A/N: All characters are above the age of consent. Non-canonical. Casual monogamous sexual relations by multiple characters. Multiple midgames are hinted at or depicted. AU. Eventual Klaine, eventual Blamtina friendship, Finchel, and I hint at Sam's eventual endgame too.
Honestly, I see this as a friendship fic.
I
The Class of 2013 throw their caps all up in the air, and Sam Evans has never felt so alone.
Oakdale Academy has done its best to deal with him, and he with it. Neither of them are very attached to the other, but no one feels any ill will. Sam cheers long and loud, because he is glad to be graduating and finally getting out of here. No one hears him.
He'd hung about on the outskirts of the school's social life, generally. He loved sports and music, but somehow he didn't click with anyone else. He'd been put on academic probation so many times that he'd lost count. Eventually, he straggled out of high school with a C average, and it suited him. He really didn't care. "That boy is smart, but he's restless," the headmaster tsked. People here aren't always forthcoming or honest and then Sam assumes things that aren't true. It's the same with reading, too. The letters slide forwards and backwards and in the meantime, Sam just gets… fidgety. They pass over him. It's easier just to deal with him that way. So he sticks to a strange combination of dork, jock, and loner at school.
The only time he feels like himself is when he sings, or plays guitar, or draws. Especially drawing. When he draws, Sam just loses himself in how beautiful the art of creation really is. Otherwise, he just drifts along, taking life as it comes.
He gets a few acceptance letters, but, instead, he packs a little car full of comic books and clothes and pictures and art things and his father's guitar. His family gathers in the driveway to say a tearful goodbye. Everyone promises to keep in touch, but really, Sam's done. He needs to find a place that's… simpler, with not so many nuances or chances to get things wrong. Somewhere more straightforward. Somewhere that he can play guitar and sing and draw and read comic books without feeling like a stranger and maybe there will be friends that will actually be friends. Somewhere that'll accept him. All of him.
His tension departs, like a ghost, the second he leaves Louisville. He rolls down his window and screams into the wind. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't know where he's going, either.
II
It takes a few years of living down and out, but Sam eventually ends up at Rudy's.
Rudy's is a bar just off of Times Square, on a corner of Ninth Avenue and wherever. It's loud here. It's loud all the time, so in that respect, it's not like home. What drew him to Rudy's, and not anywhere else, was the smiling pig statue out in front. It's homey and wholesome. The pig's dressed in blue denim overalls and a red checkered kerchief. It reminds him of barbecue. He remembers to call home often - always - but it's nice to have a reminder of home around, even if he spends more and more time being awake, listening to everything around him, than asleep.
The moist heat blankets everything in Manhattan that summer, but you have to do what you can do to get by. Sam sets an empty guitar case out in front. He plays and sings country tunes and winks to the girls as they stroll by. Every evening, he counts out enough cash for a beer, and then, it's off to that hole-in-the-wall apartment for a few snatched hours of rest, after stale pizza for dinner and a couple of classically shady roommates he'd found on Craigslist.
There's a constant swirling sense of adventure here. Maybe it's the honks and the horns and all the accents and the yelling, but here, you really do feel like exciting things are just around the bend. He meets a few people, here and there, and they treat him with more open-handedness than Sam's used to. Even though he still really doesn't have friends, their friendliness stretches at his heart.
Sam loves New York. He forgets, though, that New York isn't always friendly back. After he's mugged (the second time), the owner of Rudy's pulls him inside and offers to pay his way through a bartending course. Sam winces at her through both bruised eyes. He's not going to be able to draw tonight. That thought hurts most of all.
III
He does quite well at Rudy's.
For one thing, Sam ruthlessly exploits his Southern charm for tips. It works. And if he really likes the music that's playing, he'll dance. That's the second thing. The customers love that swivel of the hips, up and around and back and he makes sure to wear tight shirts so, if you squinted, you could imagine hard muscles rippling against the cloth. It reminds them of sex.
It reminds him of sex. And that's the third thing; someone like Sam in New York is not lonely for company, unless he wants to be. An intimate lean, forward, so you're breathing in some of their shared air; a calculated look through long blonde bangs, a flick of pink tongue over his lips, a feather-light touch up and down the arm, to make all the hairs stand up on end with want. A whispered "Do you want to get out of here?" at the end of his shift, and the blood rushes everywhere to make everything strain and jerk up in anticipation. Usually, that's all it takes.
So that becomes the shape of his days. After he wakes up, he picks at the strings on his guitar, something to make him smile, or he tinkers around with his art, building up a sort-of portfolio out of found objects and dried noodles and funky sketches. He still plays on the street, but he makes sure to do it well away from Rudy's. Then he goes in for his shifts at the bar, and then, maybe one night a week, he'll find someone there to help him chase away the darkest hours of the night. It's just as well, because he has a hard time sleeping in New York. The excitement and the rudeness and the energy here aren't conducive to actual rest. Maybe the next person he meets will help him with that.
As it turns out, he never does get a phone number. Sam lives like this for a long time.
IV
They get couples in Rudy's quite often, sliding in effortlessly against the rest of the after-work happy hour crowd.
She's got long brown- and black-streaked hair and a moist pink pout that makes Sam think about the alley in the back of the bar. His mind goes wild, but he's got to be respectful, because the guy she's with seems really, really protective of her, even if - he wasn't sure - they were together? Because it doesn't seem like they are, and yet, Sam spies the guy put his hand on the small of the girl's back, and the girl flutters her eyelashes back at him. Maybe it's the way he ducks his head or the way he bites his lip and shifts around in his seat, crossing his legs tightly, when Sam goes into his usual body-swivel routine.
It's a weird situation, but Sam's lived in New York long enough not to judge. And they're good tippers, so Sam makes sure their drinks stay topped up and to keep his jokes on a tight leash, although they both belly-laugh when he tries out a Matthew McConaughey. It's not a feigned laugh - they're real.
They keep coming back for the impressions, which they both swear up and down are hilarious and cute. The bar's always busy, but Sam finds himself drifting back to them, just to crack jokes.
His name is Blaine. He's so smart, and a little geeky, and he recognizes all of Sam's Battlestar Galactica references. No one's ever done that before. He sings bits of Broadway standards that Sam grows to love. He talks about everything with interest: marriage equality, making art, making music, helping people. He loves everything and anything. He loves his friends, people named Rachel and Kurt and Santana and Artie and Mercedes. He wants to achieve everything in this life, and maybe in the next, too.
Her name is Tina. The girl's smart, and fierce, and she doesn't take any crap. She gives off a weird vibe while she's searching for something in his face that isn't there. She tells stories, and they both just listen to her, in stunned silence, then burst out in genuine applause. She's got timing and rhythm and a bittersweet sense of humor that flames out while she talks. But she, too, loves her friends. She talks about Rachel and Santana and Kurt and Artie and Mercedes and all of their troubles and wants and it's clear that she wants them to soar as high as she does.
After a while, Sam forgets to rein in his jokes. It doesn't matter; Blaine and Tina always poke each other in the sides and giggle. They always ask how he's doing, and how things are going, and cheer him up when he's sad or when he's tired. One time, he half-heartedly mentions a birthday. He expects nothing. But Blaine and Tina charge in to Rudy's with a beautifully wrapped gift - a massive box of art supplies - and insist on leading the whole bar, in a rousing birthday song.
Sam learns that Blaine is gay, after all, but his closest relationships are deeply, deeply complicated. There's an ex-boyfriend/ex-lover/ex-fiance/roommate, who he talks about all the time when he's not talking about Tina - who's not a girlfriend, after all. Blaine loves them both, it's evident. Sam is so amazed by how deep his love runs, for the people who are lucky enough to be his friends.
Sam learns that Tina just is. She's been with men and women, but she prefers to be herself. Her closest relationships are deeply complicated, too. Besides some ex-boyfriend she can't quite get over, there's an ingrained fear of failure and a view of herself that doesn't at all match the view Sam has of her. Sam believes her when she says she never, ever left their high school glee club. Sam can tell that her family is really her first love. She is so loyal. And when she talks about anything, Sam is touched by how much she cares.
V
One night, it's just Blaine sitting at the bar, alone.
He looks more agitated than normal. When Sam asks, very carefully, about the ex-boyfriend, about Tina, Blaine replies, embarrassed, "That's complicated, too."
"Are you bi?" Sam lays out another coaster.
"No," he sighs, "but she wishes I was. She's my best friend."
A little demon pops up in his head. Blaine is a good looking guy. He's kind and he makes Sam smile. And tonight, Sam's lonely, even lonelier than normal. It ends up being so easy. Sam pitches his voice down just a bit, and decides not to use his usual whisper. Blaine deserves the courtesy of a direct question.
"Want to get out of here?"
Blaine covers up his surprise with a charming little laugh. He makes a call. Sam can hear Tina make worried sounds through the phone.
Sam's never slept with a guy before, but well, life's for living. He'd always wanted to. Men are beautiful, too. There's actually something really precious about the way Blaine's laugh sounds, muffled, half out of breath, among Sam's rumpled X-Men bedsheets. Blaine's skilled and he's mastered the art of the slow build, and when it finally comes, Sam thinks he sees stars. Sam feels a little foolish when it's his turn, but when he looks up and sees Blaine, with his head thrown back, legs spread, biting his lips rose-red, he figures out he's doing okay - more than okay. He feels more confident after that, and they try new things: against the wall, on the floor, stretched out on the ratty couch that his roommates had bought at Goodwill a few years ago. And he remains charming; even the way he swears is charming.
Blaine hangs around after they put their clothes back on. They talk. They find out they have a lot more things in common. Comic books, music, singing, past loves. As for current loves, well. They had fun. They both talk about it. They know it's not going to be more than it was. Sam's not used to so much talking, but he realizes he likes it.
Sam hems and haws before finally deciding to show him the portfolio. Blaine's astonished. He says he's never, ever seen art this good. His enthusiasm is so infectious that Sam really believes him. As his new friend takes a million pictures with his phone, Sam feels more relaxed now than he's felt in a long, long time.
When Sam wakes up, refreshed, he's already gone. Actually, the most charming thing about him is that Blaine made coffee before he left, and for some reason, that's what touches him most of all.
VI
He doesn't expect to see Blaine at all, but, well, there he is.
He smiles warmly as they shake hands, heartily, like bros. He holds no grudges. But she's not smiling. And when Blaine rushes off to the restroom, phone in hand, she launches herself straight at Sam with all the subtlety of an oncoming train.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? You're leading him on."
"It's just a one-time thing," Sam shrugs and keeps on wiping glasses. "He knew the score. We talked and all that stuff."
"This is so not what he needs right now!"
"Blaine is the one who gets to decide who he's with. It sounds like you're the one with a crush."
She flops down on a seat and leans her elbows on the polished top of the bar. She puts her face in her hands and starts to cry. Sam offers her a clean towel. She's dated around enough to try to get him out of her mind, she says, over and over, more to convince herself than to convince him. And in the meantime she's working to try to make a name for herself as an actress, and it's not quite succeeding.
"You're so talented, Tina. I mean it. And if they can't see it, they're blind."
She flings her head up. "Are you two friends? I mean, like, friends, or friends with benefits, or what?"
Her love of truth is really refreshing. Sam breathes a sigh of pure relief. "Just friends."
Tina doesn't waste any time. She looks him straight in the eye while winding a strand of hair around her finger, too tight.
"Sleep with me."
The funny thing is that she's still gorgeous as fuck. Part of him still wants to hit that, and then, oddly enough, something else holds him back. The words taste strange in his mouth. "Not tonight."
"I'm not emotionally vulnerable. I'm in my right mind. Aren't I pretty enough?"
"You're one of the hottest girls I've ever seen in here," he says, honestly.
Blaine suddenly appears and slaps down some cash on the bar. "Here, Tina, have some more drinks on me. I'm going to take off. I just really want to talk to Kurt."
Tina narrows her eyes. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, really. I'm sure. Have a good night." He kisses the top of her head, waves to Sam, and backs out of the crowd.
"Is that the guy he's in love with?" Sam asks. He remembers being shown the picture in his wallet.
She shoves the cash at him. "If you won't sleep with me, you can at least pour me all the shots. Just keep an eye on me, okay?"
He sees why her friend is so protective of her. He pours her the drinks, but they talk, about her family, her ex-boyfriend who never quite goes away, her lifelong dream of performing on stage. It turns out they both know, all too well, the feeling of being passed over. When "Give Your Heart a Break" comes on, she sings the lines with him, and she's so alight with joy that he can't tear his eyes away. But, as the night runs down, she gets sloppier and sloppier, and all thoughts of taking her home with him fly away. It just wouldn't be right.
He ends up doing the next best thing. He takes her sleepy self back to her loft and puts her to bed. Clothes on. Maybe it's the alcohol, but she murmurs things as she tosses and turns. She looks forlorn. Sam changes his mind, takes his shoes off, and lies down with her, lining up her soft body against his. He bundles her close to wrap an arm around her waist. She's so warm. The city's normally so loud, but he doesn't hear the noise tonight, and he falls asleep, just as quickly as she did.
VII
The sun barrels in between the blinds of her room. Sam's rolled over well onto the other side of the bed. His clothes feel sticky and warm and someone's kicked away the sheets and comforter. He reaches out a hand, behind him, to feel if she's still there. Yep, she's fine. He hasn't opened his eyes yet, but he feels her hand running lightly over his straining jeans zipper, so he's fine, too.
Her voice is still rough from sleep. "I'm sober."
Even with all the slept in hair, she's still a gorgeous girl, and the luscious curves through her wrinkled red dress are enough to make his mouth water. He slides a hand up her thigh, but she removes it entirely and puts it directly between her legs.
She burns, and it turns out that Sam doesn't mind the fire, not at all.
While her friend had preferred to take his time, to experiment, to play, to seduce, even, his best friend prefers to go all in. She swears, too, but she isn't charming. She's angry, and she's loud, and she knows what she wants. That doesn't make it less hot. Most girls, in Sam's experience, prefer it when he's on top first. Her hair curtains her face as the flush slowly spreads down her chest and the rounded gentle plumpness of her belly. He grips her hips hard. She arches her back and the muscles in her thighs pull and stretch. After she cries out, one last time, she hops off and yanks him off the bed with her, and he sweeps her off her feet and carries her over to her chest of drawers. They make a loud and annoying bang-bang-bang against the wall. Sweat pops up on his brow. Sam discovers in the middle of it that she's got her teeth sunk into the side and below his neck, just at the collarbone. It feels so good, though, and he doesn't stop her.
She laughs, low and breathless. "Let's go in there now."
The hot shower feels good. Sam now knows the alley in the back of the bar was not the right place for that. This is.
VIII
"How are you?" Sam feels oddly tender. He presses a light kiss to the top of her head.
"I'm feeling better," Tina pulls a towel around Sam and lays her cheek against his chest. Her hair leaves damp trails across his skin, and Sam closes his eyes. "For some reason, I'm… a lot better."
"You deserve someone to make you happy. There's a lot of future Tina fans in the world, I promise. And Blaine's not going to be your forever, either. You know."
"I know. Forever isn't you, either. And he's not your forever, either. Does that hurt your feelings?"
She's so considerate, after all. "Nah," Sam says. "I think I'd rather be everyone's friend." She walks a trail with two fingers, down, past his waist, and Sam decides they should make absolutely sure of that.
IX
While she pops back in the shower, Sam gets dressed and ventures out to the kitchen to rustle up some sort of a breakfast. While he's rooting around for bacon, or pancake mix, or something that isn't vaguely off-smelling Thai, he hears a mashup of two different voices behind him, both girls, and neither of them are Tina's.
"Wanky," one of them whispers. "Wanky, wanky, wanky."
Sam freezes.
The other girl cuts her off. "I think it's absolutely wonderful that she can let loose and have a little fun. I, for one, am pleased that she can further explore her burgeoning sexual freedom." She steps forward, heels clicking, and taps him imperiously on the back of his shoulder. Sam bangs his head against the refrigerator.
"I'm Rachel," she says brightly, and shakes his hand. "It's very nice to meet you. Tina and I graduated from NYADA together. She's understudying my part at the moment, but I'm confident that she'll eventually find her niche. This is Santana. She dances."
Santana snorts. "I hated Rachel and I barely talked to Tina. And look at where I end up, living in a Bushwick loft with both of them."
"Did you all go to high school together?" Sam asks. He rubs the top of his head.
"If you met Tina, you met Blaine. Blaine and Tina are best friends. They're practically joined at the hip. Ironic how that is."
"Santana! Tina's still finding herself. Can you cook breakfast? For some reason, I seem to be best at dinners and banana bread, and Santana's talents just extend to cereal."
"You keep me around for the pleasure of my company. And I hope you can cook, Lips McPouty, because Rachel's rabbit food isn't quite what I need for breakfast. Tina should know. She sounded fully satisfied by what you were dishing out this morning."
Santana raises her eyebrows and smiles, cat-like. Sam blushes, which is funny, considering that by now, everyone knows what they were doing (and oddly enough? It's okay?)
A curtain gets pushed roughly aside and Tina bounds in, fully dressed. She gives Sam a hug around the back of his waist. "There's clean pans in the cupboard," she says. He starts up some tofu and stir-fried peppers and a separate dish of eggs and sausage and cheese.
Rachel apparently prefers to get to the point. "Sam, I have to ask about your intentions. We're Tina's friends and we reserve the right to pass judgement on all of her dates." She stares at Sam darkly.
"It's just a hookup. We did all of that talking stuff." Tina rolls her eyes. "He's really nice, and he's a great singer. You can all stop babying me now because I get to sleep with whoever I want."
"I love how you guys are all straight with each other," Sam says. "It's not what I'm used to."
Santana grins. "As long as she's fine, you're fine. Tina's my homeslice, if you know what I mean." Tina makes a kissy face, and Santana plucks the kiss from the air and pretends to put it in her pocket.
Sam furrows his brow. "Wait, you're not together, are you? I don't want to get in the middle of anything."
"Nah," Tina says. "It's been over for a long time. We're better friends, you know?"
Rachel glances down, then gasps at her phone screen. "It's Kurt. They're back together! Oh, I'm so glad. Let's make sure to congratulate them when they come up."
"Isn't that the guy Blaine's in love with?" Sam asks curiously. "His roommate?"
"Best friends, soulmates, roommates, ex-fiances. It's an ongoing saga. Kurt used to live here, but he got a place with Blaine. Then they broke up again, but they kept living together and seeing other people and not watching Moulin Rouge."
"Kurt never stopped loving Blaine," Rachel says hotly. "And Blaine truly loves him. They are free to see whoever they want, except now, of course. You don't have to be so judgemental."
"Judgemental is what I do." It's Santana's turn to make a kissy face.
Rachel laughs and takes another sip of almond milk. "Just don't judge Finn too hard when he comes to pick me up later."
"You two are no fun to listen to."
Tina stabs at a bit of sausage viciously with her fork. "I'm happy for them, really. I just want them to figure out what the hell they're doing."
"Welcome to our little group, Sam." Rachel gives him a megawatt smile. "It's complicated, isn't it?"
"You have no idea." He sounds rueful, but he feels Tina squeeze his thigh reassuringly under the table.
"So what do you do, Sam? Besides the whole male Coyote Ugly thing?"
"I play guitar and sing," Sam says tentatively. "I draw. I've been told I'm pretty good."
"You'll fit in just fine with us. You should sing with us at Callbacks. I could always use another duet partner!" and the excited squeal in Rachel's voice is so endearing that Sam can't help but bask in its sudden generous warmth. Tina gives Sam a friendly pat on the back and passes him a yogurt cup, without asking if he wants it. She just knows, somehow, that he did.
"You should draw me," Santana says. She stretches both her arms up and puts an arm around Rachel's shoulder. "We need something to brighten up the decor in here, and what's better for that than a painting of me in all of my naked glory?"
"It'd be a honor and a delight, ma'am," Sam says gallantly. Santana winks.
"He gets to draw me first," Tina gushes. "But his impressions are amazing, too. He'll make you laugh. Blaine's so happy that he finally has someone else to nerd out with. Besides Artie, that is. You'd like him, Sam. And I know you'd really like Mercedes."
X
That night, Blaine gives a little whoop and rubs his hands together gleefully. His roommate/boyfriend? gives Sam a pleasant smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"He's adorable when he's happy, isn't he?" the man says. "I'm Kurt. I'm glad to meet you. I'll have a vodka martini," and he nods to Mark, who makes the drink while Sam is taking off his apron.
"I'll have the usual, Mark. Play nice. I'll go take care of a couple of calls that can't wait."
Blaine leans in, so intimately, and nips at Kurt's earlobe in a way that screams he's mine. Kurt closes his eyes and leans back against him. Sam thinks he can hear a purr. In the mellow glow of the lights, amongst the talking bar-goers and the blast of the music, Blaine and Kurt look like they're… home.
Oddly enough, Sam thought he'd be bothered by things like hand-holding and neck-kissing when it came to someone he actually cared about. Blaine and he had made a connection - just like he'd made a connection with Tina. And yet, it was completely okay that Blaine was back with Kurt. He knows, suddenly, that he'd be okay if Tina found a home with someone else, too.
He doesn't know if Kurt is okay, though. They find a booth. If he's going to have this conversation now, Sam figured, he might as well get drunk. Mark's Black Russian is corrosive and sinus-clearing and lightly sweet, and his head starts to swim.
Where to start, then? Sam fishes around in his mind for something innocuous to say, but all he can come up with is something mind-glaringly true. He waits for Blaine to be safely out of earshot before he plunges in with a silly, hanging "You're a really cute couple." The bar is less crowded than normal, so there's space to breathe in here and talk. When that unwelcome thought creeps in (say something else, dork), he can't help but cringe at it. He goes quiet.
He doesn't want to say the wrong thing. He doesn't want to stir up more drama, because honestly, Kurt looks a little aloof and intimidating. Under the circumstances, it was normal for Kurt to be angry with him. It's a shame. He'd rather not be in with this - actually, really interesting - group if it's going to make things uncomfortable for everyone, and they all seemed like a tight bunch of friends. He still doesn't know what else to say, so he doesn't.
It turns out to be fine.
"Thank you very much." Kurt takes a delicate sip of his drink. "This is good. It's sharp, the way I like it. So, Blaine says you like comic books?"
"I love them," Sam says. He puts aside the drink. Things go a little fuzzy, but the drink helps loosen him up. "I never grew out of them. I'm… I'm dyslexic. I manage it a lot better now, but the pictures are what I love the most. It's not like I had an unhappy childhood. It's that I loved to escape. You know?"
"I imagine so. Yes. We all fell into music in high school, to escape. I was bullied severely in high school. We all were."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't bullied… much. I like football, too, but when I wasn't playing football, nobody noticed me. So, I sang. I play guitar."
"I see why Blaine likes you. They all do. Even Tina." Kurt grins impishly when he says Tina, and somehow that breaks up a lot of the tension. But his internal guilt's sloshing around inside his chest by now, and now, it's got to come out.
"It's okay, right?"
"Okay what?" Kurt quirks an eyebrow. Sam thinks he's imagining it, maybe, but Kurt might be toying with him a little.
"If Blaine and I are friends?"
"I'd have said something about it by now if I was worried about it."
"Okay, that's not what I meant."
"Then what, exactly?" Kurt fiddles with the cheesy plastic sword that pierced the olive straight through.
"I slept with him."
Kurt gives him an endearing half-smile. "We were broken up then. I was irritated. We'd agreed not to talk about the other people we saw. He forgot not to talk about you. You two have a great deal in common, so I'm not surprised."
But Sam feels annoyed and defensive for no reason. "Didn't you sleep with anyone while you were broken up?"
Kurt's nostrils flare. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes. I did."
"But it's all worked out?"
"Who he saw back then was his own business. And Blaine's first and foremost his own man. I'd never want him any other way."
"He never forgot about you," Sam says truthfully. He drains the rest of his drink. "But yeah, he's just a friend, and I can safely say he thinks of me as just a friend."
"And you're friends with Tina. Right? We're all very protective of Tina."
"We're friends." Sam smiles. "She's interesting. I've never met anyone like her. You guys are all so great. I… I wish I'd known you all in high school."
"We're a mess, as you can tell," Kurt says dryly. "Maybe you'll regret saying that in a few weeks, I don't know. You'd like Mercedes, though. She's as straightforward as they come. I will make sure she comes straight in from the airport to meet you."
"Maybe it's weird, what I'm going to ask you, because Blaine and I haven't been friends for that long."
"You mean, will we be okay? Me and Blaine?"
"Blaine's an amazing guy." Sam said, a touch angrily. "He deserves all the love, too. He deserves to be happy."
"He's everything to me," Kurt says simply. He runs a sleek finger over the rim of his empty martini glass. There's a faint trace of hesitation there, but when he finally starts speaking again, everything spills out. "When we weren't dating, something always felt so… out of place. Then I got his text, the morning after he slept with you, and that's when it all finally clicked. He's ambitious and talented and a great performer. So am I. We complement each other. I want to grow old with him."
"I get it," Sam says thoughtfully. "I think I do. I'd like to find someone like that, someday."
"Are you all right?" Kurt looks at him narrowly.
"Yeah." The lights glow a little brighter. "I really am. For the first time in a long time? I am." His chest opens up and he feels warm and spread out and fuzzy.
"It's great to have friends, isn't it? You deserve someone special, though. Everyone does."
"What about Tina?"
She's been in the back of his mind, too. Tina, who always could use another set of eyes to watch out for her. Tina, who (it sounded like) had been fighting hard all her life to be seen for longer than a split second. Tina of the stories and the voice of an angel and passion so fierce that she'd left long red scratches down his back. Tina, who showed everything she had in the light of one day and then closed up tight, like a rosebud, in the light of the next. Tina, the enigma. Tina, who was every bit as talented as everyone else.
"Tina's special." Kurt picks up the glass and catches Mark's eye. "She got the worst of it in high school. She's a mix of quiet and angry and bright, and that puts people off. You don't always know what to make of her, and sometimes she doesn't know what to make of herself. That's what makes her a great actress. And you should hear her sing - well, of course you did. If she likes you, she'll sing with you. But in many ways, she's still lonely. That's why I'm hoping you'll be her friend."
"Boyfriend-friend or friend-friend?"
"It's hard to say. Maybe you'll be both with her, maybe just one. As long as you're both happy."
They go quiet. Anita comes over with another Black Russian, another martini, and Blaine's beer. She mouths something to Sam. Sam shakes his head.
"Just be up front with her, with whatever you want from her. She'd appreciate that."
"I like her, Kurt. That's the honest truth. They're both my friends."
"That's fair," Kurt says. This time, the smile does reach his eyes. "From anyone else, I'd be skeptical, but when you say it, I believe you. You are welcome to come sing with us at Callbacks. I know Rachel told you that, and you can't let her down now. I have to ask you something, though."
"What is it?" Sam catches Blaine coming towards them. He looks like he's floating and happy.
"Be good to them, and we'll be friends, too."
"I can do that. And really… I'm happy for both of you."
Sam means it. Kurt smiles at him again.
"Hey, did you know Sam can draw? He's really, really good," Blaine says excitedly. He slides into the booth next to Kurt and drapes an arm around his shoulders. "Kurt, don't you know someone at the Pratt?"
"What's the Pratt?"
"It's an art school. Would you like to go? Well, no promises. But I do know someone on the admissions committee, if you have a portfolio ready to submit. I'll help you with an application, if you like."
"We'll all help you with the application," Blaine chimes in. "It's the least we can do. I, for one, will do everything I can to help you, and Tina will, too. She has great ideas. You can't stay here forever, Sam, and art like that needs to be appreciated."
"Why would you all do that?" Sam asks, astonished. "I'm not ungrateful, but, uh, we barely know each other."
"So?" Kurt shrugs. "You know some of us all too well already. But more than that. You're a friend, and friends help each other out."
"Even if it's complicated?" Hope springs up in Sam's chest, and it catches on fire. It feels good, much better than the Black Russian, come to think of it.
"Especially if it's complicated. We're the most complicated group of friends you'll ever meet."
"You guys are really, really cool," Sam says, awed.
"You will come with us to Callbacks, right? It's what all of our friends do. We sing and drink, mostly."
"What is Callbacks?"
"It's our place," Blaine says. "It's now your place, too."