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& Our Hearts Beat In Reverse
part two
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Summer kicks it up another few notches over the days that follow, and the forest heaves under the weight of the heat. It gets harder to breathe, the air laden with ozone, too thick to inhale, but that doesn't stop people from swarming the beach; families with children, groups of teenagers trying to cool down in the water, and young lovers hoping to get away from their parents' prying eyes.
He meets Blaine for lunch, and while he can't resist a short game of footsie underneath the table he behaves himself for the most part. Despite stealing several hours making out last night he's not sure how far he can take that in public, or how comfortable Blaine would be reciprocating. It's best to figure that out as they go along, little by little, which should prove exciting enough.
With the sun at its peak and temperatures at a new high his skin needs some downtime, so he dons his white t-shirt for the first time in three weeks. Blaine still insists he wears sunscreen, because he won't be able to wear his shirt in the water.
"You are so pale," Blaine laments, squirting a generous amount of sunscreen near the base of his neck, smearing it out over his shoulders and upper arms, down his back and around his waist. After three weeks he's not nearly as pale as when he started out at the beginning of the summer, but he still has some ways to go.
"That's still considered a beauty standard in some parts of the world, you know."
"If you say so," Blaine says, and pokes at his sides, "Cate Blanchett."
He scoffs, "Turn around" but resist teasing in return. Sugar will be here any moment, and he won't have her catch them in flagrante delicto or any position that'll have her screaming the entire town together. Not that he wouldn't much rather steal more moments with Blaine alone.
"We can't all be blessed with the Anderson genes," he says, breath ghosting over the back of Blaine's neck, all to provoke some kind of reaction – he'd do better behaving right now, before six hours become another eternal waiting game, but he thinks back to last night, to how the crackle of the campfire accompanied the implicit trade their mouths made, and he can't wait to get back to that; today, and tomorrow, and every day allotted them after that.
"They're my mom's genes," Blaine corrects with a certain amount of attitude, but shivers as he plants a kiss over the birthmark where his shoulder meets his neck, lips lingering over skin far more accustomed to the sun.
"Sebastian," Blaine whispers, nothing in his tone betraying any annoyance or objection.
The tips of his fingers follow the curve of Blaine's back, right down to the waistbands of his shorts, and he nibbles over the birthmark, muttering a reluctant, "Yes?" as the palms of his hands ache to slide down over the swell of Blaine's ass – he's been starved this for a long while, a body willing to sway into his, lips all too eager to explore.
Blaine giggles, but turns around, pushing at his chest. A precarious index finger rises between them, and he gets the sense that if he doesn't comply he might be seeing more of it.
"We are going to be professionals," Blaine warns, his tone as convincing as it is commanding, and it's more of a turn-on than he's willing to admit. "No funny business while we're on shift."
He idles a step closer, folding his arms behind his back. "And after our shift?"
"Well" –Blaine's lips purse and shine with the chapstick he applied earlier, and he can taste it, the strawberry flavor, the silky wax residue– "That falls outside of my purview as head lifeguard."
With a shake of his head he falls forward and strips a kiss straight from those alluring lips. Next thing Blaine's hands are on his chest, still sticky with sunscreen and hot to the touch.
"Outside of your purview," he huffs, and they kiss with smiles too wide, "You little shit."
Blaine laughter catches at his sternum, trapping pockets of air within their kisses, but they deepen nonetheless, lips brushing, and when the moment's right, when his heartbeat's given him a solid four-count, his tongue strokes along Blaine's lip, the one that catches between his teeth when he's worried or nervous.
"Sebastian," Blaine whispers, and breathes in, coming back around for more. Their tongues meet, an indecent itch starting at the base of his spine, and he fears the cabin might come down around them from the sheer force of his buzzing skin.
A breathless squeak coming from the doorway shakes them both from their reverie.
"You guys!"
He swallows hard, mesmerized by how dark their making out has left Blaine's eyes. Wasn't there something he meant to mind?
Another squeal follows in answer.
"Don't mind me," Sugar hushes, and she's out the door again before either of them has the chance to feel self-conscious.
Blaine snorts, falling forward against his chest, and while he never thought he'd be amused by any of Sugar's antics for as long as he lived, he can't help but laugh at this, caught in the act after all, by someone who's unlikely to ever let this go.
"Now we've done it."
"She's harmless."
"I'm starting to think you're anything but."
Blaine frowns up at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means" –he pushes another kiss to Blaine's lips, overtaken by a force stronger than any he can fight– "I really don't want to work today."
Blaine's fingertips trace down his chest, tickling, before they give into another bout of kissing, completely unaware of their responsibilities. What's there to be responsible for when he has Blaine in his sights?
"Uhm, guys?" rasps Sugar all of a sudden, the door of the cabin creaking open. "As much as I openly and enthusiastically support this, and I will need the deets later, it's getting kind of crowded out here?"
"Yeah," Blaine hums, eyes still closed, fingers digging in around his hips like he means for this to go a lot further; a particular kind of heat sets below his waist, and if he hopes to get any work done at all he needs to slow this down, take a breath, move away from the far too enticing body in front of him.
Then, Blaine finds his voice again, "Yeah, we'll be right out," and he can't help but point a stern index finger.
"No funny business," he jokes, tripping backward toward the door.
Blaine blushes, but he doesn't receive any official reprimand.
He shrugs on his shirt and makes his way out onto the beach, relieving Sam of his position along the shoreline, while Sugar and Blaine do the same for Kitty and Quinn. He wonders what the rest of the others' days look like, whether they head home for a shower and manage to do anything else but nap, or if any of them still have ample time with their boyfriends or girlfriends. Because, in hindsight, the afternoon shift might not be the most ideal time slot. By the time he and Blaine finish every night the day's over, and neither of them have much energy for anything else. Though, if that anything else looks anything like last night, he could learn to live with that.
"Sebastian!" sounds his name all of a sudden, and he turns in time to see Dottie Kazatori make her way over to him. He hasn't seen her since her asthma attack last week, but he's glad to see her better. It's been strange thinking about Harry in all this, how their past together helped relieve Dottie's distress, and how it's inadvertently brought up insecurities he thought he'd dealt with. But Hunter's far more to blame for those.
"Dottie. Hey." He waves, while keeping a wary eye on the people in the water – Sugar wasn't kidding; it's more crowded than usual. "You're not here alone, are you?"
"I'm with friends," Dottie says. "They know what to do in case I have another attack."
"Good." He nods, but makes a mental note to pay close attention to Dottie either way; it's far too stifling for her to be doing anything remotely exerting. "Be careful, okay?"
"O-okay," Dottie stutters, before he has to start his walk down the beach – he can tell he disappoints Dottie, but he's not technically allowed to make small talk when he's watching the beach, and he wouldn't want to get cautioned by his all-American sweetheart.
Over the next few hours they have to isolate two people showing early signs of heat stroke, and they have one fainter, though with the temperature this high it still feels like they got lucky. All of them make sure to remind visitors to stay hydrated, and each of them brings the others a bottle of water so they don't succumb to the heat themselves.
Thankfully, the day draws to an end and the beach empties, heat still sunk in the sand and in their skins, but to his –and Blaine's– great joy the intense afternoon left Sugar far too tired to ask any prying questions. She heads home as soon as they finish tidying up the beach.
"This heat is unbearable."
He draws his sweat-soaked shirt across his forehead, but fails to complain any further when Blaine wraps his arms around him from behind and his chest connects hotly with his back – that's all rather bearable, if he's honest, especially if it promises more lip-locking.
"We could, you know..." Blaine muses and motions to the water, nonchalantly dipping a finger inside the waistband of his shorts. Whatever he thought up or down destabilizes and turns on its head; no one's allowed on the beach after dark, let alone in the water, but his head spins with the idea as his hands slip over Blaine's.
"Skinny dipping?" He cocks an eyebrow. "Without a licensed lifeguard keeping careful watch?"
His embrace loosening, Blaine gives a little shrug that's equal amounts coy and smug, and he heads toward the water. With the sun setting Blaine's silhouette cuts sharp through the twilight, and he watches with parted lips how he lowers his shorts to the sand and steps out of them. His sly rule breaker.
One of these nights their day is going to have to end on or somewhere near a bed, and he doesn't even mean that in any sexual way; he's tired to the bone, and hungry, but his attraction to Blaine proves too strong.
"You're not shy, are you?" Blaine teases as he pauses near the water's edge.
He winks, "I don't want you to start weeping at the sight of my chicken legs," but confidently steps out of his shorts, and toes into the water.
Blaine cackles, so he chases him in the water for a good long while, both of them screeching and slapping at the water, which breezes cool over their flushed skin. Anyone walking past might mistake them for ten year olds, snuck out after dark to go play where they aren't supposed to.
Slowly, a full moon rises and they relax on the water's surface, floating side by side, staring up at a sky dotted with stars, the occasional airplane lights, and a single shooting star.
"Why did you change your mind?" he asks, his question directed more at the stars than at Blaine, his voice dampened through the water in his ears.
Blaine's shoulders rise out of the water. "Did you say something?"
For a moment or two he hesitates. He knew why Blaine turned him down, and maybe that's enough; he doesn't need to hear what brought about Blaine's change of heart, why he went from keeping him at arm's length to confessing he had feelings for him all along. But there must have been a reason.
He shifts, shaking the water from his hair. "Why did you change your mind about me?"
With a few quick strokes Blaine swims over, his hair a loosened mess of wet curls. "Why is that so important to you?"
"I guess-"
He releases a slow uneven breath, staring out over the water as if it might provide a safer answer than the truth – but that's unfair, at this point, after begging that same hazardous response from Blaine yesterday.
So without questioning it any further, but unable to meet Blaine's eyes, he confesses, "-someone broke my heart too," waiting for the inevitable silence, for the surprise in Blaine's eyes and voice to eclipse the anxiety steadily raising goosebumps over his skin. He can't believe how young he sounds, how vulnerable, like he hasn't the slightest clue what he's doing, let alone how to do it. Like he's a kid playing make-believe.
"After you asked me out I talked to my mom," Blaine says, wading another few inches closer.
He should know by now that Blaine wouldn't do him the discourtesy of dismissing his feelings.
"And I talked to Sam."
He meets Blaine's eyes, luminescent under the careful guard of the moonlight.
"I realized I was still letting someone else decide what I did or didn't do."
Hunter's smug grin flashes in his mind's eye like a warning light.
"I don't want him to have that power over me anymore."
After all the confessions laid out in the sparse space still separating them, he understands that too. He gives Hunter that same power by mistrusting this thing between him and Blaine, by somehow putting Blaine on par with Hunter while Hunter doesn't measure up to Blaine in the least, not by the most miniscule amount. Maybe, if this lasts long enough, he'll learn Blaine's everything he hoped Hunter would be and more, because as challenging as Hunter had been, the real challenge had been coming to terms with his own feelings – he loved Hunter, he knows that now, and whatever part of him thus far exposed to this summer fling was falling for Blaine.
Blaine bites at his lower lip, eyes tripping down to his mouth as he draws in a shaky breath. "I- really like you, Sebastian," he says, so quietly it's as if he's afraid the night might steal it away.
He smiles, whispering, "Good answer," even though the clear hesitation in Blaine's voice has its desired effect; it may well be they're kids playing at something far bigger, something lasting, while the opposite could be true as well. Either way they seem committed to whatever's pulling them closer together, to falling into this thing, and as their lips meet he finds solid footing in the sand beneath his feet.
Blaine's arms wind around his neck and his around Blaine's waist and their lips part; they breathe together, their naked bodies touching in rhythm with the waves in the water, and he licks carelessly into Blaine's mouth.
A moan flutters down his throat; he can't tell whose.
"I really like you too," he confesses, voice dipped lower, heart grown a few sizes too big.
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Come Friday he and Blaine choose not to stick around the beach, but to go out together instead. Striking a balance between work and whatever it is they're doing has proven more difficult than either of them expected, but that's okay; what's important is that they're having fun, that they're spending time together, and in due time they'll get the hang of this.
Back home, he jumps in the shower to wash off a few layers of sunscreen and the sand knitted in his hair, and he takes a half hour power nap to regain some sense. He's meeting Blaine at a club later, and he'd prefer most of his faculties intact until he's at least three drinks into the night.
At seven sharp he sits down for dinner with his parents for the first time that summer. His parents usually go out on Fridays, or his dad has a work function to attend, so he mostly ends up eating alone in front of the television. That's suited them fine for the past couple of years, so he suspects this is another one of his mother's attempts at gluing their family back together.
She made lasagna, a personal favorite of both him and his dad, showing how invested she is in this working out. It's a romantic idea, one that brings out the true Parisienne in her, and he daresay he missed seeing it.
All through dinner his dad talks about the case he's working, an important indictment against a big arms manufacturer found bribing a slew of law enforcement officials. It's not unusual to see his dad worked up over a case; he remembers his grandfather no different before his retirement, and it reminds him each time how he doesn't share either of these men's ambitions. He has no desire to be a lawyer or a soldier, two careers that were envisioned for him before he was even born.
"And you, sweetheart?" his mom's voice reaches through his half-hearted attempt at tuning out the conversation. "You have any plans?"
Eyes travelling from his father at the head of the table to his mother opposite him, he resigns himself to her romantic ideals. She's put in the effort of making them this meal, of getting them together around the same table; he might as well repay those efforts by playing nice.
"I'm going out."
"That's nice." His mom's eyes widen with mirth, clearly encouraged by his uncharacteristic openness. "With anyone we know?"
"A guy from work."
His dad's fork clatters down on the table. "What did I tell you about that kind of talk?"
Catching his mom's eyes he raises an eyebrow as if to say, See? This is why this will never work, his father's words hitting them both like a cold shower. He likes to think it's far more important to know who he is and who he wants to be independent of his father, rather than fit into a tailor-made framework designed by someone else, but it makes his father's disapproval no less painful.
"I said going out, dad," he fires back, and meets his father's gaze head-on, "not I'll let him blow me in the backseat of my car."
He watches with great contentment how his father's eyes first widen in shock, and his lips part, right before that signature Lieutenant-Colonel Smythe brow darkens his entire face.
"Leave this table, right now," his father hisses, while his mother's hand curls around her husband's.
"Yeah." He tosses his napkin on the table and shoves his chair back. "Before all this Smythe charm starts rubbing off."
He storms out of the room and stomps up the stairs, shaking with anger by the time he reaches his bedroom, and slams the door shut behind him for good measure. So much for his mother's hopes for them. Things will never be like they were before; before he got caught kissing Harry, before he admitted that yes, he liked boys the way his father deigned he should like girls, and that wasn't going to change. Before he disgraced the family name.
Most of the time he's glad he came out when and how he did, but that didn't mean he didn't often wonder if it would be any easier on his home life if he hadn't, if he'd be at all still capable of that kind of trade: part of his identity in return for fatherly affection. Then he thinks about Harry, and Blaine, and even Hunter, and reasons no, no father's love could be worth this – not the freedom to love who he wants.
What's worse is it's his father who instilled that kind of agency in him in the first place, who taught him to decide the kind of man he wanted to be so that no one else would ever try to change that. How did that end up making him unwanted?
He draws a hand back and forth through his hair. Why does he still let this get to him? He's not unwanted. He has a date with a boy who wants him, and he's not going to let this years-old animosity with his father ruin that.
He dresses in some washed out jeans and a blue shirt, and styles his hair a little, running into his mom in the hallway on his way out.
She's clearly been waiting for him.
"Mom," he sighs, and pushes past her, "I don't want to talk about it."
"Be patient, sweetheart." His mom's at his back as he heads down the stairs. "He's trying."
"No, he's not. He never has." He turns to face his mom halfway down the stairs. Of all the things he might need right now his mom making excuses isn't one of them. "You're trying for the both of you."
It's more than that; his mom doesn't have to try because she accepts him for who he is – she'd prefer if he drank solely under her supervision and that he remained sexually inactive for another few years, but beggars can't be choosers; he's an exemplary student, he's never embarrassed either his parents outright, and he's never railed against the system the way his father imagines he does. He's allowed some transgressions.
"So, this boy-" his mom prompts, expertly changing the subject.
A smile slips to a corner of his mouth like it's a reflex. "Blaine."
"I thought he wasn't into you."
"He's just-" he breathes, and thinks about it, how everything changed so fast, how Blaine changed his mind and he'd fallen into whatever-this-is without sparing it a second thought, and how it's all so... uncontainable. It shouldn't make sense, he should be more cautious after Hunter, but he and Blaine have a connection he can't deny.
He shrugs, "It's just for the summer," even as the imprint of Blaine's lips on his skin feels nowhere near that casual.
At that, his mom smiles, like she knows something he doesn't, and he hasn't felt like this much of a kid around her in years. She takes a step closer, and brushes a hand along his shoulder, her eyes glossing over. "A summer love can be the most meaningful relationship you ever experience, Sebastian."
Gravity takes hold of him.
Love?
There's a tiny whisper of a voice at the back of his mind that's considered it, that suspects this is more than Blaine's way of hiding from his obligations or reputation, and more than his way of running from his loneliness, from home, which has become oppressive even when it's not invaded by construction workers.
But, love? Is that what he and Blaine are playing at?
"Don't waste a single moment."
"I won't," he says softly, making the same vow, here, now, to not let anyone dictate what he can or can't do with his heart – if his father wants to think less of him than so be it; he won't be under his yoke forever and the moment he graduates he'll be out of here, he'll make his own way in a world of his own making.
"And be safe." His mom taps a finger to his nose, distracting him as she slips a condom into his shirt pocket.
"Mom," he groans, all too aware of the two wrappers in his back pocket.
He follows her downstairs red in the face, and stares at the closed door of his father's office, where he must've slunk back to after dinner. Despite his best intentions shutting out his father's words it never hurts any less, to sit next to his father at the dinner table and hear a small devil whisper, What's wrong with you? Why can't you be the son he wanted?, some twisted trick his mind liked to played on him. He never has to worry about those voices at Dalton, or back at the beach, or, he realizes, in his mother's presence.
He trusts that his mom has his best interests at heart even if his father doesn't, that he's a priority to her and that when he's away at school she misses him.
He should take greater care keeping in touch.
Overcome with what he supposes most people would call sentiment, he kisses his mom's cheek on his way out.
"What was that for?"
He shrugs, halfway out the door, and winks. "For looking out for me."
Twenty minutes later he and Blaine find an empty booth for them to sink into with their drinks, far enough from the music to hear the other talk, close enough for the beat to be a distraction to a heart prone to more irregular rhythms when it beats around Blaine.
Its current rhythm still lay chained to his dad's words, a familiar yoke weighted across his shoulders. This is why he didn't come home more often, why he opted to stay at Dalton over the weekends, and why his relationship with his mother took the turn it did. He hasn't been able to breathe at home for three years, constantly erasing himself in the rooms he occupies, wiping away his fingerprints where they stain the meticulous surfaces of his father's life.
"Hey."
A hand digs through his hair, and his eyes fall shut for a moment. Why's he thinking about his dad at a time like this? He's at a popular club with great music in the company of a boy he's exclusively touched in his fantasies up until now – now Blaine sits tucked into his lap.
"What's wrong?" Blaine asks, scratching at his scalp, which does things to his insides he never thought possible. "You're somewhere else."
"I know" –he sighs, curling two fingers around his beer– "I'm sorry."
Blaine settles in tighter, pushing a kiss to his temple. "Did something happen at home?"
"My dad, he-" He takes a swig of his beer, swallowing hard. "He's ex-military."
Blaine's head drops. Don't ask, don't tell, he realizes, and the push of Blaine's lips to his shoulder impresses the whole entire weight of that history, of denial and shame and forced conformation. He tries his best to live his life without adhering to those base doctrines, but some days that's easier than others. "I'm sorry."
He wishes it didn't come at the expense of his time with Blaine.
"Forget it." He draws in a deep breath and shakes off his unease, turning into Blaine's body – he's with the boy of his dreams, far from any disapproving parents. "Let's have some fun."
"I thought we were." Blaine smiles, and surges forward to plant a big lingering kiss on his lips in plain sight of everyone. It frees up space in his lungs his father stole, Blaine's mouth breaking down his discontent, bringing him to this singular moment in time where all he needs to be is Sebastian. Not the son of.
Don't waste a single moment, his mom's words echo through the room and unchain his heartbeat, and he coaxes Blaine onto the dance floor meaning to do just that; leave his mark, be present, stain his fingerprints everywhere.
Music washes over them in waves, and the ebb and flow of the crowd swallows them up in a sea of bodies – Blaine stays close, and as alcohol flows through his veins, taking the edge off the worst of his father's bark, they're cheering, jumping, throwing up their arms, singing along even though their voices don't reach over the music.
He detaches from anything still holding him down, sweat dripping down his temples and he doubts anyone could ever take this from him, push him down into a box again, force him to be anyone other than who he's made himself into.
Blaine's arms fold around his neck, and his hands draw down to Blaine's hips, and soon they're not so much dancing as they're slow grinding, one of Blaine's legs between his, their foreheads pressed together, their hips rolling in the same circular motion.
He kisses Blaine, or Blaine kisses him, he's lost sight of the minutiae, and whatever takes hold of him he gives into it without question. Emboldened, his hands grab down around Blaine's ass and pull him impossibly close, their groins skimming, hands exploring, skin flushing with the kind of heat no season brings. Goosebumps rise over his entire body in spite of that heat, realizing where this is going, where and how they might end up.
Blaine bites behind his ear. "Let's get out of here."
He doesn't have to be told twice.
Their hands locked they head for his car, where they fall into the backseat together, trading heated kisses while frantically tugging at each other's clothes, the windows fogging up.
He ends up on top of Blaine, and they start rubbing up against each other without rhyme or reason, working themselves into such a frenzy Blaine loses track of his mouth and gasps, "Oh God," before biting behind his ear, hips bucking up into him, "Oh f-fuck."
"You are exceptionally sensitive, Anderson."
"It's- been a while," Blaine breathes, and the confession flutters like wings in his chest; it's reassuring to hear Blaine's sharing this with him without reservation, that he chose him and now to do this again and that he wants to be here.
"Well then" –he pushes a soft kiss to Blaine's throat– "I probably shouldn't rush this."
Blaine shudders beneath him, tugging at his shirt until it gives way and ends up in the front seat, while he hikes up Blaine's shirt to litter and bite kisses down his chest. His feet push flat against the car door, his long legs hopelessly in the way, but he refuses to sacrifice a single inch of space, not when he undoes Blaine's pants, not when he slips them down his hips, not when he leans in and plants a kiss over his hipbone, causing Blaine to shake harder.
He smiles against Blaine's skin.
"Come here," Blaine whispers, and he meets him without question, tongue-tied and falling.
Blaine reaches down between their bodies to undo the button on his jeans, pull down the zipper, and shimmies his pants just past the width of his hips. His forehead lowered to Blaine's he breathes hard, moaning once Blaine's hand grabs around both of them and it's all he can do to keep from crying out.
Blaine strokes them a few times, until he starts thrusting into Blaine's hand, creating enough friction for the both of them. He brings their foreheads together again, moving too frantic to coordinate their mouths properly, and they dissolve into chorus of moans and gasps, hitching breaths, teeth raking over skin until he can't take it anymore – he stills and cries out and comes all over Blaine's chest, Blaine following soon after.
His arms give out and he lowers down over Blaine, who opens his legs so he can settle more comfortably, riding out their climaxes, shivering and twitching.
"Next time we do this in a bed," he mutters into Blaine's shoulder, devolving into an uncomfortable kind of sticky. He dislikes the thought of going home to shower, though; he wants whatever time he can get with Blaine.
"Oh" –Blaine scratches at the small of his back– "next time?"
His face falls, coming down a bit too hard, and as he rises on his arms again he stutters, "Y-yeah" in a panic. Had he read this all wrong?
"Relax," Blaine laughs, "I'm joking," before pulling him back down into a kiss – Blaine can't do that, give and steal oxygen at a moment's notice because before long his lungs will give out and he'll lose all sense of self. Maybe he has already, given Blaine this power over him.
He smiles, "You're a fucking mess," which earns him a few loving pats to his cheek.
"Speak for yourself," Blaine hums, a bit out of this world.
.
After that, there's no stopping them.
Blaine introduces him to Sam properly, who he met through his work volunteering at one of the many soup kitchens the mayor's office uses for its PR stints, and reveals that Quinn's family are indeed important contributors to his dad's campaign, but they bonded over a shared loathing of their families' connections. Their merry band of lifeguards agrees to go out for drinks several nights in a row, and they talk about new movies, make fun of other people at the bar, and split the check evenly, even though the girls ordered expensive cocktails.
.
One night at karaoke, after one drink too many, he serenades Blaine with an Ed Sheeran song and even adds an impromptu dance combination, coming back to the table with a "That's a Dalton Academy Warbler, Anderson," and a wink, before throwing an arm around Blaine's neck and pulling him back into his lap.
Everyone applauds and demands an encore, and he happily obliges.
He can't recall a time he had a group of friends like this outside of Dalton, or this close to home, fun and silly and acceptant of his sexuality. It makes him worry he's been in some part responsible for his own isolation, too picky about who he lets into his life, because by the looks of it Blaine's never adhered to that policy, and he's surrounded by people who love him every day.
Yet, Blaine's still isolated all the same. His father's name ensures that.
.
"I'm clearly a good influence on you." Blaine giggles, and pushes him into a bathroom stall before he's able to get his bearings. He stumbles backward and catches himself at the stall door, before Blaine's all over him, attempting to get him out of his pants.
"Killer." He grabs around Blaine's wrists. "You're drunk."
Cheekily rising to the tips of his toes, Blaine begs a kiss he can't resist granting, and he lets go of Blaine, of any resistance he may have still felt. Blaine taking charge has undoubtedly become one of his biggest turn-ons, and he doesn't protest now, especially not when Blaine bites into his lower lip, and says, "I'm not that drunk."
He swallows hard and licks his lips, Blaine's hand working over him in circles, taking a painstakingly long time to free him from his pants.
"I seem to recall you saying you were never..." –he gasps as Blaine slides a hand inside his boxers– "... drinking again."
"I seem to recall you telling me that was a promise I could never keep," Blaine mutters to his lips, before falling to his knees, licking a hot line over him.
.
One insanely early morning, bribed with sufficient amounts of caffeine, he and Blaine take their bikes and cycle up to Crescent Point, hiking the last two miles because the climb is too steep. Given that it's six in the morning it's not too hot, and since it's summer no other person sound of mind is out at this hour, so they should have the look-out over the valley all to themselves.
By the time they reach the top his calves burn, an ache he'll undoubtedly endure for a few more days.
"You owe me for this big-time, killer."
"I got you coffee." Blaine blinks, as if he's innocent in all this, his eyes far too big for someone who got up at five to catch a sunrise. "And I can treat you to other things later."
His hands slip around Blaine's waist. "Tell me more about these other things."
Blaine's laughter echoes much farther than he thought possible up here, but it must be a nice sound for Westerville to wake up to, if anyone down there can hear them – the steep cliffs at Crescent Point drop down into a wide valley, overlooking Westerville and Lima and several of the neighboring towns, even Columbus in the far distance.
He hugs Blaine to his chest, tempted to fall asleep exactly like this.
"Thank you for doing this with me," Blaine whispers as the sun rises behind them, bathing the entire valley in light.
Even he can see the poetry in this, rising at the crack of dawn to watch the rest of their small world wake up too, fully realizing how small it is, and how much more there's out there waiting for him. For them.
The world's at their feet and theirs for the taking.
He kisses the top of Blaine's head. "It was worth it."
.
At work Sugar bombards them with questions every single day, dissatisfied that she's being kept out of the loop for the most part. Neither of them have trouble showing each other affection even with Sugar around, but they do try to remain as professional as possible when they're out doing their job – he wouldn't put it past a bigot or two to contact Miss Rhodes and get them fired because their children were subjected to their relationship.
So, Sugar complains and huffs and puffs, but he can't lament that.
What he has with Blaine is his, and it's Blaine's, and no one else's.
.
One rainy weekend he invites Blaine over and they built themselves a little nest in his room; they lay out blankets and stack pillows and install his laptop on the floor, binging on Netflix series and documentaries, snacks, and each other, making out and letting their hands wander.
Blaine watches the second season of some show called Sense8, which he doesn't understand at all, but a lot of the actors are hot, and when the scenes get more erotic it's hard for Blaine to keep his hands to himself – so he suffers through.
His father either isn't home or remains unaware Blaine visited at all, because no sermons come his way, and he doesn't get kicked out of the house for bringing a boy over. He imagines he has his mom to thank for that.
"You never told me you were dating Blaine Anderson." His mom slaps at his arm, sneaking up on him after he sees Blaine out; try as they might to spend all their free time together, they both still have family obligations to fulfill.
"You never asked."
"What does the mayor think about you dating his son?"
He shrugs. Why would that matter? He never told his mom because Blaine's last name had nothing to do with him falling for him – on the contrary, it was his name that'd made him sound far less appealing than he turned out to be, too reminiscent of how Hunter's name was worshipped in certain circles. He was proven wrong, but Blaine's last name still didn't matter.
Should it? Should he heed his mother's question? Has his affection for Blaine blinded him to the fact that for all intents and purposes what they're doing can still be considered as sneaking around? He talks all big about shaping his own world while he goes around behind his father's back – it's all in order to avoid alienating his family any further, but now he can't help but wonder: was he a secret Blaine kept from his parents?
.
"Have you told your parents about me?" he blurts out at random the following day, he and Blaine retreated back to their fort of blankets and pillows, rain clattering against the windows.
Blaine sits up and pauses the second to last episode of his binge, and gives his question his undivided attention. He never meant for it to come out, because his trust in Blaine reached levels not a single person has thus far earned, but he doubts bottling up stuff like this benefits any kind of relationship; this is something that bothers him, and it matters because it never mattered to Hunter.
"Of course I have." Blaine settles back down next to him, pulling a pillow in his lap. "Why?"
"Nothing. It's stupid." He huffs a laugh, and he stares down at his hands for want of anything better to do. What is it about talking about his feelings that turns him into a twelve-year old boy?
Blaine bumps their shoulders together. "It's not stupid."
He catches Blaine's eyes in a careful sideways glance, but once he does he can't look away. Blaine is beautiful, and he's kind, and he understands him in ways no one ever has. Not even his mom.
"You're not some dirty little secret to me, Sebastian."
The words are more liberating than he ever thought possible; he's been tied to a past with another boy –the wrong boy– for so long it's unfairly affected his relationship with Blaine. Blaine isn't Hunter, and he's not the same boy he was before Hunter, and it all makes him fall for what they have that much harder.
.
That weekend his dad makes him attend a luncheon with his colleagues, each of them hoping to brainwash their offspring into taking a similar career path as them. He's on his best behavior among his peers, as he is through most of these things, laughing at all the jokes and puns, boasting about his grade point average and extra-curriculars, and secretly texting the boy he's dating.
Blaine, 1:05pm: I'll have you know I make an excellent plus one ;)
Sebastian, 1:08pm: It's not really your scene.
Blaine, 1:10pm: You're my scene.
He snorts, and quickly focuses back on a conversation about future college plans, before his father can fault him for anything other than his sexuality.
These affairs are all lies; no one his age wants to be here and everyone older than him more than likely has better things to do – there are a few exceptions, a few sons that earned their fathers' pride by committing to a career none of them know the first thing about, but that's on them. For him it's nothing but a mask, a costume he wears to fool his dad's colleagues into thinking he's like them, that this is a future he wants as much as his father does, and leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth.
It's all for show, all for his father's reputation, and he's nothing more than a prized animal taken out on special occasions meant to behave.
"Sebastian," his father calls for him once lunch is over, everyone broken into smaller groups, headed off to other afternoon plans.
He gravitates toward his father and conjures his fakest smile for his dad's old business partner Ronald and his son Dylan. There was a time he and Dylan hung out as friends, until the older boy started drinking the Kool-Aid and accepted the mold his parents provided. Maybe it was easier.
"Ronald has invited us for a game," his father says. "I thought you might like to join us."
A game, he learned, was code for golf, which in turn meant him and Dylan playing caddie. His good behavior must have fooled his father into believing he's at all interested in lugging around golf clubs for the rest of the day, all while singing his praises. He's had his fill of that today.
"I'm sorry, I can't," he says, while an urge overtakes him the likes he should learn to control better, lest he does get kicked out of the house without a trust fund to support him. "I made plans with my boyfriend."
His mom will probably lecture him later about his childish need to antagonize his father, and how the books say that doesn't benefit a healthy father-son relationship, but he'll power through without complaint; it's worth seeing the look of sheer horror on his father's and Ronald's faces, and the barely contained smile on Dylan's.
He winks. "Don't let me stop you, though."
He punches out and heads outside, where Blaine's waiting for him. He sinks down into the passenger's seat of the car, relaxing for the first time that day.
"I'm your scene?" he mocks Blaine's earlier text to him.
Blaine laughs. "Shut up."
Their lips meet in a quick kiss, and as they drive past all the rakes his dad works with he experiences the most distinctive sense of joy. What can be more liberating than this? Being exactly who he is, with a boy he's crazy about, sticking it to the man?
"How was lunch?"
"You mean lunch with the Clone Club?"
He unbuttons his pressed white shirt and tosses it into the backseat, along with his dress pants, and retrieves the outfit he stashed in Blaine's car yesterday. No way he's going to a football game in his Sunday Best.
"It was fine. I know the drill." He shrugs, shimmying into a pair of shorts. "Brag. Smile. Warble on."
"Sounds like one of my dad's charity dinners."
"Hmm," he hums, leaving thoughts of his dad behind. "I was even invited for golf."
Blaine feigns shock. "You passed up golf?"
"I told them I had plans with my boyfriend."
Focused on the road, Blaine nods in response, but still manages to mess around. "Because I'm a boy-"
"-who is my friend." He chuckles. "Exactly."
Boyfriend isn't a word they've used; not because they aren't, or because they don't mean to be, but because it doesn't matter what they are. He doesn't need a label or a definition.
They drive up to Columbus, where they spend the rest of the day. Blaine shops around for chinos and loafers, and he stocks up on books. Their seats at the game are terrible, almost packed all the way up into the rafters; they eat stale hotdogs and drink lukewarm lemonade, and cheer for teams they can barely tell apart, but none of that matters when he's with Blaine. The rest of the summer could devolve into storms and rain showers and they'll manage to have a good time. Nothing can take this from him, not even the end of summer.
After the game they stumble their way through the crowd holding hands, retelling the exciting bottom of the ninth as if they're sports commentators and they hadn't both watched the underdog take the game.
"I thought you didn't like football," Blaine says.
He smiles, but whatever he meant to follow that up with catches at the back of his throat at the sight of a familiar set of eyes in the crowd. Hunter Clarington.
Time slows for a few infinitesimal moments, the six months before the summer flashing before his eyes like a highlight reel; every decision, every mistake, every wrong turn he took on his way to a broken heart. He barely recognizes himself, groveling at Hunter's feet, falling over himself backward, coming back for more even when it became clear Hunter in no way reciprocated his feelings.
"Sebastian?" Blaine asks.
The eye contact lasts exactly two seconds, before he watches Hunter discard him like he had a dozen times over the course of their relationship. How had he ever let it come that far? Why had he let himself be toyed with like that?
He licks over his teeth. He won't let Hunter do this; he won't let him under his skin any more that he had done these past few months. He moved on. His indifference proves that.
"Let's go."
It's been a long journey and he's still on the road to recovery, but he's not angry anymore. If Hunter was content living his life closeted and forcing himself into a box so be it; Hunter stopped being his problem the moment he dumped him, and he's come to terms with the mistake he made ever trying to pursue a relationship with him. His time's better spent elsewhere, somewhere closer to home ironically, with someone far more loving and far more caring.
As if reading his mind, Blaine takes his hand and holds it, and as their eyes meet, as he leaves Hunter Clarington and his past behind him, he thinks his mom was right. Whatever he builds with Blaine, whether it lasts or not, it'll forever be one of the most meaningful relationships he ever has.
"Who was that guy at the stadium?" Blaine asks over dinner at a small steakhouse they passed on their way into the city.
He should've known his brief encounter with Hunter –if that's at all what he could call it– wouldn't go unnoticed. In any other circumstances he might not be so willing to share, but this is Blaine, and he carries wounds still sensitive to the touch too.
"Asshole who broke my heart."
Blaine sits quietly for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. "You want to talk about it?"
His knife and fork lowered to the table, he sits back; it's not a story he hasn't run through a million times already, and there's nothing for him to be ashamed of. It took him a long time to come to terms with that.
"Hunter isn't out to his parents," he says, "so we snuck around. But he-"
He draws in a deep breath, pushing down all the vile things he's labeled Hunter since they broke up. Liar. Asshole. Insensitive jerk. And the one word that keeps coming back like a ghost that haunts him. Heartless.
"It was just physical for him, and it wasn't for me. It took me a while to realize that."
Blaine reaches out and cups a hand around his. "I'm sorry."
"Live and learn, right?"
Blaine smiles weakly, before his eyes fall down into his empty plate. What has Blaine had to live through and learn, he wonders; a cheating ex, someone he thought he'd move in with after high school, another asshole like so many others that couldn't tell a good thing when they had it? Neither of them has talked about their previous relationships until today, and having it out there doesn't make him feel any less vulnerable. He doubts that'll ever change.
It's never as simple as the expressions assert; moving on isn't something that happens in the blink of an eye, getting over it is easier said than done, and life never spells out its life lessons as clearly as people like to pretend it does. He may not have shed tears over Hunter Clarington, but that relationship did a number on him. He can't imagine what it must be like being cheated on.
"This guy- you dated."
Blaine looks up. He vaguely considers that these aren't the kind of conversations two boys simply playing at a summer fling share, and the pained expression around Blaine's eyes almost makes him rethink his question. But he'd spoken about his ex in no uncertain terms weeks ago; like him, Blaine was done letting someone else make his decisions for him.
"How long were you two together?"
"Almost two years." Blaine pushes his arms underneath the table, and shrinks smaller in his seat. "He- accused me of flirting with every guy I met."
His eyebrows shoot up.
"So he cheated." Blaine shrugs, and avoids his eyes.
"Blaine," –he scoots forward, trying to catch Blaine's line of sight– "even if that were true, that's some fucked up logic."
And Blaine nods, like he's barely convinced and still struggling with his part of the blame, and he understands that what Blaine means to say is It took me a while to realize that, like it took him a while to cast Hunter in the role of villain, and what little blame lay on his shoulders had only ever been overlooking the truth. Hunter never wanted him the way he wanted Hunter, and this asshole Blaine dated clearly didn't care enough about their relationship to respect Blaine, or talk about things before committing such a heinous act.
"I'm sorry that happened to you."
"Live and-" Blaine grimaces, "-suffer, and learn, right?"
Yeah. That's all bullshit, anyway.
He grabs his Coke and raises it higher. "A toast."
This, at least, draws a smile from Blaine, and he joins him in toasting. "To recognizing assholes."
He smiles. "And cutting them out of our lives."
.
"I was afraid of this," Blaine whispers, and turns lazily into his shoulder, his index finger drawing a line along his collarbone. It tickles; he's certain Blaine knows that, but that doesn't stop him from caressing the same line over his skin again and again. Blaine's bare feet toe at his shins and they've molten into the mattress like it's memory foam, set perfectly around the outlines of their bodies.
The bedroom windows opened wide so the scent of the joint doesn't stick around the house, he catches Blaine's hazel eyes in between two blinks of his, eyelids drooping, his body's edges coalescing into Blaine's. Orange and yellow spots dance around his field of vision from overexposure to everything the summer has been so far; fun and terrifying and eye-opening.
"Of what?" he asks, taking a long drag from the cigarette – it's a stalling technique, he realizes, because for a while now he's suspected the same thing Blaine's about to address, that it's love brewing between them the likes he's never known and that's so incredibly scary and exciting at the same time part of him wishes Blaine wouldn't say it at all.
Smoke curls and fades in the narrow space their bodies occupies, and in Blaine's eyes he finds his own hesitation reflected. They're too young for this and he's far too inexperienced to be versed in the overall denouement of it all. What if this is love? How does he do this?
"Being this crazy about you," Blaine whispers, pupils blown, lips kissed a swollen red, surrendered to the idea that this is what it is – it's love or something like it. It could be fleeting, it might end the moment summer bleeds into fall and the leaves darken into a gloomy brown, but right here right now it's real, and it's the deepest he's ever felt for anyone.
His lips meet Blaine's in that dance they've memorized, short sweet kisses that grow more heated, but maintain the slow mellow pace the drug in their veins commands, and all the while a single thought keeps spinning through his mind.
Could this be love?
.
.
tbc
.