As much as everyone hated to admit it, the summer was coming to an end. Admittedly, like Christmas, the end of summer seemed to come earlier each year. Target put up their "BACK TO SCHOOL!" display toward the end of July. Most summer interns at the Attorney General's office were on eight, ten, or twelve-week stints, and the first set was about to leave. That meant it was time for the end of summer awards dinner and dance. He wasn't going to admit it, but he was excited for the dinner. His father had been describing it since he'd returned from Paris more than two years ago.
The dinner was semi formal, held at a large hotel in the city. There was quite a lot of food, some alcohol, and more chances for the group of future lawyers to network. It was also a way to show off what you'd accomplished outside the office during the summer. Everyone, even if they were that chronically single and agoraphobic. That's why he was determined to get a date.
His father had pulled him aside sometime in mid July and reminded his son he would need a date. John Smythe explained that the office had a "Don't ask, Don't tell" policy, and they were in Ohio. Translation: you can be gay, but don't be gay at the party. Their father-son relationship was the better than it had been in years, and he wasn't sure he was willing to risk losing that. So, he looked for a female friend to ask.
The last week in July, he joined Quinn and the other Warblers shopping for school linins. David asked Blaine to keep an eye on Wes; Wes was determined to buy yet smaller pants to hide his wasting without Blaine, or David finding out. Kurt was bored with his job at the Lima Bean, and couldn't resist shopping. Trent needed an excuse to escape Scotty. And, he, Thad, Nick and Quinn all needed new sheets. So, the teen contingent descended upon a mall on the outskirts of Columbus.
As he and Quinn browsed through GAP's selection of men's pants, he broached the subject of the party. "How long are you contracted to work for Liz?"
"Two more weeks," Quinn pouted a little. "Although I don't know if I'll get to go back to Lima or if I'm stuck here." She held up a pair of khaki shorts for him to see, and stifled a laugh. They each could have fit into one of the wide legs. "When are you done?"
He countered by offering her a miniscule pair of baby shoes, designed for a newborn. "He has me working until mid August, just before school starts. 'Cause I started late, after I visited my mom." It's the most he's said to anyone, Nick aside, about his absence in the early summer.
He dances the shoes across a display of jeans, then compares them against the print-outs from Trent. "It's just … the end of summer dinner is coming up."
He reads the price. They're twice what his friend budgeted for jeans, and despite eschewing the reputation that gay men know clothes, he knows they will make Trent's ass look fabulous. He checks his account balance on his phone, and determines that he can make the jeans happen for Trent without stretching himself at all.
Quinn ignores the blatant act of kindness, and starts checking the racks for something in Wes' size. "… And?"
"And, I was just wondering if you'd go with me?" The words tumble out of his mouth.
She has to suppress a laugh. "You're gay," she reminds him as she picks up a pair of chinos of the correct inseam for length. The problem is that the smallest waist size she can find is still two numbers higher than the one he requested.
"I'm not asking you to marry me," he insists, picking up a pair of jeans for Trent, and heading over to help her scour the racks of pants. "I'm just asking you if you'd come with me to the end of summer dinner. As a friend"
She frowns. "What if I wanted to go with someone who as actually interested in me?" She holds up a pair of khakis. "I don't think they make pants as long as Wes wants with a small enough waist. Are we better off getting him the ones that are two inches too short or the ones that are two inches too big around?"
He snorts. "Cropped pants don't work on anyone."
"I think Blaine pulls it off well."
He considers. "Blaine's like a puppy. He can get away with things no one else could."
She glances out the window, where Blaine and Trent are bouncing around together. Kurt and Wes look in the store wistfully. "Do you know why they're all so scared of this place?" She asks.
He shakes his head. "It's a Warbler legend no one will tell me. I don't even know when it happened."
"My junior year," she says, handing him a shirt off Trent's list. "When Kurt was at Dalton. But, that's all I know."
As they're paying for their purchases, Quinn leans over to him. "Do you think Wes would go with me?"
He shrugs. "Probably. He's straight, male and a gentleman." He hands across his AmEx and pockets the cash Trent gave him. "Just don't expect him to eat anything."
She frowns, prettily biting her lip. He collects the bag of clothing, and they rejoin the group.
His stamina was faltering after an hour and a half in Sheets'n'Things. Wes, too, is showing subtle signs of tiredness. The Asian boy is limping, instead of Quinn. Blaine's face has paled, and he is stuttering.
"Kurt, I'm going to go…" The normally articulate ex-Warbler motions toward the food court.
Wes nods in the hobbit's direction. "I'm going to make sure he's okay."
Kurt grabs Quinn's arm. "Sephora?" He prompts.
She agrees, readily, and Trent trails afterward the other two. They start talking. It's something about manscraping and birthdays.
Thad dragged Nick in the direction of a video game store to look at the new Super Mario brothers.
He doesn't want to go with them. He can play decently well, but honesty, he prefers reading or running to gaming. So, he follows Blaine and Wes toward their table.
Blaine is sweeping an all too familiar black case back into his bag as he sucks his right ring finger. His dark hair is in stark relief against his unnaturally pale skin. Wes produces a juice box, and hands it to the younger boy. Their movements are practiced and careful, a perfectly practiced tandem. He's jealous. No one, not his father, not Nick, not anyone, knows him or his patterns well enough to do that.
He sees a Rent-A-Cop giving Blaine a dirty look. They're not supposed to sit at the tables in the food court and eat outside food. Never mind that it's not so much food as medicine. So, he goes and gets himself a place of fries and a coke. Because he can.
When he settles at the table, he notices two pairs of brown eyes studying his plate hungrily. "Tired of shopping?" He asks, trying to be casual.
Wes shrugs. The truth is that he's beyond tired. He's been dragging for days. Going to bed early and getting up late. Napping when Quinn is at work and Blaine is occupied. Stealing catnaps during his feedings. David's told him he has to do them when he's awake, and upright. As much as Wes hates to admit it, an hour of walking around the mall is almost more energy than he has. He'll have to borrow against tomorrow if he wants to keep going.
"Y-yes." Blaine blushes at his stutter. He hates the betrayal. He likes fries, though. He tries to be covert, reaching across the table to steal a few. A hand playfully slaps his.
"Seriously?" The tall boy with green eyes raises a brow. "That's how you're going to play it?"
Blaine shrugs. "I'm low." His voice is muffled around the warm potato goodness.
He glares across the table. "Isn't your twink boyfriend going to get angry?"
Wes shakes his head. "What Kurt doesn't know won't hurt him, but you're right to guard your fries." Hazel eyes pout. "Don't give me the puppy eyes, Blaine," the older boy directs. "And don't try to tell me that you didn't do it, 'cause I was there."
"A little context?" He asks, looping a protective arm around his junk food.
Blaine reaches over the top, earning himself a bitch look. "It w-wasn't my fault!" He protests. His normally golden skin is still dangerously pale. "Well, n-not entirely."
He looks longingly at his coke, and then slides it across the table toward the other boy. "Do you need this?"
Wes just stares at the other boy. "You're joking, right?"
He shakes his head. "No. Being low sucks."
"Fifteen, fifteen," Wes argues. "Fifteen grams, then wait fifteen minutes."
He snorts. "That shit doesn't work." His voice is venomous. He speaks from experience.
Even in elementary school, it would take longer than the prescribed time, and more than the prescribed amount to get him functional again. He'd quickly graduated from the fifteen-fifteen mantra to twenty-twenty, and then forty-twenty.
His period of experimentation with low blood sugar had come early. He'd been ten or eleven when he'd started, first skipping meals and then later delivering insulin through the PRIME function on his pump. Something that his mother and doctors couldn't track through conventional means. It had been an early substitute for alcohol, a way to give up control and feel silly. Now, it just felt like hell.
"You wake up in the dark for no reason. It's like being pulled into another nightmare. You're hot, and cold and sweating. And confused. So fucking confused." His voice rises, and he's angry.
Wes doesn't rise to the bait.
"L-l-lowest you've ever been?" Blaine stutters, accepting a sip.
He's played this game before with Leesha and Corey. But, he has to think about it for a moment. "Twenty five, maybe?"
Blaine pushes the cup back to him, and looks at Wes.
"You were 15 when you passed out." The older boy says. "It was a shit show. He'd been in an ACS for a while, and"
"ACS?" The acronym was unfamiliar.
"Altered conscious state," Blaine supplies. He's spent too much time around wannabe doctors to not have picked up some of the terms. "And you don't have to tell him this story…"
"Yes, I do, B. You brought it up."
Blaine scowls.
"So, like I said, he'd been in an ACS for a while," Wes continues. "And I was off taking care of something."
"Something being calling his girlfriend." Blaine interjects.
"I was getting sick!" Wes cries.
"No one believes that excuse." Blaine sticks his tongue out. "No one spends five hours a day in the bathroom unless they're calling a boy. … Or a girl. … A person." He seems flustered. "Someone hot!" Blaine says, quickly and loudly.
They're getting stares from the other patrons. Wes has the decency to turn pink. Blaine's color is improving, but he's still low enough to lack some level of judgment. Or at least, volume control.
"So, I come back to rehearsal from my mission of a personal nature," Wes continues.
Girlfriend, Blaine mouths.
He stifles a laugh.
Wes reaches for his keys and bangs a miniature gavel on the table. "… To find Blaine Warbler leading the entire Warblers in vocal exercises. Naked."
"We were wearing underwear!" Blaine counters.
Wes frowns. "On your heads."
"And shoes!"
"Accessories for your feet."
"Socks."
"Admittedly not on your feet, but, still. I was scarred for life!"
He chokes back a laugh. It's the first time he's laughed around either of these guys. He's comfortable with most of the other Warblers. He's comfortable with Quinn and Leesha and Corey (even if the younger boy annoys the crap out of him sometimes).
"When I was twelve, my mom sent me to camp," he says quietly. He's never told anyone this story before. "Mostly they made fun of me because I had an American accent. But, they let me come along when we did a panty raid. We had to steal the bras and panties of the girls we liked the best. Samuel stole the junior councilor's push up bra, but I stole Enjolras' tighty whities. No one else ever knew…"
Blaine giggles. "He was hot, wasn't he?"
Wes rolls his eyes. "B, it was a French guy named Enjolras. The only way he could have been hotter was if he was named Romeo."
He shakes his head. "Mercutio. Mercutio was the hot one. Romeo kind of sucked."
"Mercutio," Wes corrects himself. "But, I'm straighter than the closest distance between two points in a Cartesian plane and I know that a French guy named Enjolras was hot."
"My first crush on a boy," He admits into his fries. "Even though I didn't realize it for a long time. It didn't help that he saved my life."
Wes cocks an eyebrow.
Blaine steals a fry. Then, another. He twirls the second, holding it between his index and middle finger. "Do tell," he prompts in a falsetto.
By this time, most of the other patrons in the half empty food court have moved away from the boys. Perhaps it's the Warbler pin on Wes' bag or Blaine's perfect coiffure, but the mall guards hover, prepared to stop any sudden bursts of song or destruction of public property by standing on it.
He finds himself blushing. He never blushes. "I was twelve. And stupid," he hedges. "And, I'd never been on a horse before. It just started… going!"
Wes and Blaine laugh. They both started riding at early ages. Wes's father had hoped his son would be a polo player. He'd been somewhat disappointed when Wes had decided he preferred arranging music. Still, acapella and piano were respectable. Better than electric guitar.
He ignores them and continues. "It was this big, burly thing, and I was clinging to it for dear life. So, it decided to scrape me off by running me into a branch. Dumb animal!"
"Smart animal," Blaine stage whispers to Wes.
"Ostie! Can I tell a fucking story without interruptions?"
The former Warblers look appropriately chastised.
"So, the fucking horse tried to scrape me off. And, of course, it succeeded. So, there I was, screaming my head off because it hurt, and my chest hurt and he came and sat with me until the nurse showed up. I ended up breaking my collarbone. Had to go home…"
They sit in silence for a minute as each boy recalls their own first crush.
Then, Blaine steals yet another fry.
He gives up on protecting them, and shoves them across the table at the other boy. "Do you want my coke, too?" He offers the cup as well.
Blaine shakes his head. "I'll spike," he says. "High feels like shit."
The other diabetic snorts again, the sound continental. "Bull shit. Being high is the easy stuff."
"I get a headache around 260," Blaine explains. "Blurry vision. I can barely function."
He feels a bit like bragging. "I don't even feel it until 400." He thinks for a moment. "Highest you've ever been?"
Blaine considers, and steals a fry. "Six hundred, maybe? I was kind of out of it."
Wes nods vigorously. "We carried you down the stairs. Thad wanted to roll you in bubble wrap, but Jeff convinced him not to. You were so sick that Jeff was the voice of reason."
"I'm sure he resembles that comment," comes the current captain's acerbic reply.
"The only reason Thad listened was because he was sure that you were going to throw up on him, again," Wes continues.
The amber-eyed boy frowns. "You try keeping anything down when you have swine flu and ketones."
"I didn't think you remembered that," Wes said, quietly. "You were kind of out of it."
It's his turn to wince.
Blaine takes a fry, and chews thoughtfully for a moment. "You know these aren't as good cold."
Wes blanches, and mutters, "They go bad a minute and a half after they leave the fryer."
Both of the boys turn to him. "How do you know that?"
"Too much time with David," Wes counters. He glares pointedly at Seb. "Your turn."
The tall boy smiles proudly. "Thirteen hundred, I think." He takes a long, pointed swig of his coke. "I don't really remember anything, either. It was when I was diagnosed."
"How old were you?"
"Eight," He breathes. "Just a kid… You?"
Blaine shrugs. "It was three years ago… my second freshman year."
He quirks his eyebrow, quizzically. West reaches out a gentle hand.
Blaine shrugs. "Bare bones, someone at my first high school had a problem with me taking a boy to the Sadie Hawkins dance. The injuries were … extensive. And, by the time I recovered, I'd missed most of the year anyway. So, after physical therapy… and the car … and camp, my dad shipped me off to Dalton."
It wasn't a complete sketch, but he didn't push the details. It was obvious that Blaine was struggling to give even this much.
"… At first, I thought that school was just really hard."
"At first, we thought you were just a hunchback hermit who stayed up all night playing Katy Perry." Wes is deadpan. "And then, you had to go engage Thad in that pasta eating contest."
"It wasn't my fault!" Blaine is emphatic. "And, you know I can't resist David's carbonara."
Wes just rolls his eyes.
"Did you know it looks the same the second time around, Wessy?" Hyper Blaine is back.
He offers his coke again.
Wes gags, and mutters something about not eating eggs anymore, but he continues the story. "B won, of course. Thad couldn't keep up. It was like he hadn't eaten in weeks. And, he was so skinny. We were worried."
"Bulimia?"
"Dalton has more secrets than Hogwarts and the Tardis put together." Wes is solemn. "And I won't give them up. But, it would be … unusual … for someone to have weird eating habits."
He nods. Thad's roommate Roberto only eats blue M&Ms. And, Roberto is on the normal side for a Dalton student.
"Jeff found me," Blaine says quietly. "And he helped carry me out. He was there all the way through. I think… I think I would have died without him… without all of you."
Wes gets to his feet, slowly. His knees ache. It doesn't matter, though. He goes and puts his arms around Blaine. The younger boy squeezes him back.
A few days after the shopping trip, he gets two texts that surprise him.
First, there's Thad's message: HEY SEB DO U THINK LEESH LIKES ME.
Despite the fact that Thad scored a composite of 2200 on the SATs, he still texts like a drunken toddler. It annoys him no end, but he puts up with Thad because, well, he's Thad. And there is no way to change the boy.
I HAVE NO IDEA. A succinct response is usually best with Thad. Longer ones encourage conversation. Although, he has a sneaking suspicion he knows what this means. He cannot, he will not go to that dinner alone.
Twenty minutes later, he gets a text for Leesha. SEBASTIAN! I NEED A FAVOR!
He's not sure what he's gotten himself into, so he responds tentatively. DEPENDS. WHAT DO YOU NEED?
His phone pings with her next message. A SASSY GAY FRIEND TO TAKE ME SHOPPING.
AND ASK ME WHAT, WHAT, WHAT AM I DOING.
He is suspicious. ... WHY?
… BECAUSE THAD ASKED ME TO GO TO THE DINNER WITH HIM?! ...
He images that she's spitting out the words, typing them in a deluge. If she were speaking, her voice would go up half an octave on the last word.
He decides to go with humor. I'M NOT SURE I'M THAT KIND OF SASSY GAY FRIEND.
POOP. He can almost see her pouting on the other end of the phone. WELL, CAN YOU BECOME ONE FOR A DAY, FOR ME?
WHY? He's somewhat intrigued, now.
BECAUSE I AM A TOTAL AND UTTER FAILURE AT DRESSING MYSELF. The reply is snappy and amusingly self deprecating. There is a reason he is friends with Leesha. I AM THE SOLE REASON WE HAD TO WEAR UNIFORMS AT CRAWFORD.
… I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE ALSO FAILED THE CLASS WHERE THEY TAUGHT WALKING IN HEELS.
He cannot do this alone. He texts Quinn. LEESHA NEEDS A FAVOR. I NEED HELP.
Quinn is clearly bored with filing, because she responds quickly. WHAT?
SHOPPING AND HEELS.
He knows that Quinn is smiling on the other end when she sends the next message. SHE NEEDS KURT.
Another comes into his phone in quick sucession. I'LL ASK HIM FOR YOU, THOUGH. HE'S STILL A LITTLE MAD ABOUT THE SLUSHIE THING.
He wants to bang his head against the table of his booth. I SAID I WAS SORRY!
Somehow, though, he agrees to go shopping with Leesha, Quinn and Kurt. It proves to be an interesting trip. He knows next to nothing about women's fashion, as Kurt is more than happy to demonstrate.
It's a Saturday afternoon when they pile into Kurt's Navigator. Kurt insisted on driving because he didn't want to be trapped in Columbus and dependent on a "Criminally Insane Meerkat."
He pretends like he hasn't heard the name before. It stings, a little. They used to call him "Timon" in elementary school.
They drive in an unfamiliar direction. He's surprised that Kurt has good taste in music. He wasn't sure what to expect. But, the mellow jazz is nice.
Leesha looks nervous as they enter the store. "I don't think I've ever actually gone shopping without my mom," she admits quietly. The comment is meant for him.
He smiles at her bravely. "I still make my dad buy my boxers," he admits in her ear.
As Kurt moves through the boutique, carefully collecting dresses. Some he hands to Quinn, who trails confidently. The rest, he drapes over his arm. He waves away the sale woman's offer of help, and goes full diva. It's not hard to imagine him in New York as the editor of a fashion magazine.
Arms loaded with clothes, he beckons to Leesha. She skuffs her canvas sneakers against the carpet, and follows nervously.
"How about this one?" Leesha emerges from the cubicle in a simple black dress with a sweetheart neck and A-line skirt. She has a cute little figure.
Kurt studies the girl. "I like it," he says, finally. "But, it needs something."
"A little bit of color." It's strange to find himself agreeing with Kurt Hummel. He wonders over to a rack of silk scarves, and finds a scarlet square edged in gray.
Quinn smiles. Kurt picked quickly for her; they know each other well after working with Tina on Glee costumes. He was the one who suggested she try the pink feather eyelashes Gaga week.
Leesha is the only person in the group who doesn't look happy. She's frowning about something.
He crosses back, and tries to figure out what to do with the scarf. He folds it up, and ties it like a bracelet around her wrist.
She leans in, ostensibly studying the accessory, and whispers in his ear. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with my pump?"
"What are you doing with it now?" He asks in an undertone.
"I took it off!" She says.
He raises an eyebrow.
"I got one I could take off for a reason!" She explains emphatically. "And, it's a pain the in ass to run tubing everywhere when you're trying on clothes."
"So just put it in your pocket." He advises. If he doesn't want it on his belt, he used to put his pump in his pocket most of the time. Except when he was performing with the Warblers or practicing or going to fight club. Because honestly, small expensive computers, flips, and wooden floors did not mix well.
"What pockets?" She laughed.
He turned to Kurt. "Why aren't there pockets?"
Kurt and Quinn laughed too.
"You didn't say you wanted pockets," Kurt complains once he gets his laughter under control.
"Why aren't there pockets?" His voice rises. He doesn't understand. "This is some sort of sexist conspiracy!'
Kurt frowns. "Because a lady carries a purse. Or gives it to her date."
"You can't give this to your date!" Sebastian is still worried. "Do you want to be tied at the hip that Thad all night?"
"I like Thad!" Leesha retorts hotly.
"Obviously." Kurt's comment is dry. "Although I'm not sure how anyone can resist a guy with a vocal crush on my boyfriend, a note book with the pros and cons for each decision for a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill, and extensive knowledge of all the public indecency laws in the states of Ohio, New York, Florida and California."
Leesha is wise enough to let the comment pass.
"What did you do for prom?" Quinn quiries, vaguely aware of the problem.
"I didn't go." Leesha mutters, looking at her bare feet and tugging at the hem of the skirt. "It was just after surgery, and… I … I didn't want to go." A hand unconsciously goes to the scar on her throat.
He knows it's painful. Leesha's scar has faded to a pale pink, hardly noticeable, but she's self-conscious. She once admitted that she doubts anyone will love a girl with scars like hers. He puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Graduation?" The girls at Crawford wear white dresses for graduation.
"I cut off my circulation with a garter." She looks uncertain.
"The things we do for fashion." Kurt smiles, the matter settled in his mind. "Now, What color shoes have you got?"
"Umm… I just bought a pair of red and white sneakers?" Leesha points back into the dressing room. "And some nice black boots."
Kurt rests his head in his hand in a Captain Picard impression. "Dear Gaga. This is harder than I thought." He lifts his head to prevent he oil from his hands from entering his pores. "You need heels, sweetheart."
He will never admit it, not to Quinn of Leesha or Nick or Jeff or Thad or anyone, but he's thankful that Kurt came along.
A/N: So, this was supposed to be a continued chapter, but I've decided to split up the arc into two sub-arcs. So, today involved a lot of shopping. Blame . and Different Child for all manner of things here. Like the swearing, the diabetes-down between Seb and Blaine, and the fact that this got split. (They've both been stoking my muse…). ? By the way, one of my favorite things about writing is having an excuse to look up French swears instead of doing it because.
A note for your edification: The SATs are a university-qualifying exam scored out of 2400 points.
Special thanks to the people on Tumblr who asked my question (and laughed at me) when I asked what boys did with their pumps when they dressed up. … Apparently this isn't a normal concern for guys.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed, or started following, especially youdon'tknowme06 and JessOvergon.
To the anonymous reviewer who was looking for suggestions on diabetes resources… I'd suggest reading message boards for diabetics and parents of diabetics. They'll probably cover things like treatment and daily life best (I don't actually use any, but they're really helpful when I'm researching other diseases). The tags on Tumblr "diabetic" and "actuallydiabetic" tend to be mostly posts by people who have diabetes. It's sort of a mixed bag… everything from bitching to supplies to questions to begging for a diabetic boyfriend. I also think (although I'm not entirely sure) that some of the pump companies (Medtronic, Animas, Omni Pod, AcuCheck and maybe Cosmo if it's still around) have pump tutorials where you can try a computer simulation. You're also welcome to PM me… I'm only representative of myself, but I'm happy to try. It sounds like a really cool story, though!
So… next chapter is the dinner. And goodbyes?