A/N: When I publish Chapter 6 of "On the Border" (which I plan to do sometime next week), I will go into more detail as to why I've left everyone hanging for several months. Let it suffice for now to say that I'm back, and I'm sorry for not keeping y'all updated. I do not ever plan on it happening again.
This is a new story, and I'm very excited about it. I'm pretty sure it will be a two-shot, but we'll see. It is Glee, and it is Blam/Slaine, so I hope I'm living up to my pen name as the Man of Many Pairings. Please enjoy, and if you did, please make sure to favorite and review. It helps me out a lot, and I love hearing any kind of feedback! Special thanks to my beta, Twice Charmed One, for the extremely kind words of encouragement. 3
WARNING: Contains some harsh language and innuendo. Homosexual romance, with a potential for sex in later chapters. Hatin' is bad. I don't own Glee (as much as I'd love to have exclusive privileges to Darren Criss and all his glory)...
Chapter 1
CRASH!
Blaine closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Relax. It's just a little rain. It's not going to kill you. At least, he didn't think so. But how did he know? Weather was so unpredictable. Besides, that didn't mean it was any less terrifying. He could sit there and tell himself anything he wanted to, but the thunder was still way too loud and the rain was still way too wet and the sky was still way too dark. He shook his head and tried to continue his novel. The subtle warmth emanating from the antique floor lamp was somewhat comforting, but he still felt uneasy. He tucked his feet under himself and tried to imagine himself as one with the cozy leather armchair in which he found himself situated. The rich, dim lamp light cast a soft glow on the living room furniture (he rolled his eyes when he thought of how his mother insisted they call it the sitting room... sometimes he marveled at how pompous and arrogant his parents could be), but while it accentuated the beautiful hardwood floor quite nicely, the geometric shadows it cast on the wall gave Blaine a serious case of goosebumps on his forearms. The heater kicked itself on, immediately beginning to circulate warm air throughout the spacious room and causing the nape of his neck to tingle. He shivered, thinking of how it would feel to be outside in such deplorable conditions. The prospect was alarming.
Trying his best to ignore his anxiety, he again reassured himself that there was nothing to fear, and turned his gaze back to the book he'd been reading. He still smiled when he saw the cover. It was titled Don't Hate the Player: Hate the Game, and it was a doozy. Tina and Artie had originally discovered it when they were browsing through the old crappy paperback urban romance section at Half-Price Books, skimmed through it, gave in to the unavoidable urge to actually buy it, and eventually decided to give it to him as a dare, absolutely certain that he couldn't possibly read it cover-to-cover. Naturally, he wasn't about to dismiss such a hilarious challenge. He'd started on it last weekend, and the venture had indeed proven itself daunting so far. For starters, it was obscenely long for a romance novel at around 350 pages, with rather small print to boot. To make things worse, every last one of those pages was filled with very poorly written smut about this group of four women and their adventures as they tried to earn "street cred" in "da hood" by hooking up with any gang member who "wanted it", however they wanted it, whenever they wanted it, wherever they wanted it. Everyone's name was preposterous and probably even racist (Ebony, J-Dawg, and Chocolat, for example), and their native tongue was ebonics. The mere exchanges of small talk between the characters were almost totally unintelligible. It made the cultured, suave Blaine want to reach into the text and smack every single one of them over the head with an unabridged Oxford dictionary. But he was definitely no quitter, so he trudged on. Now, at six days and almost 200 pages in, he wondered if this dare was worth the loss of his literary soul. He figured it would be even worse if he stopped before finishing the abomination; he'd traveled this far through hell, he might as well high-five Satan on his way into the lake of fire. He flipped to the place where he'd left off, marked with an outrageously gay vintage Madonna bookmark that someone had had the gall to abandon in the school library (hey, he figured that this way he'd never misplace the book if he lost it: if he left it in the choir room, whoever found it would have to know who lost it, and he was not about to write his name in the cover of this piece of trash) and dove back into the world of the book. Back to inner city Detroit, where Ebony was about to show J-Dawg just how much of a hoe-mama she really was. (I could have lived a full life without ever knowing what a "hoe-mama" was, but no, Tina and Artie had to give me this book so I could become enlightened in the ways of hoe-mama subculture. Ugh...) He was making decent progress, when–
CRASH!
He jumped right out of his chair, his reading glasses falling off his face. Jesus, that one was close! The curtains had been drawn; he thought about peeking out from behind them to see how dangerous it looked outside, then thought better of it. The window might explode and kill him like that dumbass girl in Twister. So much for an uneventful Friday night home alone. He closed his book and threw it haphazardly onto the coffee table. Then he shoved his feet into his house slippers and stood up; the well-worn rubber soles made a soft padding noise as he half-walked, half-trotted down the hall across the house to the kitchen, where he'd left his cell phone. He'd been charging it up, using the outlet ordinarily reserved for the coffee maker on the counter. Wary of the significant rainfall that was now plainly visible through the broad kitchen windows, he snatched it up and turned it on. The phone's digital clock read 11:46 PM. Shit, it was even later than he'd thought. Was it even worth trying to call him? He might be asleep. Maybe it would be best to just le–
CRAAASH!
The house shook slightly during this clap (by far the largest yet), with a small rattle to be heard from the dining room china cabinet. Blaine gripped the edges of the countertop so tightly his knuckles turned white. Screw it, I need to hear his voice. He pressed the speed dial button, held it to his ear, and waited. His fingers strummed out a tap tap tap tap tap on the granite surface in a nervous tic. The wind had picked up, and now he had to deal with the scratching of branches against the sides and roof of his home along with the intimidating thunder and lightning display. Fat rain droplets dove toward the windowpanes in a kamikaze death sprint and burst with a loud, unsettling splat noise, convincing Blaine to take his conversation into the windowless hallway. He counted one ring, two rings, and surprisingly he was connected. The voice on other end of the line breathed a light sigh.
Other End: *muffled noise of rustling sheets* Mmmf... Hello?
Blaine: Thank God you picked up.
OE: Oh hey, Blaine. What's up? You know, it's pretty late...
B: Oh, nothing much... Ju– just wanted to know how you were doing... How are you?
OE: Um, I'm fine... I was just falling asleep when you called, but I'm fine. How are you?
B: *nervous laughter* I'm– you know– I was just reading, and I– Well, I guess I'm–
OE: Something's bothering you, I can tell. What is it, babe?
B: Well...*sigh* It's this stupid thunderstorm. I kind of have a phobia, and it's got me on edge. Remember I told you my parents are out of town on that fundraiser cruise?... I just don't like being here in this huge house by myself, you know? It's not a huge deal, I just wan– *thunder crashes loudly, Blaine reacts with a shout* DAMN it, that was close!
OE: ...
B: ...
OE: ...
B: Are you there?
OE: Sit tight, I'm coming over.
B: ... Li– like hell you are, it's The Day After Tomorrow out there! Besides, you don't have to do that. I'll be fi– fine, re– really.
OE: No, you won't. I can't even see you, and you honestly sound scared shitless. I can't stand thinking of you by yourself, knowing I could be there with you, making sure you're okay. I'll be there in five minutes.
B: But... Won't your parents be upset?
OE: Blaine, I'm eighteen. They'll forgive me. It's not a school night. They've already gone to sleep. They don't work on Saturday, just errands and stuff, so Mom doesn't get up till around ten o'clock. If I don't make it home by then, they'll just assume I left early to work out. Trust me, it'll be fine.
B: But–
OE: Too late, I'm putting on my jacket. I'll drive slowly. See you soon.
B: But–
OE: Love you! *call disconnected*
Blaine glared at the phone's touchscreen. He did not just hang up on me. Ooh, if he gets here alive, that boy is in big trouble. He considered calling him back and trying to use angry threats, in the hopes of keeping him out of the elements and off the road; he knew it was pointless– if he wanted to come over, there would be no stopping him. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts of the torrential downpour outside, Blaine might have been excited that he and his boyfriend would have the whole house to themselves for the entire evening. But another resounding
CRAAAASH!
reminded him of the danger close at hand and wrecked any deliciously suggestive trains of thought he might have been entertaining. Now he had to choose where to wait for his arrival. The ideal spot would be the living room, where he could look out from behind the thick curtains and spot him coming up the driveway. But Blaine could not so foolishly risk his life by standing that close to a pane of material that could so easily slay you with one lucky gust of tornado-force wind (he looked it up; they were called microbursts, and they happened all the time, but if people simply educated themselves about the evil forces of nature, they wouldn't become unfortunate casualties in the war against weather). That left the atrium and the formal dining room; he swiftly chose the former, as it had only one small window on the front door and was far safer in the event of a catastrophic windstorm. He scurried to his destination posthaste, pausing only to glance at himself in the hall mirror. He appeared just fine for lounging about the house: his usually immaculate hair was slightly untamed, frazzled due to nerves; the only clothes he had on were his loose Batman and Robin pajama bottoms and his house shoes. He didn't have the courage to traverse the stairs to retrieve a t-shirt (there was a skylight right above it, like the idiot architect had purposefully designed it as a convoluted death trap), so he settled for flattening his hair to make it look as presentable as possible. His well-kept physique was satisfactory; it wasn't perfect, but it was great considering that he had done little to no physical exercise this weekend. It would have to do; these were troubled times they were living in, after all, what with the meteorological apocalypse going down right outside.
He gave himself a final once-over and, resigned to brave ordinariness under extreme circumstance, marched to the entryway, where he took a seat on the bottom stair and patiently watched the front door. If the living room hadn't been ruled a danger zone, he would have snuck back there and turned on the weather channel. However, the threat was too high; he settled for a radar forecast on his phone using the outrageously detailed, updated-to-the-second weather app he'd bought a while back just for emergencies such as this. He noted that the inclement weather was projected to persist through the entire weekend, and showed his disapproval and worry with an audible groan of disgust. He set his cell on the bannister of the needlessly lavish grand staircase and rested his chin in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. He felt his mind drifting off, but he couldn't help it. He began to dream of what it would be like to live somewhere dry, arid, and, most importantly, devoid of thunderstorms. Phoenix, maybe? Yeah, he could easily learn to love Arizona: dragging his boyfriend on long hikes around the Grand Canyon, living in an upscale adobe home with neighbors just as hipster and outgoing as they were, taking a friendly stroll down the white gravel paths with their adorable Yorkie named Trixie, waving at the local sun-tanned kids as they passed on their bikes, all under a bright sunny sky... cloudless and blue...
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
He woke with a start. How long had he been asleep? He shot to his feet, absentmindedly rubbing his bare stomach as he hastily undid the latch and opened the front door without bothering to check the peephole, confident as to who was waiting on the other side and anxious to get that person indoors before the wrath of nature swallowed them both whole.
Sam's bright ocean-blue eyes stared at him intently through a damp shade of blonde hair that hung down, dripping wet on his forehead and over his eyebrows. Blaine fought the temptation to brush it out of the way. "THANK GOD you're alive! Quick, get inside!" He grabbed Sam and pulled him across the threshold violently, practically yanking Sam's shoulder out of socket in the process.
"Ow! Geeze Blaine, it's alright! We're not going to get sucked into the abyss off the front porch. I made it here, didn't I?"
Blaine slammed the door shut, locking the handle lock, the chain lock, and the bolt lock. Flashing a dubious look at the multiple safety features, he snatched a small chair that stood next to the coat rack and propped that up against the front door. He backed up a step, taking a momen to admire his added security measure. Then he turned to Sam, crossing his arms and sighing with a defensive huff. "You never know! Weather is unpredictable. Haven't you ever heard of microbursts?" His tone was sassy to the point of sarcasm, and he turned his head toward the opposite wall.
Sam couldn't help but crack a smile at how cute his boyfriend got when he was angry; he tended to pout his lower lip slightly and avoid eye contact. He walked right up to him and wrapped him up in a damp, tight embrace, planting a soft kiss on the tender spot on the side of Blaine's neck that drove him mad. It worked like a charm; Blaine dropped the act after a few weak attempts to push away and a handful of pathetic sing-song interjections of "stop". He melted into Sam's perpetually heated skin, moaning involuntarily when Sam worked his tongue around various points on his neck. Finally, Sam chuckled into Blaine's adam's-apple and pulled away, his strong arms encircling Blaine's waist. He leaned in until their foreheads were touching. "You're safe now, because we're together."
Blaine rolled his eyes but smiled appreciatively. His mind had completely dropped any worry related to the frightful storm cell that was currently hovering over the Lima metropolitan area. Instead, he let Sam's warmth jump from his skin to Sam's skin and back again, the fuzzy feelings bouncing and rebounding everywhere, until the whole room was seemingly a cocoon of positivity and contentment. "Who's the sappy, romantic one in this relationship again? I thought it was me..." He nuzzled their foreheads together, to emphasize his point.
Sam closed the gap impatiently, his lips moving fiercely against Blaine's; their passion sent a shiver down his spine. He growled in pleasure (and, admittedly, some secret relief) as he felt Blaine release his anxiety and reciprocate by grinding his hips against Sam and bring his hand up to Sam's shoulder. The blonde wasn't going to give in that easily, however. He figured they had all night for that. "Wow, you got over your fear quicker than I thought. Should I call the shrinks and tell them that making out is the cure for the fear of thunder?"
Blaine snickered, even though the joke was extremely lame. Sam's goofiness was so endearing that sometimes he just had to laugh at it. "Trust me, I'm still very much on edge. I'm just grateful you're here." He took Sam by the hand. "C'mon, you're dripping wet. I'll show you around, and then we can find you some dry clothes."
Sam's heart skipped a small beat when he realized that he'd never actually been inside the Andersen home. He knew where it was because he'd picked Blaine up several times before on their way to one place or another, but Blaine had never invited him in. There had never been a reason to; they'd always had other places to go. With just one quick look around, Sam could guess why: the house was a palace. Blaine always had something negative to say about his parents' superiority complex and how their favorite pastime was discovering new ways to burn money they'd inherited from Mr. Andersen's late father, who had been an influential executive with the American Motor Company and had wisely retired before it went south. The entire place was adorned with antique paintings, decoration, carpeting, woodwork, masonry, and everything in between; all of it was the real thing, and none of it was remotely cheap. Everything was en vogue, of course, and it wasn't necessarily tacky in appearance, but the sheer amount of luxury was tawdry enough to make Sam sick to his stomach. His family could never even dream of acquiring such wealth, and it felt surreal to be surrounded by riches that a different family viewed as merely expendable. As the couple made their way down the massive hallway, Sam felt that familiar feeling of love deep in his heart for Blaine Andersen: Blaine, the man who, in his misplaced guilt and selfless compassion for Sam and his home condition, had never revealed this side of his life to make sure Sam was never uncomfortable. Goddamn it, I love him so much.
XXXX
They had begun dating almost four months ago, in February. The glee club had recently been ripped apart by Finn's disastrous fallout with Mr. Schuester. Since then, everyone had been somewhat separated by the various relationship issues going on in their midst: the stupid sophomores were caught up in a ridiculous love triangle; Kitty was thrown in with Puck, who was giving Jake the worst dating advice ever, thus hurting Marley's feelings; Tina was still harboring a scary obsession for Blaine (the problem with that was obvious); and who knew what the hell the rest of the club did with their love lives. Walking into the choir room every day felt like walking onto the set of Jerry Springer.
Sam, meanwhile, had realized that Britney was not being honest with him. After minimal prodding, she confessed that she had secretly revived her relationship with Santana, knowing in her heart that they really loved each other. Looking back, he knew that it would have ended like that regardless of what he'd done... which was probably why their breakup hadn't really bothered him, at least not as bad as he thought it might. Still, it hurt to be single again, when everyone else had at least someone to hold onto. He'd felt adrift, floating away without a life preserver. Over time, Blaine had turned into that buoy of salvation: they got along so well that their friendship quickly became the central focus in his life. Even though they'd only been good friends for a short time, Sam eased into it like they'd known each other their whole lives. They got coffee together, saw movies, chilled out in the auditorium during free periods with Sam's guitar and Blaine's piano, sung duets, and generally begun the healing process for the rest of the glee kids by reminding them all of their mutual love for music.
Then, things shifted yet again: during an assignment in which they had to confess and perform their "guilty pleasures" (that is, bands that everyone loves but is ashamed to admit it), Sam unknowingly pushed Blaine over the brink. That Monday, Blaine had been on the verge of telling him something important during a conversation in the library, when Tina had walked in and joined them. Sam noticed that Blaine had quickly diverted the conversation, a bit too quickly to avoid suspicion. He knew that something was fishy, so he grew determined to find out what was eating his best friend. They performed Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, as well as the absolutely mortifying expression of Sam's inner "Fanilow", Copacabana, and yet they still hadn't continued their heart-to-heart.
Thursday rolled along, and Sam was at his wit's end. He could tell that Blaine still hadn't divulged what was truly on his mind, and it worried him to think of what was so serious that it couldn't even be shared between them. That afternoon, with the gears in his head still jammed in confusion, the whole club gathered in the auditorium for a last-minute performance called by Blaine. They took their seats and waited for the music to start. The piano began to play, a soft chord progression that soothed the ear. Blaine soon mixed his own voice in with the mellow instrumentals, and everyone in the audience was shocked to hear it cracked and raw, as if a cry ripped through his throat, reaching for each strangled note, his strength drained by tears. The ballad continued at a painfully deliberate pace, and the melody was soon recognized as that of a Phil Collins number called Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now). Blaine continued to bang his fingers mercilessly on the ivories and squeeze his aching voice for everything it was worth. Then he turned his head to face the crowd for the first time. The tears were visible, and Blaine locked his gaze directly and unwaveringly at Sam. Everyone else turned to look at his reaction... were they all in on something he wasn't? Was he missing something?
... then realization hit him like a subway car. Oh fucking hell he's singing about me. If he thought Blaine wouldn't see, he would have smacked his forehead in shame and self-loathing. Of course he was singing to Sam. It made perfect sense; Blaine was still not entirely over his messy end with Kurt, and the only eligible single man who'd even partially qualify to fill those shoes was none other than himself. But he wasn't simply acting out of desperation; he could picture all the genuine moments of happiness he'd experienced with Blaine in his mind's eye. No, Sam could tell it wasn't just loneliness that motivated Blaine; it was honest-to-goodness love about which he was now all but shouting at them. He sat through the rest of the song, simultaneously soaking up Blaine's true feelings for him and trying to figure out a plan to...
To what? Let him down gently? You know you can't do that. To end it? Let's think about this for a sec...
Do you even want to end it? And what is "it", really?
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he'd been deceiving himself this whole time. He was falling in love with Blaine, and not just in a "best friends" way. Life without him was hard to even think about now, and he could sense the tight knot of emotion that made serpentine loops in the pit of his stomach, something he only felt when he was with family. He'd had it for a brief time with Quinn, but that was long gone. It was romantic, passionate love, and he wanted to jump feet-first into it and soak himself in it.
The song itself ended, but that was when everything else began.
He had wordlessly led Blaine to the bleachers on the deserted football field. They walked to the very top row and sat down, gazing out at the gridiron below and the school building beyond. Sam looked over at Blaine, who stared back with his deep hazel eyes. "So..." Blaine was obviously struggling to find words. "... I had to tell the truth about how I feel, or else I was going to explode. I hope you're not mad at me."
Sam closed the gap between them as fast as he could, ferociously attacking Blaine's lips with his own. He pulled away just long enough to say, "Do I seem mad to you?" He cut off Blaine's excited laugh with another fierce kiss, and this time the response was energetic.
XXXX
So too, was the response he received now as they stood in the hallway, with his boyfriend pinned to a very firm wall, between a very old-looking painting and a closed door, as his tongue traced an agonizingly slow path from Blaine's collarbone to his earlobe. He could feel the excitement in the air as it emanated from Blaine's atmosphere, relayed through little things like a soft hitch of breath and a flutter of beautiful eyelashes. It turned him on more than anything to see Blaine come apart before his very eyes: to see his very own levelheaded, composed glee club boy drop his mask and let Sam see his true self. Such a display of unguarded susceptibility was for Sam a sign of trust, not to mention sexy as hell. It made his earlier thoughts on saving this for later seem like utter bat-shit insanity.
Finally, Blaine pushed back enough to make Sam relent. He raised his eyebrows pleadingly and shot his best puppy-dog look at Blaine, who shook his head. "You are one horny bastard. I don't know how I'm supposed to show you around if you keep jumping me like that."
Sam grinned sheepishly. "What can I say, it's my job to be your personal horny bastard. Just doin' my job, sir." His impression of a gentlemanly traffic cop was horrendous, complete with a tip of an imaginary cap.
Blaine closed his eyes and sighed in mock disappointment. "Officer Evans, if you don't cease and desist I will sue you for sexual harassment." He tried to make his threat as serious as possible, but he couldn't keep a straight face, and they both laughed.
After a solemn promise by Sam to put aside all sexual interaction until the end of the tour, things fell into a comfortable silence as they continued hand-in-hand through the large residence. With the rain continuing to release its mighty fury on the streets of Lima, Blaine showed Sam every room in the house, starting with the "sitting room", breezing by the den, the two half bathrooms, the kitchen, the dining room, and ending back at the front atrium. Then, with Blaine conspicuously jumping aside and over the two steps directly under the skylight, they alighted the staircase and continued on the second floor.
It was a smaller floor, consisting of a single long hallway with a myriad of closed doors. The light was off, and it gave both of them chills to stand in a completely dark space that seemed to maw at them, an immense cavern of pitch black nothingness.
"One second, let me find the switch." Sam could hear Blaine's right hand (the one that wasn't clasped firmly in his own right hand) smack against the wall, trying to orient itself in position, finally making a unique sound as it hit the light switch. Sam heard the loud click! as the switch was flipped and...
Nothing. A few more clicks! of the switch, closer together and more panicked in nature. Finally Blaine muttered urgently, "Sam, I think the power is out."
Sam smirked (he knew Blaine couldn't see him). "By Jove, I think you're right, Watson, ol' chap!" The Sherlock Holmes impression never failed.
"Holmes, you are not helping." Blaine whispered fiercely.
Damn it. "Sorry. Hold on, let me get my cell phone. It's got a flashlight app. We can find our way to your room with that."
Sure enough, he whipped out his phone, and within moments there was light. Blaine led the way, taking a left down the hall until he reached the very last door on the end. With a turn of the knob, they entered Blaine's sanctuary, and Sam was immediately struck by the nature of the space, how very... well, how very Blaine it was.
There were no ornate paintings, no fresco on the ceiling, no glass French doors leading to an elaborate upper balcony. Just a beautifully simple room with modernistic furniture, plenty of bookshelves, and a large window alcove complete with a cushioned sill for reading. By far, the fanciest thing about the room was a large writer's desk with a state-of-the-art computer. The walls were solid white, so the cellphone flashlight reflected easily; that and the occasional lightning flash were enough to get a good glimpse of the whole space. "I love it!"
Blaine furrowed his brows. "It's no big deal."
"That's why I love it, it's so you. You don't like to draw too much attention, but you can't help it because you're genuine."
Blaine gave a small smile as he paced over to his bureau. He dug out a simple shirt and some pajama bottoms that were both too big for him. He prayed it'd be enough for Sam, who was at least two inches taller than he was and definitely more filled out. "Try these. They may be too small." He tossed them to Sam, who in turn set the clean clothes on the bed (which he smugly noted was rather large for one person) and began to rid himself of his drenched ones: his t-shirt, tennis shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers soon lay in a pile next to his feet.
"Uh... Blaine?"
Blaine, who was grateful for the darkness that hid his blush, stood facing the wall in front of him, wanting to give Sam at least some element of privacy. "Yes?"
"You forgot underwear."
"Oh. Right." Well this was embarrassing. He slowly looked down at his bureau and methodically pulled open the drawer that contained his socks and boxer briefs. If there was anything more terrifying than sitting home alone in fear of a thunderstorm, it was picking out a pair of underwear for his boyfriend, who stood right behind him completely naked and very wet. It became some sort of exasperating game: he didn't want to pick a pair that was too outlandish or else Sam would look silly; at the same time, it would be obvious if he picked a pair that was way too conservative or plain. After scanning the contents of the drawer for several beats too long, he hesitantly chose some navy blue boxer briefs that may be a bit snug but would not be too tight. "Here you go."
He tossed them over his shoulder without turning around, which made Sam chuckle. He knew that they hadn't reached the point in their relationship where they'd actually... done anything yet, but they'd gotten pretty close. It was the unspoken reason why Blaine had been opposed at first to Sam's spending the night, but Sam felt like they were ready for this, so he in turn had insisted on it. The whole time, there was this tension underneath Sam's physical affection, under Blaine's timidity, under their back-and-forth jitters. "There's nothing to be afraid of, babe. I don't mind if you look..."
Blaine responded quickly. "I'm alright over here."
Sam shrugged his shoulders and continued dressing. He slid into the briefs; they were in fact quite snug, and hugged his muscled features nicely. "Okay, I'm decent now." Blaine hurriedly returned to the side of the bed and scooped up the pile of wet garments, tossing them into the hamper in the corner. He couldn't stop staring at the very flattering way the navy color contrasted Sam's pale skin.
Sam then tried on the t-shirt, it was actually a little baggy; he didn't usually wear a shirt to bed, but if it would take some anxiety off Blaine's shoulders, he'd sleep in a tuxedo if he had to. When he tried the pajama pants, however, they simply would not fit. He decided to forego them altogether. "I think I'm all set."
Blaine sat down on the foot of his bed. "So... what do you want to do? I could stay up all night if I wanted to..." But the huge yawn at the end of his sentence gave away his exhaustion. His eyes darted nervously to the window, where raindrops were continuing to make loud smacking noises in an endless barrage of water. Even in the dim light from his phone, Sam noticed the dark circles around Blaine's eyes, and it worried him. He'd never seen Blaine in such a state; apparently even his presence wasn't enough to drive away all of Blaine's fear. He made a mental note to ask Blaine why he was so scared of thunderstorms, but now was not the time. He needed to wait, and let Blaine get some rest first.
"It's nearly one o'clock. Let's just get some sleep. Maybe when we wake up the storm will be over." After Blaine nodded in agreement, Sam grabbed the edge of the duvet and folded it back. He slipped under the covers, took a moment to get comfortable, and motioned Blaine to join him by patting the empty space next to him. Slowly, Blaine stood up, slipped out of his house shoes, padded over to his dresser, grabbed an old t-shirt, slipped it on, and turned around to walk back over to bed. Just then, another huge
CRAAAASH, CRAASH!
shook the Anderson home, causing the windows to rattle and the hardwood floors to creak. Blaine started violently and, taking two huge steps, dove onto the bed as if he were evading enemy fire from an airstrike. He scrambled on hands and knees toward the headboard and practically threw himself under the sheets. When he was finally on his back with a pillow behind his head, he exhaled the deep breath he'd been holding, panting on the verge of hyperventilation. He turned his head to look at Sam, and almost jumped again when he saw that Sam was looking right back at him, eyes filled with concern. He closed his eyes and allowed Sam to close the gap, too drained to even move.
A few stray tears escaped down the side of his face, but Sam kissed them away. His hands moved gently, almost delicately, as they caressed Blaine's face and moved through his hair. He kissed his forehead, the underside of his jaw, the bone just above the collar of his shirt, and anywhere else he found exposed skin. There was a part of him, a voice in the corner of his mind, that was whispering relentlessly. This is the time! He's willing and vulnerable! Let's get him to say "yes" so we can have some fun! Sammy boy, you're gettin' some tonight! I know you've been wanting to make this guy scream your name... what are you waiting for?! He's practically begging to be fucked senseless! C'mon, you know it'll be the best sex ever! Once he recognized what it was saying, he stopped himself cold. He did want this, God knows he did. And he had a feeling Blaine was ready for this, too. But he didn't think it would be like this. It felt so... wrong, in a way. He cautiously resumed his open-mouthed kisses on Blaine's neck while thinking it through some more. If it weren't for the storms, would Blaine still have said yes to this? The answer, Sam suspected, was probably not. He pushed further: if he were to give in to his desires now, knowing that he had probably used Blaine's emotions to his advantage, would he be able to live with himself afterward? That one was a lot easier: definitely not.
With all this in mind, he stiffened his resolve and reminded himself that he was only here to comfort Blaine, not to satisfy his own sexual urges. Feeling a little better about his actions, he finally backed off, allowing Blaine to turn on his other side so that he faced away from Sam. He wrapped him in his arms again, allowing his best friend to lean back into his chest, his head nuzzling into a crook in Sam's shoulder. As he closed his own eyes and felt himself drifting off to sleep, Sam mumbled, "Good night, babe."
Blaine's voice was quiet and peaceful. "Good night, Sam."