Title: Or the Moment of Truth in Your Lies
Rating: T (I guess?)
Pairing: None really. More friendship. A bit of Klaine in the second chapter.
Summary: AU. Blaine Anderson. Sebastian Smythe. One has secret. The other finds out. Will he destroy him or do the right thing? Not everything broken can be fixed. Not everyone wants to be. Two-parter.
A/N: what happens when you stay up late listening to sad music. This is AU, unbeta-ed and hastily written so I apologise for any mistake or general suckiness.
The first blow was unexpected. After all, what 8 year old expects their own father to hit them? The taste of coppery blood and the dull throbbing of blossoming bruises became expected after that. Every Sunday like clockwork.
At the young but no longer tender age of 10 did he begin to wonder if his father did intentionally; Sundays used to be reserved for early morning mass and Sunday school until that fateful August two years ago.
Now they represented the start of a new week and the beginning of a new injury. Over the years he grew tolerant to the abuse, or as Mrs Roberts the old lady next door called it; "Treatment. He's fixing you. Ungrateful child."
'Fixing him'. He wasn't even sure he was broken. Still he took it. He listened to his father, trying his hardest to decipher the words slurred late at night over an empty bottle of scotch. Because that's what sons do. And father knows best.
He was at the age where all the other boys started playing rougher, running faster, pushing harder. Scratches and bruises were more common amongst his classmates and the other boys at the park and it gave him a sense of superiority, for once in his short life when the other children burst into tears at the smallest scratch and he remained quiet; broken ribs and bruised cheek aching.
Really.
It was pathetic.
Years down the track others would look back and determine this was where his attitude was born. Little did they know that this was also the time the young boy came to his opinion on love.
It was a lie.
On the second of September that year he had collided with a boy two years his junior. A tiny thing, short blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes and honestly he would have stared at him all day, but it was Monday and his treatment from the previous night was still fresh in his memory.
Standing up and brushing the dirt off his trousers, he made to continue the walk home until a soft hand wrapped itself around his. Raising his eyes he was mildly surprised to see woman, younger than Mrs Roberts but older and far prettier than Candy Miller who lived next door.
"Poor thing. Are you okay?" Her voice was soft like her hands, blue eyes identical to the younger boy, who was now crying fat crocodile tears while his father dressed his scratched knees. Pathetic.
"You'll have to excuse James over there. He gets a bit excited. Never watches where he's going." He snapped his attention back to the woman, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. Who was she? He leaned backwards, attempting to tug his arm from her grasp and causing the long sleeves of his Power Rangers t-shirt to ride up slightly.
A sharp intake of breath let him know that the strange woman had seen the fresh bruises around his wrist from last night.
"Honey what happened?" While the woman inspected his wrist, gently turning his arm about to follow the bruise wrapped around arm he allowed a sneer to grace his face. Honestly. It was only a bruise. "Where's your mother sweetheart?"
He swallowed down the bile that forced its way up at yet another pet name. This really was too much. With one final tug he ripped his arm away from the doting woman and turned to continue across the park, ignoring her shocked face.
Continuing to stalk across the park he growled and pulled down his sleeve. Who did that woman think she was? His mother? He had long since realised that unlike Candy next door or Craig down the road he didn't have a mother. When he was younger and naïve he had spent endless nights sneaking into the attic, digging through old boxes and riffling through old photos trying to find what she had looked like. Why wasn't she here? Didn't she love him?
"Your mother?" A bark of laughter followed by the sloshing of alcohol, "that stupid whore left the minute she realised." A crash sounded and shattered glass fell to the floor. "And I got left with you."
Rip. Rip. Riiiiippp. The handmade Mother's Day Card fluttered to the floor in pieces. "She never loved you. Love isn't real."
His treatment that night was the longest since his schooling had begun. But in the end he understood the message. Love didn't exist.
When he hit puberty his treatment changed drastically. He later realised that while he was broken, tainted, wrong, it didn't stop others from wanting him. Baby fat melted away, cheekbones become more defined, the discovery of gel allowed him to sweep his hair away from his face revealing his sharp hazel eyes.
For the first time in years the bruises decreased in number, limited to the chest and below; partially replaced with rigorous exercise. The mental abuse was new though. It took him less than week to adapt. The bruise on his hipbone reminded him that it wasn't good enough. He needed to be faster. Stronger. Better.
He was disgusted to admit, but it took him until the end of junior high to realise his father was no longer treating him. He was training him.
"If my son's going to be a fag, he's at least going to useful. At his confused look his father had smirked. "A secret weapon if you will. No one can refuse a piece of hot ass." The blowjob he'd given to senior Mark Richards behind the bleachers had proven his father correct. His girlfriend still didn't know what had happened during half time.
Paris had almost been his undoing. A final test and he had almost flunked it. He looked back at the time with contempt and pride. He blamed that incident in the park all those years ago for his obsession with blonde hair and blue eyes.
The Academy there was only a temporary solution whilst his father completed his work project. In a way he was thankful. Without Paris he never would've found his weakness, what could have easily resulted in failure back in America.
A wrong turn down a corridor, the decision to go down the staircase instead of up resulted in meeting Andrew. Everything would have been fine. Perfect even. He could have had his fun with the blonde before leaving him in the dust while they headed back to America.
It had really been too easy.
That should have been his first clue.
Despite the Academy being situated in Paris, it played host to an alarming number of foreign students, mainly from England and the United States. No matter. He liked a challenge. Making an impression was easy enough. He had shared Chemistry with the Englishman and finding different ways to cause a deep red blush to travel from the back of his neck up to his ears quickly became preferable over learning about entropy.
Cornering him outside class became his favourite past time, and when he had Andrew pressed against the door of a janitors closet, lips firmly attached, tongues battling and hands roaming a sense of accomplishment filled his chest.
When Andrew desperately rutted against his body on the common room couch during their make out session, in between the bursts of pleasure, pride pulsed through his veins.
It was on the second Monday of March when, for the first time in over eight years he felt the cold chill of dread trickle down his spine.
He should have learnt his lesson back in the park that September. He didn't. It happened again; shifting his body the wrong way, twisting his arm to reveal his pale wrist. To the outside observer it would appear that the bruise hadn't faded from so many years ago. He knew better.
Every Sunday the training would refresh it, not too different from the mundane task of refreshing a webpage. Click. Click. Click.He found that his coffee addiction could be traced back these moments in his training. After all, he needed the extra calcium. Strong bones and all that.
Unfortunately Andrew hadn't relented as easily as the strange woman. Instead he had tightened his grip and firmly held onto his arm, immediately destroying any chance he had of leaving. "Let me see." Even in memory his voice still sent shivers down his spine, he could still feel Andrew's guitar calloused hands slowly unbuttoning his shirt cuff and the strong scent of vanilla that seemed to linger around the British student.
He could have stopped him. Andrew's grip hadn't been too strong, his movements slow and calculated while he rolled up each sleeve before moving to unbutton his collar. He could have stopped him. He should have.
But he had been young. Stupid. Naïve. For once in his life he wanted to stop running. He wanted to be cared for. And for that brief moment in the common room with a crackling fire, Andrew placing soft kisses over each of his bruises, whispering nonsense and pulling him closer he let his guard down.
He forgot his training.
He forgot his treatment. He forgot Mrs Roberts and the scotch and the park and Mark Richards. For once he was happy. But happiness never lasts.
Their relationship lasted two weeks before his father found out. He wasn't at school that Monday. It wasn't hard to hazard a guess why. By Tuesday he had his orders; they were returning to America. He had to leave Andrew. A sharp, bitter laugh tore itself from his lungs. In hindsight he was glad he had fled to Andrew, in a foolish attempt to defy his father. It had solidified his training.
"Leave with me. Come to England. He won't find you there." Clothes were being hastily thrown into a bag and he watched as the Andrew flew around the room, grabbing seemingly pointless items and throwing them over his shoulder into the bag.
"Will your family even accept me?"
The blonde's movements stopped. He turned and in two powerful steps he was face to face, blonde hair in front of brown, blue eyes level with hazel. Andrew reached up a hand and gently stroked over his soft skin, tangling his fingers in his hair. "Of course they will silly. They'll love you."
He flinched at the word but Andrew's soft lips over his drew his attention and he felt his body slowly relax and melt against the other boy. Andrew pulled back and looked him in the eyes. "You know why? Because I love you."
That had settled it. A sneer, a sharp push against Andrew's built body and a steady look into confused eyes had settled his fate. "Love doesn't exist, Andrew." He had turned and left the room, left the Academy and left Paris, returning to America with his father. Their plane departed on a Monday.
His father landed a heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezed, ignorant of the bruise from his last minute training. "You passed." The smell of alcohol had been covered mostly by a quick gargle of mouthwash.
"Here's your assignment. He's the son of a very wealthy lawyer." His father glanced over him with a sneer. "A relationship" he spat the word out as though it were poison, "with him would be greatly beneficial."
He threw a manila folder onto his lap. His father's grip tightened. "Don't fail me."
He nodded in response, waiting until his father removed his hand and waved down the hostess before inspecting the folder. He read the name on the side and smirked.
Anderson, Blaine; prepare to enter a relationship. Sebastian Smythe listens to his father. He does what each and every bruise, cut and broken bone has trained him to. Because that's what sons do.
tbc