"You're not worthless Sebastian. Don't ever think that."
You remember the words, remember them quite clearly which is strange in itself. You don't remember if they did anything to you at the time, if you smiled or scoffed. You do remember, however, that Blaine's the one who said them to you, after a long night at Scandals together, which is, well it's actually pretty hilarious.
Really fucking hilarious.
Because Blaine's also the one who called you late on a Friday night, minutes before you would have ran off with Dan and all his wonderful… features. It only takes a minute on your phone, feeling Dan's arms around you while you're outside, away from the pounding music, to know it's serious. You bolt to his house instead, afraid of his distressed voice and his awkward breathing and your thumping heart.
They talked. Kurt talked, Blaine talked, then Blaine cried, or so it would seem by the harsh red in his hazel eyes. You lean into him, hoping to give him comfort and support and maybe even give him a laugh, because it isn't technically over, so Blaine should stop acting like he's at a funeral.
But then his hands are all over you and his lips have found their way onto yours and you're almost a hundred percent positive that he initiated it; this is too soon for a rebound, even you know that.
His hands are clawing and demanding and not at all as gentle as you thought they would be. It's true that you've wanted to do this with Blaine the minute your eyes stopped on his hideous grey bowtie and sure, you're matching him pull to tug, but you also wanted a lot of other things with Blaine, like lacrosse matches and movie marathons and introducing him to your parents.
You swore Blaine was the only way to get out of this ditch, out of the deep dark cave that you've been in since you were fourteen and hungry and surrounded by gorgeous French men. He would be your lifeboat, your raft to safety, the turning point in your life that would make you feel like you actually belonged somewhere.
He drags you onto the couch and shoves his hand down your jeans and twists his other hand into your hair and the two gin and tonics you had at Scandals are starting to catch up with you and you're starting to push him back as well, leaning over him like he's prey and you're starving.
If you could take it back you would. You wouldn't have slide down Blaine's body and unzipped his pants with your teeth, chuckling over his moans. You wouldn't have flipped your bodies over, letting him rest on top of you, your legs falling open in routine. And god, you wouldn't have let him push into you, his eyes widened and still red, just like every other boy that's come along.
When you wake up he isn't on the couch with you, isn't in the living room, isn't in the kitchen. You end up finding him on his porch, nervously twirling some kind of pen between his fingers, talking on the phone to someone. You drop the curtains from where you've been peering out, hopelessly looking back at the couch – always a couch, never a bed; just like your first fucking time, and like many times after that because very few people even take you to their goddamn bed before fucking you.
You leave through the back door, going around his fancy mansion of a home to get to your abandoned car, dragging the keys out of your jean pocket and gunning the engine. You need a shower and a quick tooth-brush back at Dalton, and maybe even a bit of advice from someone.
He'll call you tonight - that you're sure of. Other boys wouldn't give you a second thought but Blaine Anderson isn't other boys, which is exactly why you want him so badly.
Except maybe, he is like other boys. Maybe he's exactly like them.
You get your phone call two days late and it's hurried and awkward and he says he's sorry after you say hello which is never, ever a good sign. And then he's talking about Kurt and misunderstandings and how he never meant to do anything with you and how he's sorry, so sorry, but hey – at least you got what you wanted, right?
He tries laughing at that, and you do too, but you don't really want to laugh at all right now, actually you're kind of wishing you'd never met Blaine fucking Anderson.
So you hang up on him. You lie down on your uncomfortable Dalton Academy bed, looking up at the dismal ceiling and just feel, not for the first or second or last time, that you're completely fucking worthless.
If someone as perfect and kind and dynamic as Blaine can't even live by what he told you months ago then how can anyone ever want you for something more than just a quick fuck? You'll never find someone to want you like Blaine wants Kurt or like Nick wants Jeff; like Harry and Sally, like Ron and Hermione.
Nothing. Cause you are nothing.
It hurts for awhile and you spend weeks sitting in Scandals with Bear Cub, just drinking and staring at the neon clock, trying to find solitude in each other's silences. But eventually, through months of wrecking havoc in your liver, you learn to live with it.
You become numb. Numb is easier than anything else. You're worthless and pretty broken and flat but that doesn't stop men from pushing you to your knees and unzipping their pants.
Blaine calls you one more time, a week before school closes officially for the summer and you'll be headed off to Canada, to McGill, because new locations are what you do best and the combination of alcohol and French men are what got you started before.
You sit in Lima Bean waiting for him, for his stupid bowties and his fucking pants, rolled up to his ankles. He smiles hesitantly at you, but that's probably because he just came back from a 5th place win at Nationals and a prom weekend, nothing to do with you.
Its small talk for a while, pleasantries and exchanging of college info (he's going to NYU, just like you always knew he would) and he seems a little confused when you aren't smiling and winking up a storm like the last time you were in this joint with him.
He asks if you're alright and you almost laugh at that because, Christ, of course you're not alright, you've never been alright. Since the day your father's colleague leaned you against the bathroom sink and whispered in your ear you haven't been what society recognizes as 'alright'. You thought he could be the one to change you but instead he treated you like everyone else because you're Sebastian Smythe and you have no feelings.
But instead of saying that you just sip your coffee and politely ask how Kurt's doing and well doesn't that light up his features like a lamp. He talks for a solid five minutes about a show Kurt's in and how it went off really well and how he couldn't wait to be in New York too, until he realizes you're not listening and asks how you're doing instead.
Shrug, nod, tell him about the man who fucked you the night before, in the back of his car before dropping you off at a bus stop and driving away. You don't mean it to sound so bad, he was actually pretty good, but it comes out that way and all of a sudden Blaine's Mother Teresa again and you're a leper.
"Stop throwing yourself around like you're nothing Sebastian. You're worth something."
Disbelief.
You can't help laughing loud enough to make the other table's tenants glance over, your face grinning at him with empty eyes. You can't help throwing out a bitter remark back, one that you know will make him cut his hazel eyes down and hang his head and look ashamed. You can't help but not feel bad at all as you get up, grab your coffee and get the hell away from Blaine Anderson.
Because he was the one boy who you thought was different.
But no one's different. They're all the same and they always will be.
A/N: A million and one things to write and instead I'm doing angsty oneshots for Seblaine *facepalm*