Hey, everyone! "The Soloist" is coming along, a little slower than I would have liked, but I've been pretty busy since I got back from a lovely vacation. In any case, here is a little story to keep you entertained while you wait for violinist Kurt and pianist Blaine's first date (; This will be in two parts, so here is the first! Hope you enjoy, comments are loved (:
And Very Heroic – Part I
Blaine had never spoken to him.
He just watched him.
Every evening at 6 pm he padded in from the men's locker room, carrying a soft white towel, a pair of silvery goggles (the kind that acted as a one-way mirror, allowing the swimmer to see his path but not allowing onlookers to see the swimmer's eyes), a small stopwatch, and a tight black swim cap.
Blaine, sitting high up in the lifeguard's chair on the opposite side of the pool, watched as he folded his towel carefully and placed it on the far corner of the lowest bleacher in the vast section of metal seating, the section that, on competition days, would fill to the brim with spectators – aunts, uncles, and godparents come from out of town to cheer on the family swim champ, mothers bouncing toddlers on their knees, pointing out into the lanes, telling little Susie, "That's your big sister, out there!"
But of course, during the last hour of Blaine's regular, weekday shift, the room was empty.
Except for him.
He couldn't have been much older than Blaine – seventeen, eighteen at the very oldest.
Along with his towel, he temporarily set aside his cap, watch, and goggles, and then he stepped out of his flip flops and slid them beneath the bench before beginning his pace, taking a few steps in one direction, then a few steps in another as he rolled his neck and shoulders, breathing deeply as he stretched them out in preparation for that day's exercise. Every crick and crack of vertebra, ball-and-socket joint, and shoulder blade resounded off the four 30-foot-tall walls of the nearly-empty natatorium. But never once did he react, and never once did he lose his concentration.
Finally he stopped, firmly planting his feet on the sea-green cement that surrounded the swimming pool, and stretched his arms high above his head. Even Blaine could see from his seat yards away that every fiber of his arms, everything from shoulder to fingertip, was tense in only the most disciplinary fashion. He held them there, stretched to the ceiling, until his biceps literally began to shake with the need for relief.
And only then would he grant his toned, swimmer's arms mercy, bending at the waist and allowing them to hang limply on either side of his head for a while, until he stretched them stiff again, this time to his toes.
Every day, the same warm-up continued for at least ten minutes. Rolling the neck and shoulders, stretching to the sky, stretching to the ground, then finally sitting down, legs spread far apart, and stretching his hamstrings and quadriceps. His arm and leg muscles worked like rubber bands as he bent at the waist, reached out, and grabbed hold of his foot as he pressed his forehead to his right knee, his left knee, then both when be brought his legs together, grabbing both feet, and stretching forward.
At long last he hoisted himself up off the floor and made his way back to the corner of the bleacher, where he slowly peeled away his t-shirt.
The first few times Blaine had sat and watched the routine from start to finish, he hadn't thought much of it. He was a lifeguard – shirtless men were kind of commonplace in his current line of work.
But two days in a row turned into a week, and a week turned into three weeks, which turned into a month, which turned into a month and half…
And Blaine could no longer deny it – this man's body was absolutely breathtaking.
He wasn't muscular in the way the term was normally used, but rather lean and lithe, with arms and legs whose tendons and muscles were pliable with a kind of vitality Blaine had never really seen before. With a long, slender neck, pronounced shoulders, a pale, visibly hairless chest whose rhythmic, regulatory rise and fall was all but completely hypnotizing, a taut yet delicately defined abdomen, a soft contour of the v-shaped muscle that stretched across his hips, disappearing beneath his navy blue swim shorts…
At times, especially in the odd lighting of the natatorium and the way it bounced off the periwinkle walls, he looked more like a white marble statue than a living, breathing human being.
It wasn't as if Blaine just stared, blatantly and intently eyeing him as he removed layers of clothing in preparation for his training. Of course not, that would be ridiculous, and I most certainly wouldn't do something like that…
Well, having a crossword or Sudoku in hand helped; helped make it look like he was occupied with something else, in any case.
When Blaine first began to pay such close attention to all of these tiny details, he was constantly catching and attempting to stop himself, worried the young man he was admiring would soon be the one doing the catching. But, had he known back then what weeks upon weeks of seeing this same routine every evening, like clockwork, had taught him, he would not have been worried at all; from the time he emerged from that locker room to the time he packed up and headed to the showers, nothing – nothing – pulled this swimmer's focus.
It was a little intimidating, how dedicated to this ritual he was. A little intimidating, but very, very admirable.
Blaine watched as he retrieved his cap, stopwatch, and goggles, and moved to the first starting block. Beneath the florescent lighting, the pliant muscles in his arms and legs became more clearly defined as he knelt by the tile edge of the pool and reached in with cupped hands, taking some of the lukewarm water and wetting his hair so that he could slide the black cap onto his head with relative ease. Once all of his soft, feathery brown hair was tucked away beneath it, he stretched the band of the goggles and pulled them on, leaving them tight against his forehead while he adjusted the timer on his stopwatch and set it on the tile rim.
He climbed onto the starting block and pulled the silvery goggles over his eyes, which made him look even less human than he already did.
By the time the stopwatch had given its signaling beep beep beep and his body had sprung from the block and into the water with one swift, seemingly effortless dive, everything homo sapiens about him had vanished.
He was an animal, an aquatic mammal, an ethereal creature of the sea whose speed and agility were undoubtedly unmatched among all others of his kind. He conquered eight-lap cycles at lightning speed, no matter what the stroke – Blaine found it hard to believe that he even had enough time to take breaths as he bobbed above and below the surface during his breaststroke, it took him all of a few arm cycles to cross the pool freestyle, and his arms moved like barely-visible propellers with his backstroke. But the fastest, sharpest, most impressive was, by far, his butterfly. His arms were fins displacing water by the gallon, his feet, together, were a flipper propelling him onward, then launching him from the wall again and again until he made his final circuit, returning to his starting place and slapping the stopwatch, marking his newest time.
Treading water there at the edge of the pool, he removed his goggles and then his cap and set the two by the stopwatch. Then, all at once, he was human again. His expression, for the first time since he had emerged from the locker room, was something other than disciplined determination. His lips remained parted as he repeatedly yet steadily, rhythmically took in and let out gulps of air. His eyebrows were slightly upturned and his forehead was creased in exhaustion, and it looked as though all he wanted to do was climb out of that swimming pool and collapse.
But no, he couldn't. Not just yet, anyway. After seeing this routine so many times, Blaine had come to realize that this – these few minutes of treading after each eight-lap circuit – was part of the exercise. He could not, and would not give in to his exhaustion, no matter how achingly his muscles begged him. Blaine could almost read his mind, just by looking at the strained yet resolute expression on his face. You're not tired, he seemed to be telling himself as he moved his arms back and forth, back and forth, and kept his feet moving as if he were pedaling a bicycle underwater, Two more minutes. You're not tired. It's all in your mind…
And then, after approximately two minutes, he would let his arms and legs go limp, submerging himself below the surface, disappearing for a few brief moments before his hands alone appeared, grasping the edge of the pool.
Then, with a splash of water that broke the tense silence, he hoisted himself onto the tile ledge, eyes closed in exertion, hair plastered to his forehead and to the nape of his neck, water cascading down his body and onto the tile and cement floor.
There he would sit, for a few moments, and catch his breath. When it appeared as though his heaving chest had returned to its steady, controlled rise and fall, he slid his fingers into his hair and shook it out, sprinklings of water splaying out around him, until it was about halfway back to its normal, feathery texture. No sooner had he gotten to his feet, gathered up his equipment, his t-shirt, and his towel (which he wrapped snugly around his shoulders), slipped back into his flip-flops, and headed for the locker rooms, finally finished for the day.
Every weekday, at 6 pm. Like clockwork.
But Blaine had never spoken to him.
Undergoing self-imposed intensive training during the last hour of Blaine's daily shift, however, was not the only circumstance under which the dedicated young swimmer crossed Blaine's path. Occasionally, when Blaine left the natatorium and ventured into the gym to clock in from his break or grab a second Dr. Pepper from the vending machine in the weight room, he would see him, usually in red or black basketball shorts and a fitted t-shirt with "McKinley Titans" printed in bold lettering across the chest, talking with two girls Blaine recognized as divers who practiced just an hour before he did, only, every other day instead of daily.
From what Blaine had gathered, the three of them were close friends. More than once, Blaine had walked into the weight room to find the tiny, slightly boisterous brunette holding fast to the mysterious swimmer's feet while he rapidly raced through a cycle of sit-ups, the breathtakingly beautiful blonde sitting close by with a stopwatch. Then, they would rotate, switching tasks until each had had a time recorded for that particular day. They talked and laughed with each other all through it, though, as close friends do. Blaine hated stereotypes – really, hated them – but couldn't help himself from wondering if the fact that this young man's two closest friends were female was indicative that, in other, more private aspects of his life, he maybe… possibly… preferred…
Blaine refused to get his hopes up. He was very much aware of his lack of viable opportunities, but this, unfortunately, never seemed to soften the blow of rejection.
One day while sitting up at his post, he watched the two divers, the blonde and the brunette, as they practiced some new routines. Blaine didn't know much about the technical aspects of competitive diving, but it was fascinating to watch them regardless. Particularly off the high dive.
They would take turns, kindly critiquing one another's performances, joking and gossiping with each other in between. That was the main difference between what these two girls did, and what the swimmer did. Until one of them was standing at the end of the diving board, breathing deeply, preparing to take her first jump, the mood was very light, relaxed. And while neither of them knew Blaine by name, one or both would usually wave amiably to him upon entering the room for their bi-daily work-outs. Additionally, being that conversation bounced freely back and forth between the brunette and the blonde, Blaine had gathered that their names were Rachel and Quinn, respectively.
Upon learning this, Blaine contemplated simply introducing himself, making some small talk, then conveniently yet subtly turning the conversation to their friend, the one who came in every day at 6 pm, wholly and completely absorbed in his task until the minute he headed to the showers.
But then, Blaine remembered: he was not allowed to get his hopes up.
So, he just smiled and waved back, then let them get on with their diving, which really was a treat to watch. This, Blaine realized, was partially due to the charming amount of banter and physical affection freely shared between these two girls. They would help each other out of the pool, smooth or re-braid each other's hair before the next dive… just little things, but things that showed they were as close as friends could be.
The weeks swam by, blurring into each other with the repetitiveness of each day's events, and Blaine continued sitting through the 3 pm pre-school swim classes, the intermediate lessons of 8-12-year-olds. He took a late break and saw the weight room slowly filling with high school students, heard whistles and bouncing basketballs in the adjacent gymnasium, then eventually returned to his post as a few middle-aged men and women came in to do laps for thirty, forty minutes.
5 o'clock rolled around, and sure enough, the two divers named Rachel and Quinn came in, chatting animatedly about something that was surely high school drama as they stepped out of their flip-flops and adjusted the diving board mechanisms to accommodate their ideal length and height.
They moved at a relaxed pace, finishing up in just under an hour. Then, something happened that had never happened before: the 6 pm swimmer came in, just a little earlier than usual, and he and his two friends were all in the natatorium at the same time. He made his way over to them as they exchanged hellos, then sat down on the lowest bleacher to casually talk to them as they wrapped their towels around their waists and prepared to head down to the showers. At first, Blaine wasn't sure why this struck him as odd; he had seen the three friends talk and laugh many times before, just never in here… then, he realized. Never had he seen this boy completely and totally human in here. He had never seen him speak to anybody, had never seen him smile, in here. He came in, hard and determined, and he left, focus unbroken. It was so out of context, seeing him chat with Rachel and Quinn, like everything was just normal.
Soon enough the two girls left for the locker rooms, and he pulled himself into that place – wherever it was – that he went before beginning the day's exercise. He went through the motions, the same as always, but something felt different to Blaine today. And somehow, he thought maybe the swimmer was feeling it too, even though it appeared that everything was going as it always had…
But so accustomed was Blaine to that perpetual, tapping rhythm of the swimmer's daily practice that… when the ethereal sea creature was suddenly yanked back into human form… when he had been halfway out of the water, slipped on the ledge and cried out in pain… tearing off his cap and goggles and forcing himself out of the water… gripping his ankle as he screamed soundlessly, eyes squeezed shut, as if he were under the illusion that that would somehow make that agony subside…
Blaine was achingly slow to adjust. To process the fact the he was hurt. He needed help. He was hurt. That…
Oh God, he's hurt. Oh my God, he's hurt.
Part II to come soon! Thank you for reading, and let me know what you think!