Chapter 25
In the Spotlight, Losing my Religion
Warnings: Intimate-ish situations, references to questionable consent
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"Fun fact," Kurt began in a tone of voice that suggested fire and brimstone was too gentle a fate for the likes of David Karofsky. "You are a god-damned idiot."
"Good talk Kurt," Dave muttered, glancing up towards the ceiling. He thought perhaps the pale cream expanse would give him some kind of reprieve from Kurt's immovable expression of wounded disdain, but he caught sight of the dainty pink ruffles of Rachel's canopy bed, bringing him back to the modeling show he had stupidly ruined by opening his dumb, tired mouth.
Rachel, who had dutifully helped Dave through the explanation of his current living conditions, had managed to retrieve the perfume that started it all, change, and still had time to spare for a side-by-side comparison of different jewelry options by the time Kurt started drawing his latest tangent to a close. This one mostly revolved around trust and pitiful communication, and then some more about trust, and then there were pointed dagger eyes that challenged – no, really Dave – for the football player to defend his pitiful actions.
Being an individual that possessed the will to live, Dave had firmly kept his mouth shut, save for the occasional prodding.
It would not do for Kurt, after all, for him to be completely silent.
"Why didn't you tell me?!"
Though similar to the last five times Kurt had raised such queries, this repletion showed no signs of declining intensity. After the first time, Dave had learned to avert his eyes from the hurt expressions on the other teen's face if he had any desire to manage the devastating guilt that plagued that section of his life.
It was a box he had shuttered away from the rest of the mess he dwelled in. Not ignored, it couldn't be- not with the constant reminder of this foreign home and unrelated family – just…regulated. Managed, if you will.
He couldn't bare all of it. Dave was only human.
"Why Dave?" Kurt pressed. He was in a fine form with his disbelieving entitlement- presenting Dave's withholding as a grievous error (from concern, from betrayal – but it was so hard to deal with now). "Did you think we wouldn't understand? I know you wouldn't have told everyone, but you could have spread the word to more than just Rachel, I mean-" Kurt cut himself off with a dramatic wave of his hand, gesturing to the room at large but focusing directly on Dave. "Were you ever going to tell us?"
It was something Dave had pondered in the infrequent moments he addressed his predicament, and it was never something that had a definitive answer. Maybe at their ten-year reunion. Maybe after they graduated, he could slip it casually into a Skype call. Maybe when he ran into one of the glee-clubbers when he was out on the town with the Berry's, indulging in one of their bi-monthly dinner-and-a-show ordeals that ended in a coffee house critique session where they analyzed performances and material. Maybe it would have come out at someone's future wedding, when Dave and Rachel were still just as tight as ever, maybe he would have said something after Nationals, if they had won. Maybe.
The only definitely he had in that mishmash of half-considerations was that it wouldn't be now.
When the silence had lingered far longer than was acceptable for a thoughtful pause, Kurt turned away, his arms folded across his chest in an iron vice, communicating displeasure and immeasurable strength all in one.
It was easy to forget sometimes, how unbelievably strong Kurt was. He had to be, all things considered, but he never wore it as a burden. It wasn't a learned skill.
It was simply another part of him, cultivated through his own merits, and called upon far too often than should ever be necessary. Kurt was a better person than Dave would ever be.
Excessive nosiness aside.
"Have you spoken to your mom since then?"
"No."
Dave answered the question before it had time to uncomfortably linger, poking and prodding away at the soft underbelly of his mental shields.
He had seen her, once or twice, since she had kicked him out. Okay, he couldn't pretend with the vague disinterest – it had been exactly twice. Exactly two times he had gone to their usual Sunday mass, and exactly twice Dave had sat in the far back of the church, near the isle, where their – his mother's – usual seat (third row, right side) was just in view.
The problem with a community church was, in fact, the actual community aspect. These were people Dave knew, people and teens he had volunteered with at soup kitchens and perish festivals, people whose hands he shook every morning, whose kids he helped through the haunted house at the Halloween Carnival, keeping the monsters away. These were people who had known his family for the entirety of his life, well-meaning people, kind people, people who tended to notice when a mother and son were suddenly sitting a church's expanse apart.
After two mornings born with too many concerned faces, Dave had switched to a later mass. One where he could blend in with all the other teens that were dragged along unwillingly, just another face in the crowd.
They hadn't spoken. As far as he knew, his mother had never even looked at him.
Kurt, whether he was aware of the complications or not- he probably was, because these were the kinds of things Kurt saw when everyone else remained oblivious, the delicacies in relationships – he deftly moved on. "And your father?"
"I've called him," Dave replied. "We've talked from time to time, but I don't think my mother's told him yet."
Which implied, very accurately, that Dave hadn't told him yet, but that was an unnecessary statement. Why would Dave tell him? It didn't make sense to live under the disappointed gaze of two parental figures when he already had to deal with one. Why not put it off? It wouldn't change anything in the long run.
Dave wondered if Kurt knew that too. He seemed to know everything else.
"I'm not going to say you should call him," Kurt said. He was still facing the windows, back to them in a picture of perfectly dramatic seriousness. "That's your business. But I highly suggest that you do."
"Okay," Dave nodded. Even if Kurt wasn't looking at him, the action felt grounding, like a reflex both expected and accepted in instances like these, and Dave could hold onto the order of it. As one thing he couldn't do wrong.
Over by the vanity, Rachel pretended not to look on the proceedings with a gaze permeated with sympathy, doing her part to support Dave by giving him the distance he so greatly desired.
Seriously, if he could go back in time and punch his fifth grade self for deciding Rachel was lame, Dave would do it. She deserved better than that.
You're deflecting, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Quinn, noted.
No shit, Dave noted right back. Or, he supposed, noted again.
It really wouldn't do to develop split personalities in the middle of his Kurt-enforced therapy session. It would probably send the wrong message.
"But I will ask you," Kurt began, shifting to face Dave in a definite turn, one hip cocked like a cowboy of the old west, reaching for his holster. "Again – by the way – why didn't you tell me?"
Which seemed altogether fair and unfair simultaneously.
Dave wasn't entirely sure how to answer, so he stopped bothering to think about it and went with the first explanation that came to his mind.
Except the only explanations he had were – I didn't want to bother you – or – There's nothing you could have done about it – or – I didn't want you to know – and none of those were ever going to be adequate responses under the weight of Kurt's judgmental glare.
Kurt saw his deliberation – kind of hard to miss when Dave was the only one he was staring at – and proceeded to do what he did best (besides a mean-but-fair outfit critique and belting out Barbara's greatest hits).
He needled, filling in for Dave until the other teen was goaded into responding, and even though Dave knew he was doing it-
"Are you ashamed of it?" Kurt asked. "Are you ashamed because everyone else's parents have been so accepting of their orientation, but admitting yours got you-" kicked out of the house, was what he didn't say, jerking his head to the side tightly, snapping his mouth shut. "Because that's not your fault, Dave. It doesn't reflect on you as a person, that's all her. You just…" he trailed off, eyes flicking downwards, and shrugged. "Realistically, it had to happen to someone. You just weren't as lucky as the rest of us."
And by "us", Kurt meant him and Blaine and Mike and Puck and Brittany and Santana and Sam, he guessed now (did his parents even know, though? Would he get kicked out too if he went home-?), and it would be a lie, to say Dave wasn't bitterly jealous that they got to keep what they had. That they had families that didn't accuse them of not-trying, of not sitting down and considering all possible scenarios when he had done that and they sure as hell hadn't. Dave knew all the arguments, had them in his back pocket, had scripture and logic prepared for a battle his mother wouldn't even have with him, and they got to keep their families and friends and Dave had to live on the border of being a house guest and a burden, and how fair was that?
He wanted his mom back. He wanted his dad. He wanted those months of pride whenever Dave had collected himself from that stupidly low point in Principal Figgin's office, he wanted to pull back all the hate from the tough love argument he and his dad had on the car ride home, Dave complaining he didn't have his back when all his dad wanted was far him to be okay, and now Dave didn't even have that.
Because he wasn't okay. He wasn't fine. He was a reject among his peers and his family, who fought for things he could never hope to attain, who was trying so hard to do what was right and half the time it felt like all it earned him was heartache and criticism from anyone who even bothered to talk to him anymore.
Hate from his friends, disappointment from his mom, disapproval from Kurt, haughty-knowing of Sebastian, Blaine's sympathy, Quinn's intensity, Santana's cut-the-shit eyebrow quirk of devastating fervor, and Sam's-
Dave couldn't do it all. It was like he was the only person who knew what a joke he was, trying to run in and play the big hero to a school that didn't want it, for a glee club that didn't get it, and for a Sam-
Who, let's face it; Dave never should have bothered in the first place.
How was he supposed to stand up to that guy when he couldn't even get his own mother to look in his direction?
So, maybe Dave was ashamed, but it wasn't like he didn't have every reason to be.
He didn't notice he had his head bowed into the pitiful protection of his hands until he felt the bed dip beside him. There was a scent – that stupidly posh berries-and-flowers concoction Rachel had scored in return for her banishment – and then there were arms around him, his shoulders, his neck, a hand patting his hair.
It took Kurt's legs brushing up against his knees, the teen before him, then beside him, for Dave to realize that he was crying. Ugly gasps he wanted desperately to hide, to just- find some hole to crawl into and suffer on his lonesome- but the arms refused to leave him. Despite the noise and the pain and potential ruin for overpriced sweaters discovered in the great sale-rack escapade of 2011, they stayed.
For who knew how long, they remained like that, Dave shedding the sorrow of which he could not speak, too numb to counter with anything else.
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Okay. So this explained a lot.
Enough, at the very least, for Kurt to curse his extravagant self-involvement over the last couple of weeks, because this was something he should have noticed.
It should have been suspicious that Rachel and Dave had suddenly become carpool buddies, despite living on opposite ends of town and Dave, very clearly, not holding up his end of the carpool as his particular vehicle hadn't been seen at school in weeks.
Kurt should have realized there was a compounding factor to Dave's sudden absurdity. It wasn't his relationship with Sam the other teen was having trouble understanding, it was his relationship with everyone, what, with one of the most important people in his life throwing him out.
That was not to say that Dave was entirely excused for disrespecting Sam's feelings, but at least now there was an explanation as to how he could become such a determinedly blind imbecile.
There was a chance Kurt should probably stop insulting his seriously grieving friend in his mind, perhaps consider aiming his displeasure at a party that actually deserved it, like Dave's mom.
Kurt was lucky, he had always known that. He had been terrified of coming out, back in sophomore year, terrified enough that he faked a crush on Rachel and joined the football team in an expression of epic manliness merely to comfort any possible concerns his father faced in regards to his sexuality. He might as well have worn a sign that screamed "Straight guy here. Seriously. No homo", he had been so pathetically consumed.
But Kurt had lucked out. His father loved him for him, and had no preconceptions as to what his behavior should be. Blaine – though his father did not particularly understand – his parents supported him. Mike, from what Kurt understood, had thoughtful respect, so long as his affections were true (which was as sickeningly noble as it was heartwarming in its romanticism). As far as Kurt knew, Puck's mother was perpetually unaware of his relationships, in a constant state of neglectful apathy, where as Santana had nothing but love and support. And Brittany, of course, was Brittany. Nothing more really needed to be said.
But they were all very fortunate exceptions to the rule in Ohio. It was unrealistic for Kurt to ever assume Dave could be similarly blessed.
"You need to tell him."
The tears had died down some time ago. Now, Dave stood hunched above Rachel's bathroom sink, splashing water on his face in an attempt to quell the reddened heat of tears.
Kurt was honestly surprised Dave had made it this long without crying. And this had to have been his first time, there was no way that thing – that storm Kurt and Rachel had held onto by the tips of their fingernails – was just one of many tear-sessions. That had been a dam bursting, a train derailing from the tracks in a spectacularly horrible explosion, racking up the damages that Dave couldn't speak of.
Against the eggshell white trim, Kurt and Rachel stood flanking the doorway, watching the transaction. Rachel, for once, was keeping her support mostly nonverbal, which was either a blessing or something she would make up for later. Kurt couldn't read too much into it now, he simply took the opportunity while it was allowed to him.
By the sink, Dave froze, one hand bunched in a salmon-colored hand towel, mid-dab to his face.
"Excuse me?" he said. He sounded half-dead, and maybe Kurt should feel bad about that. A kinder person would have taken that as an obvious cue that Dave had already been through hell that day, and that forcing any more would have been a cruelty.
Alas, Kurt was a man who got things done. Who played the devil to raise an angel.
For these reasons, Kurt repeated himself, even under Rachel's sour looks. "You should tell Sam. I know you can't tell the entire glee club," - being that somehow a select few remained oblivious to Dave's sexuality, though how, Kurt was unsure – "But your friends-"
"No Kurt." Dave shook his head, hiding his face once more in the terry cloth of pink hand towel.
Kurt did him a favor and refrained from scoffing. That did not, however, bar him from responding altogether, but if you thought about it, he was being pretty generous here. For him.
Kurt took a deep breath. "It doesn't excuse you-"
"No, Kurt."
"Well, why not?" Aside from the obvious shame?
Okay, that in itself was pretty unpleasant but-
"We all care about you Dave," Kurt insisted, taking a step forward into the elegantly tiled bathroom. "And if you are hurting I can honestly say that we want to help, in whatever way we can."
"No Kurt, just-" Dave cut himself off with a shake of his head. The hair framing his face was damp; clinging to his cheeks and forehead and suddenly between the weary eyes and slumped posture Kurt could see just how heavily the day's ordeal had weighed upon.
He was beginning to see the reason behind Rachel's admittedly fierce glaring.
"Just-" Dave tried again, rubbing at the wet hair with his borrowed towel. "Focus on your see-it-to-believe-it scheme, or something."
It was tired, when he said it, going for strained with added hints of neutrality. But Kurt, he was an expert at subtleties (sometimes, okay), and he could catch the quiet, almost unheard implication of begging. A pleading to push this for another day.
The see-it-to-believe-it-plan, hmm?
Okay, Kurt could work on that instead. He even had a new angle, now.
"Alright Dave," Kurt allowed after a pause where the other teen studiously discovered new places to dry off with his towel and Rachel kept scowling at Kurt's reflection. "I believe dinner is past-due anyway."
And so help him, if Kurt wanted to avoid eating tofu-pizza, again, he was going to champion his cause for vegetarian curry right now, or Dave was going to campaign for Asian – and not even sushi – and Rachel would ultimately overrule them.
For now, Kurt could focus on those minor worries. He could focus on the way the tension immediately vanished from Dave's shoulders, a quiet thanks for the reprieve.
For now, Kurt could do these things, and wait.
Eventually, the time would be right.
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"You know, some people might find this creepy," Sam said, running a hand through his damp hair. "But not this guy."
'This guy' being him, and 'creepy' being, well...
Sam squinted down at the perfectly folded square of what was undoubtedly overpriced material. Aside from qualities of the rich and hoity-toity to ensure said hoity-toity-ness, the folded cloth wasn't super suspicious. Aside from the fact that, you know, it was resting in the place where a pile of clothes used to be, and said clothes were no longer anywhere in sight. At all.
Yeah, nothing weird about that.
"No," Sam continued, pinching the dark purple material in between two fingers and holding it an arm's length away to give it a proper inspection, the other hand firmly on the towel wrapped around his waist. "This guy can recognize this as the control freak in you coming out and doing his thing, with the creepy implications as a worrying side-effect."
"If you don't like them, you could always go free-balling," Sebastian's voice called through the door, sounding half-attentive, at best, which was really his way of showing he absolutely cared about this but letting Sam know that fact would be detrimental to his continued will to live, so he had to act bored. Bored and in control. Those were kind of Sebastian's two methods to live by.
It was sad that Sam new this, but also, useful.
"Of course," Sebastian continued, and Sam could imagine him scowling down at the suits, vests, and dress shirts strewn across his room, each hand armed with a skinny, obnoxiously expensive tie. "That would make it difficult to return the inadequate items. If you would like, we could think of alternate forms of payment-"
"I think my real question here," Sam interrupted, frowning at the deceptively soft material between his fingers. "Is what was wrong with my original underwear, but then you might actually answer me."
Sam was pretty sure he didn't want to know the answer, because the answer would be stupid. And Sam? He had developed a Stupid-Sebastian limit for each of their sessions a long time ago, and they had just started this one-
It was a useless complaint, in the end. Whether he wanted to or not, Sebastian loved the sound of his own voice too much not to-
"You want to dress the part, you commit to it. Totally," Sebastian said blithely; with an almost pained tinge in his voice that he would have to actually explain this to Sam. He got that kind of tone a lot, actually. Sam was used to it by now. "Ergo, you require-"
"Tiny purple boxer briefs?" Sam asked. It seemed that no matter how long he stared at these things, they weren't going to get any bigger. So there went that plan. "I think these are worse than my original Rocky shorts."
"I can find a metallic gold option if that would make you more comfortable," Sebastian offered in a show of fake generosity, as he knew that would assuredly not make Sam more comfortable. "I suppose we can shove some low class in with-"
"Purple's good," Sam decided. "In fact, purple's great. But I'm getting the rest of my clothes back, right?"
Because Sam had actually really liked that shirt, and it wasn't like he was exactly swimming in an abundance of pants nowadays.
He was about seventy-five percent sure that Sebastian was slowly trying to replace his old clothes with newer, trendier versions. Like, name-brand sweaters and t-shirts instead of the Walmart fakes Sam had with the labels sewn on. Sam would have considered it flattering if he didn't know very well that it was entirely for the sake of Sebastian's own image. That, and the fact that he didn't really like the generosity extended by his own friends when his family was actually living in a motel; the fact that Sebastian pretty much threw clothes in his direction without a second thought – while essentially being Sam's business partner (and an asshole) – was beginning to make Sam feel a bit like he had a sugar daddy. It didn't help that Sebastian regularly referred to him as "brain-dead arm candy".
Yeah, that was his guy. Real keeper there.
"They are being decontaminated as we speak," Sebastian replied distractedly, suggesting he was both bored with this conversation and that Sam was – as usual – a pitiful member in the unwashed massed. He liked to remind the blond of this in new and inventive ways. In an attempt to keep his sanity, Sam had started keeping track and scoring the other teen's efforts, giving praise instead of scowling to make Sebastian's eye do that twitchy thing that was so fun to watch.
Theirs was a complicated relationship. Mutual hazing and conflicting goals aside, it wasn't a completely awful one though.
Sam certainly had worse, at the moment.
"Thank you," Sam said. He sighed, glancing at his reflection in the fogged up mirror, and wondered how he got to this point. Like, where was the actual logic in this?
All he had known was that Sebastian had demanded he come over, immediately, as the last of Sam's prospective prom-outfits had finally returned from the tailors, or- actually, Sam didn't like to think about it too much, because it kind of made his stomach churn that one time he had accidentally caught a peak of the price tag on one of Sebastian's ties, and wowzah, that was a lot of money.
So Sam, dutiful crime-partner he was, came to Sebastian's pretentious mansion-thing for yet another session of dress-up, only for Sebastian to scowl at him (not an irregular greeting in itself), stick up his nose (also normal) and demand he take a shower, to "Preserve the quality of these fine garments" or something or other, and now he was here.
Standing in a bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a regrettably luxurious towel with fluffiness the likes of which Sam had never experienced, inspecting a stretchy, silky, unfairly soft thing in his hands.
The stuff Sam did for Dave, really.
"Any particular reason you didn't leave behind fancy-pants boxers instead?" Sam asked, moving onto the next expected step in their argument and tossing the boxer briefs onto the counter carelessly, staring at the mirror.
Man, this place was ridiculous. Sebastian had one of those rainforest showerheads Kurt always went on about. Now, after experiencing it, Sam understood why. Those things were great.
Though, Sam supposed, there had also been like, twenty other nozzles and showerheads and one waterfall thing blasting at him at the same time, so it was kind of difficult to tell the amazingness of one particular shower fixture. Kind of made it less surprising that Sam hadn't heard Sebastian sneak in like the creepy-peeping-tom-ninja that he was to steal his clothes, there had been water literally everywhere.
But that was beyond the point. Sam would not be won over by intricate showers and heated tile floors and shiny brass faucets that made him feel like he was in a French castle or something. He would have to ask Kurt about it later, but the whole ordeal seemed really French.
"I enjoy a good view," Sebastian replied off handedly, voice turned away as he considered whatever horribly trendy ensembles he had splayed out across his bed. "Now suit up and get your ass out here; my time is valuable."
"Whatever," Sam mumbled. He grabbed up another ridiculously comfortable towel and gave his hair a few more half-hearted rubs, figuring it was going to be a mess anyway. He dried off as efficiently as he could and then tackled the complicated undergarment before lost his nerve.
Turned out, they were worse than the Rocky pants. Way worse than the Rocky pants.
The Rocky pants, at least, were stiffer material. They had their own shape, gave Sam some room to breathe (despite their definite lack of everything else), but these things clung to Sam like a second skin, all, stupidly soft and purple and – damn, he might as well not be wearing underpants right now.
He kept the hair towel, because he needed some kind of protection against Sebastian's creeper-eyes, and wandered into the other teen's expansive bedroom, rubbing the towel against his head.
"Alright," Sam said, glancing at the explosion of shirts and dress coats and what looked like a scarf. "What have you got for me?"
"Gonna need a full view first." Sebastian smiled sweetly, but it was no more kind than it was thoughtful, purely predatory and hungry and guh all in one. He made a spinning motion with his finger. "If you would."
Though things had never exactly gotten to this stage in their little deal, Sam had learned to fight off the best of the embarrassment awhile ago. He had been a stripper once (and thank goodness Sebastian still hadn't found out about that, or there might be requests in the future), but it was just- different, he guessed, when there wasn't a stage. He had to remind himself that his anxiety was completely natural, because Sam had never done this (he dated Quinn, remember, the high time queen of celibacy, and Mercedes hadn't been much better) and showing any kind of fluster around Sebastian only served to fuel the flames.
It might be the brunette's idea of satisfaction, but Sam liked to pretend he had some control in this relationship, so he learned to shrug it off. If anything, the blond just pretended Sebastian was someone he would actually want to do this around (*cough* Dave *cough*) and strutted his stuff like he owned the joint.
Anything he could to ruin the other guy's fun, if Sebastian was going to be a creepy control freak. Especially after he had made Sam go back and fix all the posters he had hung up.
That had been an unpleasant afternoon. Especially with Artie's unwanted critiques.
Like, Sam appreciated the support and all, but come on Artie, be a bro.
Sebastian – true to his form of being an obnoxious jerk – released a slow whistle while Sam turned around, pretending to be cocky about it. Probably would have worked too, if Sebastian hadn't demanded he pause facing away, because pretending like someone wasn't ogling your ass while they were making very detailed comments about how they were was kind of distracting.
Luckily, only the tips of his ears burned when he turned back around, though maybe that wasn't the best thing.
Sam would have to ask Mike about playing figurative chicken with an obnoxious asshole one day, see if the benefits outweighed the risks.
The blond was beginning to think they didn't.
"We'll start you off with a classic black tux," Sebastian decided, eyes fixed to Sam's abs – very obviously – as he made this declaration. He motioned vaguely to the bed. "White shirt, vest, bowtie, and shoes are over by the mirror."
"Okay," Sam agreed, careful not to be too desperate as he grabbed for the offered pants, finally. "But isn't that a little, you know, bland for you?"
He had the pants on in record time – and care, so as not to be chided by his finicky cohort – and moved onto the shirt, running his fingers across the perfectly-spaced buttons, round and gleaming in the soft light of Sebastian's room. "I never figured you for an old-favorite kind of guy."
Classy, Sebastian, Sam thought, watching as the other teen's gaze zeroed in on his chest as Sam slowly buttoned his shirt, hiding away his 'entertainment'.
"Think of it as a control group," Sebastian replied, snapping back to himself as he handed Sam a vest. "We'll compare this against the more…progressive options; see if they're an improvement."
"Makes sense- hey!"
But Sebastian only batted his hands away whenever he moved to stop the brunette from tucking in his shirt for him, motioning pointedly to the vest.
Right. Sam just needed to think of this as a game of chicken he really needed to win and stop getting potentially flustered by. He had the power. He did, not Sebastian.
"Whatever," Sam said, very apathetically (and without a scowl in sight) as he shrugged into the vest. "Wouldn't this look better with a regular tie?"
Sam had seen the way Sebastian had rolled his eyes whenever they were Kurt's particular choice of neckwear. And that one time Mike did it for like, a presentation. As far as Sam could tell, the only one who could pull off a mean bowtie in Sebastian's world was Blaine, and Sam wasn't sure how much of that had to do with the clothing and how much of that had to do with Sebastian's super-secret-crazy-rabid-obsession thing.
Oh, hey- another benefit of chicken. Blaine got a reprieve from Sebastian-crazy.
You're welcome Blaine.
"Bowties go with tuxes," Sebastian drawled, wrapping the silky black material around the neck of Sam's shirt and beginning the complicated process of making it into a bow that was way harder than it should be. They couldn't have just used one of the hook-ones like everyone else did, the ones that came pre-bowed. No, they had to be fancy.
"Now shut up and put on your coat," Sebastian ordered, handing over the black article of clothing as his eyes landed on Sam's hair.
He frowned, head titled to the side in what Sam had come to recognize as his ultimate consideration-face, then reached up and ruffled the blond mess some more, deflecting Sam's pitiful attempts of defense and ducking out of the way, until everything was just as perfectly bed-head as his fashion-forward brain decided it was.
"There." He stood back and nodded at his handiwork, nudging Sam in the direction of the full-length mirror wordlessly. "Now shoes. I'll get the camera."
"Oh, no way man. I am not doing a private photo session for you," Sam declared, plopping himself down gracelessly (to Sebastian's obvious displeasure) and shoving his feet in the shoes. "Just use your memory."
"Allow me to rephrase," Sebastian said, and in the reflection of the mirror Sam could see him fiddle around with what he assumed was a camera bag. "We can do this with suits, or," he looked up deliberately, and an expression of supreme smugness. "Without."
As he said this, he made a very exaggerated glance towards one of his glossy dressers which may, or may not (because Sam was across the room and squinting only did so much) have been covered in boxes of other potentially overpriced underpants.
The color may have drained from Sam's face, and Sebastian may have laughed.
Now just remove every "may have", and you would have an accurate description of those events.
"Photo op, away." Sam decided, hopping up in time to catch Sebastian's look of supreme satisfaction.
Seriously Blaine, you are welcome.
"I'm pleased that you haven't noticed I can make you agree to things you don't want to do by presenting an option you like even less," Sebastian noted, snapping a few test pictures as he descended on Sam, camera held aloft like a weapon in front of him. "Though the fact that you haven't figured that out for yourself is something I find equally enjoyable."
"I was honestly hoping you wouldn't notice," Sam muttered, making to run a hand through his hair and jerking away at the last moment, whenever Sebastian bestowed him with a look of death.
Yes, he had realized that on his own, but he figured, you know, that made Sebastian feel more in control, and therefore less of a jackass, which was really Sam's only goal at the end of the day. A happy Sebastian was a Sebastian that actually worked with Sam, as opposed to dragging the blond along in his wake, kicking and screaming and collecting mental scars all over.
Skills, some would call it. Horrible, horrible skills.
"Keep standing like that, but look off to the side," Sebastian ordered, messing with the protruding lens with deft precision.
"Are you going to tell me to make a pouty face?" Sam gagged, nose scrunched at the thought. He didn't want to spend the next few hours listening to Sebastian tell him how much the camera loved him.
Or worse, how much it didn't.
"I'm going to tell you to start stripping if you don't look off to the side," Sebastian warned, and suddenly Sam discovered a new fascination with the polished wooden floors of Sebastian's bedroom.
It turned out, Sam had no concrete idea as to whether the camera loved him or not, but Sebastian sure as hell was having a ball with this. For every outfit (the he so generously helped change Sam in and out of) there was at least one standing picture, followed by a series of photos Sam was almost positive had nothing to do with comparison shots and everything to do with Sebastian's deep-rooted desire to rule the world. Or be a director. Or direct the world.
All were plausible.
Like, even Sam could tell half of the shots were useless. Sebastian had one picture where he was straddling the back of a chair, his head nested sideways atop his arms, folded across the chair's back, a picture of 'aloof disconnection' (or that was what Sebastian insisted of him, that time) on his face. There was one where he was reclined across the bed, sheets still mussed up from Sebastian's dump-everything-on-the-floor cleaning method. This one had him with his arm draped across his face, as though the lights hurt his eyes (sexy vampire thing, Sam guessed, was what Sebastian was going for), his other hand loose at his side, fingers splayed carelessly in the silk sheets. Some had him half-hidden in shadows, lurking behind wardrobes, half-obscured by curtains. Every one of them made Sam feel like an idiot, but Sebastian was smiling and, really, it wasn't the worst thing in the world, and it didn't seem like an awful lot for Sam to play super model in return for a kickin' prom outfit (even if he would have been just as content for another year workin' the Goodwill rack).
Eventually, when they had reached the portion of the evening where they experimented with mixing slacks and coat colors, Sam voiced an incessant concern that had been quietly plaguing him for he past…he would say hour, but it was definitely longer than that. Much longer.
And Sebastian might not be the greatest person to bring it up to, but for the moment he was the only one who was really talking to Sam on a regular basis (aside from Mike, but Mike wasn't the best person to discuss super-secret stealth plans with, on account of being, you know, Mike).
His latest monkey suit involved black pants, a dark grey coat, and a black shirt, coming all together in a weird flint-stuffed Oreo that had Sebastian pondering ties as though he were unlocking the code to a secret language. He had it down to a royal blue with fine grey pinstripes and a light grey metallic, narrowing down to a sharp point that made it look like a sword.
Sam, who had been tasked with the burden of shoe-selection, picked out the same black ones he head used every other time he was given this particular duty, and took Sebastian's contemplation time as a kind of recess to settle out his own thoughts. Whether or not this was actually helpful was left to be decided, but at this point Sam was too tired of trying on someone else's skin, feeling like some kind of pitiful pretender decked out in clothes he never would have been able to afford on his own, and mostly, and more pressingly, very much missing Dave.
He had missed him, back in those weeks after Sam had made the great Notebook of Lies Discovery, back when Dave was just a damage-controlling ass who was just trying to steer Sam just like everyone else was trying to steer him, trying to manage the chaos Sam naturally created.
He had longed for Dave, so much; he thought that the Dave he had known was just a lie. An illusion he had built for his own satisfaction.
It was worse now, knowing that Dave both wanted and didn't want him, at all; and Sam was barely keeping it together on the ride to crazy town, just trying to make sense of things again.
He wondered if that would ever happen.
"I don't know what to do," Sam said.
As expected, Sebastian showed no outward signs of having heard him, which worked for Sam, because he didn't know what Sebastian would do either. "It almost seems like no matter what I do; Dave's not going to want me."
"Oh, damn," Sebastian muttered, eyebrows furrowed as he went to get a better inspection of the blue tie, holding it a scant three inches from his face. "You actually said something. I had hoped I'd been hallucinating."
"Who hopes for hallucinations?" Sam wondered. It was distraction method, sure, but a temporary one at best. It wasn't like this was something he could just let slide. "Isn't that a sign of mental instability?"
"Beats the alternative."
Sebastian had probably intended for that to remain under his breath, a quiet huff derision as he switched his focus back to the metallic tie, but Sam was all ears at the moment. Unlike someone else in the room, he wasn't totally enthralled by very boring tint-related issues, and had attention to spare.
Huh…Sam wasn't sure why he hadn't thought of it earlier. Like, Sebastian was the same guy who made gagging noises anytime Sam suggested a duet song he perceived as too romantic, whatever that meant – the were fake dating – it made sense for one of his potential weaknesses to revolve around feelings.
And by weaknesses, Sam really meant annoyances he was going to exploit because seriously, he couldn't hold this in much longer, and he had already tried on about eighteen different fancy-pants outfit combinations and he needed revenge.
And closure.
But he was willing to use the revenge excuse if it would give him the courage to keep talking.
"I tell him I like him," Sam continued, clicking the shiny black aglet of his shoelace. "He doesn't believe me. I try to prove I like him, he doesn't believe me. I try to ask him to prom, he shuts me down. I try to broadcast to the entire school that I'm into dudes; he gets this sympathetic face like I'm the most pitiful thing in existence. The only thing he hasn't done is say he doesn't actually like me, so why won't he, you know, date me?"
"I think the better question here is, why are you asking me?"
Sam looked up from the crooked knots of his shoelaces to see that Sebastian had both tie candidates down at his sides, his hard-earned attention finally on the blond in expression of strained ambivalence.
Sam had started looking up alternatives for the words 'bored' and 'apathetic' a while ago, it was the only way he could pretend Sebastian had a wide range of moods beyond 'smug' and 'disdainful'.
"I was under the impression you were smart," Sam replied, going in for the one crack in Sebastian's armor that he knew of. Pride. "You know, the master manipulator? You understand people."
"People," Sebastian repeated, putting a kind of snotty emphasis on the word to suggest maybe Dave didn't qualify (because that was Sebastian did). "I understand. Morons are a whole different story." Sebastian blinked, considering this thought, then turned back to his stupid ties. "I don't make a habit of delving into their intricacies unless I stand to gain something from it."
"Huh," Sam said. He tilted his head, going for the same vague, dumb guy look that Sebastian openly mocked but Sam knew he secretly enjoyed. "Okay," the blond shrugged, then went back to thrilling game of 'flick the shoelace'.
He gave it a few moments, because if there was anything he had learned from his experiences with Sebastian, it was that timing was key.
Sam waited until he was pretty sure the other guy was at least ninety five percent involved in the great time dilemma again, before muttering, oh-so quietly, "Figures."
Ten seconds passed.
Then fifteen, twenty, twenty five.
Sam kept his attention on his shoelaces just as innocent and pouty (Sebastian's other kryptonite) as you please.
Eventually, his patience was rewarded.
"You don't actually expect me to fall for that, do you?" Sebastian asked. It appeared that in the time Sam had been studiously ignoring him, the brunette had switched out the blue tie with a silky white one. "Please, not only could that be classified as possibly the oldest trick in the book, it lacks a distinct amount of precision and subtlety that is, honestly, insulting that you would think I would be susceptible to its influences." Sebastian tore his eyes away from the thin strip of material, deigning Sam with a predatory smile. "Though it is adorable that you tried."
Unbeknownst to Mister Sassy-Pants over there, that was kind of one of the things Sam had been banking on.
The blond rolled his eyes, and popped into a graceless crouch, rocking to his feet in a move that could be considered somewhere between the ranges of awkwardly-clumsy and like-a-newborn-deer.
And even that was all part of the game.
"Yeah, and I'd be more inclined to believe you," Sam began, giving an appropriately pissy face since Sebastian had 'found him out' as he stalked over to the mirror. "But seeing as my smarter friends, who actually understand people, and Dave, seem to be at as much of a loss as I am, it kind of seems ridiculous to think that you might somehow know better."
Sebastian spared him a moment, to quirk one unimpressed eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. "You will goad nothing from me, young padawan," he murmured, fingers tightening around the shiny material in his hands. "You want something, you pay."
"And if you really think about it," Sam continued, turning to get a look at his profile, offering Sebastian a solid view of his back. "It really doesn't make any sense to expect you to. Like, even Dave was a bully once upon a time, but he's a changed person, so it's not like you would think alike."
"It's insulting to suggest we ever did," Sebastian grumbled, squinting down at his ties.
No, totally, it was all about the ties. And not the seat of Sam's pants or anything. It was the ties.
Sam knew this game.
"Because it's not like there's an actual reason for Dave to be acting all…" Sam made a vague hand gesture, as though that could hope to adequately explain the amount of Dave-stupid Sam had to put up with. "I know I was kind of an ass, but I didn't know, and now that I do he goes all-"
Sam froze, and in those seconds of insubstantial gestures and growing hurt/annoyance/whatever other ingredient of the wounded cocktail he seemed to be rocking ever so wonderfully, he realized a grand total of two things.
One, that he was beginning to stray from the fake annoyance and posturing he used to goad some maybe helpful information out of Sebastian – and Sam would weep at the desperation of this, were it not for the fact that underneath the ungodly expensive suit he had literally been dressed in, was a pair of tiny, stretchy, no-imagination-leaving underpants that easily marked his surrender to desperation a long time ago. That he could even think-
Oh, okay wait, that was one. One was a rant, and it was only going to lead him to more angry and grrr faces that weren't going to actually get him anything, so Sam moved on swiftly to number two.
Two, being that Sebastian was sporting a new look of disinterest (with a degree of boredom Sam wasn't familiar with yet), actually, legitimately frowning down at his beloved neck accessories as though they had found a way to insult the human Sam desperately claimed was buried deep in the pit of Sebastian's soul, underneath all the self-involvement and sarcasm.
It was the full manifestation of an expression Sam had only just caught the barest glimpses of once; something Sebastian schooled into his usual contempt so quickly Sam had thought he had only dreamed of the look. Would still, to this day, believe it was but a figment of his imagination, were it not for the fact that nope – the thing he was wearing now, that was it, and it was out in full, apathetically-subdued force.
Which was alarming for many reasons, but the most important one being that the one time Sam'd fever-dreamed up the expression, Sebastian had been glaring down at the latest prom king poll results.
Gun to his head, Sam would have guessed that particular frown and hatred-laser-beam-eyes combination was Sebastian's equivalent to frustrated confusion, a failure to understand why something wasn't adding up in his perfect little world of self-satisfaction the way he expected it to be.
For the first time since he had begun this little confusing song-and-dance with Sebastian, Sam realized that the other teen was about as clueless to the motives behind Dave's actions as Sam was.
It was like that one day when you're in first grade and you figured out that your parents actually didn't know everything in the world, and despite the fact you had been told they were just people, it wasn't until that time that you understood they actually weren't the flawless super humans you had always believed them to be.
Sebastian didn't know.
"Holy crap," Sam exclaimed, the words stumbling gracelessly from his mouth before he could stop himself. Across the room, Sebastian spared him a put upon glare before returning his attention to the two ties, but the damage was already done. Sam had seen the man behind the curtain, he knew.
"You have no idea," Sam continued. For some reason, something about this made Sam want to dance. Like a lot. Lots of dancing. Swiftly followed by maybe throwing up a bit. "You- you don't actually know-"
"Morons?" Sebastian completed the sentence with an arrogant tilt of his head, but see- he was still frowning, and Sam knew it. "Like I told you, unless I am well motivated-"
"You don't know," Sam repeated. It was almost like a song. A joyous, majestic, song of victory and triumph. "You don't know. You don't know. Sebastian the all-knowing doesn't. Know."
Sam had surrendered to the urge to fist pump about two repetitions into his chant, spinning in mindless circles as he completed the uncoordinated dance of victory he and Mike had invented in a fit of true sleep-deprivation after one of Tina's vampire move nights. There was a lot of stereotypical bad guy-dancing, with spastic shuffling and bent arms so he could properly get his groove on.
"You. Don't. Know," he sang, completing a lazy loop in front of the mirror. "You- You- Don't know."
"I don't know why this, of all things, makes you happy," Sebastian drawled- and it looked like somebody was trying to regain control of the situation, but Sebastian wasn't going to stop this funk train, oh-no. "Being that the only thing it proves is that your boy-toy is completely illogical, and that there is, in fact, no actual reason behind what he's doing."
If Sebastian had been struggling for satisfaction during Sam's discovery, he had absolutely no trouble reclaiming it after that little bombshell.
Sam froze, grin feeling stiff and forced on his face as Sebastian's words began to actually sink in.
But wait, he had been-
He had been winning.
Whatever his expression was- and Sam assumed it was something in the area of horrified depression, seeing as his whole body felt like a bucket of ice water had just been thrown over him- it made Sebastian laugh.
It was the kind of laugh that preceded the brunette getting back to work with a smile on his face, and a few seconds after that there was some cheerful whistling, because if Sebastian was anything it was the master of putting a cherry on top of a catastrophe sundae. It was like, his life's calling.
"Not so happy now, are you?" Sebastian quipped, sounding, somehow, even more epically smug than any of his previous adventures into smugness.
Sam hadn't thought it would have been possible.
Lost and hurt and feeling all ungrounded, again, the only appropriate answer the blond could think of was to collapse face first on top of Sebastian's bed with a melancholy sigh, emphatically ignoring the carefully-arranged piles of outfit candidates Sebastian had taken his usual stupid-amount of time setting out.
There might have been same annoyed tsking, but honestly, Sam could not begin to care about Sebastian's delicate clothes sensibilities. Not when Dave was being an especially ginormous, unreasonable, crazy person.
Why couldn't he just turn Sam down, or something? Why did he have to stab a hand into Sam's chest, squeeze at the most delicate parts and rip everything around until he decided it was an appropriate level of destroyed before going about his nonsensical, especially stupid way?
And why did Sam still miss the stupid guy? It made no sense. He hated this. He used to be confident and a go-getter and determined whenever he saw something he wanted. He was used to fighting the good fight and trying to be charming and knowing he had a chance. He used to know his limitation and made up for them with enthusiasm, he used to be able to flirt; he used to be good at this stuff.
But now Sam just felt like the biggest jackass in the world, like nothing he did was right. He felt stupid and bumbling whenever he used to feel like he could actually accomplish stuff. Signs he used to be able to read easily he now second-guessed, then triple-guessed, then panicked and appropriately made a fool out of himself, because for some odd reason he couldn't do this and he didn't even know why.
Sometimes, he wondered if maybe he built this whole thing up in his head. If maybe the only one who thought Dave might be interested in him was him, and that Sebastian and Kurt and Quinn were just humoring his misadventures because that was what the glee club did for people like him and Brittany and Finn.
Sam knew that wasn't the case. He knew that, it was just hard to believe otherwise sometimes.
"Damn it," Sam muttered into Sebastian's comforter, his eyes tracing the millions of diamond all smashed together in their slightly off hues, forming one giant navy blue middle finger of wealth to all other poser bed clothes. "Between Dave and Strando, I don't know who's making my life more miserable."
"Ah, yes." Sebastian's voice drew closer to Sam's side of the bed, his footsteps quiet against the dark wooden floors. "Our good friend Strando; he does seem to be toeing the company line, doesn't he?"
"Dude," Sam grumbled, sparing the brunette a tired glare as he craned his neck sideways. "I don't even know what that means."
"Mr. Karofsky does," Sebastian replied easily, looking annoyed. It appeared the metallic grey tie had won after all. "Now roll over."
"Not a dog," Sam grumbled, and then countered this complaint by accommodating the request and turning onto his back with a wistful sigh. Seriously, he was too tired for this business.
Which was why it took him a few seconds to ask-
"Wait, what does Dave know?"
He followed Sebastian's quirked index finger into the sitting position, ignoring the stupidly shiny material that was looped around his neck as he focused on Sebastian – his face, the important part – with renewed intensity. "What do you know?"
"Nothing," Sebastian said, completing a complicated knot with deft efficiency. "-that you need to worry your pretty little head about."
He finished this declaration with a light shove, and in the next moment Sam was blinking up at Sebastian's glossy ceilings, an unblemished smooth white peppered with oak crossbeams that really brought on the medieval castle vibe.
"Now," Sebastian began, and Sam must have spaced out into a knight-in-shining-armor-fantasy again – where Sebastian was a fire breathing monster-face and Dave played the damsel prince in a tower because Sam wasn't doing all this work for nothing – because the next thing he knew Sebastian was straddling him, camera posed down for another inopportune picture. "Smile."
"Sebastian-" The camera flashed, and showed no signs of stopping, even as Sam all but scowled at him. "Dude, knock it off."
"That's right, darling," Sebastian cooed, using the same 'photographer voice' Sam had mocked him with earlier in the evening, possibly because he knew it grated very last one of Sam's nerves. "Be fierce, the camera loves you."
"I would like to stress how very little I return the feeling," Sam grumbled, one hand blocking his face as the camera continued its very determined attempt to blind him.
"You can say it all you want-" Sebastian shifted and- yeah, that wasn't something Sam really wanted to process right now. "But bottom line, you're hot when you're angry, so-"
Sam hadn't learned the first time, and he suddenly wasn't going to learn it now, even though in the back of his head he knew – really he did – better. What were all his do-not-be-embarrassed mantras for, if he didn't' even use them?
He flushed, hand dropping away so he could properly gape at the stupidly smug, stupid-smug-face hovering above him, just in time to fall under another rapid succession of camera flashes.
The things he did for Dave. Really.
"Alright, enough," Sam declared. He shoved one hand – carefully – into the camera lens and sat up with a jolt, pushing the stupid piece of equipment out of the way. He was so done with photos right now.
Sebastian – true to his nature of being a demon overlord who thrived off of surrounding discomfort and unhappiness – smirked in response, eyes focused down on the view screen, thumbing through his latest collection of shots. "I believe that's the last candidate that required photos anyway," he drawled, smirk transforming into a wicked grin as he reviewed his horde of dastardly won trophies. "We're good for today."
"Great," Sam grumbled. He propped his arms up behind him, allowing enough leverage to create some space between him and Sebastian. Seeing as the other guy hadn't felt bothered to move whenever Sam decided he was finished with the passively–laying–there thing, and a camera's distance apart wasn't really all that much in the way of personal bubbles, you know?
Judging by the way the grin slid into Sebastian's equivalent of a pout, the brunette was not entirely thrilled by this move.
Point: Sam.
"Fine," Sebastian huffed, pulling away from the bed – and therefore Sam – with an unfair amount of grace as he continued looking over his pictures. "If that's how you're going to be." He retreated over to the vanity the brunette stubbornly insisted was not a vanity (thought Sam had suffered through Kurt's lectures on proper furniture categorization to know that, yeah, it was).
With one hip propped against the dark oak (not) vanity, Sebastian casually mentioned, without looking up from his work, "Undress, will you?"
Control, power chicken, whatever you wanted to call the game, Sam was playing. He knew what Sebastian meant.
It was time to get his regular clothes back. Sweet.
"Sure thing, bossman," Sam chirped, shucking off his shoes thoughtlessly, one over-shined leather foot-trap at a time. The socks were tossed into the same mountain where their predecessors had met their fate, various shades of blacks, grays, blues, browns, and beige off-whites all abandoned in dejected rejection. "Got any particular favorites?"
Sam hadn't asked because he wanted to know, exactly (all of the outfits had met his basic qualification of not making look too much like a major jackass, so he didn't give a damn), but if he chose the conversation there was a chance it would result in less mental scarring, and Sam liked to think he appreciated that kind of stuff.
He didn't, because if that were completely true he would have given up on the whole Dave-thing at the first sign of incomprehensibility, but it was a comforting thought.
The belt, which should have been stiff with newness, was soft and flexible under Sam's fingers. This, with its gleaming steel buckle, he placed with care alongside its fallen brethren. Sebastian tended to get kind of pissy whenever he chucked those things around, and any rebellion against this would be more of a headache than satisfying.
"Well," Sebastian began, now sitting comfortably by his computer, plugging a few wires into his camera to download the pictures. "I did so enjoy the leather pants."
"Of course you would." Sam made no attempts to restrain the exaggerated roll of his eyes, fingers making quick work of the clasp and zipper of his lint-repellant black pants.
As fun as it was to actually embody the term 'fancy pants' for a couple of hours, Sam was ready to escape the fear of potentially ruining them. Any of them. He was a bull in the most expensive china shop, except instead of shattering crystal vases he had to worry about wrinkles and stretching and losing buttons (which Sebastian has assured Sam would be impossible up until the moment it had actually happened, and then it was out with the very pained 'why do you exist?' eyes all over again).
His own clothes, on the other hand, Sebastian actively encouraged him to ruin – it was their 'fun' little way of bonding – and had the added bonus of not giving Sam potential heart attacks at maybe-rips they could have possibly heard, and didn't make him feel like a little kid trying on his dad's clothes.
All…over-formal and stuff.
"Heartthrob" had been one of the terms Sebastian had thrown around whenever they had gotten around to suit five or six. Really, the only word Sam felt he identified with was "poser", but Sebastian had been adamant about this attractiveness, and it wasn't like Sam didn't have a fashion savvy friend or two in his corner he could run this stuff by.
Smart thought – he should ask for a copy of the photos and run them by Kurt later, get his pick on the best of the best.
On second thought, he should probably use Blaine instead. The last time Sam had shown up at school in a pair of sneakers that bore an incomprehensible name that Sebastian had all but shoved on his feet; Kurt had given Sam the stink eye for a solid two hours. Sam would have offered him the scarf Sebastian had been trying to reverse-pyschologize onto his neck as a peace offering, were it not for the fact he was almost certain Kurt didn't want his 'dirty premium-label clothing', or whatever. His words, not Sam's. Sam just wanted the glaring to stop.
It was a small wish.
The pants- the fancy-smancy pants (which reminded Sam, 'Achy-breaky heart' could be a good duet) – Sam didn't even bother folding. He had given up on such lofty dreams after pants number seven, after a many stern frown from Sebastian and the confusing battle of fold-on-the-seam vs fold-on-the-crease and where the hell was either of them? He laid the dark material out flat next to the coat, smoothing out whatever wrinkles he dared to risk with his clumsy 'Neanderthal' hands.
"Either way," Sebastian was continuing, having gone on about shirts and ties or whatever while Sam was ridding himself of the pants, coat, and vest. "I think blue will have to definitely be featured. For your eyes," he added, as though Sam hadn't heard the last eighteen times the guy had gone on and on about his 'one redeeming quality'. "I'll sleep on it," Sebastian decided, pushing away from his computer with a lazy tilt of his head, shifting to his feet with unnatural and - in Sam's opinion - pompous grace.
The brunette half-slunk, half-glided over towards where Sam stood by the bed, eyes fixed on the blond's fingers as they fumbled with the flashy silver tie, the shiny material almost clumsy in his hands.
"You're hopeless." Sebastian batted his unsophisticated fingers out of the way with a few impatient swats before latching onto the material, doing away with Sam's complicated loops in a matter of seconds, freeing the blond. "You'd better hope Dave is good with ties," the brunette murmured, tossing the accessory to the side and starting on the buttons of Sam's shirt with delicate vigor.
Sam, knowing better (now), held still under the other teen's ministrations, and tried not to sigh. This was Sebastian's favorite part. If anything, this was Sebastian on Christmas morning, carefully opening up his presents like the obnoxious snot that he was, building up the anticipation.
Even when they both were very well acquainted with what was under this particular wrapping Sebastian took his time, fingers trailing against the inner edges of his shirt, just brushing skin.
"If he's being so…" Sam trailed off with an expression that hopefully said 'stupid' that didn't go too deep into 'heartbreaking' and 'hurtful'. It was very difficult. "What makes you think it'd even matter?"
At the rate they were going, there was never going to be that magical spot in the distance where Sam and Dave were back to laughing at each other's stupid jokes and quietly spending time together. There would be no more video games or study sessions, and if they couldn't even get that, how could Sam possibly picture a future where Dave was the one dealing with his tie-incompetence, who wanted to, instead of this person who was only in it for the view, and the deal?
Sam and Puck, they were applauded for their creativity. Hell, with Brittany, they could pretty much win any game of Pictionary someone tried to throw at them, even under Rachel's stubborn insistence of "That shouldn't make sense". They were the best at finding often nonsensical solutions o practical problems.
But even with all, Sam still couldn't picture that dream world.
He wondered how Sebastian, who was probably the most cold-hearted, selfish, and crotchety individual in the world (yeah, Sam went there, Sebastian could be a major grumpster) could see it when he couldn't.
"Honestly," Sebastian began, and it wasn't even necessary, because Sebastian never shied away from brutal truth where Sam was concerned. "I don't care that much."
The last button fell under his attentions and he pushed the silky black material from Sam's shoulders, letting it fall to the bed like he was some kind of overgrown dress-up doll.
Which Sam was, but still. It was a lot nicer when he didn't feel like it.
"But- oomph."
Sam wasn't sent completely sprawling- though not for lack of trying on Sebastian's part, he was sure – when he fell back against the bed. He sat, landing on the textured blue comforter with enough grace that Sebastian only let out a couple of guffaws. Which, for him, was a record, so yay Sam.
"Dude," Sam hissed, giving his very best answer to the Sebastian-patented stink-eye. "Not cool."
Sebastian nodded as though considering this, then shifted forward, one hand planted on each of Sam's knees. "But it was funny."
"Yeah, and I know you're all game for making out right now, but I'm having an actual dilemma here-"
"As opposed to the other seventy or such occurrences resulting from your precious 'Dave'." Sebastian rolled his eyes, then shifted, forcing Sam to move back in order to retain his appropriate face-personal-distance boundary. In response, Sebastian gave him an evil grin appropriate of a joyless fun-sucker.
"I have an alternate proposal," he said suddenly. "Something to take your mind off of-"
"Dude," Sam began. At this moment, it felt really important for Sam to cut off whatever potential touchy-feelyness Sebastian had in mind. Mostly on principle, and mostly because Sam was down to underpants on a really big, really comfortable bed (not that he knew that from experience, it just seemed kind of stupid for Sebastian's expensive bed to not be comfortable), and there was a wide range of options here that would definitely go beyond the 'make out with some frontage' they had agreed on in their contract.
Unless Sebastian had been lying about what exactly frontage was, but he had seemed really adamant and definitely enthusiastic during the tape-incident-that-shall-not-be-named, so Sam kind of doubted it.
"Give me two minutes," Sebastian purred, like a cat – a sex cat? Sam didn't know. "You say 'no' then, and you can go back to being as much of an angst-ridden drama queen as your little heart desires."
"Sebas-"
The thumbs brushing along the inside of his knees were mildly distracting, tracing tiny circles in the rarely-visited territory.
It was weird – for them, Sam meant, weird – to have the weight and the warmth of those hands wrapped around his knees. It wasn't even that PG-13 (PG at best, really), there wasn't anything special about knees so why did he keep thinking the word "knees" and why was Sebastian-
Slinking (sinking?), moving- moving was a safe word- he was moving down, his weight transferring back onto his heels to allow his palms to slide up Sam's legs, coming to a stop mid-thigh.
Okay. Okay, they were still good, they were-
If inner-knees had been a bit of a distraction before, Sam could openly admit to the fact that inner-thigh-creepy-pattern-tracing circles was enough to completely throw him off his game. That wasn't- he shivered, his stomach jumping and the contact of the smooth pad of Sebastian's thumbs tracing very distracting circles.
It was just two minutes. Two minutes Sam didn't even have to necessarily give Sebastian, and the brunette knew that, so really, Sam was fine. Sam was good- great even- perfectly safe-
Without ever pulling his gaze away from Sam's, Sebastian leaned down as though to inspect his stupid circles up close, like an up close view made all the world of difference. His thumb- his left one, maybe – stopped moving, which worked for Sam – maybe this was just the build up to another suggestion of a full body massage (*wink* *wink*). The blond was about to laugh at how stupidly worked up he had gotten – he knew Sebastian was just being an ass, that was what he did – when the brunette, still looking at Sam, leaned down and innocently kissed the skin he had been tracing.
He paused, both eyebrows lifted in a challenge, and Sam's brain just kind of…stopped.
Oh, okay then, so…
Yeah.
Alrighty then.
-:-:-:-:-:-
Endnotes:
And I shall now leave the rest up to your interpretation. And pretend I didn't wuss out because I wanted to see people's reactions. Seriously, we have the world to go from here, we've got options, and I'd love to hear y'alls take on it.
This in itself wasn't exactly the super-predictable chapter I talked about last time. Kind of had to take a detour to give Dave and Kurt's conversation (yeah, I know Rachel was uncharacteristically quiet in that scene, but it was really about them) the attention it needed. There was a request for more details on the Tape Incident that happened between Sam and Sebastian, which was what inspired their own little Pre-Prom fashion session thing.
The 'Rocky shorts' Sam is referring to are the tiny metallic gold shorts he wore at the beginning of the Rocky Horror Glee episode. I'm not a fan of the episode (or the musical; actually, the musical can go light itself on fire for all I care), but it's interesting to note this isn't exactly Sam's been forced into insubstantial clothing. The poor guy.
There's a tiny little reference to "Not a Problem, Just a Challenge" in there. Bet you can't guess what it is ;P
Until next time :)