a/n: this is part of a series of blaine's perspective of a bunch of somewhat unrelated snapshots all set in the same universe. it will be mostly canon compliant at first but will diverge later. i can't think of any warnings for this piece, but if anyone needs me to add any please let me know!
a note: because so much of this is based on canon, some of the dialogue is very similar to the dialogue in the show, if not the same. i tried to change it up a little, but if you feel like it seems familiar or you recognize it, then it's probably from glee itself, and credit goes to the real writers.
anyway. obviously i don't own glee, any of its characters, and any of the dialogue/plot from the show.
hopefully i didn't mess up too many details. it's been a while since i've watched the show haha.
It's not exactly homesickness, but Blaine doesn't know what else to call the hollow ache in his bones when he thinks of Dalton, longing for something that he cannot see.
Everything is new, and he notices it everywhere. Unfamiliar hallways, unfamiliar faces. Maybe the only things he recognizes are the watchful eyes he feels following him down the hallway—if they really are there, and not just signs of the paranoia already beginning to seep back into his veins as Blaine watches his back in a way he hasn't had to since freshman year.
Stepping into Dalton for the first time in a long time, West Side Story tickets in his pocket, all of that fades away. He breathes in the dark wood and polished floors, the scent of coffee from the cart, the ringing laughter of boys running down the hallways, their shoes tapping loud against the tiles. When he hears the sound of music coming from behind a corner, his heart starts to pump erratically in his chest.
And Blaine enters, and there they are.
Warmth floods through his body all at once. Everything is familiar here, and he feels himself start to settle into his skin again.
But Nick has his hair brushed out of his face—that's new—and it shouldn't matter (it doesn't matter, really) but Blaine's stomach screws and coils itself up at the sight of it. Something new, even here.
And someone new, too.
The boy is tall. Sandy brown hair, carefully coiffed in a way that makes it look like his fingers have just been run through it, though Blaine doubts they really have. Angular features and a smirk spread on his lips.
This boy—he sees Blaine first.
There is something suggestive in his gaze, something defiant. The Warblers all stare straight ahead, perfect and precise as always, but this boy lets his eyes rake down Blaine's body. And when the performance is over—when the Warblers crowd around Blaine, fluttering and flitting between themselves as bees do, their faces bright with hope, when Blaine steps forward to offer them tickets to West Side Story— this new boy is the first to accept.
"We'll be there," he promises, his shoulders relaxed and cool, his pretty green eyes sparkling with excitement. "Once a Warbler, always a Warbler, right?"
Blaine finds himself seated across from him ("Blaine Anderson," the boy had said, stepping forward before outstretching a hand and adding, "Sebastian Smythe." And Blaine had embarrassed himself by stuttering out, "Are you a freshman?" To which Sebastian cooly responded, "Do I look like a freshman?") , letting a medium drip burn his tongue. Sebastian is charming, and it is difficult not to sink in the carefully constructed sentences that he puts forth. Each compliment is a shining glass tile in a mosaic. The words make Blaine's head foggy, like he's drunk too much wine, his lips stained red, and at first he can't tell if Sebastian is being so nice because he admires him or because he wants him.
You're a legend at Dalton… Sex on a stick and sings like a dream… Sucks that I missed you… Would love to hear more of your insights… Could we meet again?
And they do.
Sitting across a coffee table, Blaine knows that they look like lovers for a moment. Sebastian's expression seems to shift between almost gentle and something more brittle. Blaine stumbles over his sentences and pulls words from a hat, but Sebastian chooses them as a chess player might choose his pieces. Blaine doesn't notice the way he weaves his sentences with spider silk—sweet words dripping from his lips like smooth caramel, creamy and sugary, but also strong and direct and so out there— until he's caught in the web.
The first few compliments Blaine tentatively accepts as friendly words and maybe admiration for a former Warbler, but there is a point where even he is not oblivious to such obvious flirting. ("Your whole…bashful schoolboy thing? Super hot.") This is where he draws the line, and he tells Sebastian so.
"Look, Sebastian," he says hesitantly, trying to be kind but also firm, "I have a boyfriend."
"Doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you," Sebastian fires back.
"N-no," Blaine stammers, unsure of his footing next to his brazen confidence, unsure of the things he says and the things he means, and what the difference between them is. "I really love him. I don't want to mess this up."
"Kurt doesn't need to find out about it."
"No, I don't—he's—he's really amazing," Blaine insists.
And suddenly Kurt is there, sliding a chair next to them, linking his arm with Blaine's, asking, "Who is?"
His heart pounds loud and he feels sweat start to paint his skin. He isn't even sure why he's nervous. "I—uh, y-you! We were just talking about you. Um, Sebastian, this is my boyfriend. Kurt. Who I was just, wow—"
"Got it," Sebastian interrupts, reaching over to lazily shake Kurt's hand with a disinterested expression on his features. His eyebrows sit high, which in turn prompts Kurt to raise his in response.
"Pleasure," Kurt says, his voice tight and strained, before adding, "And how do we know Sebastian?" He tightens his grip on Blaine's sleeve, and Blaine leans closer into the familiar warmth of his side as he tries not to choke on his own words. It's unusual for him to be so shy, but Sebastian's confidence is almost blinding, and he can't seem to find his balance in front of it.
Luckily, Sebastian cuts in. "We met at Dalton." Blaine feels Sebastian's gaze pointedly glued to him, a soft smile spreading across his lips. The exchange is almost tender, and it feels like it belongs to another moment. To another pair of boys sitting in another coffeeshop. "I was dying to meet Blaine," he says. "Those Warblers just keep going on and on about him. I didn't expect him to live up to the hype, but as it turns out…"
"Ha!" Blaine laughs as Kurt slides his chair closer. He ducks his head down and tries not to blush, but feels the heat spill across his skin anyway.
"Hey," Sebastian continues, "what do you say we shake things up a little? I can get you guys a couple of fake IDs and we can head over to Scandals, in West Lima."
"Um." Blaine twists his hands together under the table. He's never been to a bar before, and neither has Kurt. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing his boyfriend would enjoy, especially not with a total stranger. A very flirty and somewhat obnoxious stranger, that is. "We would love to, Sebastian, thank you for the offer—it's very kind of you—but that just isn't really our thing." With each word, he turns between the two boys, waiting for confirmation or validation or someone to make the situation less awkward.
"Let's do it," Kurt declares. His eyes stare hard and cool at Sebastian, the sweet blue that Blaine loves shining determined and serious.
"Great," Sebastian says.
"Great," Blaine agrees.
Later Kurt will ask him about Sebastian, and Blaine will tell him. It doesn't feel like something worth hiding.
But sometimes Blaine catches himself staring at Sebastian's sharp features, his freckles, the mischievous glint in his eyes, the parting of his lips as he speaks. Other times, he finds himself pushing against Sebastian's interest in him (Look, Sebastian, I have a boyfriend), knowing that pretty words and handsome smiles are just words and smiles without context. He likes having the romance there, something tangible that he can hold as proof before hands entwine and lips tangle together. In a way, the flirting may be flattering, but that's all that it is because he never lets himself mull over it, never lets himself think about the words and the way Sebastian's lips curl around them.
Despite that, they fall into friendship the way wind sweeps over a meadow, gently petting against grass and flowers, easily and smoothly. They talk about glee club, about their families, their interests. Blaine always asks how the other Warblers are doing, and Sebastian always tells him.
If there is any real potential between them, it isn't something that occurs to Blaine until much later.
"I really don't like him," Kurt says as they enter Scandals and spot Sebastian sitting at the bar, a glass of something syrupy pressed to his lips. He fits in well amongst the scenery, his shoulders loose and comfortable, the glass familiar in his hand. Blaine knows that everyone else in the room must be able to tell Blaine has never been here just from a glance at his stiff posture and uncertain gait.
Blaine waves Kurt's concern away with an airy, "He's harmless." It doesn't seem to ease the tension from Kurt's skin.
The lights are dim but his skin seems to glow beneath them. He drinks the beer that Sebastian gives him and it makes his head fuzzy and his stomach bubbly, and he finds himself thinking that, maybe, he has never been so happy before. He wants to be like this forever, dancing and golden and free. Kurt doesn't join them, so he dances with Sebastian for a while, their skin almost touching, and it feels so nice to be so close to him. The fuzzy feeling grows as they dance together, laughing, smiling. He loosens his bowtie and unbuttons the collar of his yellow shirt, letting his neck breathe, and tries to ignore the way Sebastian's eyes drop down to admire his skin.
And when Kurt gets up and squeezes in between Sebastian and Blaine, happiness simmers in Blaine's belly. He grabs onto Kurt's hands and laughs.
He doesn't think about Sebastian's weakly disguised disappointment until later—the way he'd tried to circle back around to dance on Blaine's other side but couldn't quite manage. He feels a bit sorry. Then he feels guilty for feeling sorry because Sebastian isn't his boyfriend—Kurt is—and maybe he had been leading Sebastian on by letting him get so close. Then he feels sorry about that, too.
He hadn't meant to.
The opening night of West Side Story arrives sooner than Blaine expects it to.
Backstage, he dusts the pink powder on his checks, lets the soft bristles stroke against his skin like gentle kisses. He tries to ignore the nerves bubbling up beneath his skin and focuses on his excitement and anticipation instead. The Warblers have come to see him, Sebastian among them, he remembers. His eyes flutter shut and for a little while the world is still, him and his brush and his mirror and the stage.
It doesn't occur to him that he might be putting on too much makeup until Artie rolls by him and says, "Blaine, enough with the blush."
He stops for a moment, holds the brush up to his skin. This is not to cover bruises, he realizes. This is not to cover anything. It is not armor. It is not a defense. It is just a way to make his skin glow against the blinding stage lights.
But he can't stop himself from letting the fine brush hair caress his skin again and darken it even more. Maybe invisible blemishes linger, he reasons. Just to be safe.
Because nothing ever truly fades away completely, not really.
Not ever.
A neat row of blue blazers with red piping cheer the loudest for him, and for a moment he forgets the empty space he's reserved for his parents, both of them too busy with work, with life, with other plans that get in the way. He can barely make out the Warblers' faces in the distance, but one of them—a tall boy with long limbs and light brown hair—is the first to stand and clap, and they meet eyes across the crowd. Blaine leans forward and watches the way Sebastian's lips curl around the word "flawless."
Something blooms in his stomach, petals opening up to the sunlight, their velvety smooth skin brushing against his own, and he lets himself sink into the feeling once more, yearning for it like a drug.
("It's addictive," his therapist tells him. "You feed off of it, and when it runs out you try again so that you can come back for more."
You always come back for more.)
Yes, he thinks, how badly he wants. Like a drug, indeed.