Judging from the way he was strutting through the place, Blaine half-expected Sebastian to do something obnoxious like wink at the librarian and blow past the front desk, but the boy was actually quite respectful as they approached, even lowering the volume of his voice as he requested a study area. The librarian slid over a sheet of paper for Sebastian to sign in, and Blaine glanced over as Sebastian filled out his name and the time in neat penmanship before acknowledging Blaine's presence with a "1" in the guest column. It felt strange, being referred to as a guest in the place Blaine considered to be his second home, and combined with the way Sebastian had not once but twice done the talking for them in the past few minutes, Blaine felt small.
Key acquired, Sebastian lead Blaine to their assigned room, unlocking the door and holding it open as he ushered Blaine inside. Each study area looked alike, Blaine knew, aside from the varying piece of art decorating their walls, though each painting was located in the same place from room to room. Blaine had always assumed they were hung on the back wall in an effort to cozy up the room as it was entered, but not risk distracting students if they were seated at the cherry-oak desk. There was also a table with four chairs for the sake of group projects, as well as an upholstered armchair intended for reading, which Blaine promptly dropped into. The rooms were relatively small, really only enough to fit the furniture and a few occupants, and Blaine realized that he and Sebastian were in close quarters as the door clicked shut.
Sebastian took the few steps necessary to reach the desk, leaning against the edge of it as he posed a question to Blaine in French. He had spoken quickly and used a colloquial term Blaine didn't understand, and he willed himself not to blush as he replied, "Que dites-vous?"
"I was asking you exactly how badly that glee director of yours had fucked up your French," Sebastian translated.
"Oh, no, Mr. Schuester doesn't teach French," Blaine corrected. Sebastian's brow furrowed slightly in confusion, so Blaine elaborated. "He's the Spanish teacher."
"I don't think that's as much of a defense as you intended it to be," the other boy retorted, and Blaine was saved from another half-baked advocacy of McKinley's sorry excuse for a language department when his phone vibrated. He knew from the ringtone that Kurt was on the other end of the call, and Sebastian seemed to gather as much. He approached, towering over Blaine's seated form as he reached down to slip a hand into Blaine's pocket and extract the phone. He barely glanced down at the screen before silencing it with a jab to the ignore button, tossing the gadget onto the nearby table.
"No phones in my class, Mr. Anderson."
"Sorry," Blaine apologized in an embarrassingly small mumble, as though he'd been chastised by an actual authority figure. He tried to shake it off, repositioning himself in the armchair he suddenly couldn't seem to get comfortable in, fishing for smalltalk that would distract himself from the blush that had, despite Blaine's efforts, risen in his cheeks.
"These rooms are kind of great, right? McKinley doesn't have anything like this. It's just so Dalton, i-in a good way. It's barely ever quiet in the library at McKinley; Kurt was telling me about this time that the glee club did an entire routine in there, on the tables and stuff, and nobody even cared. I think it might be because there are so many kids, maybe? Like, they just kind of expect that outrageous stuff is going to happen. My first day there, this girl Santana - I'm pretty sure she's a sociopath - lit a purple piano on fire, and ..."
His ramblings only petered out when Sebastian pivoted abruptly, heading for the door, and in the few seconds it took for the taller boy to reach his destination, Blaine's mind went back and forth three times regarding whether or not Sebastian was enough of a douchebag to actually walk out on somebody midsentence. He had just landed back on "yes" when the metallic gleam between Sebastian's fingers caught Blaine's eye, and he sucked in the first breath since he'd begun speaking when he realized it was the key. Sebastian thrust it into the door, turning it with a flick of his wrist, and Blaine swore it was the loudest click a lock had ever made.
"Je sais pourquoi tu es parti," Sebastian stated as he turned around, the accusatory tone once again leaving Blaine with a cold feeling in his stomach as though he was being scolded. "It was pretty obvious after I met your boyfriend, but I couldn't comprehend that somebody would actually give all of this up for a boy - because that's what he is, Blaine; he's a boy - so I asked around, and it turns out that's exactly what happened. Did you know that nobody expected you to show up to Dalton at all this year? It was a tease when you came for the first few days of classes, but nobody was shocked when you barely lasted the week."
There was nothing to argue. Not a word Sebastian had said was defensible, nevermind debatable, and the facts seemed to vibrate in the silence that followed the hard consonant Sebastian had landed on. Blaine's mouth gave a false-start, jaw working mechanically, and he felt as though the seconds were audibly ticking away before he finally delivered the only retort he could muster: "You could have said all of that in French; je comprends mieux que tu ne le crois."
Sebastian removed his glasses, moving to set them on the sturdy wood of the desk before turning his gaze on Blaine, who swore that Sebastian's eyes hadn't been such an electric shade of blue when they were hidden behind his lenses. When Sebastian began narrowing the distance between them, perfectly timing his steps as though they were choreographed, Blaine had to consciously focus on the words Sebastian was saying instead of how his mouth looked forming them.
"That's my point, Blaine. You may need a lesson in discipline and loyalty and respect, but not in French. You don't need a tutor. Even if that school of yours has the lunch-lady teaching your class, they still gave you a textbook. Between that and the actual education you got here, you could raise your French grade on your own if you wanted to. You don't need me - at least, not for that."
Under normal circumstances, the flash of a smile would serve to dispel tension, but not when it came from Sebastian Smythe. The smirk that was pulling at the corner of his lips was a weapon, a means of disarming Blaine, as devious and filthy and scandalous as it was charming.
"This can go one of two ways: we can sit at that desk, and we can conjugate verbs while you suck on the end of your pen and wait for our knees to brush underneath the table, or whatever other high school shit will get you through the night, or we can be grown-ups, and you can tell me why you're really here."
By the time Sebastian was finished speaking, he was perched on the arm of Blaine's chair, leaning down close enough that Blaine's head was swimming in the mixture of cologne and naughtiness and goddamnityes. He blinked up at Sebastian, wide-eyed, and even if he knew what to say, it wouldn't have mattered, because Sebastian's mouth was so close to his, and words weren't an option at the moment.
"Réponds-moi. De quoi as-tu besoin?"
The hazel of Blaine's eyes darkened instantly, and before he could stifle the answer on his tongue, he was replying, "De tout."
Everything.
