(Author's note: For those of you who are experiencing deja vu, yes, the first two chapters of this story originally appeared in the Donutverse story Fingers of Your Fire, as the Coffeehouse interludes. We wrote this complete story last winter, and had thought to include one chapter between episodes in FoYF, but it became evident that the beauty of Finn and Blaine was being lost in the convoluted storyline and multiple characters of the Donutverse. So we decided to pull the interludes from FoYF and just post the whole Coffeehouse story in its entirety. This is a completed story, with eleven chapters. We'll post a chapter every day or two this week.
The title is from a line of the Matchbox 20 song If You're Gone.
Irene is loosely based on a familiar African-American actress who first made an appearance on Glee in Season 3... the funny thing is, I started writing her before I knew she would play Carmen on the show. So now Carmen has a twin sister.
There is a lot of music in this story, and you can listen to all of it on the FoYF Youtube playlist at: www. youtube playlist?list=PLC484A09C55722614
If you have not yet read Terrific, Radiant, Humble, you might consider reading that Blaine backstory first, before delving into the world of 16-year-old Blaine.
Blaine does not appear to meet Kurt on the show until next year, but in the Donutverse, Blaine and Kurt and Puck will encounter one another before that - although not until the summer 2010 story which follows this one.
Warnings for polyamory, Dom/sub, discipline, drug use and angst. Enjoy, and keep an open mind. -amy and knittycat)
Chapter One
Blaine hated the turtlenecks they wore in the winter under their blazers at Dalton even more than he hated the blazers themselves. The ties weren't so bad; he'd finally gotten used to the ties at Catholic, but this turtleneck . . . there was no loosening it, and by the end of the day Blaine was sure he was being strangled. He couldn't wait to get off campus for the weekend, not only because it meant ditching his uniform. Getting off campus, down to Columbus with his dad and Thomas, meant forty-eight blissful hours of freedom.
There would be dinner, of course, and he had Boy Choir every Saturday afternoon, and there would also be plenty of time to browse the shelves at An Open Book. And there was the open mic at Java the Hut on Saturday night. Singing, just singing, where nobody knew him and nobody demanded anything from him, was the most amazing feeling, and Blaine found that he craved it as much, if not more, than the cocaine Jeff brought for him after each of his own weekends at home.
He tucked his own clothes, not his uniform, into his overnight bag, hoping Jeff hadn't taken off already for his own weekend adventures. His supply was running short. Even though he knew he wouldn't really have an issue if he had to go a weekend without it, he'd rather not have to. It wasn't as though he were addicted or anything. It was simply... helpful.
Last night's dream hadn't helped, though. This time the boy had appeared in the parking lot outside the music building on a big, showy motorcycle. He'd revved the motor, taken off his helmet, and smiled at Blaine, proud and cocky. You ready to go, baby? he'd said, holding out a second helmet. It had given Blaine a charge, to see the boy looking at him like that. In his dream, Blaine had climbed right on behind him, his arms warm and snug around the boy's waist, feeling the vibration of the bike under his legs. Like most nights he dreamed about the boy from the club, he woke up hard - or, sometimes, sticky - and wanting something else, something he could barely comprehend, something achy and tingling and compelling. The coke lifted him out of the wanting a little, and made it easier to keep moving instead of drowning in it.
He wasn't new at Dalton anymore, but sometimes he still got called New Kid because there hadn't been anyone else new to supplant him. When this happened, Blaine just waved and tried to smile in a friendly way when boys shouted it at him as he trudged across the courtyard, pulling his coat tighter around his body, trying not to take it as a personal insult. He wished the boy would show up now and whisk him away on his motorcycle, so he wouldn't have to wait for Thomas to arrive to pick him up.
Even home didn't feel much like home anymore - not his dad's and Thomas' house in Columbus. He missed Santana, and Marisol, and his mother. He missed the familiar territory of his neighborhood and the library and Lima. It was like everything easy and safe in his life was slowly and inevitably being taken away from him.
He hunched his shoulders against the frozen January wind and tried to hang on to what warmth he still had inside.
Other times, though, things just fell into place. At those times, the most challenging aspects of Blaine's life slid past him as though he could do no wrong. This weekend, Thomas had been early to get him from school, and there'd been a still-steaming medium drip coffee in the cupholder. Blaine's dad decided not to bother cooking, which was always a blessing, and they ordered from Blaine's favorite Thai takeout place, with the best masaman curry and sticky rice with mangoes. He was already buzzing on caffeine from the Thai iced tea by the time he got to the open mic. Thomas and his dad had dropped him off at An Open Book on their way to a concert, with instructions to wait at Java the Hut, we'll pick you up at 11.
By the time he'd shrugged his coat off and set down his guitar case, he felt at home. Even already caffeinated, he didn't turn away the double-shot mocha that Irene, the owner and barista, slid across the counter to him. It had been a long, windy walk down from An Open Book.
"Thanks," he nodded, taking a sip and tossing a five into the tip jar.
"You know it's on the house for performers, Patrick," she said, with a raised eyebrow. "What's that all about?"
"What, I can't feel generous?" He grinned at the woman. She glared at him and shook her head, her dreadlocks swinging, but didn't comment.
He felt fearless, as he often did when he climbed the two steps to the little stage and began his sound check. Here, where Blaine didn't exist, where Patrick was the one performing, he could be all the things he'd always wanted to be. He could be free, for those three or four songs. Free to be gay without fear - free to be his imperfect self, to be all those things he was still learning about himself.
It had been several weeks now, and he was starting to see some familiar faces in the audience. It was kind of amazing, really. I have fans? he thought, grinning at the girl with the oversized glasses and the space between her teeth, and the two boys who looked so much alike he figured they had to be twins. Blaine wished he had the courage to approach them afterward, even just to say hello, and thank them personally for coming, but trying to be Patrick off the stage was like trying to ice skate on pavement. It was just the wrong medium.
He noticed the two men in the back had returned. They were sitting close enough together to make Blaine think they must almost certainly be boyfriends. One was older, shorter, with a gorgeous smile and something of a paternal air about him; the other was tall, tall enough to stand out, and brown eyes that watched Blaine curiously from their table. He applauded every song and listened carefully. Blaine had the feeling he was really hearing what he was singing, not like most of the audience who were going about their own business, their own lives. It was almost as though the tall boy were actually here to listen to him sing. Another fan? Blaine smiled to himself as he tuned his guitar. Perhaps. In any case, it was nice to know someone was paying attention.
Blaine adjusted the microphone stand and strummed through the chord progression for Kid Fears, working the fingering for the opening melody and smiling at the girl in the glasses when she blinked and nodded in recognition.
"Hey, everyone," he said, careful not to get too close to the microphone.
"Hi," the scattered audience chorused back.
"I'm Patrick, for any newbies in the house. For the rest of you, welcome back. It's nice to see some familiar faces." He let his gaze travel over the girl, over the look-alike boys, and felt it settle without his consent on the tall boy. Not the older man, he noted briefly, even though he could almost feel the man's stare. No, the tall boy was the one who'd grabbed his attention the first time he'd seen him, with the man, and the handful of times he'd been here alone as well. It wasn't sexual attraction, though he figured the boy was handsome enough. It was like the boy was the magnet, and Patrick was the chunk of iron ore, drawn toward him through space. He couldn't keep his eyes away. He wondered, as he closed his eyes for a moment, if Blaine would feel the same way about the mystery boy from the club.
No matter. For his four songs, it was only ever Patrick on stage. Blaine would never sing the kinds of soul-burning songs Patrick favored, the kinds of songs he knew people came to open mic to hear him sing. The songs that kept him whole and told everyone else that they weren't the only ones feeling the deep, dark things that nobody would talk about in the light of day.
"So," he hummed, "this is an oldie by one of my favorite bands. I know some of you will recognize this. Feel free to sing along, if you want, because the Girls are great for singing along."
Pain from pearls-hey little girl-
How much have you grown?
Pain from pearls-hey little girl-
Flower for the ones you've known.
Are you on fire,
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Blaine could see the girl, mouthing the words silently, and, improbably, the boy in the back, looking like he'd been poleaxed but still singing.
Secret staircase, running high,
You had a hiding place.
Secret staircase, running low,
But they all know, now you're inside.
Are you on fire,
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Skipping stones, we know the price now,
Any sin will do.
How much further, if you can spin.
How much further, if you are smooth.
He wished that he had someone to sing it with him, to follow him with the harmony that Michael Stipe sang in the original version, but he took a chance as he launched into the end of the song, gesturing to the assembled crowd, and smiled when they picked up the line, softer and barely lilting under his melody.
Are you on fire,
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Replace the rent with the stars above.
Replace the need with love.
Replace the anger with the tide.
Replace the ones, the ones, the ones, that you love.
Are you on fire,
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
The applause was hearty, and Blaine (Patrick, he reminded himself) took a swig of mocha followed by a sip of water before settling himself with another chord progression.
"Apparently I'm feeling the angst tonight," he said, shaking a stray curl out of his face and picking out the start of One Song Glory. "This is from one of my favorite musicals. Well," he shrugged, cocking his head at the crowd, "I guess it's a rock opera if we're being specific." That drew some light laughter, and he was suddenly at a loss for words, so he launched right into the song.
One song
Glory
One song
Before I go
Glory
One song to leave behind
Find one song
One last refrain
Glory
From the pretty boy front man
Who wasted opportunity
Patrick could sing the hell out of this song. Never Blaine. Blaine had tried, time and time again, but he couldn't even choke out the first words, because Blaine was a fucking mess. Patrick was cool enough to handle the implications of a song about a descent into addiction. Blaine couldn't even admit that maybe he had a problem, because Andersons didn't have problems. Especially not with drugs.
And now that it was looking like he'd be named lead soloist for the Warblers at their spring assembly, Blaine felt exactly like nothing more than a pretty boy pretender. He had Crawford Country Day girls fawning over him, and half the Warbler council trying to set him up with one gay friend or another, and he'd heard the things people whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear them: sex on a stick and sings like a dream.
It was all just too fucking much, so Patrick closed his eyes against Blaine, and kept going.
One song
He had the world at his feet
Glory
In the eyes of a young girl
A young girl
Find glory
Beyond the cheap colored lights
One song
Before the sun sets
Glory - on another empty life
Time flies - time dies
Glory - One blaze of glory
One blaze of glory - glory
He'd seen, in the extras on the movie dvd, that Adam Pascal had closed his eyes all the time when he sang, and that he'd had to train himself out of it. But Patrick thought it was sometimes the only way the song worked. There was just too much hurt there to be able to face anyone or anything.
Find
Glory
In a song that rings true
Truth like a blazing fire
An eternal flame
Patrick liked the songs that told the truth, that dug deep. That hurt. Blaine liked to hide in his music, which was all the more reason why Blaine could never get up on stage like this. Patrick didn't need the sanctuary of song; instead, it was his catharsis. And god, it felt good.
Find
One song
A song about love
Glory
From the soul of a young man
A young man
Find
The one song
Before the virus takes hold
Glory
Like a sunset
One song
To redeem this empty life
Time flies
And then - no need to endure anymore
Time dies
The door
He let his hand drift up into the air as the last notes floated off his guitar, and when he opened his eyes he saw one of the brothers poking at his cheek with the heel of his hand. He was crying, and it took Patrick a few blinks of his own eyes to realize that he was crying, too.
Dammit. He had to pull himself together, so he turned his back on the room for a deep swallow of water and a surreptitious swipe at his cheeks with his own hand. When he turned back to the audience, he had his mask up again.
"This is a fun little song by a guy named Matt Nathanson. I hope you like it." He turned his best show smile on, and let thoughts of the boy from the club filter into his head. He almost couldn't help it at this point, because every time he heard the song, he thought of the boy, of the feel of him and the sound of his voice, and the fire in his eyes when he'd touched Blaine, pressed his hand around Blaine's throat.
I miss the sound of your voice
And I miss the rush of your skin
And I miss the still of the silence
As you breathe out and I breathe in
If I could walk on water
If I could tell you what's next
Make you believe
Make you forget
So come on, get higher, loosen my lips
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips
Just pull me down hard and drown me in love
So come on, get higher, loosen my lips
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips
Just pull me down hard and drown me in love
Love. God, the thing Blaine and Patrick both wanted exactly the same. Something that felt good and right, something to make him feel at home with himself, in a way he feared he never would.
I miss the sound of your voice
The loudest thing in my head
And I ache to remember
All the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said
If I could walk on water
If I could tell you what's next
Make you believe
And make you forget
Singing the song was like remembering what had happened that one night, so clearly. It was as though he had a little video of it in his head - because he replayed every night, from every possible angle. He knew he'd never forget it, even though at this point he wondered how much of what he remembered was true. He wondered if any of it was true. Maybe he just needed it to be.
Blaine would have fallen apart by now, would have lost it when he tried to sing all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said, but Patrick just dug in a little harder, made it a little grittier, a little more real. He could see his audience respond when that happened, as though they could somehow feel what was going on inside him. One of the brothers took the other's hand. The boy in the back set his coffee cup down, and even from here, Blaine could see it shaking.
So come on, get higher, loosen my lips
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips
Just pull me down hard and drown me in love
I miss the pull of your heart
I taste the sparks on your tongue
And I see angels and devils and God
When you come on
Hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Just hold me, love
Sing sha la la la
Sing sha la la la la
Come on, get higher, loosen my lips
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips
Just pull me down hard and drown me in love
He'd heard the lyrics enough times now to realize what a frankly sexual song it was, full of all kinds of images of things he'd never done. He'd thought about them, though, and he guessed most of the people in the audience had, too. It was kind of a bold idea: that everybody around him, probably every person in the world, had thought about doing the things Matt Nathanson was talking about doing in this song. Makes me wonder why people are so scared, he thought, if everybody's thinking about it. But it was Patrick who wondered that. Not Blaine.
So come on, get higher, loosen my lips
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips
Pull me down hard and drown me, drown me in love
(Come on get higher, loosen my lips)
It's all wrong
(Faith and desire and the swing of your hips)
It's all wrong
(Pull me down hard and drown me, drown me in love)
It's so right
Come on get higher
(Come on get higher, loosen my lips)
Come on and get higher
(Faith and desire and the swing of your hips)
Because everything works, love
Because everything works in your arms
When he finished, he noticed that most of the audience was nodding along with their applause, and that the boy in the back was struggling not to reach out and grab the arm of the man he was with. There's a story there, he thought, but he would never even think of trying to guess what it was. Because as much as Andersons didn't have problems, Andersons also didn't pry into private affairs.
He wanted to jump right into his next song, but it was another kind of old one, and he wasn't sure how many people even listened to the Barenaked Ladies anymore, anyway.
"I think these lyrics say a lot about how we all are, every one of us. Just-" he snaked a hand through his hair and sighed, suddenly tired but still feeling like he had so much more to say. "Just listen."
When I was born, they looked at me and said
what a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy.
And when you were born, they looked at you and said,
what a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl.
We've got these chains that hang around our necks,
people want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath.
Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same,
when temptation calls, we just look away.
This name is the hairshirt I wear,
and this hairshirt is woven from your brown hair.
This song is the cross that I bear,
bear it with me, bear with me, bear with me,
be with me tonight,
I know that it isn't right, but be with me tonight.
The first time he'd heard it, he thought immediately of Santana, always struggling to be more than she was, so he played it for her. She'd put an arm around his shoulder, rested her head against his and said sadly, oh, Blainers, you really don't get it. This is about you, too.
I go to school, I write exams,
if I pass, if I fail, if I drop out,
does anyone give a damn?
And if they do, they'll soon forget 'cause it won't take much for me
to show my life ain't over yet.
I wake up scared, I wake up strange.
I wake up wondering if anything in my life is ever going to change.
I wake up scared, I wake up strange
and everything around me stays the same.
He knew that feeling, like he was invisible. It was how he'd felt at Catholic, at the worst of things after the attack. How he still felt, some days, in the stifling air at Dalton. How he'd felt every single day since the night at the club, like something was burning and growing inside of him and nobody else could see it.
I couldn't tell you that I was wrong,
chickened out, grabbed a pen and paper, sat down and I wrote this song.
I couldn't tell you that you were right,
so instead I looked in the mirror,
watched TV, laid awake all night.
We've got these chains, hang 'round our necks,
people want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath.
Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same when temptation calls ...
Afraid of change. Afraid of the unknown. The misunderstood. So many things Blaine didn't even know, how could he understand? Some days he felt like he was choking on all of it. Of course Patrick would sing this song.
When I was born, they looked at me and said;
What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy.
And when you were born, they looked at you and said;
what a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl, hey
Sometimes the only time he felt real anymore was when he was here, on this stage. When he was flawed, funny, talented Patrick, instead of Blaine who was just wrong in all kinds of ways.
When he was Patrick, he could breathe.
He took as many deep breaths as he could in that space before he had to face the world as Blaine again.
"He's back," Carl said, nodding at the stage. Finn nodded back. Carl's coffee was almost gone. He wondered if he should offer to refill it, or just do it without offering. He felt dumb asking those kind of questions, like he should just know the answer, without having to ask.
Carl grinned at him, which always made his stomach do funny things. "I think you knew he was going to be here tonight."
"Well, it's Saturday," Finn started, then paused, eyeing him. Sometimes conversations with Carl were like video games. Unexpected things popped up to surprise him, but this happened regularly enough that at least he could expect that there would be unexpected things. He supposed he was learning Carl's way of being with him, in the same way that he was learning... all kinds of stuff. He hurriedly turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.
"You think I came here to see him?" he guessed. Carl shrugged, looking at his coffee. Finn wasn't sure if that meant Yes, I thought that, and it bothers me, or Yes, I thought that, and it's not a problem, or I didn't really think that. He waited for Carl to say more, but he didn't seem like he was going to.
Finn sighed as quietly as he could manage, and tried again. "Uh... you'd rather I didn't come here anymore?"
"No, it's fine, F- Christopher," Carl said, using the pseudonym Finn had chosen for when they were dealing with the group of people Carl called "the kink community." Carl used the name Derek, but Finn never called him that.
Carl pushed his coffee to the middle of the table. "He's a very handsome young man."
"Uh... I guess?" Finn squinted at Patrick, who was putting his guitar away and talking to one of the twins. He had nice hair, really curly and unruly, and a friendly smile. Nothing he could point to as being particularly... wait a minute. "You think I have a thing for him?"
"You're entirely justified in having any relationships you wish," he said smoothly. "You might want to consider the time factor, though. I wouldn't want your existing relationships to suffer, and there's your homework -"
"I'm not interested in Patrick," Finn insisted. "He's a good singer. I like listening to him. That's all."
Carl met Finn's gaze abruptly, and Finn had to remember to keep the breath going in and out. Nobody did intense like Carl. "That's all," he echoed, and it was half question and half command.
Finn nodded vigorously until he realized he was doing it, and then he stopped and said, "Yes, sir."
It was true. He couldn't lie to Carl - or if he did, he was sure it would show on his face. Finn wasn't a good liar under any circumstances, anyway. He blushed and stammered and couldn't look anyone in the eye. He wasn't lying here.
But in this case, it would be more accurate to say it's complicated. Because the songs Patrick was singing were songs he knew, and listening to them made him feel things he didn't quite know what to do with. They didn't have anything to do with the boy. Or at least he didn't think they did. The Indigo Girls song, god - he'd sung it with the CD every day for a week when Puck was in Santa Fe. The song from RENT, he'd heard more times than he could count, that being Kurt's go-to musical DVD when he was feeling frustrated and angry with the world, or at least with Karofsky. The other two, he hadn't heard before, but he had the feeling he would like to, and maybe he would even look them up when he got home, download them, learn them well enough to sing along. Hope that Patrick might sing them again next week. He did have a great voice.
Okay, maybe it was a little weird that he was stalking this boy at his open mic. But - there was something about him that made Finn feel like he should... pay attention. Something he couldn't put his finger on.
"He's hiding something," he heard himself say. Carl directed his intensity toward Patrick for a long moment - luckily, he wasn't looking back - then, slowly, nodded.
"You and that intuition of yours," Carl murmured. "I think I'd better watch myself around you."
Finn blinked. "Are there things you want to hide from me?"
"Everybody has things to hide," said Carl, and picked up his coffee spoon.
Finn took a deep breath and followed his intuition. "May I... get you another coffee, sir?"
Carl's eyes softened, and he sat back in his chair, relaxing. Finn felt himself flush, and the stupid grin returned. This was why they couldn't go out anywhere in Lima together. Anyone watching would know, immediately, that they were not friends, that Carl was not his uncle or his father or his teacher or any kind of reasonable authority figure. The way Carl looked at him, and the way he looked back, said one thing: as soon as we're alone, there will be sex. It was good Carl was very strict about confining their activities to private locations, or Finn thought there was a good chance he would have suggested the coffee house restroom. He closed his eyes, just to interrupt that ridiculous circuit of energy passing between them.
"Yes, thank you, Christopher," said Carl. Finn immediately stood and reached for the cup in the center of the table, at the same time Carl reached for it, too. Their hands collided, and Finn heard himself make an embarrassing noise at the contact.
"Sorry, sir," he whispered, then turned and fled. His heart was pounding. Finn thought it was the stupidest thing, that such a simple touch could make him freak out, but he couldn't deny it. It was Carl, not something that he did, but Carl, himself, that drove Finn to slack-jawed confusion. All he has to do is look at me to make me fall apart. And Finn didn't understand why he didn't feel more angry or upset that Carl made him so powerless. It was almost - comforting, in a crazy way.
"What can I get for you?" asked the straight-faced African-American woman with the dreadlocks, standing behind the cash register.
"Uh - one coffee with cream, one hot chocolate," said Finn, smiling. She didn't smile back, but filled the cups efficiently.
"Which one are you?" Finn turned to see Patrick standing beside him, and he was smiling. Finn's first thought was wow, he's really short, but he had enough presence of mind not to make these his first words.
"I'm the hot chocolate," said Finn. "I've tried, but I just don't like coffee."
Patrick shrugged. "Everybody's got things they like, and things they don't. Nothing wrong with that."
You have no idea, was Finn's next thought. He held out his hand. "I'm Christopher."
"Patrick," he said, shaking Finn's hand, firm and solid. "I've seen you here before."
"I like the way you play your songs," Finn said. "You're a good singer."
"Here you go," said the woman behind the counter. Finn gave her the money she asked for, trying another smile, but it didn't work.
As they stepped away, Finn leaned in to Patrick and whispered, "I don't think she likes me very much."
"She's like that with everybody," Patrick assured him conspiratorially. "It's not like she's homophobic or something. Er - " He paused, looking a little embarrassed.
Finn felt himself blushing. "You can, uh, tell, huh?" Closing his eyes didn't make him feel any better, because he could see Carl on the back of his eyelids. "We're kind of obvious, I guess."
"A little," Patrick admitted. "It's no big deal. I mean, I'm gay."
Finn was taken a little aback by Patrick's frank statement, but he just nodded. "Cool. Well - thanks. I'm going to, uh..." He gestured with his full hands at Carl at the table, pointedly not looking at them together.
"Sure. Enjoy the rest of the night, Christopher."
Finn watched him walk away, wondering what he'd been thinking. The boy was together, friendly and confident. There was no obvious problem that Finn could detect. He wondered if maybe he'd made a mistake.