Prompt: Be prepared
Character: Blaine
Words: 573
The bruises are large, swollen and ugly. The leather jacket and gloves have not provided the protection he had hoped for. Mr. Schuester's and Jake's wrists might be slightly raw. They might even have the odd bruise here or there, but nothing like this. This looks like he's not only been tightly bound from forearm to wrist, but that he struggled violently to get free for days. Not that he'd simply done a few rehearsals and a single performance with what he'll call, for lack of a better word, wrist stirrups.
He loved dancing and the rush that performing gave him in general. He was nowhere near as good as Mr. Schue or Jake, but that was never the point. The point was, it made him feel alive. And he would chase that feeling for as long as he was able.
But if anyone saw what this euphoric feeling cost him, everything would come crashing down.
It's not just the bruises, but they are by far the most visible proof of a problem on him. This is something he can fix.
Not fix.
But hide.
So, he wears the leather jacket home, and sets the alarm on his phone for fifteen minutes earlier than normal. Then, he falls into bed, heedless of his costume and the afternoon sunlight still streaming through the window.
The persistent chirp of his phone pulls him from the mire of an unfathomable twelve-and-a-half hours of sleep. Fatigue grips him mercilessly, an endlessly annoying friend he cannot convince to go home.
Slowly, he pushes himself up, wincing at the stiffness in his wrists. He has trouble removing the jacket and gloves because of the swelling before making his way into the bathroom for a shower.
Another day, another performance.
He visualizes his best doo-wop moves from days back at Dalton, singing I Still Believe under his breath. Understated, he reminds himself. Nothing flashy. Let her take it.
First things first, though.
After toweling off and shaving, he reaches automatically for the top, right hand drawer in the vanity. From it, he pulls a small zippered bag.
Taking it back to his bedroom, he sets several shades of concealer on the desk, along with a tube of mauve lipstick, a bottle of foundation and some translucent powder. Quickly, he's figuring which colors complement the dark jewel tones of his wrists and arms. The lipstick is discarded as too messy over such a large area, in favor of green and yellow based concealers, which he expertly applies. He follows up with foundation and powder.
After checking for and doctoring other obvious bruises, he swipes under-eye concealer on his raccoon eyes, then looks critically into the mirror. His wrists still look puffy, but a cardigan should cover that.
It will have to do.
He drives to the Lima Bean for his morning coffee and biscotti on his way to school, admiring the swirl of pink and orange of the sunrise outside the window. Probably before school lets out for the year, he will be gone. He swallows past the lump that has risen in his throat, shaking his head to clear it.
Focus, Blaine. You get to sing today, and maybe dance a little bit.
Does it get any better than that?
Rolling down the windows, he takes a deep breath of the air still full of winter and exhales.
He does it again.
And again.
Until he is smiling.
