he's still standing after all this.

"I- thought wrong," Blaine says, sighing, "I thought if I-"

All he hears behind Blaine's confession is the pain of a terrible breakup, of a broken heart mended but weary of getting hurt again, and if the past few days have proven anything it's that he understands that all too well. His wounded pride spun this all into what it clearly wasn't.

"It's okay," he whispers. "You're here now."

Yeah. Crushes make him kind of corny.

Girls' voices sound outside.

"We uh-" Blaine clears his throat. "We should get to work."

He doesn't get the chance to say anything, because Sugar drops in with her usual, "Hi, guys!" for the entire beach to hear, and pushes Blaine and him aside to get to her locker. "What's new?"

"Later?" he asks Blaine, as if there's no one else in the room.

Blaine nods, and smiles, his eyes softening. "Later," he says, and makes his way outside.

Heart racing, and more than a little dazed after everything that transpired over the past five minutes, he quickly changes clothes, his skin buzzing with the anticipation of what that 'later' could entail. Would Blaine take him somewhere, or would they stick around here? Will they take this to the next level?

"What was that?" Sugar asks, zeroing in on the obvious tension left in the room. "Did something happen?"

Will something happen when they reach that 'later'?

"You can't hold out on me!" Sugar squeals.

"There's nothing to tell." He shrugs, but winks at her on his way out for good measure. It's possible he may have gotten somewhat attached to Sugar's antics and her obvious investment in his life, but he's not about to tell all.

No. This is his and Blaine's.

"Sebastian!" Sugar screams.

He laughs, and staggers onto the beach, leaving behind a very frustrated Sugar.

Six hours have never seemed as long as the six that follow his confrontation with Blaine. That 'later' he promised takes its sweet time rolling by and when the time finally comes, when Sugar gives up on trying to milk him for information and heads home, after every forgotten item has been picked off the beach, and he cleaned up as best he could using the shoddy shower behind the cabin, he sits waiting for Blaine to do the same.

Sun set and the temperature steadily dropping, all the heat leaves the sand and the forest, soaked up by the twilight. Despite the anticipation grown over the past few hours he's tranquil, at rest when it usually takes at least one joint to soothe his innate restlessness. Blaine might have something to do with that.

He breathes in deep when the sound of footsteps draws his attention, and Blaine emerges wearing a dark shawl-collared hoodie, shorts and sneakers, not much different from how he's dressed. It makes him think about that short-lived fantasy he had about curling up against Blaine's chest and breathing him in. Now that might not be a fantasy for much longer.

He stands, unsure of what to say, unsure –all of a sudden– of how this goes. His mouth's dry and his palms sweaty, and his heart starts beating in reverse. He might as well be thirteen years old again, about to kiss a boy for the first time ever.

Without a word, Blaine walks over and takes him by the hand. Their fingers intertwine, hearts syncing, the quiet of the forest washing over them like calm waves of water.

They retrieve some beers from Blaine's car, and next thing they're pushing deeper into the forest, led by the round lanterns lighting some of the paths in the park, and Blaine's sense of direction. He feels like a little boy following behind someone with an intimate knowledge of the ins-and-outs of these kinds of things, this unspoken Big Thing he's not allowed to know about because he isn't old enough. Yet he's done this before, and he does know how this goes, and he's never felt more mature versed in where this will lead, how they'll come together, give into the inevitability of it all.

Soon, they come to a clearing, one of the campfire sites spread at irregular intervals through sections of the forest. He sits and opens two beers, watching Blaine collect wood for the fire and light it moments later.

"Let me guess," he says, while Blaine closes the distance between them, "Boy scout?"

Blaine blushes, and smiles, looming tall over him, waiting.

He complies without question, opening his legs so Blaine can sit down and snuggle up against his chest – his lips push up to his hair, and he smells raspberries and sweat, the fresh jersey cotton of his hoodie, and the afterburn of firewood.

Above them, owls hoot, and stars starts to show in the night sky, and beneath all that splendor, his arms around a boy who's been on his mind every day since the day they met, he can't think of another place that might feel more like home. It's never been easy for him to find places like that, somewhere he belongs, somewhere he's accepted, but that's not one of his worries when he's with Blaine.

No. That's a different one entirely.

"Why didn't you want to go out with me?" he asks, begging the explanation from Blaine he hadn't made him give earlier. There's a part of him that needs to be reassured that this won't be another disappointment, and that he's learned better than to fall for the same type of boy all over again.

"I leave for college after the summer."

"It's more than that."

Blaine shifts in his arms, his eyes burning a fiery orange in the light of the fire. He's not proud of asking this, nor does he imagine this is easy to talk about with a boy he's trying to move on with, but for the sake of both their reservations it needs to be said.

"Someone broke my heart."

He cups one of Blaine's cheeks. "I'm not going to do that."

He had his heart broken; it seems fair he doesn't do that to anyone else.

Blaine grabs around his wrist, his eyes shining, and he starts shaking. "You can't make that promise."

No. He can't right the past or travel back in time and stand guard over Blaine's heart, but he can be the best he can be, prove that not every boy is like the boy who broke Blaine's heart, that there are good guys out there worth going all-in for; and even if that's not him this summer fling, whatever they label it, can be fun and meaningful and healing. It can be temporary, or it can last, but no matter what it doesn't have to hurt.

They drown in each other's eyes for a long time, waiting for one of them to speak first, realizing that all has been said, and that to make a promise that might be broken or the idea that promises like that can be made in the first place is beneath both of them.

So he leans in instead, and pushes his lips to Blaine's with his eyes open. He's all-in if Blaine's here with him, if this is real, here and on that beach and any other places they choose to venture. As long as it's real, he's all-in, for however long it lasts.

Blaine stops shaking, pulling back to bump their noses together, and tilts his head the other way before he brings their mouths together again – his eye close and he gives himself over to the very idea of it, of a whole entire summer bathed in bright reds and yellows and the scent of citrus, of uncomplicated fun, of no strings attached until they knot them together with their own clumsy fingers.

His tongue runs along Blaine's upper lip, and he sighs into his mouth, relaxes into his body, the two of them an uncoordinated mess of loose lips and comfy sweaters.

.

.

tbc

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