A little musical fluff for you :D

VII. Heaven

The strum of guitar strings hummed through the room and settled in the air like a mist. It clung to the walls and frosted the windows in a pleasant coating of melody, collected on Blaine's eyelashes until he blinked it away.

Sam tried to keep his eyes on the other boy's fingers as they moved fluidly along the fret board, but time and again they flicked upwards to Blaine's face. His expression was so resolute, so adorably focused as he gazed down at the guitar that Sam couldn't bring himself to look away; he tried to turn his attention to the guitar in his own arms, but Blaine had him trapped in a complex web of notes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Blaine asked without looking up, the hint of a grin in his words.

Sam gave a little cough to hide his surprise and slight embarrassment. "You're, uh, you're really good." He hoped a blush wasn't visible on his cheeks.

"So're you." Now Blaine looked up at him, focused the full extent of his music-filled irises on him. "You never told me you played so well."

"Neither did you," Sam replied, absently strumming a chord. "What was that you were just playing?"

"Oh." Blaine began picking it again, filling the room with its sweet jump of notes. "It's nothing really, I made it up kind of by accident the other night." His eyes flicked to Sam's, and there was something bashful in them, something strangely shy. "Sometimes I think about things and my fingers just kind of move, and sometimes I like what they come up with."

Sam watched those fingers now, intrigued. "What were you thinking about?"

"Heaven," Blaine replied without missing a beat. Once more their eyes met; the melody played on. Light streamed through the window, reflecting in a glint off the silky wood of Blaine's guitar. And Sam couldn't stop staring.

"Heaven?"

"Well, yeah." Blaine shrugged. "Not like in the religious sense. It was more like…you know, when people say 'I am in Heaven' or 'that would be Heaven.' What does that mean? And when I say that, what am I talking about?" He gazed into the sunlight, and still the song flowed from his fingertips. "I know it's stupid—"

"No," Sam automatically interrupted. "That's awesome, actually. Do you…are there any words to it?"

Blaine shook his head. "Not yet. I tried, but they didn't work out. I just have the title."

"Which is?"

Blaine smirked at him. "'Heaven.'"

"Oh."

They laughed then, together, and it mingled in the air with the pretty pattern of notes, seeped into the painted wood of the walls, landed lightly once again on Blaine's lashes. And again, Sam found himself trapped by the beauty of it all. Unable to look away from the guitar, from the movement of the strings. From Blaine.

And that night, after the guitars had been placed snugly in their cases, after Blaine had gone home, after Sam had showered and put on pajamas and walked into his bedroom once again—that was when it hit him. Blaine's melody exuded from the walls where it still clung, danced around the room as if to greet him, to welcome him back. As it swirled around him and carried him to bed, its name danced along with it. Heaven.

Blaine.