The first thing that registered was his heartbeat.
He could feel it everywhere, pounding into every part of his body, drumming a rapid rhythm too rapid for someone who just woke up. His breathing didn't even make sense; he was taking shallow, painful breaths that seemed to burn whenever he inhaled through his nose.
The next thing that registered was the pain.
His nose hurt, inside and out, and it only took a slight twitch for him to feel just how much dried blood was inside his nostrils. The whole area around his nose felt sore, and when he reached a careful hand up to touch it, he felt a bandage and his head jerked away from his hand, a gasp of pain escaping from his lips.
There was more pain, he realized. His neck felt raw and had also hurt when he'd jerked his head away from his curious hand. Down his back he felt dull, aching pains like the ones he got when he sat in one position for too long, finally exploding at the base of his spine into something excruciating. A low moan escaped his lips this time, and he raised his hand to cover his eyes.
What the hell had happened to him?
He picked himself up, noticing that the pain didn't stop at his tailbone. There was a deeper pain coming from inside him, similar to the dull aches in his upper back, but there was something almost pleasant in how this particular hurt felt.
He blinked, looking around at his surroundings. He was in his dorm, in his bed, wearing the casual clothes he had changed into yesterday before going off to Akron with Jesse. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, could barely remember what had happened after drinking that beer at the club Jesse had taken him to. But he'd only had that one beer, right? He hadn't had any more, and he'd been in perfect control of himself, albeit a little loosened up.
His confused reflection stared back at him when he went to look in the mirror. His hair was wild and there was dried blood around his nose, bandage stretched across it no doubt to help hold it where it belonged as it healed from whatever had happened to it. His eyes traveled down his reflection, spotting a bruise near the top of his neck.
Hastily pulling aside the collar of his shirt, he stared at the side of his neck, stared at the line of bruises there, memories flooding back.
He felt Jesse's lips on his neck, sucking each one of those bruises to life, both of them naked and rocking together. He had breathed out Jesse's name over and over, holding him down on top of him with hands running over the curve of Jesse's lower back, forcefully grabbing his ass and bucking his hips upward when Jesse pulled away momentarily and all but growled, "Blaine."
Blaine's cheeks flushed at the memory, heart thudding, as if afraid someone would come in and hear his thoughts. As if by thinking, by remembering what had happened, someone else would be given access to these obviously repressed memories. He had to calm his breaths, forcing himself to sit back down on the edge of his bed, closing his eyes and letting himself become lost in thought.
It all came flooding back at once. He remembered getting coffee with Jesse, the drive out to Akron, how Jesse had started dancing with two girls at a club and something in him had snapped. He remembered the sudden desire to feel his friend pressed against him, to touch him and kiss him, how he'd given into that desire and ended up sitting in Jesse's lap as they moved against each other. He remembered how Jesse had pushed him away, remembered how they'd suddenly ended up in the backseat of Jesse's car.
But then what had happened? How had they ended up in the backseat in the first place, and how had he ended up back here in Westerville when logic would have him waking up in Jesse's arms in that same and probably sticky backseat?
He wondered what it would feel like to wake up in Jesse's arms. He gave himself over to imagination, feeling those strong, firm arms wrapped around him again, fingers brushing over his chest. The feel of Jesse's body angled against his own, perfectly aligned and all but fused together, stuck to one another with a sheen of sweat. It would be messy and it would be smelly, but they would be together.
So why was he here? Blaine opened his eyes, standing up and walking over to his mirror again. His confused reflection stared back at him, nose starting to throb with pain.
Ignoring it for the time being, Blaine unbuttoned his shirt, slowly peeling away the fabric and stepping inches away from the mirror, examining his now bared skin. His neck was completely red, splotches of purple here and there, the imprint Jesse's lips had left on his skin. His eyes traveled downward, taking note of the almost embarrassing number of little purple marks along his chest. Face flushing even more, he unbuttoned the top of his jeans, letting them fall to the floor, turning down the waistband on his boxers and feeling his breath hitch in his chest.
His skin was a nasty shade of red, hips bruised and angry marks standing out where his bones jutted out prominently. He brushed one of the angry marks gently with his fingers, breath hitching again and eyelids fluttering closed.
"J-Jesse," he'd breathed out, watching as the older boy worked his way down his body, fingers squeezing and teeth scraping, tongue occasionally poking out to taste the salty skin. Jesse had held his hips down with an unbearably tight grip, mouthing at his skin and making him gasp and moan in response to what he was doing with his lips, with his tongue, with his teeth. Blaine had struggled weakly against Jesse's hold, half-wanting to draw him back up and press their bodies back together and half-wanting to just go along with whatever it was Jesse was doing to him. He'd cried out when Jesse's lips traveled lower, one hand fisting in his own hair while the other scrabbled at the leather seat, trying to find something to hold onto.
Blaine didn't dare pull his boxers down any further. Deciding that he didn't want to see, didn't want to know what other marks Jesse had left on him, he shivered, body suddenly registering just how cold the room was without any clothes on.
Which, of course, was when Wes decided to make his grand entrance.
"Oh, good, you're awake," the boy said as he slipped into Blaine's room unannounced and uninvited. Blaine jumped, yelling in protest and shock, hands fastening on the turned-down waistband of his boxers and yanking them up. Wes seemed completely unperturbed by Blaine's current state of undress, walking purposefully over to his desk and making a grab for something.
"Wes," Blaine fought to keep his voice even, "what the hell happened?"
"Shut up and take these," Wes pressed a glass of water and a bottle of pills into Blaine's hands. "How's your nose feeling?"
"Uh, horrible," Blaine sat down on the edge of his bed, placing the glass of water down on one of his bedposts as he unscrewed the top of the bottle of pills. He downed two with a swig of water, then tossed the pill bottle back to Wes, making a grab for one of his blankets to cover himself up.
"I gathered as much," Wes shrugged, setting the pills down on Blaine's desk again and plopping himself down in Blaine's desk chair. "You're welcome, by the way, for fixing it." Blaine reached up to touch his noise, wincing when his fingers brushed the tender area with a feather-light touch.
"You fixed my nose?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Hell yeah," Wes looked proud of himself. "I'm not all talk when I say I'm going to med school next year. I've picked up a few tricks from volunteering at the hospital, thank you very much. So you should be thanking me, actually, for saving you one extremely awkward trip to the local clinic at four in the morning."
"What are you talking about?" Blaine frowned at him.
"You," Wes pointed. "And how you turned up on campus at four in the morning completely passed out in a pool of nasty in the back of that Jesse kid's car. And just for the record, he looked like sex when I came down to meet him. And not the cover-of-Playgirl kind of sex, I'm talking the I-just-fucked-my-brains-out-and-drove-two-hours-and-let-the-smell-get-funky kind of sex." Wes waggled his eyebrows. "So. Did Jesse fuck your brains out?"
"No," Blaine denied it as if by reflex. Wes just raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. Blaine was suddenly reminded of how Wes barged in on him in nothing but his underwear, getting an eyeful of all the marks Jesse had left along his body. "Okay, yes."
"And were you terrible at it?" Wes pressed for more information, now smirking. Blaine glared at him. "What? It's a fair question. He kind of looked like the world was ending, which means you're either a terrible lay or the best lay he's ever had. So what's the problem?"
"I didn't realize there was a problem," Blaine tugged the blanket tighter around his body, fingers clenching around the fabric. "Wes, I don't know what's going on. I don't even know how I got up here."
"David and I carried you," Wes explained. "Yeah, Jesse called both of us at four-freaking-A-M to come down and get you. Why he couldn't at least walk you up a flight of stairs is beyond me, but no. He wakes the two of us up and all but pleads with us to not wake you up. And then he books it on out of there as soon as we've got you out of the car, doesn't even bother to close the back door."
"Wait, what?"
"Yeah, you'd think he'd at least tell us why you have a broken nose, but no."
"So, essentially I just got fucked two different ways by the guys who was supposed to be my best friend," Blaine decided bitterly.
"If you want to put it that way," Wes shrugged. "Was he at least good at it?"
Blaine glared at him.
"What?"
"A little sympathy would be nice," Blaine sighed heavily. "This isn't exactly a speed bump here, Wes. We're talking a fucking deadly car crash."
"Fine, fine," Wes held up his hands as if in surrender. "No more stupid questions."
Blaine ignored him, making a grab for his phone and not caring that the blanket slipped down off his shoulder, showing off the bruises on his neck. Cursing under his breath, he pressed and held the number '4.' Nothing happened.
"Fucking speed dial," Blaine swore again, instead scrolling through his contacts to find the J's. He scrolled all the way through them, not seeing Jesse's name. So he scrolled back up, frowning when he still didn't see the boy's name. Thinking that maybe he had accidentally put him in under 'St. James' and never noticed, he scrolled through the S's, still unable to find the familiar name.
"Give me your phone," Blaine held out a hand, not bothering to cover himself back up when Wes turned to look at him, obviously eyeing his bruises. Wes handed it over, and Blaine quickly found the list of Wes's recent calls. He didn't see Jesse's name or even an unnamed number there, just a bunch of calls from Emma, Mom, and David. His own number showed up, the call made at 3:56 the previous night.
"Wait, he called you with my phone?" Blaine handed the phone back.
"Yeah," Wes nodded. "Why?"
"Fucking bastard," Blaine said angrily, seizing his own phone again and trying to dial Jesse's number from memory. "Fucking, fucking bastard."
"What's wrong?" Wes hovered half out of his seat, clearly wanting to do something to help. Blaine just flapped a hand at him, shutting him up. His phone started ringing, an unfamiliar voice picking up on the third ring.
"Sorry, wrong number," Blaine said quickly, hanging up and trying again.
It took him four tries, but finally he got the right number.
"Hi, you've reached Jesse St. James," the recorded voice said. "I can't come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you shortly. If you're calling with a job offer, expect a response in no more than two hours. Thank you."
There was a beep, signaling that the voice mail was recording, but Blaine didn't speak at first. Then, clearing his throat and finding his voice, he said, "Hey, Jesse, it's me. Uh, I don't really know what's going on, so please, please give me a call. I really need to talk to you."
Wes was wearing a look that Blaine really, really didn't like when he hung up.
"What?" Blaine demanded, scowling at the boy.
"Nothing," Wes shrugged. "I mean… are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Blaine's tone was so sarcastic that the boys probably could have reached out and touched it if they'd wanted to. "I just had sex with my best friend and woke up to find myself with a broken nose and his number deleted from my phone. I'm just peachy."
"Blaine…" Wes started, actually getting up out of the chair and coming to sit on the bed next to Blaine. But Blaine just shook his head, motioning for the door.
"Can you leave now?"
Wes gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder, carefully avoiding all the little red marks, as he left the room. Blaine didn't move off his bed until he heard the door close. Letting the blanket drop from around his shoulders, he walked back over to the mirror, eyes raking over his own body again.
"What the hell did you do to me, Jesse?"
Turning away from the mirror, Blaine went over to his desk, turning on his laptop and spinning his desk chair around so he could sit. He tapped his fingers impatiently as he waited for the computer to turn on, immediately loading an internet browser the second his desktop screen popped up. Logging into facebook took him two tries, forgetting his own password the first time around.
He began typing Jesse's name in the search bar at the top of the page. Normally Jesse's name popped up as soon as he had typed in the 'J,' but this time he had typed in the boy's full name and received nothing. Groaning in frustration, Blaine went to his messages, knowing that there would be quite a few from Jesse there. But instead of seeing Jesse's headshot next to his messages, there was just the generic no-picture-available outline of a face, with no name beside it. Blaine clicked on one of the messages, realizing that the message itself was still there, but there was no way of clicking on the little blank face to get to Jesse's profile.
He tried everything. He searched Jesse's name twice, scrolled through all of his friends, went back through every single picture of the two of them only to realize that Jesse had been untagged in every single one. Desperate, he googled his friend's name, getting his facebook fanpage as a result. But when he clicked on the link, he got the message 'this page is no longer available.'
"You're a fucking bastard," he repeated his earlier curse. "You complete bastard. What the hell did you do?"
It didn't take a genius to figure it out. Jesse had de-friended him and then blocked him from seeing his profile. Even his fanpage had been blocked. So Blaine logged out of facebook, trying to see if he could at least get to the guarded version of the page people would see before sending a friend request.
That seemed to work. But it didn't do him much good; he couldn't send Jesse an anonymous message and Jesse's privacy settings made sure that the only thing he could see was generic information anyone could figure out if they thought about it long enough. No, it seemed as if facebook would not be giving Blaine any answers.
He slammed his laptop shut, which was, of course, the moment when his phone decided to ring. Not bothering to look and see who it was, Blaine dove for it, answering on the second ring and saying, "Jesse?"
"No, it's Mom!"
Great. She sounded pleased about something, and Blaine was in no mood to deal with his parents. It was bad enough that they paraded him around on holidays as their child prodigy, leader of the Warblers and almost top of his class (damn you, Wes), showing him off like they would a groomed poodle at a dog show.
"Can I call you back?" he asked, one hand reaching up to cover his eyes. "I'm kind of in the middle of… uh… something. Some… homework thing!"
"Oh, honey, it can wait, believe me." Well shit. His mom was excited about something. Great. "I'm putting you on speaker; your father's here too!"
Shit, now he had to deal with both of them? At once? They better be telling him they bought him a puppy. Or a house.
"Hello, Blaine," came his father's gruff voice. "Bet you're anxious to hear why we're calling."
"You have no idea." Blaine fought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
"You received a letter in the mail today," his mother all but squealed. "It's for you, so we haven't opened it, but –"
"It's from UCLA," his father butted in. "So we wanted to ask for your permission to open it to see what it says."
Blaine's cheeks, already pink with embarrassment and exasperation, flared red. His heartbeat picked up and an audible groan escaped his lips before he could stop it. He had forgotten all about his college applications and how acceptance or rejection letters would be coming soon. Of all days to hear from UCLA, it had to be the day after his best friend who attended UCLA had fucked him in the backseat of his car.
"Yeah, sure," he said, voice monotone. "Open it."
He heard the rustling of paper and his mother's excited squeal again. Then silence, then another squeal, this time accompanied by his father's deep laughter.
"You got in!"
He had figured as much.
"And they're offering you grant money! Oh, Blaine, honey, you'll be all set with this!"
"H-how much grant money?" he dared to ask, wondering if it was a significant enough amount to affect their bias towards where he continued his education. It wasn't like the Andersons were poor or needed to worry about college debt, but saving money is always a plus no matter who you are.
"Close enough to a full ride for me," decided his father. "We'll only be paying about three-thousand out of pocket per semester, which, all things considered, is not bad at all. Join building staff your sophomore year and you're looking at a free education."
"Great, wonderful," his voice was still monotone, not matching his parents' excitement in the slightest. "Look, that's great news and thanks for calling, but I wasn't kidding when I said I was in the middle of homework stuff. So I'll talk to you later."
"Keep those grades up!" his mother reminded him cheerfully before hanging up. He tossed the phone back onto his pillow, groaning loudly and fingers fisting in his hair.
"Why does the universe hate me?" he mumbled, collapsing into a little ball on his bed.
Of all days to get accepted to UCLA, it had to be today. He remembered touring the campus with Jesse during his sophomore year, Jesse's junior, both of them taken in by the big-city lifestyle and the fact that the college was in California. Even though neither would admit it, both were looking forward to college, hoping that they'd both get into UCLA so that they could room together once Blaine was a sophomore. And even though they'd promised not to let each other get in the way of college choice, both knew that it would only enhance the experience to be at college with your best friend.
Well, now that could be a reality. Jesse and he could be going to the same college, maybe even taking some of the same classes. They could go to parties together, be each other's wingman, one dragging the other back to his dorm after getting drunk. They'd even toyed with the idea of forming a two-man tribute band and trying to play gigs around campus, knowing that it would serve as a great creative outlet, especially if Blaine followed his then-plan to become a history professor.
Neither had counted on this, obviously.
Smirking in a way that was so similar to Jesse that it frightened even himself, Blaine picked up his phone again, dialing Jesse's number and waiting for the answering machine to pick up. Voice heavy with savage pleasure, he left another message.
"Oh, hi Jesse, it's Blaine. I noticed you blocked me on facebook so I couldn't get ahold of you that way either, you sneaky cowardly bastard. But guess what! I just got accepted into UCLA. That's right, we'll be on the same campus next year, so just try to avoid me then. You'll regret it once I decide to shout across the green how big of an asshole you are if you don't pick up and talk to me."
He hung up, still smirking.
The satisfaction lasted for about ten seconds. Then he just felt miserable. Again.
A knock on his door jerked him out of his misery. Scowling at the door, as if daring the person on the other side to knock again, Blaine just tugged his blanket around his shoulders again, keeping perfectly silent. Another polite rap, then seconds later an impatient pounding.
"I know you're in there," came David's voice. "Let me in."
"No." Blaine didn't mention that Wes had no doubt left the door unlocked and that he could just barge in if he so desired.
"Blaine, I'm serious, let me in," David repeated.
"I am too," Blaine insisted. "Wes already came in. Go talk to him if you want an update on how miserable I am."
David tested the doorknob, then came right on in. Blaine glared at him, but David was smiling slightly. Then his nose wrinkled, hand going up to his face.
"It reeks in here," he announced, eyes immediately trailing along Blaine's bed. "Haven't you showered yet?"
"None of your business," Blaine clutched the blankets closer, feeling like a small child with overbearing parents. "Can I help you with something? Or did you just come to ask me stupid questions?"
"No, actually, I do have a reason for talking to you," David closed the door, nose still scrunched up as he plopped himself down on the edge of Blaine's bed. "It's about Kurt."
"Oh God," Blaine moaned, folding in on himself and burying his face between his knees. Kurt was the last thing he wanted to talk about right now. No matter what had passed between him and Jesse, Blaine still cared for Kurt very much and, ideally, would get back together with him if Kurt ever decided to forgive him. How he would explain the bruises on his neck… well, he'd figure that out later.
"Yeah, um, he called me yesterday to ask about you," David informed him, resting a hand on Blaine's back and moving it in a small circle. "He wanted to know about you and Jesse and if his friend was just jumping to conclusions when she said Jesse had planned your break up, whatever that all means. But I set him straight, so I think he's starting to come around."
"When did he call?" Blaine asked, head still between his knees, speaking into his sheets.
"Yesterday, early evening."
"And you couldn't have told me this before I went off to get drunk?"
"I thought you could use a night out," David defended himself automatically. "I was going to tell you once you got back, which is basically right now."
"So you're telling me that Kurt is willing to speak to me the day after I made the worst mistake of my entire life?" Blaine looked up at David, locking eyes with the other boy as if daring him to argue. "I don't know if you've noticed, but there is proof of what went on!" He shrugged the blanket off his shoulders, showing off his neck. "How the hell am I supposed to explain to Kurt that I fucked my best friend three days after we broke up?"
"I thought he fucked you," David grinned.
"Shut up," Blaine sent a poorly-aimed punch in David's direction, missing the other boy completely.
"Whatever," David shrugged. "But you're smart. You'll figure it out." He stood up, pointing towards the door to the en-suite bathroom. "Now shower before it's too late and the smell's here to stay."
Deciding that David was probably right and that showering would be a really, really good idea, Blaine threw off his blanket and staggered over to the bathroom. Making sure to lock both doors before kicking off his boxers, Blaine stared at his now completely naked form in the mirror, breathing heavily as he let his eyes look below his waist.
There were marks there too. There were two identical bruises on either side of his hips, probably from Jesse's fingers pinning him down, or maybe those had been from when he'd ended up on his stomach, Jesse holding him tightly while he took his virginity. Flushing furiously and feeling the blush travel from his face down his neck, Blaine reached behind himself, breath hitching when his fingers pressed against his ass.
He started to turn, wanting to see what he looked like from the back, but his stomach started churning. Suddenly he was on all fours on the floor, crawling towards the toilet, reaching it just in time to vomit into the bowl. Clutching the sides of the bowl desperately, he kept vomiting until nothing was left and he was just dry-heaving into the toilet. His heaves turned into coughs and his coughs turned into sobs, until he was rocking himself back and forth on the bathroom floor, crying like he hadn't allowed himself to since he'd been eleven years old.
He felt stupid and unbearably self-conscious. He shouldn't be crying over Jesse; he shouldn't be crying at all. He had no right to be upset, because – and now the memory came back to him, of how he had been the one to keep pushing when Jesse said no – it was all his fault. Jesse hadn't done anything he hadn't wanted, with the grand exception of dumping him off in Westerville. But what had happened before that had been all his fault.
It was the guilt that got him up and into the shower. Guilt made him turn on the water, not caring when the showerhead sprayed freezing cold water on him, not caring that his body was shivering violently or that he hadn't flushed his vomit down the toilet. No, what he needed right now was to scrub away every trace of Jesse on him, to find some sort of cream to make bruises go away, find a way to make sure nobody else ever found out about this.
He could fool himself into thinking that he was doing it for Jesse, but he was really doing it for himself. He'd been the one who forced himself on the other, the one who fooled Jesse into thinking that it was a good idea. Shivering even when the water temperature shifted to comfortably warm, Blaine wrapped his arms around himself, closing his eyes against fresh tears.
Did this make him a sexual predator? How many lines had been crossed last night? Was Jesse ignoring him for his own benefit rather than Blaine's? Had Jesse cut contact because he felt taken advantage of, not because he was an insensitive asshole?
Not caring that the water was still running or that he had no towel, Blaine ran out of the shower, fumbling with the lock on the door to his room and making a mad dash for his phone again. He dialed Jesse's number again, growling in impatience as he waited for the answering machine again.
"Jesse," his voice came out high-picked and panicky. "I am so, so sorry. Just… ignore that other message. I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry, Jesse, I never meant to take advantage of you like that. I didn't mean for any of that to happen and I'm just so, so sorry. Please, please call me. Please. I need to talk to you about this. Please. I'm sorry."
Then he went back into the bathroom, dripping all over the floor, scrubbing himself so hard that the skin that wasn't already red was soon a matching shade. It hurt, and the way one side of his neck started to sting made him think that he had actually broken the skin, but he didn't stop. He rubbed his entire body until it felt raw, until he was satisfied that he had taken away every trace of the night before.
The walk of shame came next.
At Dalton, the walk of shame was completely different from walking out of someone else's dorm while the hallway cat-called at you. The walk of shame happened when you went to Wes's room in sweatpants and a ratty T-shirt and asked him to patch you up. Nobody was sure why everyone always dressed casually – because logic would have you wear your uniform so nobody would know – but Blaine supposed it had something to do with the comfort the clothes offered.
So Blaine did just that. Dressed in an oversized T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that proclaimed his inclusion in Dalton's fencing team, he walked down the hallway to Wes's room, head bowed and curls free of their usual tight hold, flopping down over his forehead as if trying to hide him from view. He got a few wolf-whistles and one offered fist-bump, but nothing spectacularly significant.
Wes's door was open, so Blaine just walked in, saying, "I need you to fix my neck," as he did so. Wes had been pouring over some random textbook, but he looked up immediately, ushering Blaine in further and jumping up to close the door.
"Shirt off," Wes instructed, so maybe that was why everyone wore T-shirts. Buttons and ties were too much trouble if you were just going to take them both right off. Blaine felt his face heat up under Wes's inspection, shrinking back slightly when the other boy frowned.
"You somehow managed to start bleeding since I last saw you," Wes informed him, quickly pulling out a large red case out from under his bed. He snapped the case open, taking out a tub of some kind of cream and a box of band-aids. "Let's fix that one first."
That was when Blaine realized why everyone went to Wes rather than figure out how to deal with embarrassing hickeys on their own. Wes wasn't patronizing and if he said anything, it was so matter-of-fact that he might have been commenting on the weather. His touch was light and his gaze was never harsh, unless he found something surprising, in which case he just looked confused.
The fact that he had no problem at all handing Blaine extra band-aids and a condom when he declared himself finished probably had something to do with it too.
"Thanks, Wes," Blaine said as he pulled his shirt back over his head, feeling the fabric stick to whatever ointment or cream or whatever Wes had put on his bruises.
"No problem," Wes smiled at him. "Is there anywhere else that needs attending?" His eyes flicked pointedly to Blaine's waist.
"Uh… no thanks," Blaine blushed again.
"Just doing my job," Wes held up his hands as if in surrender, still grinning. "You come back if you change your mind or if you decide your neck needs more help, okay?"
"I will," Blaine promised. "Uh, Wes? Do me a favor and not tell anyone about this, please?"
"When have I ever been one to gossip?" Wes raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, you boys come to me whenever there's the slightest problem, from a paper cut to a STD scare, and you honestly feel the need to ask me to keep my mouth shut?" He shook his head. "It's part of the job, Blaine. Resident-health coordinator confidentiality."
"Thanks," Blaine repeated, managing to produce a small smile. Wes pressed a small tube of whatever he had used on his neck into Blaine's hand, saying, "I know you don't want to, but take care of your nether regions, okay? You'll thank me later."
"Whatever you say," Blaine said, waving and dropping the offered condom back into the red case before leaving. He wouldn't need that any time soon.
His phone was ringing when he got back to his room. He grabbed it, once again, without looking to see who was calling, but managed not to say Jesse's name this time. "Hello?"
"Hi, Blaine."
It was Kurt. Fuck. He was so not ready to talk.
"So, um, I talked to David yesterday," Kurt sounded nervous. Blaine was mentally cursing, wishing that the poor boy could just stay mad at him for a few more days. He probably deserved as much. But then again, after what he'd done last night, it was no wonder the universe was screwing with him. "And, uh, he told me that I was being an idiot. So I guess I'm just really sorry for blowing up at you like that."
"Yeah, yeah, me too," Blaine fought to keep himself from asking Kurt if they could talk later. He owed Kurt this much. "Look, Kurt, I said some terrible things to you, so you had every right to be mad at me."
"You did say some bad things," Kurt agreed. "But, Blaine, I did too. We both made mistakes. And, um, I don't want to lose you to our first fight. I… I think I might love you."
Fuck.
"Um, should I be worried that you're not talking?"
"N-no, Kurt, no," Blaine said hastily. "I'm just… I mean, you caught me off guard with that."
"You don't have to say it back," Kurt's voice was timid. Blaine knew the boy was wishing he could take back his words, save them for a time when they weren't two cities apart and talking on the phone.
"I want to," Blaine admitted. "It's just… I want to be sincere when I say it, you know? Not because I feel obligated to say it. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah," was all he got in response. Clearly Kurt regretted speaking up in the first place.
"I really care about you," Blaine cursed himself for not being able to say another simple four-letter word instead. He'd confessed his love for Jesse last night, so why should Kurt be any different? He loved Kurt, didn't he? So why couldn't he say it?
Because you don't want to rape him, the voice came unbidden into his head, causing his breath to hitch. Biting his lip painfully, Blaine forced himself not to dwell on what had happened with Jesse while, at the same time, trying to convince himself that it hadn't been like that. Jesse had been the one to fuck him, so it had to have been consensual, right?
"Blaine?"
Kurt's voice shook him out of his thoughts.
"Yeah? Sorry."
"No, it's okay. Um, maybe I could come up to Westerville later? We could talk?"
"No!" he said quickly. Too quickly and too harshly, he realized too late. "I mean, God, I'm making such a mess of things. I'm so sorry, Kurt. I'm just… my head's in about fifteen different places right now. And I really hate to bring Jesse into things, but he and I kind of… got into a fight yesterday. A really big… slightly physical fight."
"Are you okay?" Kurt asked instantly. "What did he do?"
"No, I'm fine," Blaine lied. "But he punched me in the face, so my nose is kind of messed up."
"Bastard," Kurt repeated Blaine's earlier word, but it was lost on him. What had he just said? That Jesse had punched him in the face? Where had that come from? He closed his eyes, trying to remember, thinking back to before they had ended up in Jesse's backseat. His mind played him a scene of them fighting, yelling, of Jesse punching him, then of himself making empty threats to call the authorities.
"Blaine?"
"Yeah? Sorry."
"You sound really messed up, no offense," Kurt told him bluntly. "So I'll, um, let you go. Take care of yourself. Call me later?"
"Of course," Blaine promised.
It was as if that one little memory had changed everything. It didn't matter that he might have forced Jesse into doing something and it didn't matter that maybe it was all his fault. No, suddenly it was all Jesse's fault again, because Jesse had punched him in the face rather that own up to his own insecurities. He hadn't been man enough to talk about his feelings, so instead he reverted back to instinct, first punching Blaine and then fucking Blaine.
It was all Jesse's fault, once again.
Which was why Blaine felt no guilt hating him. It took him about a week, but he finally managed to piece together the entire night, remembering with painful clarity how Jesse had said, "Tomorrow, none of this happened. We were never friends, and I never did any of this," before slamming him into the back of the seat and proceeded to fuck him. Those words showed his true intent. He had meant for things to end like this, for them to never see one another again after that night.
And once he got over hating himself for it, Blaine had to admit that it had been a rather spectacular way to lose his virginity. Jesse had done things to him that he hadn't even fathomed were possible, touching him in places that made him react so strongly that his face flushed just from remembering. And if Jesse hadn't insisted on being an ass about it after the fact, Blaine would have him here, right now, getting down on his knees and begging Jesse to do it all again.
He waited until the bruises had faded before getting together with Kurt. They made the two-hours apart thing work, meeting halfway on weekends. It wasn't ideal and it was far from perfect, but they made it work. Or, at least, Blaine thought they were.
"I don't want to do this anymore," Kurt told him one day, looking anywhere but at his face.
"What do you mean?" Blaine's hold on Kurt's hand tightened.
"You're different," Kurt still couldn't look at him. "Before we broke up the first time, you were all… handsy. You weren't afraid to touch me in public. You'd kiss me just because you could. But now I'm the one who leans in and gets a cheek instead, and we haven't done anything but hold hands for weeks."
"Oh," Blaine didn't argue. He knew it was true.
"Did I do something?" Kurt asked, finally turning to look at him. "Was it because I said I loved you? You don't have to be with me just because you think you have to."
"I haven't said it back?" Blaine was taken aback. He'd thought for sure he'd told Kurt plenty of times that he loved him. But now, looking back, all those times he'd only said it in his mind, thought it so hard that he could feel the words on his tongue, but instead he'd told Kurt how special he was, how beautiful he was, how lucky he was to have him.
"No," Kurt confirmed, looking down at the ground. "I thought we were okay, but if we're not, then maybe we should just break up."
"Do you want to break up?" Blaine asked, needing to know if Kurt truly wanted to call it quits with him, or if it was just frustration at their lack of physical time together, their lack of physical intimacy that Jesse had inadvertently caused.
"I want… you," Kurt seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "The old you. The one that wasn't afraid to touch me and who could tell me that he loves me just by looking at me. Now I just think we're stuck with each other because we're the only gay kids the other knows." He let go of Blaine's hand, taking a step away. "You're going to California in the fall. It's time for you to leave Ohio, and I think it's best if you leave me behind, too."
Blaine didn't say anything. Kurt didn't say anything more.
And that was that.
Losing Kurt didn't hurt as much as Blaine had thought it would. In all honesty, he'd been losing him since the day Jesse had taken him out for coffee. There were too many secrets involved to expect the relationship to last, and Blaine had known – even if he wouldn't admit it – that it had only been a matter of time. Now that time was up, and they both needed to let go and move on.
So he left Ohio in the fall, left for California without a second thought. And for that short week that was freshman orientation, he was happy again. He made friends and felt free to be himself. He let his curls grow out and started wearing jeans everywhere. He kissed strangers in nightclubs and held hands with his roommate when they explored the campus and was the favorite of his resident assistant within three short hours of arriving.
It was perfect.
Then classes started. Blaine had changed his mind, backing out of being a history major and instead deciding to focus on music. The classes weren't terribly challenging and it wasn't like he had horrible professors, it was just strange, knowing that any moment he could walk into the practice rooms to find Jesse coming out of one. He could run into the other at any time, whether he was prepared or not.
He wasn't purposely staying in the music building just to see Jesse. Not at all. He also hadn't tried out for the musical's pit in the hopes of seeing Jesse onstage during rehearsals. When he found someone another boy who thought forming a two-man tribute band was cool, he definitely didn't stick up flyers in the upperclassmen's dorms to get Jesse's attention. And that day he spent a full thirteen hours in the cafeteria? Jesse had nothing to do with it.
Blaine found solace in music on days that all his failed efforts started to get to him. He spent hours in the free practice rooms, playing anything that came into his head. More than once he'd been interrupted by a frustrated classmate, telling him that his time was up. He couldn't help it; he got lost in the music and couldn't stop once he'd started.
Then came the day he overheard someone in the room next to him, recognizing the concerto as one of Jesse's favorites. Heart hammering, Blaine pressed his ear against the separating wall, just barely able to hear the person next door. He wasn't supposed to be able to hear at all, but he'd cracked his window open and he supposed that helped.
When the person stopped playing, Blaine launched himself at his own piano, pounding out one of his favorite pieces as loudly as he possibly could. He didn't bother to stop and find out if the person next door was actually listening, just kept playing, eyes closed and heart hammering, until the piece was over.
He was met with silence. Then the person next door started playing again, louder this time. Blaine supposed that whoever this was had cracked their window open too.
They played like this, back and forth to one another, for a good two hours. Then, knowing that his time was up, Blaine left the room, smile on his face, excited to see who this mysterious person was.
That was when he spotted him. Jesse St. James, coming from a door further down the hall, flipping through sheet music as he continued walking. Blaine's breath caught in his chest, heart pounding harder than he'd been pounding on that piano, voice cracking when he managed to say, "Jesse. Hi."
Jesse looked up, panic written all over his face. They stood in silence for a good few moments, just staring at each other. Blaine had a slight smile on his face while Jesse's mouth hung open. One of his papers slipped to the floor, but he didn't bother to stoop to pick it back up.
Then he made a run for it. Jesse turned tail and ran back down the hallway, swiping his ID card into some slot on the wall and disappearing back into the door he'd come through. Blaine tore after him, tugging at the handle of the door once it had closed, not realizing that it was a faculty-only staircase. He tried swiping his own ID, but the light turned red and it made a buzzing noise, as if telling him no.
So he ran. He ran to the nearest staircase, almost falling twice in his haste to get to the exit. He couldn't see Jesse anywhere in the entrance hall, so he left the building, standing in the middle of the walkway, looking for the familiar mop of curls.
Jesse was nowhere to be seen.
Scowling and cursing under his breath, Blaine made the trek back up to his now vacated practice room to retrieve his bag. He picked up Jesse's dropped paper, realizing that it was the first page of the sheet music for the song I'm Alive. Blaine opened the door to his practice room, only to suddenly be face to face with someone he'd never seen before.
"Hi," the boy said, smiling brightly. "Was it you who was playing in here before?"
"Yeah," Blaine nodded uncertainly, but then, remembering how he'd been playing opposite his neighbor, grinned and repeated, "Yeah! Hey! That was you?"
"Guilty," the boy chuckled. "I'm Joel."
"Blaine," he held out a hand and Joel shook it. "Sorry, I just though I saw someone I used to know." He stepped around Joel to pick up his bag, stuffing Jesse's sheet music inside.
"You on your way out now?" Joel asked, his own bag already slung over his shoulder. "Want to go grab coffee?"
Blaine considered his offer. Joel seemed nice, and it wasn't like he was bent on being antisocial just because Jesse had made a mad dash when he'd seen him. So why not live a little, trick himself into thinking that getting coffee with a boy was a giant up yours to Jesse?
"That's be lovely," Blaine smiled warmly, letting Joel usher him out of the room. Their hands bumped together three times on the way out of the building.
Blaine hadn't intended for anything to happen after that initial coffee. But he found that he actually genuinely liked this boy. Joel was nice, two years older than Blaine, with a head of curls that rivaled Jesse's. He and Blaine somehow managed to talk about everything from music to postmodern literature to their romantic history, the latter being a topic Blaine found himself surprisingly open about. He told Joel all about Jesse and Kurt, pointedly not mentioning that his Jesse was the Jesse St. James that went to their school.
It was nice, getting it all off his chest. And if he ended up back in Joel's dorm room, screaming Jesse's name while the other boy fucked him, no big deal, right? Joel didn't mind, declaring that it was healthy to have sex, to get all those pent-up feeling out, and not to worry if he called Blaine 'Danny' if there ever was a next time.
He went to the admissions office at the end of the semester, asking if they could help him get ahold of Jesse St. James. He told them that he just needed his campus mailbox number, nothing more. The woman behind the desk smiled and nodded, searching through her master list of names. Then she made a confused, "huh," sound.
"I'm sorry, honey, but his name's not here," she told Blaine, shaking her head. "Can't tell you why, though. I know who he is, and he should be here." She started typing something into the computer, frowning in concentration. Then her mouth opened in a little 'o' and she turned back to Blaine, saying, "He transferred."
"What?" Blaine leaned closer, urgency in his voice when he added, "When?"
"The end of this semester, effective immediately," she informed him. "He's going up to the Big Apple instead."
After politely thanking the woman for her help, Blaine left the office. He didn't let himself curse until he was locked in his dorm, and then he punched the wall so hard he left a dent, cursing Jesse for doing this, for leaving right when he'd thought there might be a chance to fix things.
It seemed as if they just weren't destined to be together, and for Blaine, always a hopeless romantic no matter how often he had meaningless hate sex with that kid whose name starts with J, the thought left him completely devastated. But he was nothing if not determined, so Blaine decided then and there that no matter what happened from this point on, he would force Jesse to talk to him eventually. Jesse owed him that much.