author's notes: written for the 5th Seblaine Anniversary!
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Looks Like We Made It
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He drifts in and out of sleep for an hour straight before he calls it quits.
For the third night in a row he fails to catch any sleep, even though he'd hoped that impossible in the dreamy king-size bed, or below the Egyptian cotton with a 500 thread count. Sadly, he's either too wired or too sore to fully enjoy the wealth of the new bedroom.
Sighing, he turns in bed, barely discerning his boyfriend fast asleep next to him, long since turned on his back rather than spooning him to sleep. He can't really blame Sebastian; it's been a crazy two weeks of painting and construction, packing and moving and being unable to unpack—that's what happens to two young professionals with demanding jobs whose lease runs out before they can agree on what color the living room walls should be.
Most of their work had gone into finishing the master bed and bath first, painting the wall behind their bed a Prussian blue to offset their new bed even more, the rest a subtle dusty gray. Under great protest Sebastian mounted the shelves and the gutters to install the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors for the closet (surely they could hire someone to do that for them), and with some help from Sam they'd installed those too.
With a few well-placed compliments and indecent promises he'd been able to show Sebastian there was something special to putting pieces of their home together themselves—he's still waiting for the penny to drop on that one, though; his boyfriend may be an architect, but he's not the handiest person.
He may have insisted they splurge on the bedroom, but it's one of the few rooms they'll be using daily—downstairs they'll still be living out of boxes for the foreseeable future, so they might as well have a bit of luxury upstairs.
It's not their first home by far, but it's the first one they own together and hope to never have to leave again. Getting this right is sort of a big deal to him, because it is a home, or it will be, and it holds the hope of many more dreams yet to come true. Maybe that's why Sebastian hadn't fought him too hard on some of his crazier requests; he wanted a new kitchen, one of the bathrooms had to be redone, the dark wood of the staircase had to go and be replaced by something lighter, the big hedge in the garden needed to disappear, and Sebastian should prepare to design a new garden with some flowerbeds once everything inside the house was in order.
Still, after all the work they'd already done, and all the work they had yet to finish, it would be nice to at least sleep for a few hours. Their bedroom looked perfect enough to earn a spread in Architectural Digest, the bathroom had been made theirs with all their products in the cupboards, and with the windows open all day the paint smell had even dissipated. No reason for him to be lying awake.
There's also no reason for him to continue tossing and turning and stealing Sebastian's sleep too.
With as much care as he can manage, Blaine slips out of the bed—he runs into the upholstered storage bench at the foot of the bed, not used to having any furniture there, their apartment in the city far too small for such luxuries.
He casts one glance back at Sebastian, and smiles. Somehow though, small apartment or not, they did manage without those luxuries; as long as they had each other they didn't need too many extras.
The hallway outside their bedroom comes illuminated by moonlight, all the other doors left open—they hadn't yet bought any light bulbs and somehow light fixtures for the hallway hadn't made it onto his list of things to buy; so they made do with portable halogens and natural light for now.
Dust has gathered all along the baseboards, and the touch of his foot makes the new staircase creak, the wood not yet properly set.
More than nerves or stress it's the otherness of the house that keeps him awake, each sound it makes new and frightening, and it's been tough to imagine the finished result, still months away.
The apartment had been easy; there'd been one of each room and a limited amount of space, and their landlord didn't allow them to change much about the interior. A lot of their furniture, and there'd been little of it, came second hand or as a gift from their parents—the house would be theirs in ways nothing else had ever been, a place to make their own, to -little by little- fill with memories and anecdotes and maybe, one day, kids.
But that's a far off dream still.
Once downstairs, he checks to make sure they locked the front door, and he's unable to resist the urge to take a gander outside, at their messy front lawn, the crooked mailbox, and Sebastian's car parked in the driveway.
And his heart swells again at the thought of how very theirs it is, how every brick and every blade of grass will gradually fill with this promise they implicitly made when they signed the papers. He'd come to understand the purchase of this house as a commitment not unlike getting married—Sebastian's signature had spelled 'I do' as surely as his had. This was the beginning of their future life together, in a house with two more bedrooms to fill.
It's as close to a wedding vow they have so far gotten, and he still secretly hopes Sebastian will get over his aversion of the institution. He may or may not have their wedding planned out to the last detail in his head.
Blaine wanders into the living room, where a heavy paint smell still lingered, the few pieces of furniture that had been delivered covered with white sheets and plastic. Soon, this room would become a centerpiece of their home; a comfy couch for them to cuddle on, a nice thick rug on the floor to save his feet from going too cold, and a low coffee table with cork coasters; the walls they'd spent the day painting would get some new art and picture frames, and there'd be a fabulous light drum chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
All in good time.
Headlights from a passing car travel through the house like a searchlight, and he falls a step back towards the dining room, where two dozen electric candles are still flickering their artificial flames.
That's right, after dinner and a quick exchange of presents, they hadn't found the time to switch any off—Sebastian had mumbled something about being able to afford tiny batteries and gone down on him and few of his thoughts after that had strayed towards cost-effective living; they'd stumbled upstairs and fallen into bed, a perfect ending to their celebration.
Because today marked their five-year anniversary.
Five years of people using the names Blaine and Sebastian in the same breath; five years of ups and down, of moves and tearful eyes and happiness, of underappreciated birthday presents and extravagant parties, of kisses and champagne and shouting matches that put the neighbors to shame.
Five years of realizing that Sebastian would be the one to stick around, despite everyone telling him it wouldn't last, that he was pushing his luck dating Sebastian afraid-of-commitment Smythe.
It took him three of those five years to fully come to believe everyone was wrong, to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he and Sebastian were in it for the long haul, and it'd come at one of the most innocuous moments of their relationship.
After a truly grueling day of one piano lesson after the other, all he wanted was a quiet dinner with his boyfriend. He waited up two hours for Sebastian, and he'd been ready to tear him a new one, but by the time Sebastian stumbled through the door worn and tired from work, he hadn't been able to bring himself to say a word—his rehearsals often ran late too, and he didn't always call to let Sebastian know, so it'd been a trespass easily forgiven. And how could he stay mad at a boyfriend who'd curled up in his lap on the couch, let him rake his fingers through his hair even though he usually protested, and still the first thing out of his mouth was: "How was your day?"
He knew then, as surely as he knows now, that he and Sebastian would make it far.
Neither of them had the energy to go out or drive somewhere for dinner tonight, so instead they'd tossed down a plaid blanket on the dining room floor, ordered take out, and lit electric candles all around the room to at least make it look like a romantic dinner.
Truthfully, it might have been the most romantic anniversary they'd ever had—a celebration of their relationship, of this next 'first' in their life together, something spontaneous and relaxed in the midst of the chaos they'd been living in.
The night had been nothing short of perfect. As long as they had each other they didn't need anything too lavish.
Perfect or not, though, he should put all the candles away before their new neighbors started getting curious.
Blaine makes his way into the dining room, stubbing his little toe against the corner of a carton box.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, and shoots the offending box a menacing look.
Staring down at it he notices it's not one of the medium boxes he bought in bulk at Home Depot, and given that it has 'memorabilia' written in Sebastian's handwriting on the flaps, he guesses it must've been among the few that'd survived their first move a little over three years ago. This time around Sebastian had been too busy at work to do a lot of his own packing, so he'd labeled everything—and he'd never stick a label on top of a box where another box might obscure its view. Labels go on the sides; that goes without saying.
Curiosity piqued, he opens the box and flips through the items, and finds a side of Sebastian he doesn't see nearly enough; a few souvenirs from Sebastian's early years in Paris, pictures of his mom and half siblings, the Warbler insignia from his old blazer, and, at the bottom of the box, a scrapbook he vaguely remembers making in between rehearsals and piano lessons.
His heart fills with a fondness he can scarce put into words at the sight of the familiar cutout letters, reading 'Our First Year' in a proud and flaming font.
He hasn't seen this book in ages. He's surprised Sebastian even held onto it for so long.
Settling on the blanket in the center of the room, sheltered by candlelight, he leafs through the colorful pages of the book, filled with pictures he'd taken throughout the year, and his mind overflows with memories; those early signs of infatuation, butterflies in his stomach, and the first time he'd looked at Sebastian in a new light. Theirs hadn't been a typical love story, or a terribly exciting one but rather slow and innocuous, slipped in through the cracks when he wasn't looking.
Half of one of the earliest pages documents the very beginning of their relationship, their first kiss in Paris, along the Seine, sun setting in the distance; they'd been walking for so long Sebastian carried him on his back.
They settled by the water and he patted his beret, one of the few purchases he'd made in the city.
"I want to live here," he mooned, and cast an arm out towards the water, drunk on the excitement of the trip, and the stunningly novel idea that over the course of the weeks prior he'd fallen in love with his best friend, Sebastian Smythe, the boy who everyone said was no good for him. "I could, you know. Move here and make art for the rest of my life."
"You'd have to learn the language."
He turned and smiled and cocked an eyebrow, too careless to worry about how his body drew towards Sebastian's, how it'd been doing that for a while now. "I can have you teach me."
"Yeah?" Sebastian asked, invading his personal space in turn. "Over Skype?"
"No, that won't work." He shook his head. "You'd have to move too."
"You sound drunk," Sebastian said, and oscillated a step closer.
"I'm just happy," he coed, his heart picked up a new rhythmless pace in the wake of his wonderful awakening—the past few years had been about his own happiness, found in himself and not some boy who toyed with his heart. But Sebastian, this memory of a time long past, this reinvented and matured version who'd been no less shy about flirting with him—yes. Yes.
"Are you happy?" he asked softly, as if afraid of the answer.
Sebastian's green eyes twinkled their usual mischief in the early dusk of Parisian France, but he'd leaned in, said, "Yeah," equally as soft and frightened, and they'd fallen into their first ever kiss.
It seems like such a long time ago now, but he wouldn't give up those memories for all the money in the world, and neither would he want to relive them—there's something to be said about the familiarity of someone else's touch, the steady reassurance of coming home, and a great satisfaction in telling people, "You were wrong. We did make it. We beat the odds together."
Sometimes it's comforting to realize he's as big a sap as he ever was.
Turning the pages one by one, it all comes back to him; the trips, the first few tentative dates, the nights spend in Sebastian's arms.
Some of the pages only have pictures of their silly faces, while some are entirely dedicated to a theme. One page specifies the places they visited; Paris, the final stop in their backpacking adventure through Europe, and months later Los Angeles to visit his brother, while others revolve around small things like shows and movies they watched together, or restaurants they frequented.
Both such messy young boys.
For a long time he thought that first year would be all they needed to lay the foundation of something strong, that if they got that one just right they'd be set for life.
He used to think that if he acted accordingly and smiled and did everything the perfect boyfriend should do, that Sebastian wouldn't leave him like others had in the past, so he'd been quieter and docile, paced himself, and put Sebastian first in all things.
But like so many things it didn't work that way for Sebastian—and truthfully, if Sebastian hadn't caught him they probably never would have made it.
Despite what the scrapbook shows, it'd been a rocky year of ups and downs, both of them terrified they would mess things up, both of them often too proud to communicate their feelings.
Yet now, with the added perspective of four more years, he can accept they had to struggle through some hardship before they found something real. It's the quiet moments that matter, and the moments where not everything's alright but they're still there for each other—it's the willingness that drives them both to be there for one another, especially when things are hard, that marks the true strength of their relationship.
"Can't sleep?" Sebastian's voice sounds through the layers of his reverie—he'd been so caught up in his train of thought he hadn't heard Sebastian's footsteps creaking the stairs; unless Sebastian already navigated their new home to avoid any missteps.
He looks up at his boyfriend, his partner in life, and wonders what other firsts are around the corner for them—it'll be a while before things settle, and they'll both be busy catching up with work for weeks, yet it's like the whole entire world is at the tips of his fingers, and he can't wait to share in that with Sebastian.
Blaine shakes his head.
"It's almost as if we had no need for a new bed at all," Sebastian says, sitting down next to him on the floor.
He chuckles, "Make fun all you want," and bumps their shoulders together. "I love our new bedroom, and I love our new house." He shrugs. "I'm just not used to it yet, that's all."
"Oh God"—Sebastian groans, plucking the scrapbook from between his hands—"where did you find this?"
"I'm surprised you kept it."
"Are you kidding?" Sebastian looks at him sideways. "I want our children to see how embarrassing one of their dads used to be."
"You knew about our 2.5 children one year in?" he asks, their usual half joke about a half dream he often suspects they both have for their future. They haven't talked about kids, not in so many words, but Sebastian knows he'd like to be a dad someday, and Sebastian isn't nearly as averse to the idea than he likes to let on.
"First year's the hardest, isn't that what they say?"
He laughs. "I think that's marriage."
Turning his head, his eyes catch Sebastian's, and for a moment they're the same green mischievous eyes, twinkling in the early dusk of Parisian France. Deep down, past all the layers of the years they've been together, they're still the same two boys, often terrified, often naïve, often incommunicative—but they've withstood every test, gotten through every first, even the less pleasant ones, and their future looks ever brighter.
Sebastian draws a hand along his shoulders, tickling the tips of his fingers into his curls. "I know things haven't always been perfect—" he says, reading his mind. "And I know this isn't how you imagined our anniversary—"
"What are you talking about?" He blinks slowly. "It was perfect."
Sebastian leans in and pushes a kiss to his lips, one for each year they've been together.
Candlelight flickers around them, and they flip through some more of the scrapbook together, reminiscing over some of the finer pictures, bringing some of their own memories into question.
It's been a long time, that first year.
His eyes fall to the bottom of the last page, one marked 'Hopes for the Future', followed by a short checklist he'd thrown together.
-Make Sebastian watch Say Anything and like it.
-Get 'His & His' matching coffee mugs.
-Start a tradition of Friday Fajita nights.
-Get Sebastian off gluten.
Sebastian chuckles. "You were really overreaching with some of those, weren't you?"
But his eyes draw down to the last item on the list:
✔ Fall more and more in love.
Sebastian kisses his temple. "Looks like we made it, killer."
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fin
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