Blaine Anderson was an absolute mess and he knew it. It was ten-thirty on a Saturday morning (he could tell by the giant red letters blinking at him from across the darkened room) and he had a god-awful hangover that left him with a headache the size of the Middle East. But then, that was normal. He was still wearing his work shirt from yesterday, although he was quite pantsless, only now it was ripped in several places, completely askew and ruffled, and he was in a completely unfamiliar apartment with a strange man. But that too was normal. The thing that made him truly aware that he was an absolute mess was that he knew that he had a wedding to be at in six hours, had been fully aware of it the night before and had promised himself to stay sober … and still had wound up in some guy's bed with no choice but to make the Walk of Shame back home, though he had no idea how to get there since he didn't know where he was. Hearing snores coming from the unfamiliar body beside him, he crept out of the bed, scrambled to find his pants, tie, and coat, then snuck out of the apartment without awakening him.
He stumbled about until he found the elevator; he did not trust himself to take the stairs. He'd made that mistake hung over before and it had landed him in the emergency room twice. Pressing the greasy button for the first floor, he sighed. He had six hours to completely clean himself up and get to the Upper East Side in time to help David out for his wedding. Really, it was very sweet. Despite the drastic change in their relationship after college, David had still asked Blaine to be a groomsman. It was very nice to know that David still cared about him enough to ask him to be part of his wedding. Karen was a charming girl and everything that David deserved, and he was happy for him. So why in the world had he broken his oath to himself to not drink? Unfortunately, he was quite fully aware of why, and just the idea had him craving a shot of vodka. He was extremely worried about the guest list.
Boy was that the understatement of the century.
The doorman leered at him as he walked through the rather unclean lobby that smelled vaguely of cat piss. He did his best to ignore it. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that a doorman made fun of him or hit on him after a drunken night out. It didn't really matter anymore. He winced harshly as he opened the door. It was sunny out. Of course. His brain pounded violently against his skull as the unforgiving rays of light kicked him in the face. Squinting, he looked around. Thank heaven, he was near Central Park. He knew how to get to a subway station from here. He sauntered off in the right direction, hunching over in the hopes that he could turn invisible. His life really had been miserable for a while. But he had never changed it. It kept the pain at bay.
Thankfully, before his mind could wander off into that dark and cutting place, he found himself on the subway. The train always reassured him, despite the extremely loud clickity-clacks that set his teeth and headache on edge. On the train in New York City, no matter what time or where, he was guaranteed not to be the craziest or most shameful person in the vehicle. That being said, it wasn't rare that a mother would pull their child a little bit closer at the sight of him. He couldn't blame them. He must have looked like a hobo with his tattered, stained shirt, wrinkled pants and indubitably insane curls. It really was a miracle that he still had his job as a music critic in the Times with the trouble he got in. Really, it was very lucky that they liked him so much, very lucky that he was their most popular critic. Why? He wasn't sure exactly. But he was, and for now, that was all that mattered. His job was his only moderately healthy release. It was better than the alcohol anyway, although he always had some of that on hand just in case his work wasn't enough. Because his job may have been his release, but alcohol was his escape.
He walked mechanically through the sliding doors when his stop came. He smiled somewhat bitterly. He remembered how it had felt when he first got here, to the marvelous glittering Concrete Jungle. Young, naïve and not alone … no, bad Blaine. That is a very bad place to let yourself visit. Thinking instead of a new band he had recently reviewed called "Afterthought," he, as casually as a man suffering from a master hangover could, walked into his building.
"Good morning, Mr. Anderson," the doorman, Nigel, smiled at him.
"Good morning, Nigel. How are you?"
"Fine, sir, thank you. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"No, thank you Nigel, I'm going to try to get in a few more winks."
"Fair enough. Have a lovely day."
"Thank you, you too."
Blaine smiled to himself as he stepped into the elevator. Nigel was his favorite doorman, extremely polite, to the point, and tactful enough not to inquire about his evening activities. It was one of those things that simply made people more likeable, politeness. He wished he had more of it. He took out his keys and opened the door to apartment 614. Home sweet home, he thought with a bittersweet feeling. His apartment, although to most people something similar to a haven, was not his favorite place. He spent little time in it, mostly because the longer he was there, the more likely it was that he would stumble upon something that would force him to remember. That was the very last thing that he wanted. He walked across his living room to the kitchen, where picked up off the very messy counter a bottle of Tylenol. He got himself a nice glass of water and swallowed a couple of pills. He knew that if he wanted to be at all presentable, he'd need at least another two hours of sleep. He dragged his feet to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed, well-prepared for a dreamless nap.
