disclaimer: without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
warnings: mention of bullying and homophobia
characters/pairings: Sebastian/Blaine (friendship-ish), Sebastian/Adam (implied), Blaine/Sam (pre-slash)
author's notes: written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: age difference. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS, but the central idea was taken from In the Land of Women, so do with that what you will ...
Maybe, We'll See;;
He catches the cab's attention right outside the airport. The driver snatches his two bags from his hands and deposits them in the trunk without asking, making as little conversation as possible once they're both inside the car. Not that he minds, small talk has never been his thing, least of all with cabbies.
Soon the cab drives down a lane flanked by tall trees on either side, houses with meticulously maintained lawns rolling past behind the window, single-family homes on separate plots of land blotted all along the pavement.
Westerville, Ohio.
That's where he decided to exile himself for the next two weeks.
It wasn't without purpose, he'd been meaning to trade in his New York loft for something with a different pace, but it wasn't until his college buddies Nick and Jeff gave him a call that the perfect opportunity presented itself. They'd gotten married this weekend and left for their honeymoon straight after, which had left him to wonder who would take care of their cottage in suburbia.
Nick had assured him one of the neighbors would walk the dog, but as he stood staring out over the breathtaking vista of one of his favorite cities in the world and realized he'd gotten utterly bored with its usual charm, he suggested housesitting for them. It's the least he could do after missing their wedding.
So not a day later he found himself on a flight from Paris to New York, with a connecting flight to the middle of nowhere.
But maybe that's what he needed for a while.
The cab pulls up to a cottage he only recognizes because Jeff had incessantly updated his Facebook when the place was under construction, and he resists the urge to grab for a cigarette the moment he steps out of the cab–Nick and Jeff were proud of the home they made together, the care that went into it visible in its equally cared for lawn, rose bushes underneath the window sills in full bloom, a welcome mat in front of the doorstep.
He tosses the driver some money and retrieves his bags, tugging a cigarette behind his ear. Just in case. Suburbia wasn't exactly his game either, but he'd made a commitment, one that would start by retrieving the key to Nick and Jeff's cottage from the neighbors across the street. The Andersons.
He leaves his suitcases by the door, confident they're safe there for a few minutes, but keeps his carry-on with his equipment close as he crosses the street towards an impressive two-story colonial–the house is painted white and grey, the green lawn interrupted by carefully groomed flower beds, a Mazda Hatchback out on the driveway in front of the garage. A few steps lead up to the front door.
He rings the doorbell, fully prepared to be faced with a prim housewife, an apron tied around her waist, a smile from here to Timbuktu, but that's an opinion he has to revise when he hears a male voice calling, "Coming!" somewhere inside the house, the door opening a few seconds later.
The boy smiling up at him can't be more than fifteen years old, a boyish smile pulling around his lips as he hastily pats down a coif that probably couldn't move if there was a storm out because of all the gel worked into it, and a smudge of flower painted across his jawline.
"Hi," he says, momentarily stunned by this fresh picture of youth. "Are your parents home?"
The boy eyes him suspiciously. "No, they're not."
"Did Nick and Jeff leave a key here?"
"Oh!" the boy's eyes go wide. "Of course. Come on in, I'll go get it."
The boy scampers into the house and he follows behind slowly, carefully inspecting the clean and crisp living room to his left, bathed in light blues with pictures framing a happy family. A staircase leads upstairs to his right, the kitchen directly out in front through a short and dark hallway. When he enters the kitchen the boy stands rummaging through a drawer below the sink, and he takes notice that a heavy-duty wrist brace adorns the boy's right arm.
The kitchen smells of freshly baked goods, almond and vanilla, some pots still drying on the dish rack, and he'd wonder if he just missed Mrs Anderson if he hadn't picked up on another dab of flower smeared into the Anderson boy's hair at the back of his head.
"So you're a college friend of Nick's?" the boy asks, unearthing the wrong set of keys because he discards them and keeps digging through the drawer.
"Jeff too." He nods. "We were all roommates."
"I don't remember seeing you at the wedding."
"I couldn't make it," he says. "I was in Paris."
"Paris?" The boy blinks up in wonder. "What did you do there?"
Plenty of asses and not enough work, he's tempted to answer, but his words lose their usual splendor when he sees the sheer enchantment in the boy's bright hazel eyes, a magic he once felt himself when he first visited Paris with his parents. "I was there for work," he answers. "I'm a photographer."
The boy smiles, clearly still enamored.
"I'm Sebastian."
"Blaine."
"What happened to your arm, Blaine?" he asks, hoping to steer the conversation into a new direction–he doesn't need to be reminded why he's here, and he'd really like that key so he can get settled and maybe walk the dog before it's too dark to find his way around.
"Oh." Blaine's face falls as he stares down at his arm. "It's a sprain, I didn't break it."
He's not sure what nerve he touched, but it's clear that he has, because Blaine turns all his attention to the drawer until he finally finds the right key. "Here you go."
His fingers curl around the key. "Thanks."
Blaine walks him back to the front door, and maybe he's being polite, or maybe it acts as some sort of apology, but Blaine stops him right outside the door. "If you ever need help with Jesy, or anything," he says, "I'm around a lot."
"Noted." He nods. "It was nice to meet you, Blaine."
He makes his way back across the street and inside his home for the next two weeks, opening the curtains and a few windows to let some air in. Nick told him he could use the master bedroom if he wanted, but he deposits his bags in the downstairs guest room, reluctant to impede on his friends' private life, even though he'd seen his fill of that in college.
Jesy, the golden retriever, sits in her pen in the garden, one he quickly releases her from. "Hey, girl." He scratches the dog behind its ears and puts on her leash–he'd met Jesy once before when she was a puppy about a year ago, and Nick and Jeff weren't comfortable leaving her on her own just yet, so she'd ended up sleeping on his couch during their visit to New York.
His decision to housesit had been last minute, but it'd been brewing for close to a year. He'd been working nonstop for three years, scheduling shoots at his studio, Paris, and Milan, and while it was a lifestyle he'd been attracted to since he was a teenager, it'd become strikingly repetitive, the same places, the same poses, the same models.
He needed a change of scenery, a different pace, a new backdrop, a breath of fresh air, and most of all, he wanted to feel inspired again the way he had when he first started out. He's twenty-four, that's too young to throw in the towel on his passion and start a career option closer to the one his father had envisioned for him.
Maybe the suburbs weren't the answer, running away from his life without trying to actively change it back in New York, but it would do for now.
Dusk has slowly started setting in by the time he finishes walking Jesy, the lights from the Anderson house and driveway illuminating the street. There's a Porsche parked next to the Hatchback, and he's curious if it belongs to Mrs or Mr Anderson. Maybe he'll ask Blaine about it some time. He had offered his help, after all.
.
The next morning he's up late, his head hovering between too much sleep and not enough, his jet lag kicking in full swing. He ventures outside to get the newspaper–the Porsche is missing from the Anderson driveway but the Hatchback pulls up, Blaine getting out of the car a few moments later carrying some bags, and he strains to remember: shouldn't Blaine be in school by now?
Some strong coffee and a big breakfast later he's setting up his laptop in the dining room, hooking up his camera to go through some of his shots from Paris, though he's none too hopeful there'll be anything useful. Paris was a last-ditch effort to recapture some of the passion that had vibrated through his veins throughout college, during every extra photography class he took to not only follow his dream but to stick it to his father. But it wasn't there, not in the intricate windings of the architecture, not in the bodies of the models that came to his doorstep, not even in the amazing night out with some old acquaintances at some new prestigious club–he'd gotten a name and a phone number out of it, but he wouldn't be calling.
His perusing leads to few results; he ends up reorganizing his picture folders instead, getting rid of edits he doesn't need or want anymore, and by early afternoon the sound of his ringtone comes as the most welcome distraction. The caller ID informs him Nick's calling.
"Aren't you supposed to be getting laid right about now?"
"We forgot to tell you not to smoke inside the house," Nick blurts out, while he hears Jeff shouting 'tell him I said hi' somewhere in the background.
"Nick, I'm a globetrotter, not a hobo," he says. "I was raised with proper manners."
"So, you got there alright?" Nick asks, way past the pleasantries. "You meet Mrs Anderson?"
"I haven't seen the Andersons." He gets up and walks into the living room, which offers a clear view of the Anderson house. "I did meet their son."
"Oh, Blaine?" Nick says, and as if called, Blaine emerges from the house, rounds the lawn, and makes his way down the driveway. "Yeah, he's been giving Jeff piano lessons. And he walks Jesy when we're not around. He's a sweet kid."
"And he's on his way over," he says, once he notices Blaine crossing the street, a plate covered in saran wrap clutched between both hands.
"What?"
"Gotta go," he says, and ends the conversation. If Nick's really worried he's going to wreck the house, he'll call back, and he can't deny he's curious about Blaine–it's like Nick said, he seemed like a sweet kid, though it's a mystery why he's home alone on a school day (he checked) when he doesn't seem to be sick. Maybe it had something to do with his hand.
He waits patiently for Blaine to ring the bell before he opens the door and drawls, "Hello again, neighbor," as casual as he can manage.
"Hi." Blaine flashes him a smile, the kind that can easily leave a guy weak in the knees. "My uhm–my mom made you some cookies."
He looks down at the plate in Blaine's hand, stacked with two different kinds of cookies, and he bets they're almond and vanilla flavored–why would Blaine lie about who baked them? Then again, maybe he'd been wrong yesterday, maybe he had missed Mrs Anderson and Blaine simply helped her out.
"Tell her thanks," he says, at a complete loss for words–he grew up in a much richer neighborhood than this, and while his parents often entertained the neighbors during their lavish parties, there were never any welcome-to-the-neighborhood gifts involved.
Blaine lingers on the porch, glancing over his shoulder towards his house. "Actually, the cookies were an excuse to come over," he says. "I'm transferring schools, and I'll be home for about two weeks. So if you ever need me to take Jesy off your hands–"
And as if on cue, Jesy barks a few times from the backyard. He hasn't walked her yet, and he was getting pretty bored with the little work he got done on his computer–he might as well get to know one of his best friends' neighbors.
"How about we walk her together?"
Blaine freezes. "Excuse me?"
"It's a beautiful day, and I don't really know my way around," he says. "Maybe you could show me."
"Y-yeah," Blaine stutters, and waits in that exact same spot while he closes up the house and gets Jesy, foregoing her leash when Blaine says she doesn't need one.
There's an initial silence between him and Blaine, but Jesy keeps them occupied enough to stop it from becoming awkward, and he takes the time to size Blaine up. He strikes him as pretty shy, with the sort of silent confidence not many teenagers have, and a naivety about the world at large he finds himself longing for. Blaine looks like a young boy plucked straight out of celluloid, not a hair out of place, an expensive shawl-collared sweater and yellow chinos that stretch comfortably around his legs and ass. It's clear Blaine's the kind of boy who wants to make an impression when meeting people.
"So, Sebastian, what brings you to suburbia?" Blaine asks out of the blue, tired of the silence playing between them. "Westerville is the last place I'd be if I could go to Paris."
"I don't know." He shrugs, digging his hands into his pockets. "I guess I'm looking for some inspiration again."
"For your pictures?"
He nods.
Blaine chuckles. "I'm not sure you came to the right place."
"Where would you go?"
Blaine's caught off guard by the question, like he's unaccustomed to be asked for his opinion, but he answers with ease, "Rome or Paris. Florence, maybe," he says. "New York. I want to go there, for college."
"You can come visit me."
Wonder returns to Blaine's eyes and he envies Blaine for it. "You live in New York? What's it like?"
He was never the wide-eyed curious teenager Blaine is, but he'd give anything for that sense of a first look of the world again, the idea of living life large and affluent rather than the memory, hopes and dreams yet to be achieved, a new sense of discovery around every corner. But he's lost that, somewhere.
And he can only bring himself to shrug again. "Not that different from living anywhere else."
Blaine eyes him up and down. "Are you always this grumpy?"
He laughs despite himself. "I'm not, actually. Must be the jetlag. Or the lack of inspiration."
"You'll find it again."
"You're sure about that, huh?"
Blaine nods, and smiles, and he finds himself infected with that same hope, a smile crossing his lips as they make their way around another bend in the road, Jesy slightly off in the distance pawing at the grass.
They mostly talk about Blaine after that, about him transferring to Dalton Academy, an all-boys private school the likes of which he'd gone to, Blaine's eyes skipping down to his arm whenever he thinks he's not looking. Blaine never says it in so many words, but something happened at his old school to warrant this sudden change, to justify him staying home for two whole weeks while his transfer is finalized. He doesn't push, he sees no need to, and as long as Blaine doesn't feel like sharing it's none of his business.
The Porsche, he finds out, belongs to Blaine's dad, paid for through his work as some big shot corporate attorney, while his mom works as a nurse. They're both pretty busy during the week, which leaves Blaine home alone right now. Blaine mentions they have a swimming pool no one ever uses, so he should feel free to come over if he feels like it, after which Blaine turns away from him with a blush.
He likes this boy, how he can read him with such ease, how badly he's searching for company even if he doesn't realize it himself. Maybe Blaine's exactly the kind of friend he needs here.
"We should do this again," he catches himself suggesting after their walk leads them back home.
"I'd like that," Blaine says. "I'm tutoring tomorrow, though, so Friday?"
He nods. "Friday it is."
.
Thursday comes and goes with little for him to do. He watches Mr Anderson leave while he nurses a cup of coffee and some of the cookies Blaine made him, and Blaine waves off his mother half an hour later, his eyes lingering on the cottage, but he's fairly certain Blaine can't make him out through the curtains. A casual observer might accuse him of obsessing, or stalking, but he's always taken the time to watch people, learn to appreciate their innate grace where the rest of the world might ignore it.
Suburbia has its beauty, its fine calculated structure with a charm added by the people coloring it in between the carefully drawn lines. And as someone who's searching for that beauty again, it would be remiss of him to ignore it.
He makes sure to keep the bathroom and kitchen clean, goes through his friends' music collection, reminded why he and Jeff always got along better in that department, but Nick's taste in movies definitely outweighed Jeff's.
A little girl and her mother bike up to the Anderson house as he stands stretching for his run; he assumes Blaine's tutoring the girl, and he can't stop his own sense of wonder growing. He's not sure he's ever met anyone quite like Blaine Anderson before.
Returning from his half hour run his eyes catch on the pictures hanging from the hallway wall, Nick and Jeff in all the places they've visited together, friends and family, all smiling behind the glass. Nick and Jeff had been an item for as long as he can remember. They'd been a couple when they all became roommates and remained devoted to each other through three years of college and another three living on their own–he was never jealous of what they had, he dated guys all the same, and he figured one day he'd find one he clicked with, one that made sense, someone to love him, challenge him, ground him.
But he lacked any luck in love.
He saw Adam on a regular basis, he even kept some of his clothes at the loft, but neither of them would ever introduce the other as his boyfriend. They were always on the move, him for shoots, Adam for modeling gigs, and what they had together was enough. Sometimes, though, he wishes he had the courage to talk to Adam about something more.
That night, right after dinner and walking Jesy, he sits staring up at the stars on the terrace outside. Jesy lies curled up at his feet and he brings a cigarette to his lips every few seconds, the dulcet sounds of a piano playing the soundtrack to his bout of soul searching.
.
The next day he's at Blaine's door against his better judgment–he should probably stick with friends his own age rather than an impressionable fifteen-year-old who's quick to blush, but he'd already run through his morning routine, and he honestly doubted another opportunity for friendship would present itself the coming week and a half. He should make the most of the time he has.
"Sebastian," Blaine says as he opens the door, followed by that all too familiar smile. "Hi."
"You mentioned something about a swimming pool?"
"Yeah, of course. Come in." Blaine nods, and shows him to the kitchen again, a side door leading out onto the terrace, a large rectangular pool outstretched beyond it. The Andersons tended to the backyard the same way they did the front lawn, stretched green for another twenty yards behind the pool, roses and other flowers planted along the fences separating the grounds from the neighboring ones.
He drops his things in a lounge chair by the side of the pool, slipping out of his shirt and flip-flops. "Why don't you join me?" he calls over his shoulder, and he swears he can hear Blaine release a small squeak at the suggestion.
"Oh, no," Blaine stutters, his eyes conspicuously skipping over his chest once he's turned around. "I'm not supposed to use my hand too much."
"Alright." He dips a toe into the water, but it's warm enough; he dives in and swims to the other side in a single breath. Blaine has disappeared inside the house again when he comes up for air, probably back to whatever it was he was doing before he showed up.
He's on his fifth lap when he notices Blaine returned and sat down by the side of the pool, changed into shorts, his legs dangling in the water, and his heart aches at the sad look on Blaine's face–for a boy so chipper and polite, Blaine lets his mask slip around him more often than he thinks Blaine even realizes, and for some reason he's drawn to it. He wants to make Blaine smile, make him feel at ease around him and in his own skin, because he's too young to be this sad.
He swims over to Blaine and hoists himself out of the water, sitting some distance away so he doesn't get Blaine wet. "Blaine," he says, as cautious as possible, "How did you hurt your arm?"
Blaine sits staring at his hands for the longest time, while the wind sweeps through the trees and he lights a cigarette to busy himself while Blaine contemplates his answer.
"I was pushed," Blaine says at long last, his voice small and he's never heard anyone sound more vulnerable. "Some guys at school, they–" –he takes a deep breath– "It's why I'm transferring."
He casts down his eyes, trying to imagine a high school that cruel, but he was lucky, none of the private schools he attended tolerated bullying in any way and even though he'd been called a name or two in his time, he'd never been the recipient of anything truly damaging.
"I'm sorry."
"That's the worst it's ever gotten. I tripped and–" Blaine swallows hard, clearly hesitant to rehash it all again. "My parents pulled me out of school."
"Good."
Blaine turns his head. "Good?"
"I can't really speak from experience, but you can't grow complacent of that stuff."
Blaine purses his lips and stares out over the garden, gaze off in the distance. "I don't like the idea of running from my problems."
He takes a long drag from his cigarette, nodding, "Admirable conviction."
"Not one of yours?"
He laughs, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray Blaine had so conveniently provided. "I'm a big fan of avoiding problems altogether."
This earns him a small smile, shy and a tad sad, but he'll consider that his victory of the day.
They sit by the pool until the sun dries his skin and swim shorts.
Blaine makes them some sandwiches for lunch that they eat out on the terrace, and after hopping back home for a shower and a change of clothes, they walk Jesy together. They talk about the weather being unseasonably warm for this time of year, and about some of the classes Blaine plans on adding once he starts at Dalton, but nothing near as serious as what they discussed by the pool.
He can't say he's truly fathomed Blaine so far; he seems a slew of contradictions beneath the soft exterior of a teenage boy, a riddle wrapped up in an enigma or however the saying goes, and he wants to unearth what lies underneath.
.
On Sunday he's on the phone with the cable company when he opens the door to a brightly smiling Blaine. "Come in," he says, while a jingle plays over the line, going on about ten minutes now. "I'm on hold."
Blaine crosses the threshold and Jesy runs over immediately, tail wagging and appreciative of the way Blaine scratches behind her ears, before Blaine makes his way into the living room, waiting patiently.
Last night, as he was watching TV, the picture had cut out without apparent reason, and try as he might he couldn't get it back–he'd figured out it wasn't a problem with the television itself or any of the cables, so all that was left was wait for business hours to start and make a few calls.
"Is this yours?" Blaine asks, and he turns around to see Blaine pointing at his laptop, opened on the dining room table.
"Go ahead." He gestures. "I don't have anything to hide."
Blaine sits down behind the computer and uses the trackpad to open his Finder, the appropriate box popping up on his desktop displaying all the folders he spent his past few mornings creating. "You're very organized."
"Boredom brings out the obsessive-compulsive in me."
The jingle that had sounded over the line cuts out. "Hang on," he says, and listens carefully to the automated menu selection that should get him in touch with the right person–he loathes these automated menus, they never seem to get him anywhere and he ends up losing half an hour before he can even talk to anyone. But he toughs through, selects the appropriate numbers that connect him to the correct service, which puts him on hold before he can get a word in.
A new jingle plays over the line.
He sighs and leans back against the kitchen counter, his eyes catching on the silent boy sitting in his direct line of sight. Blaine's clearly perusing some of his picture folders, his eyes ravaging the screen every time his finger taps at the trackpad, revealing image after image, landscapes, fashion shoots, mood shots, some architecture, black & white photography–he's done it all.
But what he sees when Blaine finds his nudes is nothing short of mesmerizing: he blinks once with a slight shake of his head, he inches away from the screen for a few infinitesimal moments like his eyes have yet to register exactly what's going on in the picture, and then his lips part, his eyes widen, and he sits, stunned, in silence.
He hangs up.
"See anything you like, killer?" he asks, pulling up another chair that he sits on backwards, facing Blaine.
"I wasn't–" Blaine startles, but quickly recovers, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sorry. I guess this is normal for you."
"Nude photography does require a certain lack of inhibitions," he says. "But it's as awkward or comfortable as you make it."
Blaine scrolls down the folder again, all the nude pictures thumbnails on the screen. "Only men?"
"I tend to photograph things I'm interested in."
"So you're–" and it's so tempting to laugh at how carefully Blaine adds, "–gay?"
He nods, a smile pulling at a corner of his mouth. "Very much so."
Blaine smiles nervously, fidgety all of a sudden, and he's almost certain Blaine's about to offer up the same information about himself – there's no reason for him to hide it, after all – but Jesy barks, and she runs over with her leash clutched between her teeth. He guesses that's their cue to get out of the house.
He's not some predatory gay, he doesn't want to assume Blaine's gay because defining that as a few characteristics of a larger stereotype makes him no better than Blaine's bullies, but the way Blaine had appreciated the pictures, the way he'd specifically asked if he was gay, well, maybe it was safe to assume.
"So, do you have a boyfriend?" Blaine asks after they've enjoyed several minutes of silence at the start of their walk. Blaine's questions always come so sudden, though he gets the distinct impression they're well thought through, like he's been pondering how to phrase them since the thought occurred and only voices them when he's certain they'll be answered.
When Blaine asks questions like these he wants to answer them to the best of his capacity, offer him truth and sincerity where other people might sugar coat it for Blaine–he's seen it often enough, Blaine's the kind of boy people want to shield from the big bad world for fear reality might make him crumble, but who can handle a lot more than people give him credit for. And as tempting as it is for him to protect Blaine too, they're friends, and he won't lie.
"Not really. We hesitate using the term. We don't see each other often enough."
And if at all possible, Blaine's follow-up questions are even more astute. "He travels too?"
"More than I do."
He met Adam during New York Fashion Week a few years ago, not long after he'd started out in the business and he frequented the after parties to meet big names in fashion, slipping them his card where he could. Adam had caught his eye because he wouldn't stop staring at him, and it was clear the handsome Brit expected him to make the first move. So he'd bought him a drink, chatted him up for a good while and they'd exchanged phone numbers to meet up later.
He never expected much to come out of it, Adam could've easily tried to book a gig same as him, but three dates later he'd had Adam in his bed twice already, and he didn't want it to end. They saw each other when they could, Adam travelled from runway to runway, as did he from one booking to the next, but in their time together he shot Adam too. Adam insisted that whatever pictures they made when they were alone were for his eyes only; he stored them on a separate memory card he kept inside the nightstand.
There was no doubt in his mind that he had feelings for Adam, they had fun, whether it was curled up together in front of the television with some take-out or winding each other up in bed, but neither of them had stood still long enough to examine their feelings. So, no, they weren't boyfriends, but they weren't simply lovers either. There was no one else for either of them–at least he thinks so.
"You should talk to him." Blaine's voice shakes him from his thoughts. "If you really have feelings for him."
Blaine's right, of course, he's been right all along. If he plans on sorting out his life he can't run from it, he should face his issues head on and not avoid them like he's doing right now. But this trip was good for him, not only has he made a friend he's also gained some perspective, in part because of Blaine, so ultimately it was the right decision to make.
"Or–don't." Blaine shakes his head, his silence making him self-conscious. "I'm sorry. It's really not my place to say."
He smiles. "You're quite something, Blaine Anderson."
Blaine looks at him from the corner of his eye. "Is that a good thing?"
"Yes." He laughs. "Yes, it is."
.
"Hi!" Blaine greets him the next day, at barely ten in the morning.
He laughs, "Hi", by now already infected by the youthful enthusiasm that comes with Blaine every time, even if that oftentimes gives way to some sadness. "Isn't it a little early to walk Jesy?"
Blaine's eyes narrow on him amusedly. "I want to take you somewhere. Bring your camera."
They don't take Jesy, he's far too curious as to what Blaine has in mind, and ten minutes later they're walking the familiar path down the street. Blaine remains silent the entire time, even when they venture further than they've walked so far, winding around corners and bends in the road, mindful of the moms returning from dropping of their kids at school and the younger kids running around after them.
After about twenty minutes they reach the end of suburbia, and a piece of woodland starts that doesn't stop Blaine–there's no trodden path or evidence that anyone has entered there before, but Blaine seems to know where he's going. So he follows without question, the ground foliage crackling underneath his feet, birds whistling, the wind a chorus song to their silence.
Blaine takes him deeper and deeper, never once glancing over his shoulder to check if he's keeping up.
"This isn't the part where you chop me up and bury me in the woods, right?"
Blaine giggles. "It's not much further."
And sure enough, only a few minutes later they hit a clearing in the woods, a small stream trickling down from a rock-covered facade covered in moss, tracing over the ground and deeper into the woods. It's a beautiful place, urban life doesn't penetrate, a small oasis in the jungle of suburbia.
Blaine was right to ask him to bring his camera.
"I love it here," Blaine says. "I used to come here when I was little, just to get away." Blaine tracks towards the stream and dips his fingers inside the water, hunkering down while losing himself in thought. "Still do sometimes."
He squats too, though keeps a fair amount of distance between them, and raises his camera to his eyes, the sunlight breaking through the foliage casting radiant beams down onto the water, which reflects shadows back on Blaine's face.
"I imagined this whole science-fiction scenario where I pretended that I could walk out of here and be in another time, and a different place."
He snaps a few pictures. "Quite the imagination you got there, killer."
Blaine blushes once he catches him taking pictures of him, and turns his back, but that doesn't stop him from shooting–the wind shifts the sunlight so that Blaine looks like a dark figure standing by the water, legs crossed at the ankles, hands nervously wiring together. It's too tempting not to shoot, document the fleeting image before it dissipates and in one surrendering moment he tracks into the water, getting his shoes wet.
"Tell me about New York," he prompts, eager to reveal more of his young companion. It's his turn to ask the questions, from the safety of a unique vantage point, the camera between him and Blaine.
"I wanna go to New York," Blaine says, voice solemn and devoid of emotion. "And study music."
"But?"
"No but." Blaine shrugs, turning around.
He stands up and crosses the distance, Blaine unflinching when he looks at him through his camera again, up close and personal, and the lens lets him appreciate Blaine's long lashes every time he blinks, the curious color of his eyes becoming lighter and darker depending on how the light hits his irises, the soft full pillows of his lips.
"My parents let my brother pursue an acting career, and they're not holding me back either," Blaine says. "I really want to go."
He frowns and drops the camera to his chest, Blaine turned sad again, the distance between them greater than it had been a few seconds ago. "You don't think you're good enough," he says, the realization as heavy on his shoulders as it appears to be on Blaine's.
"I work really hard," Blaine says, eyes downcast. "I practice every day."
"What about–a Glee club?" he asks. "That's still around, isn't it?"
Blaine chuckles. "New Directions was kind of a joke."
"And Dalton's Glee club?"
The Blaine that looks up at him is every bit the scared little boy as it is the young teenager uncertain about his future. "I've been too afraid to look them up."
He turns around. "Let's go," he says, but when he doesn't hear Blaine's footsteps behind him he's forced to turn back. Blaine stares at him stunned and confused. "We're going back to the house and we're Youtube-ing the Dalton Glee club."
"But–"
"No but." He raises a finger. "You have a dream, you fight for it. Simple as that."
Blaine still hesitates. "Why would you do that for me?"
He chuckles, gesturing around to indicate the woods. "Because you're doing this for me."
Blaine regards him for another second or two, before he decides he's sincere, and leads him back out of the woods. Back at the cottage he leaves his wet shoes outside, and sits down behind the computer with Blaine again, soon finding video footage of some of the Dalton Academy Warblers' performances. Blaine stares at the videos mesmerized, because the Dalton Glee club is by no means a joke. These guys are rock stars, and Blaine could well be one of them some day.
.
Tuesday the Warblers are all Blaine talks about. He'd spent half the night reading and watching and listening to whatever he could find on them, and the more he found the more grateful Blaine becomes that he forced him to watch the videos yesterday. He talks excitedly during their walk that afternoon, barely containing his enthusiasm as he hops around and runs after Jesy and talks with his hands about possible songs he could sing for his audition.
"They just sound so professional, you know," Blaine rants. "I mean, McKinley had auditions, but pretty much anyone got in. The Warblers only accept the best."
He lights a cigarette and lets Blaine express his awe; there's no need for him to speak, he's content to listen and drown in the soft cadence of Blaine's voice, the silly excitement he recognizes all too well, even if he had less obvious ways of showing it.
"I'm gonna miss McKinley though," Blaine concludes as their walk draws to an end.
"Why?" he asks, too quickly, because he can't imagine Blaine friendless, he's too Blaine Anderson for that.
"I just–" Blaine shakes his head, patting Jesy on the head while his mouth twitches in discomfort. "No reason."
He doesn't pry, that's not his thing, but there's definitely something Blaine leaves unsaid.
They go out for dinner and a movie that night, Blaine's treat as a way to say thank you, and they end up at a restaurant in Lima, Breadstix, where Blaine claims that – contrary to its name – the pasta is far better than the actual breadsticks. Somehow their conversation comes back to his own past at private school, and it's curious that Blaine hasn't asked him before.
"It's not all that bad," he says. "Once you get past the preppies and rich kid attitudes."
"Weren't you a rich kid?"
He looks up, Blaine's bright eyes staring right back over the cup of his milkshake, lips curled around his straw. "I am offering you invaluable advice here, Anderson. You better be careful."
"Or what?" Blaine teases.
He laughs and settles back in his chair, shaking his head. He was right from day one, Blaine Anderson isn't like any other boy he'd ever met, or allowed himself to take notice of at least, but he was quite something.
"So, you want to tell me why you're still reluctant to transfer schools?"
Blaine digs his straw up and down. "Is it that obvious?"
"Maybe not to your parents..."
"I don't mind the transfer, it's just–" Blaine lowers his voice as if the walls would have ears. "There's this boy."
Now it all makes sense. "A boy you like."
"His name's Sam." Blaine nods, focused on his milkshake again, but no longer interested in drinking it. "He knows I like him, but he's quarterback of the football team, and he's afraid of what people might say."
He understands that as well as the next person, high school can be cruel and relentless, it can dig the soul out of a person without leaving much of anything behind worth tending to–he hates that Blaine has had to experience that.
"Your transfer might make it easier for you two to sneak around."
Blaine smiles.
"Have you kissed him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Silence falls, and Blaine grows smaller–he's tempted to reach across the table and lift Blaine's chin so that his eyes meet his and tell him everything at the tip of his tongue, show him it's okay, that there's no need to be afraid or worried because life comes as it presents itself, and it's the choices he makes in every moment that will shape it, not the decisions of others. It's far more important to know who you are and what you want than what others try to make you out to be–it's okay to be in love, to do something stupid because sometimes love makes you plenty stupid, but you learn from that and take it into the next experience.
"I'm afraid to," Blaine answers.
"You'll get over that, trust me," he says. "When you have that moment with the right person, you'll be fine."
Blaine smiles at him, though still a little uncertain, but he knows he's been heard.
.
He can't imagine what he would've been doing if he hadn't met Blaine. Suburbia was beautiful and interesting, but it probably would've swallowed him whole after only a few days, he'd have gone out of his mind from the total lack of routine or activity. Lucky for him Blaine was in much the same position he was, and they provided each other with the necessary distractions.
It's an odd sort of friendship, he's out of place here and Blaine fits in snug and perfect, like a missing piece at the center of the puzzle, though Blaine would fit in a lot of places, carve out his own spot, and he has no doubt he'd make it big in New York.
After his swim he sits out by the pool, eyes closed, letting the sun dry him while he fills his lungs with nicotine. Blaine had remained inside the house, preparing for his tutoring session with the little girl tomorrow, but now joined him outside.
"I need your advice."
He gestures at the empty lounge chair next to him. "Step into my office."
"You know you really shouldn't smoke."
He opens one eye, quietly judging Blaine from his vantage point. "I thought you wanted my advice."
Blaine sits down, hands clutching nervously at the chair. "Sam's throwing a party at his house on Friday," he says. "And–he didn't exactly invite me. But he also didn't not invite me."
"I don't know what that means."
"He told me he hoped I was coming," Blaine clarifies. "But that was before everything happened."
"You have to go."
"You think so?"
"Absolutely." He sits up, flicking some ashes off the end of his cigarette. For once this is a topic he has some insight in, showing people he can't be beat down or bullied away, that he stood strong in the face of abject defeat. "Look your absolute best. Talk to everyone you know. Have a great time. That'll make an impression."
Blaine bites at his bottom lip. "Come with me."
"Let's not get carried away."
"Why not?" Blaine asks. "You're smart, you're older, you're mysterious."
"I am pretty mysterious."
"I'd feel a lot more comfortable, that's all."
There are probably a million and one reasons that have nothing to do with their age difference as to why he shouldn't do this; he has no place at a high school party where he doesn't know anyone, he doesn't even really know Blaine in that context. And you absolutely do not take a guy who's way past college to a party thrown by the boy you like unless you want to make him jealous, and he's not sure that's a role he's comfortable being cast in, even if it's for show. Blaine's only fifteen years old, he shouldn't be thrust into situations like these before he understands what he's doing.
But then Blaine uses those puppy eyes he swears are worse than Jesy's, begging, "Please?", and he can't even think of one reason why he would say no. What's the harm? It's not like there's anything more than friendship between them, and if he can provide the courage Blaine needs to face his bullies there are worse places to be than at a high school kegger.
"Yeah, okay."
Blaine claps his hands together and smiles, rocking back and forth gleefully.
And he's almost certain he's going to regret this.
.
Most of Thursday he spends on his own–Blaine's tutoring and he doesn't want to get in his way to go for a swim, so he goes out for his daily run instead. He cleans up the kitchen and the bathroom and does some laundry, while the radio plays loudly in the background.
In the afternoon he finds his way back into the woods Blaine showed him, tracks down the stream where the sunlight peeks through the trees in exactly the same manner and it burns inside of him–the beauty he noticed as a young boy in the black and white simplicity of leafless trees, the reflections in a puddle of still water, the hair that loosened over his mother's forehead, quickly willed back into place. He carried those observations into his teenage years, his parents bought him his first camera and he taught himself the finer art of photography.
He's not sure why he had to come all the way to suburbia to rediscover that.
But he's pretty certain he had to meet Blaine Anderson.
His cellphone rings, and he wishes he'd put it on vibrate, because it disturbs the sense of timelessness Blaine had mentioned before. But he can't be mad once he sees who's calling, a smile crossing his lips effortlessly. "Hello, gorgeous."
"Hey, sailor," comes the melodious sound of Adam's voice, raspy after an undoubtedly long night of heavy partying. "How much longer is suburbia going to keep you hostage?"
"Why?" he asks. "You miss me already?"
A huff travels over the line, but it isn't filled with any malcontent, a silence between them that's telling of how well they know each other. He's always been comfortable around Adam, neither of them too self conscious about their bodies or insecure about anything in their lives to let that show in their relationship, a silent understanding that they're exclusive for however long this lasts.
"Look, we should talk when I get back. About where we want this to go."
"Are you breaking up with me?"
"No," he answers immediately, quickly revising with, "I don't know", because he's come to believe what he feels for Adam might not be what Adam feels for him. Though he thinks he really wants it to be. "Depends on what we both want."
"What's Ohio done to you?"
He laughs. "I'm serious, though."
It astounds him just how serious he's become about this, and a lot of it has to do with Blaine. Once he's back home he has to sit down with Adam and talk this through, but where does he begin? How does he explain that he met this boy filled to the brim with passion, which occasionally gets conquered by fear, but is so pure that it prevails? How does he say that he wants that feeling back himself, the thrill of discovering something for the first time, the thrill of a first kiss, the appreciation of the way Adam's accent plays with his name, especially in the mornings when his voice sounds thick with sleep.
How does he explain that he wants to take Adam on that same ride?
"Okay, we'll talk," Adam says. "I do miss you."
"Me too." He smiles, vividly picturing Adam naked in bed, his body curled long and lazy into white sheets, that goofy smile coloring his features. "See you soon."
.
He fusses over an outfit for the party far too long–he tries on five different button-downs, regular shirts in three different colors, and two different pair of jeans, before he decides on simple washed-out jeans and a plain white T-shirt.
Blaine foregoes their daily walk in favor of spending more time on picking out his own outfit, and in Blaine's defense, his absolute best looked better than most others' best; he wears a shawl-collared bordeaux cardigan over a black-and-white striped henley, and even dared to let his hair breathe a little by adding less gel. No one would mistake him for a fifteen-year-old like this, the outfit masterfully aging him a few years.
Blaine drives, silent the entire fifteen minutes it takes them to get to the party, which tells him enough about Blaine's state of mind; his hands clasp and unclasp around the wheel, and every red light – three in total – he checks his hair in the rearview mirror.
"You look fine," he reassures Blaine after the second, but it only seems to make Blaine more nervous.
"I got this out of a catalogue," Blaine fusses. "I'm not sure it works."
"Trust me." He grabs Blaine's hand before it can fiddle with his hair again and replaces it on the stick. "It works. Sam won't know what hit him."
Blaine smiles and puts the car in gear again, but still checks his hair at the third light.
They pull up to a modest one-story house fifteen minutes later, people pouring in and out, the bass of the music carrying out into the street. He follows behind Blaine after they find a spot to park the car, and as they make their way across the lawn and into the house he feels eyes on him, like he's being vetted by the entire crowd, and whispers erupt all around them.
"Sam!" Blaine calls, a boy turning at the foot of the stairs at the sound of his name.
The aforementioned quarterback and host of the party pushes through the crowd towards them. "Blaine, bro, I'm so glad you came." The blond smiles wide, and seems torn between shaking Blaine's hand or giving him a hug, but gets distracted by his presence. Sam quietly sizes him up, before leaning closer to Blaine, whispering, "You brought a date?"
"Friend," he corrects before Blaine has to. "Sebastian."
"Okay, cool." Sam straightens his shoulders. "I guess."
"He's housesitting for my neighbors," Blaine says.
Sam nods, and takes a sip of his beer, an awkward silence settling between the three of them.
"I'm gonna go grab a beer," he says, realizing he's the much dreaded third wheel in this scenario and it's not a pleasant feeling. Blaine looks up at him, panic in his eyes, but he puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'll be around."
He struggles through the crowd to get his hands on a signature red cup, and watches the party unfold around him. Blaine and Sam spend more time talking to each other, unaware of what's going on around them as they stare into each other's eyes, make each other laugh, and all around seem to be really into each other–he's not sure what Blaine was worried about.
Two girls pull Blaine away from Sam a few minutes later, but they seem close friends, judging by the kisses and hugs Blaine showers them with.
He barely remembers his first party, he must've been about Blaine's age, and the booze was a lot more expensive, but it wasn't much different than this one, loud music, couples making out wherever they found some modicum of privacy, beer spilled over the furniture and the floor.
The night draws on at the same pace, an hour turns into two and he gets propositioned by about every girl in the house. He steers clear from Blaine, mostly because he only needed the courage to come here, and he seems to have a handle on things.
By eleven he decides to get some air, and wanders outside onto the yard.
Which proves to be a mistake.
"Well, look at that, faggot brought his boyfriend," a voice calls behind him.
He frowns and turns around slowly, faced with a mean-looking linebacker flanked by two equally broad-shouldered friends–for all the lacrosse he played in high school he'd always kept his long and lean physique, and stood almost small compared to these three. He should probably walk away and not give into this kind of intimidation, take the high road, but something in their tone, the way they spoke to him high and mighty like they were kings of the playground, makes him bolder.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," the one who'd spoken before says, adding "Faggot," as if the word's meant to set him off.
People start gathering around the four of them, no doubt hoping for a fight.
"Is that mean to hurt my feelings?" he asks, mockingly placing a hand over his heart, and laughs, "You know, it's assholes like you that lower the IQ of the entire party."
A fist connects with his jaw faster than he can register, and he has to hand it to the linebacker: he's much faster than he looks–he twists on his heels and lands hard onto the grass, his jaw throbbing, pain cutting across his face.
"Okay, I'm sorry." He scrambles upright. "I meant above average assholes."
The linebacker comes around for another punch, fists raised, and he's fully prepared to dote one out himself, but suddenly Sam steps in between them and punches the linebacker in the nose, sending him flying backwards into his friends' arms.
"That's enough," Sam says.
The linebacker grabs his nose, blood running down his lips and chin. "What the hell, man. You're defending this guy?"
"He's a friend of Blaine's," Sam says. "So, yeah, he's a friend of mine."
If there was any doubt that Sam didn't like Blaine before, that thought gets extinguished, because the boy that just saved him from getting his lights punched out is one hell of a decent human being. It takes a lot to stand up to your bullies, it takes a whole different kind of person to stand up to people who are supposed to be your friends.
"Let this go, man," Sam says. "Isn't it enough that you chased him out of the school?"
The crowd has fallen dead silent, so he can make out, "Sebastian!" over the music, Blaine quickly pushing through the crowd that had gathered around. "What's going on?" he asks, looking around for answers, but the linebacker stands back nursing his bloody nose, Sam's hands still balled into fists, ready to keep fighting should this go any further.
He carefully touches a hand to his face, but the skin doesn't appear to be broken, though he should probably put some ice on it if he hopes to avoid extensive bruising.
Blaine seems to put two and two together pretty fast, and grabs his arm, effectively pushes him down the driveway, down the street, back towards the car, his anger practically vibrating off him. "Are you okay?" Blaine asks once they reach the car, but doesn't give him time to answer. "I'm so sorry, I should never have come tonight. I was stupid to think it would be different."
"Blaine." He tries to put his hands on Blaine's shoulders but he backs away, rounding the car to get to the driver's side. "I'm okay. I swear. This wasn't your fault."
"Yes, it was." Blaine gets into the car and waits for him to do the same, staring sternly out in front of him.
"Those were the same guys that–"
"Yeah," Blaine says, and starts the car.
He decides it's best to let Blaine cool off before demanding anything further, and they sit in silence for a good few minutes, the atmosphere in the car turned tense and uncomfortable, Blaine stewing in his anger. And he can't blame Blaine, those guys got him hurt, and permanent damage to his wrist could've had disastrous consequences–it might've even broken a boy like Blaine.
"Sorry for ruining your night."
"Don't be." Blaine shakes his head. "You didn't. It was a stupid idea. Whatever happens with Sam it should be between him and me, not the rest of the school."
"You're relaxed around him."
"I know him," Blaine says. "Everyone likes seeing him as this tough quarterback, but the truth is–" Blaine smiles, his attempt at conversation clearly having a positive effect. "He's a nerd. He does these impressions and collects different flavor chap sticks."
"You seem to know him pretty well."
"We–Skype from time to time," Blaine says, but what he really hears is that Blaine's a nerd too.
The rest of the drive takes place in silence, Blaine anger slowly dissipating, but he fears it might be making way for sadness again. He should never have accompanied Blaine, even if there was no telling what would've happened if Blaine had been on his own, but he's confident Sam would've had his back–he has no place in Blaine's world, in suburbia, he'll be glad to be back in New York where he can put his newfound perspective on life in practice.
Blaine parks the car in front of his house, but makes no move to get out. "What's it like?" he asks, voice small. "Kissing someone?"
He takes a deep breath and takes a good long while to think about it; he's never been as sentimental as Blaine, never needed big romantic gestures or Skype sessions with any of his boyfriends, in as far as they were in fact his boyfriends, but maybe he can afford a little more sentiment right now. Just for Blaine.
"Totally depends on the person."
His first kiss was nothing special, rushed at some party with too much alcohol flowing through his veins.
"And the situation."
His first kiss with Adam, on the other hand, now that was one for the books; there was nothing sentimental about it, it happened after one long night of careful flirtation and gentle coaxing, and when it finally happened they were both so wound up that his lips had all but sparkled, body coiled with desire, his hands sneaking underneath Adam's layers while his tongue grazed the roof of his mouth.
"But when it's with the right person, it's pretty damn magical."
Blaine smiles, mostly to himself, but he has no doubt figured out that Sam is that person for him.
"See you tomorrow?"
He nods. "Definitely."
They both get out of the car, goodbyes already spoken and no real need for any more, but the words push past his lips all the same. "You'll be alright, you know," he says. "High school doesn't last forever."
He wants to reassure Blaine the way Blaine had him, that this isn't the end of the line, he's young and naive and he has a whole bunch of firsts to experience, kisses and mistakes, love and a broken heart, and everything in between–and each and every single one of those carries its own merits.
Blaine stands toying with his car keys. "It's not high school I'm worried about."
"Sam defended you. It's pretty clear he likes you too."
Blaine shrugs, digging the tip of his shoe in the grass. "I don't know."
"Stop overthinking everything," he says. "Sometimes you have to let go and take a leap."
Blaine nods and he leaves it at that, crossing the street already dreaming of his bed, right after putting some ice to his jaw–he's never been punched in his life, and it's not the experience he expected.
"Take a leap?" Blaine asks, voice carrying across the street.
"Yeah," he calls, "A leap," and he's only turned back halfway when his ears catch Blaine's footsteps hitting the pavement in quick succession – why's he running? – but then he's turned around and he catches an armful of Blaine and his fumbling lips on his.
And he's sunk too deep into the naive ideal of Blaine not to follow through, one arm slides around Blaine's waist to pull his body flush against his, one hand cups his cheek and he gives his lips leave to part against Blaine's, to surrender to a kiss to sudden and innocent that it ignites a wanton fire for more, more of the unbridled passion he usually loathes in movies, the soft caress of a tongue unlearned somewhere along the way, the romanticism of one forbidden kiss in the dark of night.
Blaine's fingers dig into his back and he whimpers, hands clawing to get him closer, get him deeper–he sucks at Blaine's lips and licks into his mouth and he thinks that if he holds on long enough he could burn up from the inside, the demand in Blaine's kiss endowed with a dream fulfilled, fear conquered, the improbability of the two of them meeting in the first place.
He doesn't know how long they stand entangled, long enough to lose his breath and having to pull away, his lips still circling Blaine's, the lithe shape of Blaine's body warm and oddly soothing, Blaine's fingers playing meaningless patterns through his hair.
"You were right," Blaine whispers. "That was amazing."
Blaine's words hit him like a cold shower, the stark reality of what they just did setting uncomfortable in his chest, a bitter taste in his mouth. He pulls back, however reluctant his body seems to be, and stares down into Blaine's eyes, big and bright, his pupils blown.
"I shouldn't have done that." He draws a hand over his mouth, the throb in his jaw replaced by a startling sense of shame. "You know I'm seeing someone."
"Y-yeah." Blaine's face falls. "Of course. Yeah."
He shakes his head, "I can't–" and places his hands on his hips, pacing a step back.
"It's fine. It was just a kiss." Blaine takes a step back too. "I should get inside," he says, and turns around without another word.
He blinks a few times, as if it could chase away the image of Blaine hurrying inside the house, running from him like he got burned. But maybe he did.
What has he done?
.
That Saturday the weather turns dark and dreary, the rain tapping at the window a rhythmic soliloquy in cadence with his rampant thoughts. He doesn't leave the bed, save to go to the bathroom and get some food, but otherwise he only turns once to turn off his alarm clock, and wallows in a mess of his own making.
The kiss was a mistake, and he can't for the life of him figure out what had led Blaine to that point. Sure, he'd flirted and teased, as was his usual conversational style, but he never pegged Blaine as being so impressionable. Had he led Blaine on? Had his need to stave off boredom led to him flirting with a fifteen-year-old to such a degree that the boy actually believed there was something between them?
But there was something between them, wasn't there, it played around the edges of a friendship that could've easily turned into something more. Blaine was amazing, he had a crazy amount of talent and a passion that had reminded him of his own, that had reignited the fire he'd come here to find. Maybe he never expected to find it in the first place, not in a place so different than the one he was used to, but there it was, inside the eyes and words of a boy searching for something different altogether. And he can't deny he hadn't harbored the hope that Blaine might find his answers with him, let go of some of his fears and face this new challenge meant to keep him safe.
But the kiss was a mistake.
Blaine's too young, that's the simple truth of the matter, he's too impressionable and far better than he could ever deserve. Maybe they could be something at a different time, in a different place, but not now, not like this. Blaine has too much left to see, too many things left to do that he'd only stifle. If Blaine hadn't kissed him he wouldn't even be considering this. They can't be anything more than friends. How can he tell Blaine that without letting him down?
The doorbell rings. Jesy barks.
"Sebastian?" comes Blaine's voice a few moments later, followed by a few knocks at the door.
He buries his face in his pillow and tries his best to ignore Blaine's subsequent pleas, even though he should be better than this. He's supposed to be the adult in this equation, he should man up and talk to Blaine plainly.
But he doesn't. Blaine rings the door a few more times, but gives up once time lapses too long.
He's not proud, in fact it's his guilt that chains him to the bed.
How is he going to fix this?
.
Somehow he manages to drag himself out of bed on Sunday, his inactivity slowly taking its toll; he straps on his running shoes and grabs his iPod, intent on clearing his head before starting his day, but runs head first into Blaine the moment he opens the door.
"Jesus Christ," he startles, caught completely off guard and woefully unprepared to have this conversation.
"Can we please talk?" Blaine asks, sounding far too mature for his age, but someone has to be the adult here. "I'm leaving for Dalton tomorrow and I don't want to leave things the way they are."
His heart sinks to his stomach, left stupid by a few choice words; his time with Blaine had gone by so fast that he'd forgotten their time together was limited–he'll be heading home in a few days as well, he had a great many things waiting for him at home, work and friends, and Adam. And Blaine had his entire future ahead of him.
"I've been an asshole. I'm sorry."
"I thought maybe you were mad at me."
"No, Blaine, I'm not mad at you," he says, heart aching, because right now Blaine's every bit the teenager his age reveals him to be, fragile and vulnerable, headstrong and indecisive–Blaine has Sam, and there's no doubt in his mind there'll be other boys.
"But you regret kissing me."
He takes a deep breath, but there's no right way of saying this, no matter what he says he'll be letting down a young boy who's come to mean something real to him. "Blaine, I wasn't the guy."
Blaine casts down his eyes. "I like you."
"You like the idea of me," he corrects. "Which is very flattering, but–"
He doesn't want to make this about him, how he's wrong for Blaine in more ways than he could ever say, how Blaine needs a guy like Sam who defends him and curls around his computer at night for long and nerdy Skype calls, how he's too young to know what he wants and that when he really thinks about it, Sebastian isn't the guy you date in high school, maybe not even after high school. But he never ends up saying any of those things.
He places a hand on Blaine's shoulder, and waits for Blaine's hazel eyes to find his. "You're a great guy, Blaine, with a great future ahead of you. You have this new school and a boy you like. After that there's college and frat parties. Trust me, you want to experience that for yourself."
Blaine seems to consider this. "So, maybe–in a few years?"
"Maybe." He smiles. "We'll see."
"I'm sorry I kissed you."
"Don't be." He squeezes Blaine's shoulder. "It was– Just, don't be."
They part ways on better terms than they were two nights ago, when neither of them was thinking straight and more mistakes could've been made–he's grateful Blaine takes his advice in stride though, he couldn't stand shattering any teenage dreams about first kisses. He's sure when the time comes, with whatever boy he's in love with, it'll be magical.
Blaine returns home to finish packing, and he has dinner with his parents to look forward to before he leaves, but he makes him promise to be there to say goodbye to him tomorrow. And he promises, cross his heart and hope to die ...
.
He's up bright and early on Monday morning and seats himself behind his laptop with a cup of coffee. He opens the folder of pictures he took with Blaine and spends a good half hour touching them up, printing a few high resolution edits.
He sits back and stares around the house, the emptiness filled with his own memories, and that's more than he could've hoped for. This trip never had anything to do with finding inspiration, he wanted to press pause on his life so he ran away, first to Paris and then to Ohio, and he never expected to cure whatever ailed him.
But here he sits, charged with new inspiration and he has Blaine to thank for that, his kindness and innocence, his friendship, maybe even his love. Everything has its innate beauty, he always saw that, but he hadn't been looking close enough for a long time. He can see it again now, in just about everything. He's ready to go back home, talk to Adam, be more selective about the jobs he takes and shoot things he wants to, not things he has to. It's all fallen into place, somehow, quite coincidentally.
When the time comes he takes Jesy outside with him, the golden retriever running across the street once Blaine calls out her name. Blaine's dressed in his Dalton Academy uniform, a dark blue blazer with red piping and the school's crest stitched over the breast pocket; Blaine's going to be fine, he'll audition for the Warblers and become a member and someday soon he'll find Youtube videos with Blaine singing solos for them–he's absolutely convinced of that.
"Uniform looks good on you."
Blaine blushes. "Thanks."
"I printed these for you," he says, and hands over the pictures in a brown envelope. Considering how much Blaine loved the clearing in the woods, it's a safe going away present to give him. "So you have a piece of home with you."
Blaine leafs through the contents of the envelope. "Sebastian, these are beautiful."
"And when you make it to the big leagues, don't forget about your friends."
"I'll come and see you." Blaine looks up at him, the sincerity in his eyes leaving no doubt that he'll see Blaine again. "In New York."
"I'm gonna hold you to that."
Blaine pushes up on his toes and kisses him on the cheek, pulling back just enough to play with the space between them. "Thank you, Sebastian," he says softly. "For everything."
"Thank you, killer." He smiles. "For a lot more than that."
THE END
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