Title: Creeping On A Stranger
Word Count: 6,903
Summary: Seblaine Week 2014: Day 1 (Alternative Meeting). Sebastian has always had a habit of getting in the way and making a nuisance of himself. Since his little sister had gotten sick when he was eleven, he has spent years trying to gain back the attention of his parents.
Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with Glee, FOX, Ryan Murphy or anything else related to the FOX universe.
Warnings/Spoilers: Underage drug and alcohol abuse. Some language.
It takes him at least an hour to trek halfway across town to meet Terry and the guys. It's a different park from usual – he has to check the GPS on his phone twice to ensure he's going in the right direction – but when he gets there, something loosens in his chest at the way Mitch and John get to their feet and gather him into a tight group hug.
"It isn't the same without you, dude," Aiden says when their hands grasp and he gets pulled into a back-slapping contest of macho masculinity he's never fully understood but participates in anyway.
Terry regards him carefully, the darkness casting deep shadows across his face and making him seem vaguely dangerous. His eyes glitter as Sebastian rubs the back of his neck with discomfort and tries to offer an encouraging smile.
"Thanks for managing this on short notice," he says, fully aware that he lacks more than a few dollars in his pockets to pay for whatever they've amassed to share. He owes Terry. Big time.
His toes curl in his shoes as Terry tilts his head to the side and continues to stare at him. Cold fingers of distrust scratch at his insides for reasons he can't explain.
"I was starting to think you'd forgotten we existed," Terry says, his voice cooler than Sebastian's heard in years. Beside him, he feels John tense and it makes him stiffen his spine in response, trying to maintain some semblance of control over the situation and himself. He doesn't need another fight tonight. He just needs to forget. He just needs to pass out without any anxieties cluttering up his head.
He wonders if maybe he's become a pretentious asshole like the rest of Dalton and that's why Terry is so guarded. Or maybe he's just being perceived as a pretentious asshole, which couldn't be further from the truth considering how much he continues to resent what he's surrounded by on a daily basis.
"I can't even explain how fucking hard the new school has been to get used to."
Flicking the switch into being a public school boy that has no regard for appropriate, respectful language feels odd. He's heard some cursing at Dalton, but it's a rarity. Jesus, what if he is becoming a pretentious asshole?
"And yet you're here tonight?"
Sebastian glances at John, Aiden and Mitch. None of them look like they're wasted. Yet. Would they defend him if Terry tried to out-muscle him physically? Or would they sit idly by with their bottles and weed and cheer their leader on?
"I had to get the fuck out of there, man!" he bursts out, some of his frustration and fear from barely an hour ago bubbling to the surface. "I scaled the goddamn fence by climbing a tree."
Mitch claps him on the shoulder and pulls him closer. "You reckon you'll go back?" The question is said quietly, like it's a secret only they'll share, but he knows everyone is straining to hear his answer.
Sebastian shrugs. He can't help but wonder when the school will become aware of his absence and what the consequences for his escape will be. Will he lose any accrued privileges to leave on the weekend to visit Lillian and Blaine? Will he be expelled? Will James call the police, or, worse, his parents? Will he still have Clarington as a roommate after the stunt he pulled? Or can he request a roommate transfer?
"Jesus Christ, I can hear your stressing from here. Sit the fuck down and have a fucking shot, Sebastian," Terry grunts, clambering up the playground equipment and taking his place at the top. It's a physical reflection of his power in the group but it's not as though Sebastian ever planned on taking that away from the other guy. He's not sure he ever would plan it either. He figures it's just better to let some people lead and allow himself to simply follow.
He wilts almost immediately, grateful beyond words for the termination of the interrogation. The other guys fall into line easily: Mitch drags him over to sit on the first available piece of flat equipment, Aiden shoves a brown-papered bottle into his hands, John snaps a lighter against a joint until the tip glows red in the dark. He isn't sure what the bottle contains – isn't sure he cares – but when the first drop hits his tongue, a smile curves his lips. He swallows several mouthfuls like the stuff is water on the hottest July day. He can't remember brandy ever tasting so sweet and a fire ignites in his belly, spreading warmth to the tips of his fingers and toes.
"Figured you deserved your own posh crap after more than two months on the wagon," Aiden explains when he swaps the bottle for John's joint.
"I'm honestly not sure anyone at that school knows what a fucking drink is," he complains as Aiden chuckles. He tosses a smile over his shoulder before leaning his head against a metal pole and inhaling smoke deep into his lungs once, twice, thrice, more.
He allows his eyes to shut as his bloodstream absorbs the rapid succession of hits and blindly passes the joint off to someone else. He's pretty sure he can feel a tingling sensation in his cheeks from the alcohol seeping into his body. It makes him realise that he hadn't considered his lack of drugs in months, far too focused on trying to forget, trying to laugh, trying to calm down as quickly as possible. He should probably slow down before he puts himself in the hospital alongside Lillian.
He attempts to make conversation by asking how they're doing, but he has little interest in actually paying attention to what gets said. He wonders if it's wrong to be using them for their company while he gets wasted but maybe he vaguely relies on them to call someone if he has a seizure or passes out. Any desire to extend a friendship, where he listens to their problems and they listen to his, is pretty minimal. He's got enough bullshit in his life without becoming world-weary because he starts taking on theirs.
He's conscious that Terry is watching him while he pushes his old limits of consumption beyond what is probably safe. He rationalises it by telling himself that he doesn't need to stumble his way home to his parents or to Dalton tonight. His months of sobriety have reduced his tolerance but he takes pleasure in abusing that, inhaling more smoke and drinking more brandy until he can no longer feel his face. It occurs to him that he's not entirely sure whether he's sitting or flat on his back or hanging upside down from his knees because the world seems to keep teetering and spinning on its axis faster than he's ever experienced and it's awesome.
"Seb's gone," he hears Terry say from somewhere, his voice sounding entirely disembodied with Sebastian's limited awareness, but trying to turn his head skywards to see the leader proves impossible with his leaden limbs. A heavy hand presses against his shoulder for reasons he's not sure about but can't find it in him to push it away or see who it is. He doesn't really care.
The sensation of floating is less like being on a cloud this time and more like being buoyant in a pool of water. It feels like he's laid out with his limbs loose and supported and the heat of the sun is warming his face – even when he's not sure entirely sure he can feel his lips. He feels relaxed, peacefully suspended on an undulating surface.
On the other hand, he's painfully aware of the thud of his heartbeat in his ears and the tremble in his fingertips. Somehow it manages to uncomfortably drag him back to being in his dorm room. The floating feeling gives way to something solid – the wall of his room – and he can see Clarington getting closer and closer as the fear of receiving a fist to the face again fills him. Somehow the image of Clarington's angry face blurs with Blaine's, twisted with a rage he's never, ever seen and then thinking about Blaine leads to thoughts about the hospital which leads to Lillian and then his parents and he starts to circle back to the loneliness and hurt and abandonment they left him with and-
"Dude, I think he's crying."
Aiden's words wander around his head for several minutes, looping on a circuit he can't make sense of, echoing in all corners of the vacant expanse of his brain, until they start to distort into something he no longer recognises. It doesn't even register the comment is about him until arms wrap around him and he thinks they're vines that are going to try to strangle him. He blinks open scared eyes and in the darkness, he vaguely discerns that he's being held by Mitch.
The pressure of Mitch's arms relaxes slightly, enough to allow him to breathe at least, and it's like something cracks inside him. It takes a while for him to process that the trembling shoulders and wracking sobs are his, that he's the one who is vibrating apart with gasped half-breaths and sniffles. He feels a sense of panic, of impending doom, although he can't figure out why he feels like that. Maybe Blaine's never going to walk again. Maybe Lillian's going to die. Maybe the zombie apocalypse is coming. His chest aches with radiating pain that threatens to crush his ribcage around his too-fast heart and he's no longer floating or against a wall or in a hospital bed but drowning, getting pummelled into oblivion by roiling waves despite never having gone to the beach to know what such a sensation feels like.
"Seb?" Terry's voice is suddenly closer and louder than it had been before. His head lolls on his shoulders, attempting to squint into the darkness to see the senior's face. It bulges in places he's never noticed before. It's monstrous and bizarre and he flinches away from it. "Hey man, you're okay."
He shakes his head, the gesture weak and unsteady. Everything is so loud in his head and he can't escape it and it's scaring the crap out of him. He tries to pull at his ears because maybe if he can rip them off then he can stop hearing and then he'll have the silence back and he can go back to floating.
"I can't… T, I c-can't do this…" he says, the words choked and strangled and barely recognisable as his voice.
"Do what?" John's hands brush over his shoulders and anchor him still when everything feels like it's crumbling around him and he's horribly close to slumping over and collapsing to the chips of bark on the ground.
Terry is watching him again. The parts of his face that are illuminated by a street lamp show he's waiting expectantly but Sebastian has already forgotten what he said and even if he could remember, he has no idea what it's meant to mean because he doesn't know what it is he can't do and everything feels completely overwhelming and he's not handling it well at all and he can't seem to catch his breath which is probably because he's still sobbing and he-
"Jesus Christ," Terry mutters, a hand grasping his cheek and raising his head because he's completely incapable of keeping it up himself. He can barely make out Terry's face in the light but it still looks unnatural. "Come on, Seb. Take a deep breath for me. You're having a bad trip."
He doesn't understand but he tries anyway, tries to take a deep breath, but every time he does it's like he's drawing more water into his lungs and he's suffocating and drowning and sinking into a watery grave. There are too many hands on him, too many people holding him up when it feels like everything is falling down, too many things he can't contain, too many things he can't control, too many times he can't save-
"Seb," Terry says, his voice shockingly firm in the panicked thought process Sebastian can't seem to stop. Two hands cradle his cheeks, holding up his head because the strength in his muscles is practically non-existent. Terry's eyes shine faintly in the darkness and he tries to focus on them continuing to gaze at him. "Take a deep breath and calm the fuck down."
It's John's fingers which massage across his shoulders. It's Mitch's hand that rubs up and down his back. He might be thoroughly disinterested in what happens in their lives and has never shown much interest despite years of being permitted into their company but it's because of those years that he allows the comfort rather than pushes away from it. He's not sure he has the strength to push them away even if he'd tried but it's a nice thought. Every time his head starts to lower and his eyelids start to droop, Terry straightens it again and brings him back.
He has no idea how long it takes for his breathing to regulate or the heaviness in his limbs to fade and he feels like he starts to crawl towards the surface, away from the terrifying black darkness below him. He's never had a high like this and it's completely terrifying. He's pretty sure his limbs are still shaking with the lingering fear of it all surrounding him and squashing him.
"You with us?" Terry asks, his voice laced with undeniable concern as he continues to hold Sebastian's head up for him.
Sebastian blinks slowly, his brain turning over the words slowly, each word separated into their letters and strung together with invisible threads behind his eyes. His eyebrows crinkle together. "As opposed to being against you?"
"And he's back," Mitch says appreciatively, patting his back gently. John leaves a lingering squeeze to his shoulders before his hands slide away. Terry's thumbs drag over his cheekbones to collect the tears that stain his face. It hits him then how bad it must have gotten, how pathetic he must have been, how stupid he is for being such a young, dumb teenage and embarrassment at his breakdown starts to seep into his bones. Boys didn't cry!
"Sorry," he mumbles, ducking his head out of Terry's hands to wipe at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. He's never felt so much, so intensely, for so long. His fear over Lillian, his worry over Blaine, his misery over his parents, his apprehension over Clarington's… It's like it had all rolled into a big mass of panic and made it impossible to think or move or breathe.
"The fuck for?" Aiden says, his voice so unexpectedly that it startles Sebastian. He'd honestly forgotten Aiden was around. He seems to be a couple of tiers higher on the equipment, gazing distantly into the darkness.
"You're just out of practice," Terry says, ruffling his hair and crouching in front of him to continue watching him and probably ensuring he doesn't trip back over the edge into the nightmare of his own creation.
The change in Terry, from guarded and cold to someone that's taking care of him, feels jarring. There's something in his body language that reminds him of when Lillian would trip over and skin her knees and he'd crouch in front of her, gain her attention, and blow against her injuries because he claimed his breath had magic healing powers that Tinkerbell has given him especially to take care of her. Something in Terry's posture screams that he's got siblings, that he's taken care of people younger than himself before, but Sebastian doesn't dare ask. He doesn't really want to know.
"You took too much and got hammered, Seb," Terry explains slowly, perhaps ensuring every word sinks into Sebastian's dulled mind. "You forgot your limits and fell so far off the wagon that you landed headfirst. You're okay now, right?"
"Yeah, but…" He shrugs and starts trying to neaten his hair, mostly because it gives him something to do with his hands other than fidget and look like the anxious wreck he feels on the inside.
"Don't worry about it," Mitch says, patting his back again and effectively silencing whatever defence he might have been trying to mount against their reassurances.
He's not sure he feels soothed but he allows Mitch's hand to stay on his back to keep him supported and still and stop him toppling to the ground. His gaze drifts in and out of focus as he continues to look wordlessly down at Terry. He still feels an urge to cry but he doesn't want to have another breakdown. He doesn't want to be seen as a lunatic in front of these guys.
"I always knew private school was fucking bullshit," Aiden comments lightly, which makes John dissolve into cackling laughter behind him. The faint smile that draws Sebastian's lips upwards is cynical. He won't deny that Dalton is harder than public school in Westerville ever was. He won't deny that he's surrounded by jerks that he doesn't feel close to. He won't deny that he feels more at home with these guys supplying him with drugs than his real home or his dorm room.
Terry winces and stands, stretching out his knees. He's pretty sure he hears one of them pop before he turns his attention back to Sebastian. "You're okay," Terry reminds him gently, squeezing his shoulder before climbing past him to sit on a higher tier of the equipment again.
The constancy of Mitch's touch gradually becomes something he barely feels but is glad to have. It helps to keep him grounded, helps to avoid him falling into that void of despair again. He doesn't lean into the touch – he doesn't want to do anything that might seem gay – but he doesn't shrug it away either. It doesn't seem like anyone else minds though. Maybe they're aware that he needs to be held down to stop him floating away like a helium balloon. Maybe Mitch's hand is the anchor to hold him down.
He still feels like a mess though. His thoughts continue to spin in circles and as much as he doesn't want to think about him, he can't stop it: he keeps trying to figure out why he pushed Clarington away. He tries to put it in perspective that it's been months since he had any form of sexual contact and the kiss would have been easy. He could have let Clarington's hand do all the work and gotten off, nice and easy and no strings attached. They could have had one of those arrangements that other boys had.
And yet he'd run away from his roommate. Hell, he'd run away from school and gotten plastered instead. Did it mean that he wasn't gay if he wasn't allowing some guy to kiss him? Did it mean he was still fearful of Clarington breaking his neck? Did it mean he was afraid of rumours at Dalton? Or maybe it was because he was friends with Blaine now? But was he friends with Blaine, or was it more than a friendship yet less than a relationship? He'd never let the guys at Westerville kiss him, instead preferring simply to tell them what to do and allowing them to get on their knees and do the rest. Who knew where else their mouths had been and how recently they'd been disinfected. He didn't want their lips near his. Was that it? Had he reared back from Clarington because he didn't want to be kissed? If that was the case, what was that about? Why was kissing someone, anyone, so important to him that he'd led?
He's loosely aware that the guys swap stories and jokes around him but he barely hears them, too lost in his own musings that seem to go in more directions than tree roots. He's no longer overwhelmed by the thought of Clarington or the associated feeling of fear but he doesn't know whether he should try to get back to Dalton tonight. Do they do bed checks? Will Clarington raise the alarm that he didn't return? Or will Clarington keep his big mouth shut because the reason for Sebastian's flight is one his roommate won't want to give?
He can't shake the anxiety that his parents will get called if he doesn't return. Maybe Clarington thinks he's gone for a long walk in the gardens again and so his absence hasn't been raised, but he really doesn't want to return. Not tonight. Maybe if his parents get called, they'll suddenly wake up from their own two month coma where they'd forgotten he existed. Maybe realising their son was lashing out, hurting, running away, meant they'd call him and check on him.
He kind of wants to call Blaine, to hear his voice and see what is opinion is on the matter. It doesn't mean he'd listen to it but Blaine's input has some importance to him. In any case, Blaine would be far more coherent than his own thought process right now. Except maybe calling Blaine would cause major problems, because Blaine could turn him in for running away or he could be really disappointed by Sebastian getting wasted again or the other guys might overhear the conversation. Calling Blaine isn't an option if there are so many undesirable outcomes.
"Hey." Aiden nudges him and he stirs from the endless hole of his thoughts. He's been so distracted that he hadn't noticed his eyelids turn to marble, making it almost impossible to open them and see any of the guys. "Where you going tonight?"
He tries to raise his head, tries to force his eyes open. He's pretty sure he's swaying and he feels Mitch's hand move to his shoulder and tighten, keeping him upright if not still. "Dunno."
"Want a couch?"
It takes him a moment to understand when his awareness is so muted. He vaguely remembers Aiden's offer to John at Christmas and is surprised he's getting the same offer when he's so much younger than these guys and he barely knows them. He's aware that it's cold even with his hoodie on. He'd seen small patches of partially-thawed snow when he'd entered the park. He's also aware of the fact that he's slept under the stars in colder weather simply to avoid returning home, although he'd normally dressed for the occasion with a scarf and a beanie and a windbreaker. Aiden's suggestion is completely unexpected and he has no idea how to respond. He doesn't want to be an imposition but he also doesn't want to freeze to death.
"I think he does," Terry says for him, his voice too clear for someone who usually loses himself in the bottom of a bottle. Sebastian tries to squint in the dark upwards but all he can make out is Terry's ill-defined, shadowed form. "He's just too polite to say so, A."
Sebastian grimaces and rubs a hand roughly across his face in an attempt to wake up. He doesn't like Terry speaking for him, even when he's struggling to keep his thoughts in a coherent track, but what Terry says is true enough.
No one moves for a while. Sebastian notices John has started snoring and Mitch's hand has settled heavier on his shoulder, indicating that maybe he's also verging on falling asleep. His own exhaustion starts to set in as the fear subsides, as the high wears off, as the alcoholic numbness takes over.
"Home time!" Terry announces, almost said too cheerily for Sebastian to tolerate.
It cuts through the stillness and silence that has surrounded them and spurs Aiden into moving, shaking John while Terry shakes Mitch. Sebastian stifles a yawn and struggles to his feet. His knees threaten to buckle and it's only Terry and Aiden's quick hands which keep him from falling to the ground. It's only then that he starts to recognise he's really, really wasted. He's forced to hold onto Aiden and John because his feet won't cooperate with the signals his brain keeps sending. He doesn't know their destination as they stumble through deserted Westerville streets, although occasionally they pass a signpost with a name he recognises. He presses his lips together when they cross a particular street that would start a path towards his home, an odd mixture of longing and loss converging in the centre of his chest. He amuses himself trying to imagine the reaction of his parents if he showed up on their doorstep like this. Would they be enraged? Would they be concerned? Would they recognise him? Would they slam the door in his face? Would they put him in the back of a police car and take him to rehab? Would they ban him from seeing Lillian again?
He notices John stays with them but he doesn't ask why. They tread a path up to the front of a darkened house and Aiden unlocks the front door with John following. He steps inside with his hands pressed to the wall, glancing curiously around once the lights have been switched on. There are questions on his tongue because it's small, very small, and the walls are utterly devoid of photos. He's not sure how he feels about it other than it seems like a very lonely place. Despite being inside Aiden's home, he still has absolutely no understanding or insight into the boy's life.
"You know where to go," Aiden says to John, who gives a feeble nod and shuffles down the corridor. Sebastian's eyebrows crinkle together, wondering where he goes – are Aiden and John living together? are they together together? – but he says nothing as Aiden guides him into a living room with a couch, two arm chairs and a small television. "It's not much, I know."
Sebastian waves his hand absently, aiming to pat Aiden's arm but missing entirely. His depth perception is shot to pieces. "A couch is fine. Thank you."
Aiden nods and helps him to the couch. A folded blanket sits on one of the armchairs, as if it's always prepared to be used on keeping someone warm. Sebastian wonders how often Aiden takes people in to sleep on his couch. He wonders where Aiden's parents are. He wonders about a lot of things he has no intention of asking.
"You gonna be okay?"
Sebastian's fingers bunch into the fabric that Aiden drapes over his shoulders and tucks around his legs. "Where's the bathroom?" he asks, deflecting the question when he realises he hasn't been to the toilet in hours and peeing on someone else's couch probably isn't the best thing he could do.
Aiden offers directions and checks if he'll be okay again. He figures he'll be fine on his own – or at least as fine as possible when everything around him is still coated in a thick haze – and Aiden departs for his own bed.
Sebastian finds his way to the bathroom after a long, cautious trip. He relieves himself with a pleased hiss, splashes some water on his face to clean off the gunk of his tears and then swallows a few mouthfuls to reduce the dry, scratchy feeling at the back of his throat. He barely looks at himself in the mirror, knowing it's not going to be a pretty sight, and begins the return journey of tottering to the couch. Once he's collapsed into the plush cushions, his mind begins ticking over again as he lays there, staring at the blank television screen and imagining it playing a soap opera of his life to date. It seems to get stuck on the scene where Clarington has him against the wall.
At some point, the memory starts to fragment and distort, the tape spilling out of the cassette and the TV in front of him exploding in a shower of sparks. He scrunches his eyes shut and tries to breathe deeply, digging his short fingernails into his temples and trying desperately to forget it all and get some sleep instead.
The corridors are bleached of life and colour as he floats through them. He feels as though he should question why he's disembodied and hovering three inches from the ground, like he's a ghost or something, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind, it's gone again. He sees people he recognises but they don't recognise him. Or maybe they just don't see him. When he tries to wave his hands in front of their faces, they look right through him.
It's like he's completely invisible again, completely unable to be noticed despite his best efforts at gaining attention.
Something stabs in his chest.
Something stabs in his gut.
He sees Montgomery and Clarington walking towards him down the white-washed corridor, their heads bent in conversation like always. His eyes narrow as he gets closer, determined to understand what they're saying, determined to find out if it's about him.
Except they seem to be talking in another language. He doesn't understand anything. Something in that scares him even more. What if they're still talking about him even though he can't be seen?
Frustrated, fearful, he floats further down the corridor. He realises that it's a blurry combination of Dalton's wooden hallways with elaborate and expensive artworks and the hospital's white walls and boring art. Boys in blazers mill among doctors in white coats and nurses in scrubs. There's boys with school bags and Therese with an IV machine and a doctor wheeling a crash cart. He tries reaching out to touch things but he can't. His hand goes straight through everything: wood, metal, glass, bodies.
Fear ripples through him when he realises he's suspended in a world he doesn't really exist in and he starts moving faster, straight through the ceiling to rise to the floor of the PICU. Outside Lillian's room, he discovers his parents with their arms around each other, their eyes obviously red, their shoulders obviously shaking. He screams, in terror and distress and denial, and he tries to articulate questions that demand answers but nothing comes out. No sound fills the silent void in the corridor. Only the muffled sobs of his parents.
His only option is to seek Blaine. Blaine will have the answers. He sinks through the floor and sprints through corridors until he's on the physical therapy rehab floor. He pushes through Blaine's door in desperation and the boy he needs is sprawled on his bed with a male he doesn't recognise hovering over him. Despite the shattering silence that invades the dream, he hears Blaine's low moan when he sees the male bite Blaine's tan neck, he sees his hips writhe against the hospital bed as hands grope between his legs.
He squeezes his eyes closed, refusing to believe what he sees.
He wakes so suddenly that he feels a flash of electric pain or fear spread from his chest. His head is throbbing and when he tries to open his eyes, his vision swims in a way that threatens to make him sea-sick. He has no idea where he is but he at least has enough awareness to know that if he sits up too fast, he'll throw up. He's also capable of ascertaining he's on a couch rather than in a bed. All his clothes are on. No one is spooned behind him or in front of him.
Somehow that seems like a good thing to be certain of.
He lies still and starts trying to sort through the fuzzy, disconnected memories of the night before and disregard the blurry sections of the lingering nightmare. His breathing hitches when he remembers Clarington trying to kiss him and that was the trigger that led to his flight response. He doesn't remember much of what happened at the park but he instinctively seems to recall he's at Aiden's. He remembers his silent scream when he'd realised Lillian had died and he recalls his revulsion as he'd seen Blaine making out with someone and-
He's acting before he's even thought it through and it's ridiculously early but he doesn't know what else to do to calm down.
His trembling hands free his phone from the pocket of his jeans and he fumbles with pulling up Blaine's number and dialling it. The tone rings in his ear, echoing and crackling, and he listens to it so many times that it becomes white noise and he's forced to concede Blaine is fast asleep and won't answer. Disappointed, he pulls the phone from his ear and then he hears the dial tone cut out and the snap of a connected call.
"Hullo? Seb?" Blaine's voice is slurred and confused and rumpled and even though he immediately feels guilty for waking the boy up, he smiles at the sound of his voice because it's just too adorable not to.
"Hi," he says quietly, because he's pretty sure his throat has been replaced with sandpaper while he was sleeping. "I'm sorry it's so early."
"It's 'kay."
He lets his eyes close and can hear fabric moving in the background. He imagines Blaine is wriggling in his hospital bed and starts gnawing on his lip. Now that he has Blaine, he isn't sure what to say to him. It's not as if his dream was in any way a reflection of reality and even if it was, he has no right to feel so sick at seeing Blaine enjoying himself while he made out with a stranger.
"What's wrong?"
He frowns and pushes the heel of his hands against his eyes when they feel swollen enough to pop from his skull. Damn Blaine being so perceptive. "Why does anything have to be wrong?"
"It's barely six in the morning." Blaine clearly yawns over the line but his voice is increasingly lacking the groggy quality it had had a couple of minutes ago. "Honestly, would you be calling for any other reason?"
He's surprised how quickly Blaine wakes into someone coherent enough to split apart his lies. His brain is always a sluggish mess after he gets abruptly woken and he's still trying to catch up with Blaine's rapid and astute observations of his behavioural tendencies.
"Seb?"
He sighs and lets his spare hand drift from clutching at his hair to grasp the edge of the blanket. "I… I ran away from Dalton," he admits nervously.
"You what?"
He ducks his head as if he's standing in front of Blaine and confessing his deepest sins. His toes curl together beneath the blanket and he wonders where his shoes are. He doesn't remember taking them off. "Last night, I… I just… I couldn't stay, B…"
"Last night?" Blaine's voice pitches an octave higher and he winces. "Where the hell are you now?"
He wants to cover his head with the blanket and hang up the phone. Blaine somehow sounds angry as well as concerned and it's something he hasn't heard before and he isn't sure of the appropriate way to respond. He almost wishes he'd never made the call just so he wouldn't have to deal with Blaine sounding like a disgruntled adult.
"I… I crashed at one of the guy's places."
"'One of the guys'," Blaine repeats slowly, suspicion laden in his tone and he knows he's pretty much done for. "One of the guys you used to get high with?"
"Um…."
"Seb!" Blaine scolds and he squeezes his eyes closed, prepared for the lecture about how he's a disappointment and he needs to get his life in order and he's slowly killing himself and he's not to contact Blaine again because he's such a screw up and Blaine doesn't need that in his life.
When the silence lingers, when no lecture pours forth, he hesitates and opens his eyes again to stare at the blank television. "Aren't you angry?" he whispers.
"More than you know," Blaine says, but he can hear that the fury has faded from his words and now Blaine just sounds tired, deflated, concerned. "Why did you run?"
He doesn't know how to answer that question either because he's not sure he has a reason that makes sense. A kiss isn't that terrifying. It's not like he'd had a knife to his throat or…well, whatever Blaine had gone through after the dance. He could do with more sex in his life so running away makes no sense.
"It's not important," he mumbles.
Blaine hums in obvious disagreement or disapproval, which he supposes he can't fault. He did run away.
"I just… I don't know if I can go back now," he admits.
"Why wouldn't you be able to go back?"
"I'm not sure if they've realised I'm missing," he says, biting his lower lip and inhaling a breath through his nose in an attempt to quell the building nausea in his stomach at the thought of returning, of facing Clarington, of getting into massive amounts of trouble for getting drunk and high. His only saving grace is that it's a Saturday and he isn't missing from classes. "I'm not sure what the consequences are for running away."
"That doesn't mean you avoid going back," Blaine says sharply, slicing his fears into shreds. "You know the consequences will be even more severe the longer you stay away, right?"
"Yeah, but-"
"But nothing, Sebastian," Blaine interrupts and Sebastian thinks he almost sounds agitated. "You can't keep running if you're already in trouble. What happens if they contact your parents? What happens if they stop you visiting Lillian?"
Blaine certainly knows his deepest fears and insecurities. He flinches and huddles tighter under the blanket like it will shield him from facing reality. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to imagine what will happen if he's restricted from visiting his little sister.
"What did you do last night?"
It's almost conversational given how casually Blaine asks it, but he knows what the other boy is really getting at and he can't lie. "You know who I was with."
"So I know what you did?" Blaine says with a sigh, sounding disappointed enough that Sebastian's belly clenches in discomfort. Blaine succeeds at the 'disappointed parent' thing better than his own parents. He wonders if that makes his parents terrible people or Blaine sound older for his years. "You need to go back to school, Seb."
He won't say it but there's something strange about this entire conversation. Rather than Blaine humouring his concerns or gently untangling the insecurities he has within Dalton's walls, he just feels increasingly guilty, like he's placed an enormous burden on Blaine's shoulders that the other boy never wanted. He considers offering an explanation for why he ran but he's not sure what he'd hope to achieve with saying that. The last thing he wants is Blaine to think he's scared of anything like being kissed by a guy considering what he's done before, but he also doesn't want to use past hook-ups as explanations for his behaviour because he thinks Blaine might just be more disappointed in him if he does. So if he sounds like a homophobe because he ran from a kiss where does that leave his friendship with Blaine, the victim of a gay bashing?
He can taste something bitter pooling on his tongue, venomous words aimed to inflict the maximum amount of stinging pain to Blaine's lack of care or interest in how he actually feels. Rather than speak, rather than try to explain, he fights for the reins of his self-control and hangs up. He wouldn't have held back if it had been anyone else. His parents would have been lashed with his anger and Clarington might have gotten a broken nose. He tries to tell himself that cutting Blaine off is better than spewing his torrent of hurtful words and that's why he switches off his phone. He's not sure he'd be capable of holding everything in if Blaine called back to berate him or question him with words he's not willing to hear
The sun has begun to peek over the horizon because there's a thin, pale light encroaching into the shadows of Aiden's living room. He has no idea what time Aiden and John will wake up. He's not even sure where they are and he'd rather not disturb them like he'd disturbed Blaine. He's pretty sure he can't rely on them to get him back to Dalton either. His wallet is at school and he has no access to more money which means no bus ticket or cab fare. If he wants to try sneaking back into school, he'll have to begin the long walk back with a pounding headache and his own miserable thoughts and fears for company.
He knows, despite not wanting to really admit it, that Blaine's right. He can't stay away forever. It will only make the possible punishment worse.
With a barely stifled grunt of pain, he learns to orientate himself in a dangerously spinning world. He folds the blanket as neatly as possible and leaves it on the end of the couch. He supposes it's time to face the music. He just hopes it won't be so loud that it reverberates through his pained skull.
~TBC~