Attention: I do NOT claim/own Glee or its characters, except those of my creation.

Authors Note: It's here, it's finally here! Technically I was supposed to publish this on Wednesday night, but editing it took me thirty minutes past midnight. This chapter has physically and mentally worn me out, and I don't know why (although I'm sure part of it is due to school stress). Officially, this chapter is ten pages long, in standard Times New Roman, point 12 font. I swear it looks longer in a Word document. Also, I watched the "Michael" episode near the end of chapter. Hot damn, I was almost spot on! And I hope you all watched Grant in CSI: Miami ("Terminal Velocity") because he was fantastic in it!

Also, I LOVE ALL OF YOU! I have gained a lot of "Story Alerts" in three weeks, and quite a few of you have put this in "Favorite Stories", as well! I am simply amazed and honored, beyond delight! This is the first time I have shared any sort of storing/writing with anyone, and to see that so many of you like it makes me incredibly happy!

And speaking of my writing, reviews are always appreciated, both negative and positive. I sincerely want to become a better writer, and writing this story is my way of practicing and learning. Also, I know I'm not the only one, but before I even read a fanfic, I judge it by the number of reviews it has, because the more reviews = the better the story. So, if you all could, please review the chapters. It could be a simple sentence or paragraph—it doesn't matter! I really want this story to go well, and want as much people to read it. This sounds a bit selfish but that's part of what writing is about—sharing it with others and ultimately, many people. Thank you!


I'm dreaming but it becomes harder and harder, like fog clearing away until you find yourself amidst reality. Slowly, I become aware of my surroundings; the crisp, cold air; the deafening silence. I find myself; my arms, my hands, my fingertips; my numb ears, tired eyes and taut face. My eyes are closed and I don't want to open them yet, because it means I have to wake up and begin another day. I grimace thinking about school, an odd-yet-all-too-familiar sensation gripping my stomach when I think of the inevitable. Sooner or later I will have to wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth—

I frown; did my alarm go off? Halfheartedly I am frustrated at myself for disturbing my sleep, yet relieved that I still have some time before I actually have to wake up. I dare not open my eyes and look at the time, no doubt the hours (if I even had any) and minutes left would burn fluorescent even when I close my eyes, a nagging tick counting the time from the back of my head. As I turn in my sleep, I am yet again sharpening the line between dream and reality. What oddly felt normal a few seconds ago now feels strange and out of place. When did my bed become so rough? As if on a signal, a wave of sensation spreads throughout my body and I am now acutely aware of the hardness underneath me. I carelessly reach my hand out and stroke the bed, only to recoil and pull it back. My eyes open with a snap but I'm not sure if I actually did. I blink three times until I realize that I am staring into complete darkness and it takes only a few seconds longer to make sense of what is happening. The roughness...it's the carpet. And I'm on the floor because...my stomach drops and my heart grows a thousand times heavier; my shoulders sag and I am all too tired. I realize now that my face is taut because of the dry streams of water trailing down my face, which I can feel all too much. I shudder and hug my arms, still in my jacket and jeans from yesterday (or tonight). Quietly, from the farthest depths of my mind, I think about what has happened since I dozed off. Was anyone home? Maybe my dad was sleeping in the guest room, like he did oftentimes when my mom and he would get into...smaller fights. I gulp; my throat is dry and hurts. Images from when I was last awake flash before me, like a projection on the black surrounding before me; the mumble, broken bowls, my knees against the stairs, the dark, my phone—

I snap my head to the right and curse at the pitch dark, running my hands over the carpet to find my phone. There's no reason for me to use it right now, but for some odd reason I have to have it in my possession. Maybe as something tangible to solidify the events from last night, to tell the time, have the feeling of power to do anything when I'm feeling so helpless, or have something to clutch in my cold hands. I don't know but I want it with me. When my hands feel the soft ends of my dresses hanging above me, I clumsily get to my feet and feel my way to the light switch. Bracingly, I expect a ghost or monster to stand in front of me once the light is turned on, but instead I squint my eyes and between the hot tears I see that I am alone. I wipe the tears away and trail the floor with my eyes, looking for the black case that held my phone. To my surprise, I see it at the end of the closet, almost neatly tucked into the corner. I slowly walk to it, trying not to cut through the cold air, and pick it up. The plastic case is colder than I imagined, and sends another shiver down my back—or maybe it's what I know is inside it. For no reason and without thinking, I turn my phone on and only vaguely comprehend that it is 8 o'clock. I navigate to "Messages", and sure enough I see the cute messages from Sebastian.

Or at least, they used to be cute. Now, looking at them under a new day and mind, I want to punch myself in the face before wringing his neck. I realize now that he was probably being an arrogant ass and flirting with me, like he does with everyone because he's "Sebastian". Does this gay motherfucker think he can charm me? I grimace and want to throw up, want to forget that I was even considering to like him. I remember going to sleep, riddled with thoughts of him. He made me feel safe and sound, happy and uplifted. Did I really laugh at something he did? Was I really hoping he would text me faster? I want to laugh at my stupidity—how deranged was I to think that? Sebastian Smythe, the suave asshole who can charm anyone...

Not! I delete all of his messages, along with my entire Inbox and manage a small smile, a gentle tug on the right corner of my lips. Fuck you, Mr. Smythe.

Somehow I forgot about my parents, but I remember as soon as I walk out of the closet and into my room. I feel lighter because I got rid of Sebastian but the pit in my stomach does not lessen. I have this awful foreboding and I can't shake it off, no matter how hard I try to not think about it. I wash my face, brush my teeth, change into different clothes...nothing I do helps me. I don't know what's happened or what to expect when I go downstairs, so I stand frozen in front of the door with my bag on my shoulder and keys swinging from my hand. My heart is thumping.

I couldn't hear anything last night, so either nothing happened after I left or...

It got worse. If I felt like shit before, it's nothing to what I am feeling like now. I consider skipping school and just not leaving my room today, or climbing out of the window and falling to the ground. Maybe I can text Danielle and ask her how it looks, since her school started a while ago. As I am thinking of possible/impossible solutions, I only feel worse. Do I not have any faith left in my parents? What my dad did was...scary. I am never saw him so angry before. But, do I really think that he would do something wilder? Could he do something wilder?

I don't know.

As much as I am trying to convince myself that my dad is not capable of anything beyond last night, I cannot do so without feeling uneasy. Last night my world—the things closest to me that I always could count on and believe in—was torn apart. I always assumed by parents were level-headed; my mom is a nurse whose career depends on it, and my father is it by nature. Everything is always under control and never blown out of proportion. But everyone should be allowed the freedom to express their anger, right? Don't people punch the wall when they're angry? Lately, my parents have been getting into more fights and I guess it's frustrating to fight so much—eventually something like what my dad did was going to happen, right? Throwing bowls onto the ground isn't that frightening, is it? I was taken by surprise, yes, but...what made my heart thump so loudly? What could possibly make me lose faith in my parents—in my father?

Like spilt water on fabric, the echoes of my mom's last words start resurfacing, slowly ebbing from the deepest depths of my mind and start engrossing me. They're just echoes now; loud, resounding, hollow echoes that I cannot put together. But soon it will be crystal clear, and my stomach twists itself into its final knot but won't stop pulling its ends, tugging and tugging, hurting and hurting, pulling on every intestine inside me like an aggressive marionette puppeteer. Think of something, anything!, I tell myself, anything anything anything. School, I have to go to school; yes, I will go to school, I must go now. Without a moment's hesitation or care for the fears I had moments ago, I all too roughly open the door and bound down the hallway. What classes do I have today, I have seven classes, seven seven seven; seven classes; I don't like the uneven number of classes, I wish they had eight—I walk briskly down the stairs—eight is a nice even number, it makes everything nice; eight, the number eight, four times two is eight but I hate math, math sucks, I hate everything about math but Tyler is cute, I like him; Tyler is cute, yes—I walk to the front door, through the living room, my eyes trained on the floor—Tyler plays on the soccer team—a million shards of light twinkle from the corner of my eye—Tyler plays on the soccer team—I want to look—Tyler—I see red on the carpet, I can hear my mom yelling—Tyler Tyler Tyler Tyler—she tells my dad—"Tyler Harris, Tyler Harris"—"to stop"—"TYLER HARRIS, TYLER HARRIS, TYLER TYLER TYLER, YOUR NAME IS TYLER!"

My words echo in the silence. The house is behind me and I start walking. I focus on my steps, and not the drumming in my head.


I piggishly waft the smell of mashed potatoes towards me before diving my spork into the scoop and pile it into my mouth. I try to chew but instead I swallow it whole and then bite my bread. Sonya is sitting to my left but I ignore her, intent on finishing my plate so I can get seconds. When I had walked into the cafeteria, I realized that I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, and was the reason I had been sluggish all morning. Too sluggish, because I didn't even try to deflect Jacob's advances. It's not until someone passing by gives me a dirty look that I slow down and chew my food. Sonya uses this to jump in.

"Are you okay," she asks. Without looking at her, I can picture her clearly: head titled to the side, soft brown eyes, hand inches away from comforting me in an instant. I told her about what happened last night and in the morning during Journalism, and I'm starting to wish I hadn't. Not because I find her annoying, but because I don't want to be reminded of it until I come home. Journalism is before lunch, but I have already been asked multiple times if I was alright during the time span, and it reminds me of my vulnerability and helplessness. I am a delicate person trying to act strong, but how can I be when I am constantly being considered as weak?

I sigh inwardly, careful not to hurt Sonya's feelings, and look at her. "Getting there," I half-lie. "I just...don't want to go home." This was completely true. I don't want to go home, not to my broken family. I want to be anywhere but there.

Sonya furrows her eyebrows softly, her lips down turned into a frown as she places her hand on the small of my back. "I know," she says softly.

My throat is dry, but I keep talking. "I mean it. I don't want to see anyone; not my parents, or Danielle. I want to see them as little as possible, because I know when I do, some shit is going to happen and I'll end up in my closet again." I feel hollow.

"Maybe it's just temporary...your feelings towards them."

"Maybe, but...but for now, I just, don't want to see them. Maybe I can stay late at school, and say I'm studying...," I sigh, out loud this time. What could I do?

We're quiet for a moment, until Sonya gasps and grabs a fistful of my sweater in her hand. "The Lima Bean!"

"What?"

"The Lima Bean! You know how it's always packed in the winter?" She doesn't let me respond. "Well, they need more people—more staff, right? So they'll be hiring!" Her eyes are twinkling and her smile is contagious, but I don't feel the same.

I shake my head. "Yeah, but I can't go from here to there and then back home. My parents will have to give me a ride and then it'll be counterproductive."

Sonya frowns and slaps me lightly on the arm, her hands held out in disbelief. "Hello! I have a car? I'll drive you there!" As I start to protest, she suddenly gasps and shrieks and begins hitting me with both of her hands, stamping her feet on the ground. "I can work there too! Oh my God, we can start saving up for concerts, movies, clothes..." Sonya keeps talking, more to herself than me, but I am in my own world as well. The Lima Bean? I never considered working in high school, because I never saw the need to. My parents bought me most of the things I wanted (the essentials) and college admissions don't look too closely as to whether you held a job or not. But, I think, this isn't about either of those. It's about escaping from my family; to flee the inevitable and endure the least of it. It was my act of selfishness. And I am going to take it.


Before I know it, Sonya and I are standing to the side of the counter at the Lima Bean, our hastily made resumes clutched in our hands. Sonya's is already wrinkled, and I snatch it out of her hand to smooth it out on the counter. Honestly, she is my only hope to get away from my family and she's screwing it up—typical. As I roll my eyes and start to reprimand her, an elderly man with a turtleneck and apron approach us. He has thick-framed glasses and his hair is wispy white, but there's something young about him as well, like a bounce in his step. Is he the manager?

"Hello, ladies. How are you two doing this evening?"

Sonya and I reply in unison and return the pleasantries. Ugh, get on with it, old timer. If there is one thing I hate more than Jacob Ben Israel, it is pleasantries. No, I do not actually care about what you did on the weekend or how nice the weather is—I just want to get on with my life, so please be quiet and give me my receipt.

He smiles, and claps his hands together. "Good, thank you. Now, if I'm to understand it, you two are here to apply for the job openings this winter?"

"Yes...sir." Do you even call coffee shop managers "sir"? I feel stupid as soon as I say it, but more so when he looks at me and smiles, like he knows I have no clue as to what I am doing. "Um...these are our resumes...unless, you have applications for us to fill out?"

I hand him Sonya and I's resumes, and as he looks them over, I try to guess what he's thinking. Probably how journalism and medically inclined Juniors can successfully work in a fast-paced environment with no previous work or experience. As if Honors English or debate club can help make a mocha machiato or mop the floor.

I brace myself for rejection, because there is no way he will hire us—he's not even smiling! I start to regret coming here when suddenly he hands us our resumes back and smiles. "Welcome to the Lima Bean!"

Sonya squeals but I'm not convinced. Say what? No way we are Lima Bean material. "Really," I ask, more condescending than I meant to, if I even meant it at all.

The manager laughs and nods his head. "Yes, really. Beggars can't be choosers during this time of the year and besides, you two have exceptional resumes; someone I can count on to be hardworking and disciplined." I smile, the situation really sinking in now. I never really wanted a job this early and didn't care about getting one while in high school, unlike some other people. But regardless, I cannot help feeling excited, my heart thumping and my blood rushing. It's still a job, and my very first one! A sudden feeling of self-importance overcomes me, and I feel more responsible and purposeful.

"Thank you so much! Mr...um..."

"Oh come one, this isn't high school! Call me Daniel, Anne and...Sareena?"

"Sonya."

"Anne and Sonya." The manager, or rather, "Daniel", extends his hand and Sonya and I both shake it and smile at each other. Working with my best friend alongside me—hell yeah.

I don't know whether Daniel is always such a cheerful person, but he continues to smile as he tells us to come tomorrow morning to complete paperwork ("Bring your social security card, a government issued i.d., contact information...") and begin training. It won't be until Monday that we will actually begin working. As he walks away, Sonya and I turn to each other and hug, jumping up and down as people stare at us from their tables. We're still smiling broadly as we let each other go.

"Holy crap-"

"We got jobs!"

"I can't believe it..."

"We'll get paychecks!"

I look Sonya in the eye and say it the best way I can; "Thank you." She looks confused, but I keep going. "Thank you. It's because of you that I got this job—not because I have a good resume or whatever, but because you were and are willing to drive me here and home. It doesn't matter that you got the job as well or that you wanted one too. But because you helped me and are willing to go out of your way. My stomach turns to liquid when I think about going home and it's unbearable. And no matter what happens when I go home tonight, I'll know I have an escape the next day. So, thank you...for everything."

Sonya looks like she is about to cry but she pulls me into another hug and we stand there, expressing what we can't with words. Sure, it's just a job. But when you're scared of what might happen when you come home, scared of seeing your parents again, it's like a ticket to Paradise.

We decide to order drinks as a toast to our new employment, and are sitting at our table when as luck has it, I spot Sebastian. Shit. He's in his Dalton Academy uniform and standing in line, texting on his phone. He only need look up and look to the right to see Sonya and I by the windows. I first think, why the hell is he here? Why does he have to be here every single time that I am? Does he come here everyday, is he a caffeine junkie? But my stomach begins tying itself into a knot, and I can feel dread replacing curiosity. Crap. Don't get me wrong—I'm not scared of him. He can't do anything to me and I have long since stopped fearing him. No, what makes me nervous is what happened last night (was it only just last night that my world got turned upside down? It feels longer than that...). I wrote him off today in the morning, and promised myself that I wouldn't fall into his tactics again—he's a conniving pervert who acts for himself, a spoiled brat that is used to getting whatever he wants. But still, the texts haunt me, and I was in the palm of his hands, and he must have seen that. It was my moment of weakness and in his mind, I'm longer strong. Just hopeless.

I pry my eyes away from him and look at my arms on the table. Maybe if I don't look at him and keep my head low, he won't see me. I must look worried, because Sonya asks, "Anne, are you okay?"

Quietly, even though he is across the cafe and will not even be able to hear me among everyone else, I whisper, ducking my head down, only slightly glancing at her. "You know the Sebastian guy I was talking about?"

She nods her head, her eyebrows furrowed and quizzical.

"He's here," I say, widening my eyes, more as a precaution to her than my dismay. I nod my head ever so slightly to the line, and whisper, "The one in the red and blue blazer." I don't watch her look for him, but instead feverishly look around for something, anything, to cover my face. I consider unfolding a napkin but remember that I have a book in my bag. I quickly turn around to my bag that is hanging on the edge of the chair and am digging into it hastily when Sonya says,

"He's cute." WHAT?

"What?" I turn to look at Sonya, my eyebrows furrowed, grimacing as her face turns from keen interest to reddish brown.

"I-I mean, for a slutpig," she stammers. "What's he doing here—do you want to leave?" Oh God, yes. But we're at the end of the cafe and have to walk past the line in order to reach the door. I brace myself and look out from under my eyes, quickly scanning the line—he's second to the counter, looking straight ahead. My best bet is to move out when he's making his order.

"Okay, when he's making his order, we bolt to the door. Yes?" My stomach is squirming and I double over the table, trying to make it stop. This is making me way too uneasy.

Sonya nods, "Okay," and straps her bag on her shoulder, ready to run (walk) to the front door. I do the same, and am sitting on the edge of my seat, my left leg jiggling up and down in anticipation. Come on, hurry up...It seems like forever, watching Sebastian in line, ready for the moment he steps up to the counter. My stomach is hollow and squeezes itself, and only makes me feel worse.

Worst. Week. Ever.

I'm too busy thinking about the uneasiness in my stomach that I don't register that Sebastian is at the front of the counter, until Sonya shakes my shoulder and hurriedly says, "Come one." I always imagine myself as Tom Cruise whenever I see Mission: Impossible, but I never would have thought that I would be reenacting it one day. Stealth, I tell myself, a shadow, unnoticed, the background... Sonya and I walk quickly, dodging people, scooting in between chairs and tables, pressing to the sides of the walls. I curse, my heart hammering, my stomach twisting and turning. We're almost there, we're almost there...I can see the door, fifteen feet away, almost within reach. We're approaching the line, but I don't look, afraid that if I do, Sebastian will see me.

Ten feet...nine...

eight...

seven...

six...

five...

four...

three...

two—

"Excuse me," Sonya says as she is trying to move past a big, burly man who is blocking the door. He doesn't move. I'm standing behind her, on the tips of my toes, tapping my fingers nervously on the side of my thigh, looking away from the line in the opposite direction. Oh God...

"Excuse me," Sonya says louder, looking up at the man. He still doesn't move and Sonya is about to push him aside when he feels her hands on his arm. He look down, startled, and Sonya is flustered. "Can you move out of the way?" The oaf still doesn't move!

"Oh my God...," I groan, my heart racing. Sebastian could be anywhere by now. I still don't dare turn my head around and look at the line, but I'm sure it doesn't take two minutes to make an order. I tense up, my shoulder rigid, my back straight—what if he walks past us? He could go in any direction and we were at the end of the line, and on either side he would be able to see us. I quickly turn my whole body around, my back to the store, awkwardly standing there as Sonya is trying to communicate with the man, who apparently has a hearing aid in his right ear. Of course.

Sonya is gesturing to the door, asking him to move, her face red and eyebrows furrowed. "CAN, YOU, PLEASE, MOVE? THE DOOR. THE, DOOR," she says loudly, wildly pointing to the door, like she 's jabbing the air. The man makes an "O" with his mouth, finally (finally) understanding Sonya. He smiles and steps forward, clearing the way to the door. I push against Sonya's back with my hands, pushing her forward. Our shoes shuffle and we're moving, I pressing against Sonya's back, until I am taken by surprise and slam against her. She stopped moving.

"Sonya, come on," I say, rushed. I push her forward but she won't move, so clumsily I squeeze past her and the man besides us, watching my feet so I don't step on anyone's toes or slip on the tile. I put one foot in front of the other, my legs crisscrossing and almost about to lose balance. I put my left hand onto the glass window to steady myself, my mind a jumble and frenzied, but when I look up my heart leaps and I am thrown off balance. I am thrown backwards into Sonya, and we both try to regain our balance. I am looking out through the glass window and into the cold outside but when I turn my head, any thought I had prior to this moment is gone in an instant. What was only inches away and is now barely a foot, is Sebastian Smythe.

My breath catches and my heart stops. Time is frozen and the cafe has gone quiet. I am looking at him and can smell his coffee; I can clearly see a dark spot on his left cheek, the gray line of shaved hair above his lip. He's towering above me and I have to crane my head up to look him in the eyes.

That is, if I wanted to. I may have stood there for less than a minute, less than thirty seconds—I don't know. But I want to get out now, so I turn to the left and reach for the door handle—only Sebastian was blocking it instead. My eyebrows furrow together and I'm irritated. This bitch is deliberately blocking my way because he knows that I regret last night, and he is playing it out, making it harder for me to get over. Playing me like a deck of cards.

Before I can do anything, Sonya speaks over my shoulder, leaning her hand onto the window. "Excuse me, can you move?" There's no kindness in her words, just sass and hate.

Sebastian raises his right eyebrow and looks down at Sonya condescendingly. "So you can jam the doorway? The trucks deliver in the backroom, you should try there." He waits a moment, letting the insult sink in. He's looking at Sonya over my shoulder, an expectant look on his face, like he knows what it will do to her. Sonya isn't fat, just chubby; she doesn't have a flat stomach but it doesn't roll over her pants, either. I'm hurt, because he insulted Sonya, my best friend and hell if he was going to continue to. Who the fuck does he think he is, going around and derailing people? Who made him king of Ohio?

Before I can say anything, Sonya responds, her voice as equally as condescending but calm. I can hear her blood boil underneath her skin and can imagine her eyebrows raising on her snarky face. "In that case, you should try the toilets. They can easily handles pieces of shit." I smile and turn to look at her, and she is just as I had imagined her. She looks at me from the corner of her eye and smiles. That's my girl.

"Are you referring to your people in general or just the dark ones? Either way, you all look like shit to me. That is why Indians smell so much, right?" I snap my head around as Sebastian laughs and am about to gut the racist bastard when I feel Sonya gripping my shoulder and trying to push me aside. I whip my head around to Sonya, her face contorted and full of rage, like she is ready to fist fight him. I want to let her have a go at him, but I realize that this is my fight, not hers. I can't let her be sucked into this, no matter how ill-prepared and helpless I am. As I hold Sonya back, I tell myself that I will be strong and won't let Sebastian faze me. He can't get to me, use me or intimidate me.

I block Sonya's path to Sebastian and tell her to leave, that he's here for me, not her. She starts to argue but I forcefully push her back and tell her to leave. She's staring at me, her eyebrows still furrowed, but eventually nods her head, silently wishing me luck. It's not until I see her back that I turn around to Sebastian, who is standing the same way as I had left him—like a douche.

I can feel a headache coming on, either from my constant eyebrow furrowing or the fact that Sebastian is an asshole; I assume it's both. We stand there, looking each other over. He's casual, his left hand in his trouser pocket, a cup of coffee in the other. He looks at ease, as if he was just talking about the weather and not racially insulting someone. Oh wait, I think, he's smirking. Definitely a giveaway that he was up to no good. His eyes are flitting up and down, looking me over, still smirking. I grow conscious and feel ill at ease, but I push it aside. Not today.

I speak first. "What do you want?" My voice is hard and cold; direct and clear that I am not open to anything besides a straightforward answer. Vaguely, I remember that my stomach had been in knots, but all I can feel know is my head starting to cloud, like someone is gripping either side of it. I'm not nervous now—only angry.

Sebastian smirks and tilts his head to the side, looking at me with...fascination? His eyes are soft and not penetrating, like he isn't done looking me over yet, as if I am a zoo animal and he is observing me from the other side of glass. "Only to talk to you," he says casually, shrugging his shoulders.

"Bullshit," I say immediately in reply. The "nice" pretenses I had the last time we met are gone, and my open distaste for him is put out into the open. Good.

Sebastian's gapes his mouth slightly, and raises both of his eyebrows, looking out at me from under them. "That's not nice. What happened between us, Vivian? We had such a good time last night," he says, ending with a smile. He raises an eyebrow and mocks concern, "Unless...you didn't feel the same way?" He leaves me hanging, nonchalantly raising his coffee cup and taking a sip. That arrogant, conniving, sick, stupid, fat, ugly pig! I want to throttle him on the spot—what is he playing at?

As he is taking a sip form his drink, my mind races with answers. What do I tell him? Do I tell him the truth, that my parents got into a fight and I needed someone to distract me? Do I lie to him and tell him that I was bored or drunk or...? What can I tell him that won't portray me as weak?

"We're not friends," I say. Better to avoid the question.

Sebastian smiles and raises his shoulders. "But last night—"

"Was nothing. The real question is what do you want?"

He pouts his lips, the corners turning down, and as innocently as douchebags can, he says, "Like I said—to talk to you. It's not illegal, is it?"

"Come on, cut the crap! Why would you want to talk to me, I don't have a penis," Sebastian smiles with his teeth, "Aren't you supposed to be hounding Blaine instead of bothering me?"

I must have hit the jackpot, because he closes his eyes for a moment and looks down, nodding his head. When he raises his head, he's smiling. "Bingo...You see," he takes his left hand out of his pocket and touches his fingertips to his chest, "I like Blaine. He's hot, in control, and so charming. He really has me going but when I think I'm close to him," he gives a short, soft laugh, sort of maniacally if I didn't know better, "his pansy boyfriend Kurt sticks his ugly head where it shouldn't be. Kurt and Blaine as a couple is a joke. They don't belong together and Kurt is holding Blaine down. I can love Blaine down and do whatever he wants, without so much as a guilt trip." He's looking at me, but not really, like he is someplace else. "I know Blaine has it in for me. Maybe not much but he's getting there, and I'm not going to let Kurt get in our way." He looks at me clearly now, his eyes hard, relaying his determination. They're a beautiful color, and I can see the shocks of color in them.

All too suddenly I realize that we are too close to each other, less than two feet away. Taken by surprise, I stumble backwards, intent on leaving a good amount of space between us. Sebastian, however, takes this another way, and starts striding towards me. "Let's have a chat, Vivian. We can talk about Kurt's demise." He brushes past me and begins walking towards a table. He's so arrogant that he doesn't look back until he is ten feet away from me.

I haven't moved from the door and am staring back at Sebastian, whose face is both a mixture of expectancy and surprise. I have absolutely no desire to talk to him any further, nevertheless about "Kurt's demise". I look at him for a moment, with no purpose but to ingrain his face into my head. I spot Sonya on the right and give her a small nod, and she comes rushing to me, glancing back at Sebastian to no doubt flick him off. She opens the door and steps out and as I am about to leave, I glance back at Sebastian once more. His face is guarded, an arrogant smile across his lips. But deep down, I know he wasn't expecting that at all, that the cards haven't played right.

My heart swells, and my stomach doesn't feel queasy. I feel warm, even though cold air is blasting at me through the open door. Triumph. Maybe winning does this to people, but I feel cocky and want him to have something to remember me by. So I bend over, place my left hand on my hips, and with my right hand, blow him a kiss. He's doing a great job of guarding himself, but not good enough to keep himself from furrowing his eyebrows ever so slightly. I'll take that.

Satisfied, I walk out into the cold. I can't wait till I tell Kurt and Blaine about this.

And actually, I can't wait until I meet Sebastian again. I have the upper hand now.


Author's Note: What I learned from this week is that I cannot be trusted with deadlines, so the Saturday/Sunday deadline is a bit fuzzy. But, I will always try to update sometime during the week. And remember to review, please. Thank you!