author's notes: written for Seblaine Week 2017, Day Three: broadway au.
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Don't Know What It Is
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It's late, and save for the janitors picking up after the cast and crew, the small off-Broadway theatre has been left abandoned in favor of an impromptu after-show down at the Spotlight Diner. While he'd usually join his friends in their celebrations of another successful week's run, he's felt under the weather for a few days, and thought it more important to focus on his health. Especially if he's meant to be on stage again on Monday.
So after the show he lavished in the usual compliments, talked to a few people who were invited backstage by some of the cast, and then retreated to the dancer's dressing room to come to his senses — the adrenaline of the night's performance still coursed through his veins, stopped him from feeling the burn in his sinuses too much, but he needed to take care his cold didn't get any worse.
"Bas, hey" –Brittany, one of the choreographer's, popped in not an hour ago, beaming ear to ear like most everyone after a performance– "Party at the Spotlight. You coming?" she asked, before her face set in a distinct 'eesh' at the sight of him.
He huffed a laugh, "I'll sit this one out, Britt, thanks," but took the implied insult on the chin, because beneath all his makeup he no doubt looked even worse.
With news of the party spreading backstage like wildfire, the room buzzed with bodies running to and fro to get out of their costumes, return them to the right department, and look halfway decent to go out for a night on the town; it's an energy that normally gets him excited and sweeps him along until he crashes into bed in the early hours of the morning, taking a day out to nurse his hangover. Today, he has to try his hardest to keep his head from spinning.
He spends a good long while hanging over the steam vaporizer, clearing his nose and throat to the degree where he can breathe again, and takes a long warm shower for the first time since the show opened — for once he doesn't have to worry about anyone else's time or any of the cast walking in on him. He's no prude by any means, but he's had to grow comfortable sharing his personal space with so many people.
Everything's gone quiet now, and he basks in the silence as he makes his way down the hallway, even though a silent theatre doesn't feel much like one; it's meant to be bristling with that exciteful pre-show spirit, lit by smiles and bodies and healthy nervous jitters, with laughter and people shouting back and forth. Now, it's filled with the remnant of all those things, the memories, perhaps a needed reprieve before the whole circus resumes next week.
Sebastian's tempted to stick around, settle in one of the seats where the audience sits and read, where he won't be disturbed by any of his roommates or their girlfriends.
His feet carry him towards the stage, even though staying would be a bad idea; his body longs for a hot meal and his bed and a good night's sleep.
There's a vacuum humming somewhere in the lobby, an old radio crackling with static, and—
Was that someone singing?
(Could be?)
(Who knows?)
Curiosity piqued, he makes his way backstage, where the song grows louder and louder, and much to his surprise, far bigger than he imagined any of the cast could manage. It isn't Jesse singing, or Elliott — could it be Ryder?
(Who knows?)
(It's only just out of reach)
He slows his pace so his footfalls come silently, and draws closer to the stage, staying out of sight of whoever's singing. On second thought there's no way it's Ryder; he lacks the vocal skills to pull off the A4 notes of this song, nor did he believe Jesse could successfully hit all the low ones.
So who's on stage practicing at this hour?
(I got a feeling there's a miracle due)
(Gonna come true)
(Coming to me)
Finally, he takes a quick peek at the near empty stage, a single spotlight casting a circular glow around one of the stagehands.
Blaine, was it?
He'd made it a point to know everyone's names, cast and crew, because one wouldn't accomplish anything without the other and vice versa. Marley, one of the seamstresses in the costume department, brought Blaine on a few weeks ago, but he hadn't gotten the chance to talk to him yet.
He had no idea Blaine could sing. He wondered if anyone did. Blaine kept to himself and never said much, never made himself stand out in a crowd, which might be why everyone had thus far overlooked this. It only goes to show how little they know about each other at the end of the day.
(Something's coming)
(I don't know what it is)
(But it is gonna be great)
Without any music accompanying him, the timbre of Blaine's voice stands out above everything else, and undoubtedly makes for one of the most stunning renditions of this song he's ever heard; with the theatre empty the lyrics weave through the wide open space like a babbling brook, a river of words licking along the walls and empty seats, along every outline of the otherwise darkened room.
(It'll be there)
(Come on, something)
(Come on in)
(Don't be shy)
He trips a step forward, drawn in by a song he thought he knew, by a seasoned singer who commands the stage like he grew up there. How has Blaine hidden this side of him from everyone all this time?
Blaine's song dies at the back of his throat; he startles around in half a circle, and startles again the moment he sees him.
"Sebastian," Blaine hushes, placing a hand over his heart.
In his defense, he does manage five seconds of guilt before he steps closer, eager to learn more about the quiet boy who'd hid backstage all this time, even though his place was clearly right here in the spotlights.
"You know who I am."
"Of– of course," Blaine stutters and blinks a few times, slipping his hands into his pockets as he shrinks a little smaller again. "Everyone knows who you are. You're the best dancer in the show."
Up close Blaine's eyes are like nothing he's ever seen, a brown that plays with the light like honey, and they make him forget about Blaine's compliment entirely — because that voice, that presence, that's nothing compared to choreography, that's not something anyone can learn. It's an X-factor a performer either has or doesn't, and Blaine has it in spades.
His eyes narrow. "Has Shelby heard you sing?" he asks, though knows the answer to that question already; what's Blaine doing working backstage? Their crew worked hard, and he appreciated every single one of them, but Blaine's clearly taken with the stage, else he wouldn't be here.
"Oh n-no." Blaine lips purse, sliding into an uncertain smile. "I'm just a stagehand."
"Who just blew that song out of the park." He takes another step closer, happy to see Blaine doesn't pull back or tries to make himself any smaller when there's absolutely no need to. "Why didn't you audition?"
"How do you know I didn't?"
A smile slides into his lips. "Because you wouldn't be working backstage."
Blaine's lips part, honey hazel eyes twinkling, before he averts his eyes and lets out a laugh that carries through the room the same way his voice had a few minutes ago, like he's some kind of bashful schoolboy intent on his heartstrings; and he can't look away, like some kind of lovesick idiot falling without a parachute. There's a twist in his gut and an unfiltered type of flirting perched on the very tip of his tongue, and that's never happened to him so fast before.
He cocks an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're shy?"
"I'm– not." Blaine snorts, but fails to find his eyes again.
"Stagefright?"
Then, Blaine does look at him, eyes narrowing while his bottom lip slips between his teeth, and there's something entirely too cheeky about it.
It makes him want to kiss Blaine right there.
Blaine shrugs. "I just don't sing in front of an audience."
He can't accept that; Blaine's voice is too unique to be wasted on an empty theatre or the dark, when out there in the light he could shine like a star, get the praise he deserves, and make it a long way in this business. There has to be some way for him to hear Blaine sing again without making him too self-conscious.
"I think this calls for an experiment," he says, and before Blaine gets the chance to react he turns on his heels and runs backstage, finds the master light switch and turns off all the lights. Within seconds everything goes pitch black, spots dancing in his eyes from the sudden shift, and he feels his way down to a seat.
"Now sing for me," he calls.
A hesitant shuffle sounds, Blaine's shoes scuffling along the stage floor — his eyes search for movement on instinct but it's too dark to make anything out.
"I don't know—"
"Come on, killer." He insists. "Right where you left off."
Maybe all Blaine needs is a little nudge in the right direction. Surely Blaine realizes he was born to do this; as certain as he was that he had a dancer's feet from the cradle he can sense Blaine's potential for this, and no audience should be deprived such talent if the only problem are Blaine's nerves. He'd sung unencumbered on his own just minutes ago, submerged in that latent energy the theatre yet held; perhaps the dark can provide that same cover.
Blaine chuckles, "Alright," and next thing he hears his hands rub together, like he does before a performance too, healthy nerves alight beneath his skin, fuel during every single musical number.
The words come tentative at first, shaky, but it's mere moments before Blaine's voice fills up the theatre room again, rolls in ocean waves over each seat and he can't imagine what it would be like if this room were filled with people, how they'd react, how they'd have tears in their eyes hearing the sheer range Blaine's capable of.
(It'll be there)
(Come on, something)
(Come on in)
(Don't be shy)
He laughs; there's no hint of shyness coming off the stage right now.
(The air is humming)
(And something great is coming)
As soon as the song draws to an end he stands up and applauds; imagine what Blaine could do if he were accompanied by an orchestra, if his voice came supported by strings and flutes and a choir of other voices — Blaine is a complete picture all on his own, but he must see his potential for greater things.
"Have dinner with me," he lets out, an unfiltered longing for more of Blaine, more of his voice and his smile, his laughter and above all those eyes. It's been ten minutes and he scarcely recognizes himself, but he knows he needs to know Blaine.
"Now?" comes Blaine's voice, tempered again, subdued.
"Yeah."
He should be thinking about nursing his cold and focusing on his health, but something's tugging at him, something good, something indecipherable. He doesn't know what it is, but he owes it to himself to find out.
The dark grows silent for a few moments, and the boards of the stage creak beneath Blaine's weight. Would Blaine leave without saying anything? Would he sneak back to the shadows, work behind the scenes like he has for the past few weeks?
Then, a light in the dark.
"Alright."
(Who knows?)
(It's only just out of reach)
(Down the block, on a beach)
(Maybe tonight)
(Maybe tonight)
(Maybe tonight)
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fin
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